Wicked Pleasures (121 page)

Max looked at his feet and then up at her again. ‘I – I have to take Shireen to Paris. She’s cashing in her promissory note. Her and her mum. This weekend. I’m very sorry. But it was the deal I made with her, when she –’

Angie threw her head back and laughed, for a long time. She couldn’t ever remember feeling more lighthearted and-headed.

‘Oh Max, for God’s sake,’ she said, ‘I know. I remember. And of course I don’t mind. It’s the least you can do. How’s she getting on at Mortons?’

‘Well,’ said Max. He looked rather smug. ‘She’s a natural, Jake says. She’s coping with the whole thing.’

‘Good. I’d have hated to see her go down the pan.’

‘Yup. Me too. So you really don’t mind?’

‘Of course not. How is Jake, and has he ravished Georgina yet?’

‘He’s fine and he hasn’t.’

‘Ask him down to Hartest for the weekend, and lock them in the stables or something. That should do it.’

‘Mmm.’ He sounded doubtful. ‘Do you really think it’s a good idea? Those two?’

‘Yes I do. I think it’s great. The chemistry’s there.’

‘OK, I’ll give it a go. It’s a good idea. Will you come too?’

‘No. Your dad wouldn’t like it.’

‘Angie – there’s something I’ve always wanted to know. Always wondered.’

‘What?’ said Angie cautiously.

‘Well – did you ever – that is, with Alexander – I mean –’

‘Max!’ The absurdity of the notion made her laugh aloud again. ‘Max, honestly. If only you knew!’

‘Knew what?’

‘Oh – how much he’d hate it,’ she said hastily. ‘Listen, Max, I have to talk to you. Sit quietly and listen.’

He sat down, looking at her. His dark blue eyes were concerned, almost afraid. Angie’s heart contracted with love. Shit. Bloody love. Nothing but trouble.

‘What is it?’ he said. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Yes. No. Well, it might be.’

‘Angie, you’re talking in riddles.’

‘I know. I’m sorry. But I talked to Tommy and he said I had to tell you. Straight away.’

‘Tell me what?’ He had gone rather pale.

‘It’s – well, it’s rather delicate.’

‘What is? For God’s sake, Angie, this isn’t like you.’

‘I know. OK.’ She hesitated, took a deep breath. His reaction to this would actually settle matters. Once and for all. Tell her what she ought to do. ‘Max, the thing is, I’m pregnant. With – with your baby.’

There was a long silence. Max stared at her. He went whiter still. He looked away suddenly, stood up, walked over to the window, looked out.

Angie felt first pain, than panic running through her, stabbing at her.

‘OK,’ she said, ‘that’s it. I knew I shouldn’t have told you. Sorry, Max. Forget it. Big mistake. Big.’

‘Angie,’ said Max, and he turned round slowly, and his face was still expressionless, but his voice was shaky, oddly deep. ‘Angie, it’s the most ridiculous thing I ever heard. Honestly. Ridiculous. God knows what everyone will say.’

‘Well,’ she said, and she laughed suddenly, ‘I expected all kinds of reactions, but not this one. So what are you saying, Max? What exactly are you saying?’

‘I’m saying this settles it, you
_silly
cow. Once and for all. We can get married. And it had better be quick. I don’t want any more little bastards cluttering up the Caterham line.’

Alexander, November 1987

It was so horrible, he felt sick. All the time. Max, marrying that little slut. Telling him calmly that it was going to happen. Sitting there, on the sofa in the library, holding her hand, the pair of them smiling at him.

Her, Angie, his wife’s little East End charity case, coming to live here as Countess of Caterham. It was disgusting. What on earth was Max thinking about? She was old enough to be his mother. Apart from anything else, she wouldn’t be able to provide him with an heir. They obviously hadn’t considered that one. And she was so totally wrong. Wrong for Max, wrong for Hartest. Quite sweet, in her way; he’d been fond of her once. But common, vulgar, ignorant. No taste. You had only to look at that house she lived in in London, with its ankle-deep carpets and those dreadful fancy curtains, to see what she’d do to Hartest. It would be as bad as the Arabs. Worse, possibly. God, this was a nightmare. No sooner had he got rid of one spectre, of that dreadful boy Kendrick coming to live here, than he found himself confronted by another.

Unpleasantness. Scandal. There had been enough of that lately. It had half amused, half angered him that they thought he had seen none of the stories in the press. They seemed to regard him as some kind of half-wit. It had been worrying, that: not as worrying as Fred III’s threat to sue the press. Ringing him up like that, across the Atlantic, asking him what he thought they should do about it. Everyone knew the way to handle the press was keep quiet. Well, he’d dealt with Fred all right. And made sure Hartest was finally safe at the same time. They all thought he was so stupid. So vague and stupid. It was probably just as well, otherwise it would be much more difficult for him. But sometimes he thought that he would love to tell them. He would tell them. One day.

But not yet. He had to sort out this marriage of Max’s first. Why on earth couldn’t Max have stayed with Gemma? Sweet, suitable child. He really had been happy about that. She had loved Hartest, loved Max; she looked right, she was right.

Stupid, crass boy; it was absurd.

It had to be stopped.

Angie, Christmas 1987

‘Let’s have Christmas here,’ said Angie. ‘At Watersfoot. I’d like that. It’d be fun.’

‘OK,’ said Max. He was lying, with his head on her still concave stomach, looking extremely contented. ‘Just think, Angie, he’s in there. My son. It’s amazing.’

‘It might be your daughter. And anyway it’s not just yours. It’s mine as well.’

‘Nah. It’s a boy. I know it. And if it’s a girl you can have another.’

‘Max, I’m a little old for raising vast dynasties. I still can’t quite believe I let this happen. I hate being pregnant. I hate babies. I told you, this is the last one.’

‘Well, we’ll see. You don’t think we ought to have it at Hartest? Christmas I mean?’

‘No,’ said Angie sharply, ‘I don’t. Alexander hasn’t really got used to the idea yet. About us. I don’t feel – comfortable with him.’

Max shrugged. ‘OK. We’ll stay here. That’s fine. I don’t mind. But you’re wrong about Alexander. He’s really happy about it. He told me. Tears in the eyes. Poor old sod. I’m afraid he really is a bit gaga these days. Not quite all there.’

‘Yes,’ said Angie, ‘I think you could be right. But he’s very sweet. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.’

‘No, of course he wouldn’t,’ said Max. He sounded slightly shocked.

They were getting married on New Year’s Day. In the register office at Marlborough, family only. Angie was still in a state of shock. It was not only from the realization that she was pregnant, although that had been disturbing enough. ‘You’re a clear case of the last-minute syndrome, Mrs Praeger,’ her doctor had said to her. ‘The old wives would have us believe it’s a last-ditch stand on Mother Nature’s part. Medical science can’t verify or explain it, but certainly a great many babies are born in their mothers’ fortieth year. And those very low-dose pills do have a failure rate. Miss one, and you’re vulnerable, miss two, and you’re certainly at risk.’

She had of course; she had missed two. The night of the party and the next night, with all the dramas and tensions, the excitement of at last, at long last being in bed with Max. Even so, it was unlike her; the rigid efficiency that normally ruled her life would have seen to such things. ‘I’m obviously getting soft,’ she said to Max, ‘I have to get a grip on myself.’

And then the almost frantic eagerness with which Max had greeted the news; she had expected him to be at best cautiously pleased, not ecstatically
happy and determined to marry her. She had counselled caution, said they must wait, get used to the idea still, that Max must be absolutely certain of his motives. Max had told her she was a silly bitch and that he was absolutely certain; after two weeks of exuberant daily declarations of love and determination, she gave in, because she wanted to more than anything else in the world, and said she would marry him, soon after Christmas. She was feeling lousy at the moment anyway; and they had to tell the others. They hadn’t told them about the baby; one shock at a time, they felt. Let them get used to the idea of the marriage first.

Alexander had been sweet: vague, but happy, had kissed her tenderly and said it was wonderful that at last she was really going to be part of the family. Georgina had been quite sweet too; a little more guarded, but she had made a nice little speech about how lovely it was to see Max so happy, and she thought Angie deserved to be happy too. Charlotte had clearly been appalled. She had forced a smile, said how lovely and congratulated them both, but then after a strained ten minutes had hurried off, pleading an urgent call to New York. She had looked actually upset; Angie was torn between feeling hurt and wanting to shake her by the hand and tell her she’d every right to feel upset, she would do as well, it was an extraordinary liaison for Max to make. But she was too happy to care.

Three days before Christmas she was sitting at Watersfoot, wrapping up presents and waiting for Max to arrive from London, when the phone rang. It was Alexander.

‘Angie, my dear. I know this is asking a lot, but I wondered if you would come over this afternoon. Or perhaps early this evening, around six. For a drink. I’d so love to see you.’

‘Alexander, I’d love to come, but I am rather busy. Christmas, you know.’

‘Oh.’ He sounded disappointed – worse, deeply upset. ‘Well. Never mind. It’s just that I – well, I’ve been worrying about a few things, Angie. Silly I expect, but I would like to discuss them with you. But never mind. Of course you’re busy. Especially at Christmas. Living alone has made me selfish.’ His voice sounded shaky, almost tearful.

‘Alexander, I –’ she said.

‘Oh, don’t worry about me,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry, my dear. Of course it’s much too far for you to come. I just thought – well, never mind.’

‘Alexander, of course I’ll come,’ she said, ‘I’d like to see you too. I can bring your Christmas present. Is Georgina there?’

‘Yes. Yes, she should be. She’s going to have supper with the Dunbars a little later, but I know she’ll be pleased to see you.’

‘Good. Well look, I’ll be with you in about – two hours? I’ll just finish here, and make sure the twins are OK. They’re at a party. And then I’ll be on my way.’

‘Thank you so much, Angie. I do appreciate it. I shall look forward to seeing you, my dear.’

She arrived at Hartest at about six thirty. The traffic cutting across Marlborough had been terrible. As she turned off the road across the downs, and into the twisting winding lane that led to Hartest, she noticed that her petrol was very low. Damn. She should have filled up before. Oh well. Too late to do anything about it now.

Alexander was waiting for her on the steps; he looked tired, but his face was soft and welcoming as she ran up the steps. She handed him his present, and kissed him. ‘Happy Christmas, Alexander.’

‘And to you. What a beautiful parcel. Come in, my dear. Would you like a drink, or some tea?’

‘Tea I think, Alexander. I’ve got to drive back.’

‘Fine. Mr and Mrs Tallow are out, I’m in charge. Come down to the kitchen, I’ll make it for you.’

Angie followed him down to the great kitchen. Suddenly, inconsequentially, she remembered vividly the first time she had seen it, when Virginia had been radiant with happiness over the newly born Georgina, and Alexander had been young and dashing, and Charlotte had been a little girl in red wellingtons; it seemed a long time ago.

‘Is Nanny here?’ she said.

‘Nanny’s gone to see her unfortunate sister in Swindon. For the whole Christmas period.’

‘So you really are all on your own?’

‘Oh yes. Well, Georgina will be here, of course, and George. As I told you, they’re at the Dunbars’ this evening. And Charlotte is arriving tomorrow. Sugar?’

‘Yes please,’ said Angie.

Alexander didn’t have tea. He poured himself a large whisky.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘let’s go up to the library.’

He sat down in one of the large shabby leather chairs on one side of the fire; Angie sat in the other.

There was a silence.

‘Alexander,’ she said, ‘Alexander, I –’

He interrupted her. ‘You must think me very foolish,’ he said, ‘to be worried about you and Max. But I can’t help it. Max is –’

‘Very young,’ said Angie.

‘Well, yes. And impressionable. Of course I’m delighted he’s going to settle down. And of course I’m delighted that it’s with someone we all know and like so much. But –’

‘I know what you’re going to say,’ said Angie, ‘I’m old enough to be his mother.’

‘Indeed.’ He smiled at her rather awkwardly.

‘You’re not the first person to express that point of view.’

‘I’m sure not. I just worry, you see, that – well, in a few years –’

‘Of course. I’d worry too. If he was my son. I am worried. But we’ve talked about that. And decided to take it head on. When and if it happens.’