Wicked Pleasures (114 page)

The night before she left for England, she was talking to her grandfather after dinner. Betsey was peacefully asleep; every day she grew stronger.

Fred lit a cigar.

‘How do you see things out there in the markets?’ he said. ‘How does your friend Gabe see them?’

Charlotte was flattered by his interest. ‘I think he sees it as a peak,’ she said. ‘Oh really? And does he see a trough following it?’

‘Oh – not a trough. But he says it can’t go on rising for ever.

The Dow Jones is pushing three thousand, isn’t it? That’s awfully high.’

‘Mmm.’ Fred looked at her, drawing on his cigar. ‘And London?’

‘Well, it’s just as dizzy. The FT is at –’

‘Yes yes, I know what it’s at,’ said Fred impatiently. ‘And I know Chuck thinks it’s built on rock. But have you picked up any feeling that it might not last in Britain much longer? From anywhere else?’

‘No,’ said Charlotte. ‘Everyone I know thinks it’ll go on for ever. The Tories getting back in was crucial; steadied everything down again. And you know how the City feels about Lawson, they love him. He’s the Messiah as far as they’re concerned.’

‘Well I don’t know.’ The cigar had gone out; Fred spent a while lighting it again. ‘There are some small but vital signs out there. I had dinner with Trump the other week. He’s selling quite a bit. Much more significantly, Goldsmith is getting out of everything. Selling his stock, his houses, the lot. Well, he’s a little eccentric these days, of course. Obsessed with this AIDS business. I don’t know. I just have a feeling –’ He puffed out the smoke, his face suddenly obscured. Charlotte sat listening, a sudden sense of chill in her body. ‘I just have a feeling there might be a dip ahead. I think it’s all overheating. And people have got too damn greedy.’

‘Do I have to worry?’ said Charlotte lightly, giving him a kiss. ‘Should I be selling my shares?’

‘Oh no, darling. You don’t have to worry. You’re quite safe. And so is Praegers.’

It was 22 September.

On her return she went down to Hartest. Georgina was distraught. George was no better. He would recover for a bit, and then become ill again. He didn’t look
well. Even Charlotte could see that. He was very thin, and fretful, and his skin was dry and rough-looking.

‘It’s the dehydration,’ said Georgina miserably. ‘Poor little boy.’

Dr Rogers had said if he wasn’t better in a few days, he would admit him to hospital as an in-patient.

Alexander seemed equally distraught. ‘He’s been so good,’ said Georgina, ‘he pushes him around in his pram for hours, trying to get him off to sleep, and the other night when I was up with him he heard me and came and sat with me for hours.’

‘Well, he’s very fond of George,’ said Charlotte, ‘and he is his grandchild after all.’

Alexander wasn’t looking very well himself. He was very thin, and pale, and he had shadows under his eyes. He had been upset about Gemma and Max, he told Charlotte: ‘That was no way to behave. She was a sweet little thing. I’m ashamed of Max, Charlotte, I really am.’

‘Well,’ said Charlotte, ‘I know all that, but if he didn’t in the end want to take things further, then it was best to break it off. And at least everyone who said he was going to marry her for her money has been proved wrong. That would have been really bad.’

‘I didn’t know there was any question of that,’ said Alexander. His voice was sharp suddenly. ‘And why should he need to worry about money anyway?’

‘Well, I suppose Hartest is a big expense,’ said Charlotte carefully, ‘and –’

‘What on earth do you mean?’ said Alexander. His eyes were very hard suddenly. ‘Hartest pays its way. It always has done. I resent very much the implication that Max might need some kind of a handout to keep it going.’

‘Oh Daddy, don’t be silly,’ said Charlotte. ‘Of course he doesn’t need it. I didn’t mean that. But Gemma was – is – jolly rich, you know. Anyway, Daddy, I think it’s probably for the best. Max is very young, much too young to get married.’

‘She was doing him good,’ said Alexander fretfully. ‘He’d steadied down a lot. I had so hoped – well, there’s nothing I can do about it.’

‘Nothing,’ said Charlotte. She kissed him. He looked at her and said suddenly, ‘Did your grandfather say anything about me while you were there?’

‘No,’ said Charlotte, surprised, ‘no he didn’t. Except to ask after you, of course. Why, was there some reason he should have?’

‘Oh no,’ said Alexander quickly. ‘No reason at all.’ It was 27 September.

Georgina, September–October 1987

Georgina had never been frightened before, she realized. She had never had this kind of awful, black nightmare filling her. Everything else receded in the face of it, of what was happening to George; to the endless pitiful sound of him vomiting, to his cries of pain, his wailing, his increasingly thin little body.

Some days he was fine; that was the strange thing. He would eat, smile, keep the food down. She was still breast feeding him, of course; he only had a modest amount of solid food: scrambled eggs, a little soup, apple sauce, yogurt. And that was all home-grown and cooked; it wasn’t as if she was relying on some terrible mass-produced stuff.

There had been all that awful publicity recently, about baby food – any food – being contaminated by the animal rights people; she wouldn’t have risked it anyway, even if she had been living in a high-rise flat in a London street, rather than safely at Hartest, with their own cows and chickens and vegetables. She cooked, increasingly carefully, kept soup, vegetable puree in the freezer; refusing to allow Nanny or Mrs Tallow to help her. Well, she had to be as careful as it was possible to be. And anyway, it certainly wasn’t his food. He had had allergy tests, of course: and horrible things called barium meals and barium enemas, his poor little body probed and abused by doctors trying to solve the puzzle. Everything was negative.

‘I’m so afraid it’s something like – well something really dreadful,’ she told Martin on one of her increasingly rare walks with him, ‘some disease. Something inherent.’

‘You mean like leukaemia?’ he said, putting his arm round her.

‘Well – yes,’ said Georgina. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘Have they suggested it might be?’

‘No. No, they haven’t. But they are going to do some extra blood tests. I know that’s what they think.’

She stared at him; his face was blurred through her tears. ‘I love him so much, Martin. I didn’t know what love was, before. You can’t imagine.’

‘Oh,’ he said and he smiled at her very gently, ‘oh Georgina, I think I can.’

For several days after that George seemed better. He hadn’t been sick for days; he had been sleeping; he had been guzzling greedily at her breasts. She felt much better. Maybe it was over. Maybe it was just one of those extraordinary, inexplicable things that would never be solved.

She slept with him beside her; he didn’t wake at all in the night; in the morning he was almost rosy. She bathed him, smiling with pleasure at him, even while she grieved over his little legs, so round and dimpled a few weeks ago, now strangely straight.

‘You’re going to be well now, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘You’re going to be all right for Mummy.’

George smiled radiantly at her.

She went downstairs; the kitchen was empty. George was obviously hungry; she decided to give him some Farex with his apple sauce. He loved that.

There was ajar of apple sauce in the fridge, carefully covered; she had made it yesterday. She got it out, mixed it with the Farex and a little Hartest yogurt.

‘Here,’ she said, ‘here, darling, lovely lovely, your favourite.’

George smiled at her, savoured the food, smacking his small lips. She smiled, happy. This was the fourth day. He was obviously getting much much better.

Suddenly George was sick. Violently, horribly sick. Several times. He was obviously in pain; his legs were drawn up and he was screaming.

Georgina called the doctor; then she changed her mind and put him in the car and drove at top speed to the hospital.

She rushed into Casualty; the woman was supercilious. ‘Name? Date of birth? Religion?’

‘Oh for God’s sake,’ said Georgina, ‘what does it matter what religion I am? My baby’s really ill. Please please let me see someone, please, quickly.’

‘You can see someone as soon as there’s someone to see,’ said the woman. ‘It’s a very busy morning. Now if you’d like to sit there and wait.’ She waved imperiously in the direction of the row of chairs. They were almost all occupied. Trembling, Georgina sat down. The woman next to her had burnt her hand; she was trying not to cry, holding onto her husband. The man opposite was drunk; he was dribbling and he smelt awful. He kept cackling at her and once or twice he came over and tried to tickle George. She pulled the baby away from him, and he swore and sat down again.

After a while, George was sick again. She mopped him up with a handful of Kleenex. He smelt awful. He cried endlessly, his little fists clenching and unclenching with pain. Panic rose in her, cold clutching panic.

She stood up again, went over to the desk. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘please let me see someone. I’m so worried.’

‘A lot of people are worried,’ said the woman piously, ‘you have to wait, I’m afraid. Doctor shouldn’t be much longer now. Your baby doesn’t look too bad to me.’

George vomited again, and then appeared to lose consciousness.

Frantically Georgina tried to find his pulse; she couldn’t. His little white face lolled back over her arm. He was breathing, but she couldn’t believe it was for much longer.

‘Poor little thing,’ said the drunk. He came over and tried to chuck George under the chin.

‘Leave him alone,’ Georgina almost screamed. ‘Just leave him.’

Everyone stared; she didn’t care. She got up suddenly, and walked very determinedly down the corridor looking at the curtained cubicles.

‘I don’t know where you think you’re going,’ said the woman, running after her, ‘but you won’t get attention that way.’

‘I’m not getting it just sitting there,’ said Georgina. She thought she had never hated anyone before as she hated that woman. She looked at her almost detachedly. ‘You are a very stupid woman,’ she said, hardly able to believe her own voice. ‘Now just leave me alone.’

She pulled aside one of the curtains at random; an Indian doctor was bandaging a little boy’s hand. He looked at her with a mild interest, but none of the outrage the woman was displaying.

‘Please look at my baby,’ she said. ‘Please. I’m afraid he’s going to die.’

‘He certainly doesn’t look very well,’ he said. ‘I hope you brought him straight in. Delay can be fatal, you know.’

Georgina opened her mouth and screamed.

George didn’t die. They kept him in for observation; he was not sick again that day, but he was very unhappy, he had bad diarrhoea and his pulse was weak. Georgina breast fed him, and rocked him, and felt afraid, and alone, and wished only that she could be ill, could suffer, could be in pain, and that George could be well, smiling, strong again.

That evening, when she had lost all track of time, Alexander suddenly appeared in the ward; he was carrying a big bag.

‘Clean clothes for him,’ he said. ‘How is he?’

‘He’s very bad,’ said Georgina tremulously.

‘He doesn’t look too terrible,’ said Alexander, ‘and he’s at least asleep.’

‘I know. But he’s so weak. And dehydrated. And his pulse is weak. They nearly had to put him on a drip.’ She was trying not to cry.

Alexander sat down opposite her, looking at the baby. Then he suddenly said, ‘Kendrick should be here. With you. Helping you.’

‘Oh Daddy,’ said Georgina with a sigh, too weary, too heartsore to consider the effect of her words, ‘Daddy, it’s all over between Kendrick and me. All over. We’re not going to get married or anything. I’m sorry. I should have told you before.’

It was very strange, she said to Charlotte, but it was from that night that she dated George’s real recovery. He was allowed home next day and he wasn’t sick, and stopped crying with pain, and he put on weight and thrived.

‘I kept expecting a relapse and it never came. It was wonderful. It was as if – well as if telling Daddy about Kendrick, getting that off my chest, had something to do with it.’

‘Well, it can’t have done,’ said Charlotte, ‘it can’t possibly.’

‘No, I suppose not. Unless there was some strange anxiety in me communicating itself to George. What do you think?’

‘I don’t think that sounds very likely,’ said Charlotte, ‘but anyway, it doesn’t matter. George is well again. That’s the really important thing.’

‘Yes,’ said Georgina, ‘of course that’s the really important thing.’

Max, October 1987

‘God, you look gorgeous. I might have to ask you to marry me.’ Max’s voice was low, throbbing with intensity.

‘Oh Max, honestly.’ Shireen looked up at him in the lift, from beneath her long spiky eyelashes. ‘Don’t be silly.’

‘I’m not being silly. That dress is a peach. An absolute peach.’ He put his mouth to her ear, looked cautiously about him at the other impassive faces. ‘I have a huge erection just looking at you.’