Authors: David Nobbs
He tried to rehearse the words he would use, but no words fitted. ‘Debs, there’s great news.’ Well, was it ‘great’? Was that the word? ‘Debs, I’ve found Charlotte.’ Well, not entirely. The words would come when he saw her, the strength of her presence would dictate the words. He stood at the window and looked for her car as she tried to find a parking place. The roof would be down and her straw-coloured hair would be streaming behind her and he would pour her a drink and within minutes they would be talking about their beloved, lost daughter. He was amazed to find how clearly he imagined her, how deeply he needed her, at this visceral moment. He took several sips of his drink in his excitement. It was a long while since he had wanted to share anything with Deborah as much as he wanted to share this news. It was really annoying of her to be late this day of all days. It was the Irish in her. He drowned his irritation with another sip. This was no time to be irritated. This … conditional though it might be, strange though it might be, terrifying though it might still be … was joy.
He had completely forgotten Marcia’s remark about the police, but the moment the knock came, he remembered, and from the nature of the ring he knew that a policeman was calling. This ring said, ‘Hello. Police,’ not, ‘Sorry, darling, I’ve lost my key again,’ or, ‘Kathy and I wondered if you felt like popping to the pub for a quickie.’
And he suddenly knew, because the call could now not be about Charlotte, that it would be about Deborah, it would explain why she was late, something had happened.
As he walked towards the small entrance hall, James took a swallow of his drink and then hid the glass on the top of the piano behind the large photograph of Deborah and him on their wedding day twenty-four years ago.
The policeman looked absurdly young.
‘Good evening, sir,’ said the officer. ‘It’s … um … it’s about your wife. Does she drive …’ he looked down at his notes. ‘… a silver Renault Mégane hard-top convertible?’
‘You’d better come in.’
As he entered the living room, the policeman took off his helmet, revealing hair so close-cropped that he looked almost bald. He had the air of a man who had joined the force to bully members of the underclass, not to be offered a comfortable chair in a living room of the well-heeled.
‘What’s all this about, officer?’
‘I’m afraid your wife’s car has been involved in a serious accident, sir.’ He looked huge and wretched in his delicate chair. ‘I’m afraid the … um … the driver had no chance. I’m sorry.’
He had often dreamt of this moment, in his fantasies, often when half awake, sometimes even when lying beside her in bed. Deborah dying suddenly, without pain, leaving him free, free, free.
But this wasn’t fantasy. It wasn’t right that a man’s fantasy should suddenly become real. He was deeply shocked. He sat down heavily. He wondered if the officer could see into his thoughts – his dreadful thoughts.
Of course he hadn’t really wanted Deborah to die. Only in make-believe.
He was shocked that she had died.
But, the fact remained, he had dreamt of being free and now he was free.
He heard himself say, ‘Is there no chance, officer?’ and to him it was the voice of a man acting out the role of a grieving husband, and acting it badly. It was dreadful.
‘I wonder if you could get me a glass of water, officer,’ he said, to buy himself time. ‘The kitchen’s through there.’
‘Of course, sir.’
The officer looked delighted to have something practical to do.
As soon as he was alone, James closed his eyes and groaned. He couldn’t have explained what he was groaning about, whether he was groaning because Deborah had died or because he had dreamt of her dying or because he was dismayed at the confusion of his emotions or because it was so appalling that a man should have to face his fantasies in real life or because he was a worthless shit who was going to find it very difficult to live with himself.
He had been glad to get the officer out of the room. Now he was glad to see him back. His dreary normality was comforting.
‘Glass of water, sir,’ said the officer, not without a glimmer of satisfaction at his success in carrying out this simple task.
The water tasted quite wonderful. It really was the most magnificent drink. He couldn’t think why he ever drank gin or Noilly Prat or whisky or vodka or port or wine or beer or sherry or Madeira or Ricard or Campari or Manhattans or dry Martinis or Negronis or Harvey Wallbangers or Deborah’s damson gin. Deborah? He was never going to see her again, never feel the warmth of her smile. Never. He was free to marry the woman he loved, but never to see Deborah again, that really was a heavy price to pay.
‘What exactly happened, officer?’
The officer consulted his notes, frowning with concentration. Reading didn’t come naturally to him.
‘It was on a road just outside Diss, sir.’
‘Diss?’
‘It’s a town in Norfolk, sir.’
‘I know it’s a town in Norfolk, but what was she doing there?’
‘I have no idea, sir.’
‘No, of course you don’t. Silly of me. Sorry. Carry on.’
‘She hit a Porsche head on, sir. Both cars are write-offs. Both drivers dead.’
‘I suppose I’ll have to go and identify her.’
‘I … um … I’m afraid that probably won’t be possible, sir. There’s … um …’
The young officer began to break out into a sweat. What had he been on the verge of saying? There’s not enough of her left, sir?
‘It’s my understanding that it will be done with dental records, sir. Shouldn’t be too long.’
‘So the car might have been stolen? It might not be her.’
‘I suppose it’s possible, sir, but there was the remains of a handbag on the back seat, sir, with two credit cards of Mrs DJ Hollinghurst, and … um … on the floor at the back, a pair of high-heeled red Prada shoes, sir.’
‘I see. Thank you.’
Cry, damn you.
‘It seems, sir, that the accident was entirely the fault of the other driver. He was overtaking. A witness said that there just wasn’t room. There was nothing that your wife … if it was your wife … could have done.’
‘It was my wife, officer. Nobody else would have had those red shoes in the car.’
It was the shoes that puzzled him. Why should she have been taking them? She had God knows how many other pairs she could have taken. Why had she taken her very favourite pair, and to Diss?
The policeman had gone half an hour ago, and he had done nothing, except think about having another wonderful glass of water, and then pour more Noilly Prat into his drink instead. He shouldn’t have poured himself any more. He had a lot of phone calls to make, and he didn’t want to end the evening slurring his words. He wanted to be dignified. He would need to have his wits about him. But he had persuaded himself that in pouring more Noilly Prat he was weakening the overall alcoholic content of his drink, since Noilly Prat was less alcoholic than gin, so that was all right.
He’d wished that he hadn’t hidden the drink behind his wedding photograph. It had been difficult to recover it without looking at the photograph, and he could hardly bear to do that. Those smiles. That radiance. Those hopes. He waited for the tears to come. He waited in vain.
So many phone calls. Oh, the burden of those calls. He felt so alone, so desperately alone. That was ridiculous. He had two devoted brothers, many friends he could rely on for support. And Helen. There was no need to be alone. He could ask Helen to come round. No, Helen here? How insensitive would that be?
He could go round to be with her, though. He needed her. He must phone her first. But what could he say? Bad news, Helen. No. Wonderful news, Helen.’ No!
Hello, darling. We’ve often talked about what we’d do if we were free, you’ve urged me to divorce Deborah, and I’ve said I just couldn’t, I couldn’t bear to hurt her that much, well, fate has taken a hand, she’s been killed, instantly, outright, thank goodness for that. We’re free, my darling, to spend the rest of our life together. Isn’t that wonderful?
Couldn’t do it. Not yet anyway. Certainly couldn’t do it in this room, in front of that photograph.
Probably he’d need another drink before he rang her, and that thought struck him as very odd.
No. It wasn’t odd. It was … seemly. He had loved Deborah for, oh, almost twenty-five years. Only in the last few years had he … after he’d met Helen … and even then he and Deborah had had good loving times. He didn’t think that she had suspected anything. She had continued to look after him most splendidly. He owed her a seemly death, a respected death. He … he loved her. In his way. Yes, he did. Despite … although … oh, God.
No, he must ring Max first. Except he couldn’t. Max didn’t like being phoned at work. His bosses frowned upon personal calls. We were six hours ahead of Canada. Max usually finished work at about five-thirty. He’d try him on his mobile at twenty to six Canadian time.
That meant that he’d have to stay at least reasonably sober until twenty to twelve British time. Oh, Lord.
It had to be Charlotte. Oh, God.
He forced himself to dial the dreaded number. He hoped he’d get straight through to her, so that in an instant the whole problem of speaking to each other after all those years would have been solved.
‘Yep?’
‘Oh, hello, Chuck. When I rang you earlier it was because I’d had a message that the police wanted to see me.’
‘You thought Charlie’d screwed up again.’
‘Yes. I have to say I wondered. But it wasn’t that. No, it was … there’s been a car crash. Charlotte’s mum’s been killed, Chuck.’
‘Oh, my God.’
‘Yes. Can I speak to her, please?’
‘Trouble is, Mr Hollinghurst …’
‘Yes?’
‘Trouble is … oh, and I’m sorry. Real sorry. That’s a cunt of a thing to happen. Sorry. Bad language.’
‘Hardly matters under the circumstances.’
‘No. Quite. Trouble is, Mr Hollinghurst, I’ll have to tell her what’s happened or she won’t come to the phone. She’ll be so, Tell him to go fuck himself. Oh, sorry.’
‘No. I have a pretty good idea how she talks about me, Chuck. OK, Chuck. Tell her.’
‘Shit, man, I’m not looking forward to this.’
‘Take your time. I’ll wait.’
While he waited, James hurried over to his gin and Noilly Prat and took it back to the phone. He sat on the purple chaise longue and waited. The silence went on and on. It was awful to be so close to her and yet so far away. He longed to hear her voice. She was a woman now. How much would her voice have changed in five years? How much suffering would there be in it? How much evidence of … abuse, frailty, self-harm? He couldn’t face up to the word ‘drugs’ even in his thoughts. But nothing could be worse than her silence. Oh, Charlotte, my darling, speak to me, please.
‘Hi.’
He nodded sadly at the invisible Chuck.
‘Hi.’
‘No go, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh, shit, Chuck.’
‘I know. I know.’
‘How’s she … taken it?’
‘Floods of tears. Floods of tears, Mr Hollinghurst.’
James envied her.
‘Didn’t she say anything?’
‘She said to tell you she’s sorry.’
James felt absurdly pleased, and embarrassed at feeling so pleased. It seemed inexcusably self-centred at this moment. Even to be aware that he was being self-centred seemed self-centred. But he was always hard on himself.
Besides, what she had said, it was nothing.
But it was also everything.
He put the phone down very slowly. He decided that it would do him no harm to have just one more drink. Just Noilly Prat, though. No gin. He picked up the Noilly Prat bottle, looked at it with unseeing eyes and put it down again. Just gin would make more sense, because gin could be diluted with tonic.
He walked slowly back to the phone, taking a sip of the drink as he did so. He realised that he hadn’t done a very good job with the dilution. Diluting drinks had never been one of his strong points. And a gin, Noilly Prat and tonic just wasn’t quite right. What did it matter? What did the taste of a drink matter compared with … with the enormity…
He decided not to dilute it further. He would sip it slowly instead.
Who should he ring next? Helen? He still wasn’t ready for that. Someone on Deborah’s side? Have to be her sister. Couldn’t face that yet either. Couldn’t face being the messenger of such terrible news. A whole family, a close family, all in tears. Couldn’t bear the thought.
Couldn’t bear telling the terrible news, when to him it wasn’t terrible, that was what was so terrible.
Have to be Charles, his eldest brother, his hero, his mentor, his inspiration, his guide, his lodestone.
‘That’s the phone.’
‘Don’t answer it. Valerie, please. Don’t.’
‘I should. It might be somebody.’
‘It might be a call centre in India offering me free balance transfers. Don’t go.’
It was too late anyway. It had gone onto the answer machine.
‘Darling, I really want this meal uninterrupted. This oxtail is awesome. Awesome.’
‘I can’t believe you wanted oxtail in June, in a heatwave.’
‘Well, I did. I get salads everywhere I go. Thank goodness I’m not going to America this summer. I hate those salads as starters. So pointless.’
‘Can I at least go and listen to see if there’s a message?’
‘You sound as if you think you need my permission.’
‘I do when you’re like this. I do when your stomach’s involved.’
They were eating in the dining room. The mullioned windows were open, a light breeze from the east was wafting in, rippling Charles’s luxuriant beard ever so gently, and it was pleasantly cool in the dark elegant sixteenth-century room.
Valerie – Charles didn’t permit her to be called Val by anyone – was seated at the head of the table, with Charles at her left hand. The table was so large that to have each sat at one end would have been to risk seeming like a scene in a comedy, and Charles, for all his virtues, didn’t much like being an object of amusement.
‘Honestly, if it’s an emergency, they’ll ring back straight away. Go if you must, darling, I’m not stopping you, but I really don’t want you to. These next days are going to be a logistical nightmare, the oxtail is quite beautiful, these sweet young turnips are little poems, it isn’t just a question of my stomach, it’s a question of respect, Valerie. Respect for your wonderful cooking. Please. I need this evening.’