Wicked Pleasures (103 page)

‘Oh, come off it, Max. Why don’t you live at the house in Eaton Place? That really is a desirable neighbourhood.’

‘My father likes to use it when he comes to London. He doesn’t want us camping all over it. He always made that clear.’

‘So why do you live with Tommy then? Why not on your own? Or with someone your own age? A friend?’

‘Gemma, Tommy is a friend. He just happens to be a lot older than me. I really like him, he’s fun, he helps with the rent. I don’t know, it works.’

‘Well, I think it’s funny. I’m not convinced.’

‘Gemma, if you start gossiping about this ridiculous idea of yours about me and Tommy I swear to God I’ll break your neck.’

‘Oh for God’s sake,’ said Gemma. She sounded very tired suddenly. ‘All right, Max. Come on, take me home, will you? I’m tired. It’s been a horrible evening.

Max looked at her.

His mind was racing, running over possibilities, dangers, safety nets. There was one thing he could do. It might not convince her. But it would certainly shut her up.

‘Gemma,’ he said, ‘will you marry me?’

Georgina, 1987

She just hadn’t known how to tell him. Every time she thought of a way of doing it, she saw his thin, anguished face suffused with colour and embarrassment, and rejected it again. The first few days after the baby was born, it had obsessed her, almost as much as the baby himself. She would lie there in her high bed, holding the baby, or feeding him, or simply gazing at him awed as he lay there, still in the preferred foetal position, her son, in all his perfection, the tiny hands clasping one another, the small legs curled up, the thatch of dark hair, the unfocusing blue eyes, concentrating fiercely, with the whole of his minuscule being, on the various things that made up his life: sleeping, crying, feeding. And between experiencing sensations of such love, such tenderness, and a protectiveness so fierce she would not have been able even to imagine it before, she thought of Martin, who was so important a part of the baby’s existence, and knew he had to know that she knew, must be allowed to see the baby, hold him, love him, be a part of his life, as he had now in some strange almost retrospective way become part of hers. And she could simply not see how.

It kept her awake, wondering about it: as much as the cries of the other babies, the greedy demands of her own. She was not even sure if he knew that she knew. She had never hinted that there was anything remotely irregular in her relationship with Alexander: rather the reverse. Her devotion to him over his illness had implied tremendously strong filial bonds. So how could she do it? Could she say, ‘Martin, I know I’m your daughter and I’d really like to talk about it?’

Or ‘Martin, this is your grandson.’ Or ‘Martin, shall I start calling you Daddy?’ No. Not really.

The whole thing was immensely difficult. And delicate.

And then she had the idea of calling the baby George. It was a nice name anyway. It suited him: he looked like a George. Martin would be sure to comment on it. And then she could say – well, she wasn’t sure what she’d say, but she felt the conversation would take care of itself after that.

The relief was so intense she finally fell deeply and sweetly asleep and had to be shaken awake by an irritable staff nurse saying if she wanted to do the night feeds she must wake up and do them, otherwise they’d give the baby a bottle.

She told Charlotte first. Not about Martin, but that the baby’s name was George. She wanted to try out her reaction. It had been typically bossy.

‘Georgina, you can’t give your baby the same name as yourself. You just can’t.’

‘Yes I can. It’s a nice name.’

‘But it will be so confusing. You’ll be sure to call him Georgie and –’

‘No I won’t,’ she had said, very firmly. ‘That’s the one thing I won’t call him. He’s called George.’

‘Well I think it’s very silly,’ said Charlotte.

Georgina looked at her awkwardly. ‘There is another reason,’ she said. ‘What other reason?’

‘Charlotte, I – I know who it is.’

‘Who who is? Georgie, do stop talking in riddles.’

‘Who Georgie is. Who – oh Charlotte, do stop being dense.’ And she sat up in bed and pushed her hair back irritably, her eyes fixed on her sister.

‘I’m sorry, Georgina, I don’t –’ and then Charlotte had stared at her, awed, almost afraid to say anything, anything at all. And finally she said, ‘You mean, you know who your – your father is?’ She spoke in a whisper, looking anxiously over her shoulder at the next bed; as it was occupied by an Indian girl surrounded permanently by an enormous number of relatives, it seemed unlikely they would be overheard.

‘Yes. Yes I do.’ Georgina smiled at her, feeling as she had once when she had rushed in from school and up the stairs to tell her mother she had won the art prize. ‘I do. And it’s – Charlotte, you’re not going to believe this, but – promise me you won’t argue, because I do know –’

‘Georgie, for God’s sake, tell me. I shall hit you in a minute.’

‘It’s Martin.’

‘Martin! Martin Dunbar! Oh Georgina, that’s nonsense. Of course it isn’t. It can’t be. Martin, but he’s so –’

‘So what?’

‘Well he’s so – shy.’

‘So am I. And he’s tall, and terribly thin, and he stoops.’

‘So do lots of people.’

‘I know, I know. There’s more. Listen.’

She told her. About Martin’s kindness and concern, his monumentally courageous act of visiting her in hospital, the way his attitude towards her had become so paternalistic.

‘Yes but darling –’

And then the more important things, the name, Angie’s conviction he had been in love with their mother.

‘Don’t look like that, Charlotte. I know. OK? I just know. Can you tell him, please, that I’ve had the baby. Tell him it’s a boy, but not what the name is.’

She decided not to tell Max. It was too much like hard work. She just let him tell her that calling the baby George was a bloody silly idea and left it at that.

She had a very shrewd idea that Nanny had at least had her suspicions. She had nodded slightly grimly when Georgina told her the baby’s name and said,‘Very suitable.’ On the other hand, it could just have been Nanny.

She wondered if Angie might put two and two together and make one of her very neat fours. She was so sharp and shrewd. But if she did she didn’t show it. She just nodded and said, ‘It’s a sweet name,’ and asked Georgina if she’d like to borrow her nanny for a few days, or come and stay with her. Georgina often felt bad these days about not liking Angie more.

She had been so pleased when Alexander had appeared in the ward, she burst into tears. He had come and put down his huge bouquet of flowers and taken her in his arms and kissed her and told her he loved her and he was sorry he had been so stupid and that she was a clever girl and he loved her and begged her to go home to live at Hartest with the baby. She had said she loved him too, but that she wanted to stay in London; she would go down every weekend, she said. She had wondered if there might be some reaction about the baby’s name from him; but there wasn’t. He had simply said he thought it was charming that she liked her own name so much she wanted to perpetuate it.

When she had finally – well, hardly finally after only three days – capitulated and gone home, Alexander had been visibly moved. She had sat in the library, by the fire, feeding the baby, and he had sat opposite, watching her, his eyes soft with tenderness, and perhaps a slight sadness. ‘I only wish your mother could have seen this,’ he said. He hardly ever mentioned Virginia; Georgina was surprised.

Nanny had received them both with immense relief, and had George tucked up firmly in the crib, his disposable nappy replaced by a good strong terry towelling one, his Babygro by a Viyella nightie before Georgina could turn round.

‘I’m very pleased you’re here,’ Nanny said, ‘I was worried about him up in London with that woman.’

She made it sound as if George had been conducting a wild and unsuitable love affair; it was a while before Georgina realized she had been referring to Mrs Wicks.

Martin hadn’t visited her in hospital. She had been, against all the odds, surprised and, she had to admit, disappointed. She kept telling herself that one visit to London in a decade was probably as much as he could reasonably be expected to make and certainly to a maternity hospital; nevertheless it hurt. Then the day before she was due to come out, a big bouquet of flowers arrived, from him and Catriona, and a card from Martin, saying, ‘Dear Georgina, We are both so pleased. I very much look forward to seeing you when you come down to Hartest. Do be in touch.’ From Martin, under the circumstances, that was quite a big gesture.

She had finally seen him when she had been back at Hartest for about three days. She was sitting in the nursery, winding George, when she heard a car on the drive; she looked out and saw it was his Land-Rover.

Georgina felt slightly sick and faint, rather as if he had been her lover. She gave George a final pat on the back, wrapped him in his shawl and walked rather slowly down the stairs. When she got to the bottom Martin was nowhere to be seen. Feeling silly, she went through to the front hall, and heard him talking to her father in the corridor. She followed their voices.

‘Hallo,’ she said. ‘Hallo, Martin.’

‘Georgina, darling, can’t stop now,’ said Alexander, ‘crisis in the dairy. Two of the cows are sick. Martin came to alert me. Martin, hang on a minute, I’ll just call Bill Withers, see if he can get up here.’

He disappeared into the gun room; Georgina looked slightly awkwardly at Martin.

‘Hallo,’ she said.

‘Hallo, Georgina. How are you?’

‘Oh – feeling much better. A bit tired, you know, but all right. Look, this is my son and heir. Isn’t he beautiful?’

Martin looked at the baby and there was a very odd mix of expressions on his face: tenderness, happiness and something close to awe, but most of all, an intense and burning interest, a searching of the small features, an almost fervent study of everything about him. It was that more than anything else which told Georgina she was right.

Finally he turned to her and said, ‘And what are you going to call him?’

‘Well,’ she said, her heart thumping almost painfully, ‘I’m going to call him –’

And then Alexander had reappeared, flustered, impatient. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘Withers is meeting us there.’

And Martin was gone.

It was a week later that she met him again; she had (greatly daring, for Nanny disapproved, saying it wasn’t natural) bought a sling, so that she could walk about with the baby strapped to her; she was wandering down the path towards the stables, and he was hurrying up it, towards the house.

‘Hallo,’ he said, ‘you’re looking better.’

‘Thank Nanny. She won’t let me near him half the time. So I get lots of sleep.’

‘Can I walk with you a little?’ he said, looking slightly awkward. ‘Of course. I thought you seemed in a hurry.’

‘Oh – not really. I was actually thinking I might see you. At the house. I had an hour to spare.’

‘Oh.’ She smiled at him, confused, feeling herself blush. This was crazy; she was acting (again) as if he was a lover. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘come with us. We’re on our way to the stables. Or maybe the lake.’

‘The lake’s a longer walk,’ he said. ‘Let’s do that. If you feel up to it.’

‘Of course.’

‘You were going to tell me the baby’s name,’ he said, ‘the other day.’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘so I was.’ There was a pause: come on, Georgina, get it out. ‘He’s called George,’ she said and met his eyes very steadily.

‘Ah,’ he said, and then, his expression quite unfathomable: ‘After you?’

‘Well – partly. It’s a nice name. And it’s –’her courage failed her –‘oh, I don’t know. Do you like it?’

Martin Dunbar stopped walking. He turned and faced her, and he looked immensely sad and oddly amused at the same time. ‘I like it very much. Very much indeed.’ There was a long long silence. Georgina stood staring at him, her heart thudding. Finally Martin said, quite casually as if remarking on the weather, ‘Nobody else really knew this, but your mother used to call me Georgie.’

‘Yes,’ said Georgina. ‘Yes, I sort of guessed that. It’s why I gave him the name. Actually.’

Martin didn’t say anything; but he looked at her, sharply, searchingly, and then he smiled at her, a radiant, all-consuming smile, and put his arm very gently round her shoulders.

‘I’m very proud of you,’ was all he said.

They walked for nearly an hour, talking, talking. It was very easy. He didn’t ask her any of the crass questions, how long she had known, or how she had guessed, and she didn’t ask him how any of it had happened. He just talked to her about Virginia and how much he had loved her, what a special person she had been, how good a friend; he said that of course Alexander and Catriona had never known, never suspected how close they had been, and it was far far better that they never should. He said that watching Georgina grow up had been a great joy to him; he said she had always been his favourite.

She told him that it was lovely for her that he was so near, especially now that she had George, and she was so pleased she had come home to Hartest. She said she hoped they would see more of each other in the future, and she said how silly it was that you could live next door to someone and not see them for weeks on end. She asked him if he thought Catriona would mind if she brought George to the house sometimes, and he said that Catriona would be delighted. It was so sad for her, that she had been unable to have children, he felt terrible for her; of course she had always rather assumed it was his fault. They had never, he said, with an embarrassed smile, gone in for any of those awful tests: just agreed to live with it.