Wicked Pleasures (122 page)

‘I see. Well – that’s reassuring in itself. That you’ve considered it.’ He
poured himself another whisky. ‘And then of course there’s the matter of children. I’m not sure – oh dear, this is very delicate –’

‘Alexander, it isn’t so delicate. You think I’m too old to have children. To provide an heir for Hartest. Is that it?’

He looked at her awkwardly. ‘Well – yes. I suppose it is.’

‘Well …’ She hesitated, still not sure as to whether she should tell him. ‘Well, amazingly I’m not. We haven’t – told anyone else yet. But – well, I’m pregnant. Now. With the heir to Hartest. Slightly surprisingly, I have to say. But of course I’m not that old. I’m still actually in my thirties. By the skin of my teeth. I hope you’ll be pleased.’ She had been looking into the fire; she turned to face him again, caught him off guard. His expression was extraordinary: just for a moment she saw in it intense surprise, shock in fact, almost – what was it? Horror? No, that was too strong. But certainly a very violent emotion. It was – yes, it was fear. How odd. She felt fear in herself: just for a moment. Then it was gone, so swiftly she thought she must have imagined it, and he smiled, warmly, put out his hands towards her. ‘Angie, my dear, that is truly lovely news. Many congratulations. Well, it certainly removes one of my greatest worries. I think this definitely calls for some champagne. Driving or not. You must have some. We must have some. You can have a little supper with me afterwards, a sandwich or something. You’ll be fine. Or –’ he looked at her anxiously again –‘are you not allowed to have champagne?’

‘Oh, I think so.’ She didn’t actually want any, but she was so pleased at his reaction, so touched at the effort he was making that she knew she must have some. ‘I’d love it.’

‘Stay there, my dear. I’ll fetch it. I won’t be long.’

He came back with the tray, smiling; popped the cork, poured her a glass.

‘Aren’t you having any, Alexander?’

‘Oh – well, you know. I’ve been drinking whisky. It won’t quite go. But a little, yes, of course. We must drink to the baby’s health.’

He poured himself a glass; a rather small glass, she noticed, raised it to her.

‘To the heir! To my grandson!’

‘The heir,’ said Angie. She felt slightly silly. She drained her glass rather quickly, held it out for more. She noticed he hadn’t touched his, after the first sip.

‘How are you feeling? And when is – is the baby due?’

‘Oh – in June,’ she said quickly. ‘And of course we’ll be married in a week. So he’ll be very legal. Very legitimate.’

‘Of course.’ He smiled again. ‘I note you expect a boy?’

‘Yes, well, you know, I think it’s more the power of positive thinking. Being determined, you know? That it will be.’

‘And how do you feel?’

‘Oh – fine. Better than with the twins, actually.’

‘Good.’

She realized the room was spinning slightly. She’d obviously drunk too much too quickly. Shit. She somehow wasn’t enjoying this very much. It was
uncomfortable. She wished Georgina had been there. Or even Mrs Tallow.

She smiled slightly nervously at Alexander.

‘I feel a bit dizzy. Too much champagne. Could I take you up on that sandwich?’

‘Of course. I’ll fetch it for you. You stay there, and rest. I’m so sorry, my dear.’ He looked concerned. ‘I’ll bring you some coffee as well, if you like.’

‘That’d be nice. Thank you.’

She sat for a while, leafing through a copy of
The Field
, trying to tell herself she didn’t feel as drunk as she actually did. She felt sick as well now, and she had a bad headache. And the room, unless she concentrated really hard, rocked a bit. If only, if only she hadn’t had the champagne. It had been really, seriously stupid. Although she’d always been perfectly all right before, on champagne, when she’d been pregnant with the twins. Well, she was older now. Maybe she should be more careful. She wondered if she’d be all right to drive home. Maybe she should ring Max and get him to fetch her. She looked at her watch: already nearly eight. He’d probably be home any minute. She went over to the phone and dialled Watersfoot; the nanny answered.

Max wasn’t home; but yes, she’d tell him when he came in to phone Angie at Hartest. Angie sat back and decided to try and relax for an hour or two. Then if she felt better, she’d go.

Alexander came in with a tray of sandwiches, a bottle of Perrier and a pot of coffee.

‘Right,’ he said, ‘this should sort you out. Smoked salmon. Is that all right? It was all I could find in the fridge.’

‘Lovely,’ said Angie. ‘Just what I want.’

She wolfed down three of the sandwiches, and drank two glasses of Perrier; the room steadied a little. She felt less sick.

‘You look better,’ said Alexander, smiling at her. ‘You obviously need feeding up.’

‘Eating for two,’ said Angie, smiling back.

There was a silence. Then he said, ‘Angie, there was something else. I –’

Angie took a deep breath. This was it. And she was feeling uninhibited enough to meet it head on, cope with it. She leant forward, put her hand on Alexander’s knee.

‘Alexander, don’t. Don’t even say it. I know it must have been awful for you, that terrible day, it’s haunted me ever since. I’m so terribly sorry. But I have never ever told anyone and I never will. Really. I swear it.’

Alexander looked at her and an expression of great bewilderment spread over his face.

‘I’m sorry?’

A fresh wave of dizziness hit her; but she ignored it. She had to get this out of the way, aired, so that it would recede again, safely, into the background of all their lives.

‘Alexander, I’m talking about the morning when you told me you were – about your – about the impotence.’

There. She’d done it. She’d said it.

‘I’m sorry?’ said Alexander again.

‘Alexander, don’t, you don’t have to pretend. Really you don’t. You told me and I respected it, and I just wanted to reassure you that as far as I’m concerned it never happened. I never knew. I’ll never tell Max, never tell anybody. Don’t worry about it, please.’

Alexander nodded. His eyes had their vague look. He was obviously thrown by her broaching it. But at least it had been done.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘yes. Good. Thank you.’

‘Do you want to talk about it? At all?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Oh no. No I don’t think so.’ There was a long silence. And then he looked at her, and his face was quite different suddenly. It was not vague at all, it was sharp and very intense.

‘So you knew?’ he said. ‘You did know?’

‘Alexander, of course I knew. You told me.’

There was a very long silence. Then he said, and his voice sounded very strange, almost rehearsed, ‘Yes. Yes of course I did. I remember now. Yes of course.’

Another long silence: then he said, ‘Perhaps I do want to talk about it. Perhaps it would be a good idea. I never have, you know. Not since – since Virginia.’ There were tears in his eyes now, she saw; he was looking out at the parkland, bright with the frosty moonlight. Angie sat motionless, silent; waiting.

‘I could always – perform with prostitutes,’ he said. ‘With people I didn’t care about. I’m a classic case, it seems. Freud describes it as the need for a debased sexual object. What he refers to as the affectionate current and the sensual current are adrift. Oh, I could lecture on the subject for many hours, you know.’ He smiled at her, slightly shamefaced. ‘I had a lot of treatment. Horrible, some of it. It never did any good.’

‘Never?’

‘Never. That was why I came to love Hartest so obsessively, of course. It became the focus for all my frustration, all my love. If I couldn’t have a wife, children, I could have Hartest.’

‘I see,’ said Angie. The room seemed to be rocking again slightly.

‘But I wanted a wife. I wanted children. Had to have children. And then I met Virginia. And I just loved her. I took one look at her and loved her. It was cataclysmic. I would have done anything for her. Anything. Died if necessary. I worshipped her, Angie, I really did. You have to believe that.’

‘I believe it,’ said Angie quietly. His voice had become monotonous, but absolutely compelling.

‘She was everything, everything I wanted, needed, that Hartest needed. She was beautiful, cultured, charming, amusing – and she was good, Angie. She was terribly good. Kind. Concerned. And she loved me too. I know she did.’

‘She must have done,’ said Angie, staring at him.

‘So I did it. I did the unforgivable thing, and married her.’

‘Knowing?’

‘Knowing. Oh, I went back to the therapists, the psychiatrists, everyone, hoping, praying. But – well, yes, knowing. I can’t quite tell you what I thought might happen. I still don’t know. I turn my mind from it.’

‘Alexander, why didn’t she guess? How could she be so naïve, so stupid? I just don’t understand.’

‘She was very young,’ he said simply. ‘She was a virgin. It was a long time ago. She had led a very sexually sheltered life. It’s hard for someone like you to understand –’

‘It certainly is,’ said Angie tartly.

‘I can only tell you the truth. What happened.’

‘Which was – what?’

Alexander took another drink.

‘I – managed to deceive her. I told her I didn’t want to sleep with her until we were married. I was quite ardent. In my own way. The desire is still there, you see, this is what nobody understands.’

‘I see.’

‘I have to say in my defence,’ he said, and his expression was suddenly lighter, ‘that she was very anxious to become the Countess of Caterham. She liked the idea very much. She was so much in the shadow of Baby, you know. She needed to be important herself.’

‘I see. Well, I can understand that. It was a big shadow, Baby’s.’

‘So – well, we were married. I don’t want to talk too much about it all. But she was very loyal. She stayed with me. Had our children. I do think she must have loved me.’

‘Alexander, when you say she had your children, what exactly went on there? Did you just send her out to find some – some fathers?’

‘Yes.’ The simplicity, the directness of his answer shocked Angie; she felt slightly sick suddenly. In the depths of the house a phone was ringing.

‘I’ll get that,’ he said, ‘excuse me.’

He came back smiling. ‘That was my mother. Calling to say – Happy Christmas.’

The mention of Christmas brought Angie back to normality. She looked at her watch. Nearly half past nine. She felt chilled suddenly, chilled and threatened, without knowing why. Why wasn’t Max back, why hadn’t he phoned?

Alexander was talking again. He had once again refilled his glass. She forced herself to concentrate, to listen attentively to what he was saying.

‘Virginia was an alcoholic, you know.’

‘Yes,’ said Angie quietly, ‘I do know.’

‘I drove her to it, I expect,’ he said. There were tears in his eyes again.

Angie looked at him. There seemed very little she could say.

‘And nobody, Angie, nobody in the world knows about – about me. Except for yourself. And Nanny.’

‘Nanny!’

‘Yes. She always knew. She knew about the marriage, everything. In her own, rather simplistic way. But she would never tell. Never. She loves me, and besides, she promised me and she promised Virginia. Whom she also loved very much.’ He looked at Angie again, almost defiantly. ‘She really did love me, you know, Virginia.’

‘I believe you,’ said Angie.

He sighed and looked at her. ‘It would be terrible if anyone knew, Angie. Terrible. I had a few worries, when there were all those stories in the paper. Fred Praeger threatened to sue, you know. But I – well, I eventually managed to persuade him not to.’

‘We all thought – oh nothing,’ said Angie, staring at him.

‘I know. You thought I didn’t know. Of course I knew. I’m not a fool.’ His eyes were different, suddenly: watchful, cunning.

‘Alexander, of course you’re not a fool. Um – how did you persuade Fred?’

‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I just said that certain things might come out about Virginia. Which I might be driven to revealing. If I was really being hounded. I said I’d feel better if Hartest was safe again.’

‘Oh,’ said Angie. She felt sick again. God, he was evil. She wished he’d stop telling her things. She forced herself to smile at him. ‘Well, anyway, Alexander, I’m not going to tell. I promise. I never told anyone. Not even Baby.’

‘Really?’ He sounded distant, almost detached.

‘Really. And I never ever will.’

There was another very long silence. Alexander just sat, staring at her. Angie felt panic mounting in her. She felt trapped, nightmarishly trapped. She had to get away. She had to. She realized suddenly that she was sober, quite able to drive.

‘Alexander, I must go. It’s very late. Could I phone?’

‘Yes. Of course. I wonder though if you could do me a great kindness first?’

‘Of course.’

‘Well – I promised to collect Georgina from the Dunbars. Her car is off the road. Some trouble with the electrics. It’s only a couple of miles down the road. Only I’m afraid I’ve drunk rather a lot, I don’t think I’m safe to drive.’

‘Yes, of course I will,’ said Angie, relieved at the thought of getting away from the house. ‘The only thing is, I’m very short of petrol. I’ve only got just enough to get home. Could I take your car to fetch Georgina?’

‘Yes, please do,’ he said, and he seemed almost relieved at her words. ‘That’s a very good idea. It’s out in the front. The old Bentley. You’ll enjoy driving that. And I’ll ring Watersfoot and tell them you’re just leaving.’

‘Angie, hallo. Do come in. What a nice surprise.’ Catriona Dunbar opened the door; Angie smiled at her, thinking how extremely plain she was, and how much a flattering hairstyle and a little make-up would help. Why didn’t these women do something about themselves?

‘I’ve come to collect Georgina. And George. I hope it’s not too early, but I’ve got to go, and Alexander’s had a few too many drinks this evening.’

‘How very kind. She’s in here, talking to Martin.’

Angie followed her into the drawing room; it had that look she had come to know rather well and be constantly amazed by, endemic to the country houses of upper-middle-class England, a kind of cultivated shabbiness.