The Would-Begetter (3 page)

Wendy sighed and stopped stroking her shoulder. She had been wracking her brains for some foolproof scheme which would ensure that Hector actually saw her as a
woman
, not just as part of Reception. Next month’s office Christmas party seemed to be her best bet, but it was fancy dress this year and she couldn’t for the life of her decide what costume to wear. Should she go as somebody famous; Marilyn Monroe? No, she wasn’t blonde and she didn’t fancy a wig. Maybe something connected with one of Hector’s special articles? That way he’d be bound to notice her.

Hector came down the stairs again and said, ‘Wendy? Don’t suppose you have any ideas on cooking pheasants do you? This poaching story is producing some rather tasty perks!’

‘Roast, casseroled or what?’

‘You’re wonderful,’ Hector said. ‘In a microwave for preference. I think I could just about manage that. Could you jot it down for me?’

And it was whilst she was writing, from memory, the essentials of the recipe on another little yellow Post-it, that Wendy had her fateful idea.

‘Time to go?’ Barry Poole said, suddenly arriving in the doorway of Jess’s office, puffed, and flourishing a press release.

Jess jumped. ‘I didn’t know you were coming with me today’ Barry was the
Chronicle’s
most recent graduate trainee, working on the paper whilst he studied for his qualifications in journalism. He seemed to Jess to spend most of his time alternately eating crisps, and in a day-dream about his future prospects. She quite liked him, in spite of the fact that he had been the main instigator of the ribaldry about Hector. Of course, from what she now knew, the taunts were quite unfounded, but she wouldn’t be able to tell Barry that. She’d promised.

‘Yeah. Nige says he wants a few supplementary questions. D’you know Jess, I really covet that man’s job. D’you think I’ll have made News Editor by the time I’m his age?’

‘Doubt it,’ Jess teased. ‘Come on then if you’re coming.’ She led the way out to the car park and climbed into the yellow Jeep which had the
Chronicle’s
logo painted prominently on both doors. Since she was out and about more than most of the staff, and on call at any time of day or night, she was the one who drove it the most often and considered it virtually hers.

Ever since its visit to the garage, it had started perfectly, as it did now. They drove out of the High Street and left along Marine Parade. It had been a mild and unusually wet winter so far. Jess, glancing sideways briefly as she drove, could see another squall approaching across the flat grey sea.

‘Looks like we’re going to get soaked,’ Barry observed.

‘Mmmmm.’

‘You know Jess, I’ve been getting really hacked off with
only rewriting press releases and doing wedding reports. I mean, what I’d ideally like is a good juicy human-interest story, but since I’m not offered one, I was thinking of doing an environmental piece on unpredictable rainfall. What d’you think?’

‘Hector usually does all the green issues. It’s his special interest.’

‘But not his only one, so I hear.’ Barry cackled. Jess was silent. ‘Well go on then. That was your cue to ask me…’ His plump cheeks quivered in anticipation.

‘I’ve heard all the cracks about him,’ Jess said, stopping at a red traffic light and turning to face him, ‘and I think they’re pathetic.’

‘Nah,’ Barry brushed them aside. ‘Ancient news. This is bang up to the minute. You know that classy female who was on the front page a couple of weeks ago; the top executive?’

‘Caroline Moffat?’

‘That’s the one. Well we all reckon that her and Hector are an item.’

‘You what?’

‘True as I’m sitting here. One of the Subs saw them together at the Purple Matador the other night. He said H.M. was all over her!’

‘But she’s quite wrong for him,’ Jess protested. ‘I knew her years ago, and she isn’t Hector’s type at all.’

‘No accounting for taste,’ Barry said.

‘You’re having me on?’

‘No, honest, straight up.’ A car behind them hooted. ‘It’s green,’ Barry observed, ‘and at this point in time, I believe it’s normal to be in gear?’

So far, Hector thought complacently, things with Caroline are motoring along nicely. He stretched himself back against the leather upholstery of his old and trusty Jaguar, and drummed his fingers cheerfully on the steering wheel in time to a burst of Wagner from Classic FM. Caroline clearly quite fancied him, and was happy to talk about herself. Up to now it had been light superficial stuff, but Hector had hopes of doing some in-depth research on her antecedents pretty soon. He wasn’t quite sure how he would go about the questions he
wanted to put to her on the subject of genetics. He could hardly turn to her and ask baldly, ‘Any madness in your family?’ Yet if he merely said, ‘You look as though you come from fine healthy stock?’ she might just laugh and he’d be none the wiser. How to elicit vital facts without subjecting the woman to a cross-examination – that was the question.

The more he thought about it logically, the more he was amazed at how casually people got together to procreate, with no thought of the Pandora’s box of concealed and potentially, heritable disasters. I mean, he told himself, people don’t go into business ventures until they’ve sussed out all the pros and cons. They don’t buy anything large or important until they’ve priced it in at least two different shops, so why on earth do they let themselves be conned by their hormones into choosing totally unsuitable breeding partners merely on the transient pretext of ‘love’? You only have to look about you at modern relationships, to realise that whole idea is doomed.

Looking at things dispassionately, Hector thought, (which is what I must train myself to do, in spite of my normal human instincts) I’ve clearly got to try to find an ideal set of genes for my son to inherit. It’s not at all the same thing as eugenics – that whole concept is clearly abhorrent – it’s more like a positive affirmation of the best that humankind can offer…

He avoided a wobbly cyclist by inches, but managed to hang on to his train of thought: after all, man had perfected his livestock by generations of selective breeding, so perhaps this wasn’t such a huge step…? Hector was still partly unconvinced… Maybe it was a little extreme? But this sort of thing would come – of that he had no doubt. It was just a pity that designer babies weren’t yet on-stream… Anyway, whatever happened it was obvious that an arranged marriage would be the best compromise he could realistically achieve – providing of course that he could arrange it in his own way.

Hector drew the car in towards the kerb and stopped outside an ugly 1930’s house, the ground floor of which he was renting (very temporarily) as a flat. The sooner my divorce goes through and I can move from this dump, the better, he thought. I’m certainly not going to entertain Caroline here. Thank the Lord I’ve got an alternative venue. It might be a little tricky, but I’m pretty sure I can pull it off. He let himself
in, and went straight to the living room where he poured himself a large whisky and sank reflectively into the depths of his capacious leather chair.

Of course, he thought, body chemistry has to come into the equation. There’s no way I could contemplate getting together with a woman I didn’t desire, but again, that mustn’t be allowed to cloud the issue. It’s so easy to get carried away… He went over his plan in his head. If Jess’s reaction had been anything to go by, and Hector thought it most probably was, then he couldn’t afford to be open about his aims. He’d have to employ a bit of subterfuge; maybe tell the successful female candidate that he’d had a vasectomy? There were well-documented cases where the operation hadn’t worked, which would let him off the hook if subsequently necessary. Of course he’d have to make sure she hadn’t got a coil, or wasn’t taking the pill… Then, if a baby came along, all well and good, and if one didn’t, then back to the drawing-board and the search for another suitable partner. It was all so beautifully simple in theory.

Hector took a long swig of Scotch and let out a sigh of contentment. Then of course he’d have to buy himself a proper house, in keeping with his status in life, but he would have to delay that until after the divorce and the question of the settlement had all been decided. Once it was safely completed, and with Megan out of the picture, he would be free to liberate the funds he’d prudently stashed offshore, and begin again; maybe even recreate the same room for his son? Hector, in his mind’s eye, saw the young Morgan gurgling happily in a brand new cot, with the blue elephants and the alphabet frieze on the wall above the child’s precious head… the pit of his stomach did a little flip, as fanciful paternal pride swelled within him.

After Hector had downed his Scotch and glanced at the early evening news on BBCi, he eased himself out of the chair to go to his bedroom and sort out a change of clothes for the evening ahead with Caroline. That night he had planned a quiet dinner in a discreet restaurant where each table was cosily boxed into its own alcove, the ambience illuminated by candlelight and mellowed by revolving Mozart. He debated out loud on his choice of shirt. The cotton or the silk? He
stood in front of his full-length mirror and held each one up to his chest in turn. Then he leant forward rather smugly and inspected his hairline. Maybe the gods haven’t always been kind to me, he thought, and maybe I am going a little grey but at least, thank God, I’m not bald!

Caroline dressed with care for her dinner with Hector, putting her hair up in a chignon and applying eye make-up with a steady hand; mouth half open to aid concentration. She regarded the finished product with some satisfaction. Vivian would approve. She hoped Hector would too.

Caroline thought about Vivian as she drove towards her rendezvous with Hector. They had met years before when she had gone into his art gallery in Bath to buy a painting, and they had been friends and occasional lovers ever since. She had wondered initially whether he was gay, but had eventually concluded that he was just not all that fired-up about sex, rather like herself in fact. On the occasions when they did go to bed together, he made a good job of it (being a perfectionist at heart), but for both of them, a little seemed to go a long way. It did have the great advantage that they never got bored, or possessive, or took each other for granted. There were worse arrangements.

So what am I doing with Hector? she asked herself, as she walked into the restaurant. Toying with a minor aristocrat – ‘a bit of smooth’? Having a fling? Recharging the old batteries? Whatever. So I fancy him; and why not? There he is, over by the bar. Here goes…

‘Caroline! Lovely to see you,’ Hector said, coming to meet her. ‘You look wonderful.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Now, what will you drink before we’re bidden to our table?’

Caroline noticed that Hector drank rather a lot during the course of the evening, but appeared none the worse for it. For her part, she stuck mainly to mineral water, the better to stay in control. Hector seemed fascinated by every aspect of her past life. She felt flattered, but still inclined to tease him. For his part, he was clearly eager to demonstrate his authority, summoning waiters with a flick of the fingers, and sending his
fork back to be replaced by a clean one. He also demanded a fresh candle and a different kind of bread roll.

‘I’ve just been reading an article on the Human Genome project’ he had said over the starter, tucking in with gusto now that he had everything arranged to his satisfaction. ‘You’ve heard of the thing? They’re mapping all the millions of genes on our chromosomes. It’s quite fascinating. Just imagine if you had the blueprint for your entire genetic, make-up right there in front of you, on paper! Now wouldn’t that be something?’

‘I’m not a great believer in genetics, actually,’ Caroline said, sipping some of the liquor from her
moules marinières
from half a mussel shell, and then wiping her mouth with a napkin. ‘I’m convinced that nurture has far more influence on the developing person than nature. You’ve only got to look at the way that poor environments produce problem children. And then they all too often develop into adults with psychiatric problems who eventually get “cared for” in the “community” which, as far as I can see, is a fate worse than death. But if they’d been born into good homes and given proper parenting, then who knows?’

‘Oh I can’t agree with you there,’ Hector leant forward earnestly, ‘It’s well documented that manic depressive illness, for instance, is passed on down through families, regardless of social status. You must have come across examples of that yourself?’

‘Not really.’

‘You don’t have those sorts of problems in your family?’

‘Oh I didn’t say that. No, what we’re talking about here is not the occurrence, but the mechanism, right?’

‘Well… yes… but personal experience is always relevant, isn’t it.’

‘I always try to keep off the personal when exploring issues,’ Caroline said. ‘Anecdotal evidence can be very suspect.’

‘But still valid, surely?’

Caroline laughed. ‘You’d have to defend it. It’s your stock-in-trade as a journalist.’

‘I’m not being a journalist now,’ Hector said, reaching forwards and taking her hand. ‘I want to know all about
you.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you fascinate me. Tell me for instance about your parents. What sort of people are they?’

‘They live in a small castle in Scotland, and have a guard dog called Offenbach. I think that says it all.’ Caroline suppressed a giggle.

‘Really?’ Hector looked impressed.

Caroline relented. ‘No,’ she said, ‘actually they live in a semi in Watford and have a Jack Russell terrier called Fergus. They’re very ordinary and elderly and lovely, but I’m afraid of no possible interest to the Press.’

‘Please’ Hector said, ‘I’m being serious you know, and I’m not the Press. I just happen to think you’re someone rather special, and I want to fill out this mental picture I have of you; give it depth, foundations…’

‘You mean you want to find out which pigeon-hole to file me in?’

‘Well, yes if you like. I mean, if a person had spent his adolescence in hospital, say, he might turn out rather differently than if he hadn’t. History leaves its mark, and I find people’s scars interesting.’