Wicked Pleasures (79 page)

‘Hallo, Baby. Welcome home.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be here to greet you in person.’

‘I’m sorry too.’

‘But you know, Baby, better than anyone, business is business.’

‘Indeed. And how busy you are, aren’t you, Angie?’

She looked at him, and he saw a careful look come into her green eyes. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘I said you seem to have been very busy. How was this evening?’

‘Boring.’

‘You don’t look particularly bored. That’s a very pretty dress to wear to – where was it?’

‘Essex.’

‘Ah yes. Did you just go to – Essex? Nowhere else?’

‘No of course not.’ She sounded impatient. ‘I went out with the commuter traffic as a matter of fact, it was a nightmare, very stupid of me, left town at fiveish, and hit Romford at seven thirty.’

She came over to the bed, leant down to kiss him again. Baby turned his face away.

He went into the office early; Gus Booth was already there at his desk. He looked up and smiled. ‘Baby! Welcome back.’

‘Thanks, Gus.’ Baby sat down rather heavily on the edge of his desk. He felt weary, and his bones seemed to ache. ‘How was last night?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘With Tom Phillips. Your dinner.’

‘Oh – no go, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh God.’ Baby sighed. He felt sick suddenly; aware of how much he had been hoping for some good news. ‘So – what went wrong?’

‘Well – the usual, I’m afraid. Feels we’re too much of a new boy. Don’t have quite the weight. Maybe we can get in touch a little later. Keep the lines of communication open. Et cetera et cetera.’

It was a long day: a long week: a long month. They got a number of small, a couple of medium-size accounts; but it was not enough. Not enough to get them flying, up there with a chance, talked about, looked at, considered. They were failing, before they had begun. And because time was running out on them, every day made the failure more serious, the situation harder to turn around. It was not a serious failure, but it was most clearly not a success. And given the investment, the backing, the associations they had, it should have been. But the competition was intense. Not for nothing was a new bunch in the Square Mile known as the Thundering Herd, comprising most of the big
American names – Chase, Security Pacific, Shearson Lehman, Goldman Sachs (together with the inevitable Japanese names – Nomura, Daiwa, Nikko). In the absurdly heady piratical climate of the run-up to Big Bang, where there were more dawn raids than dawns, companies endlessly under scrutiny and attack, bid for, bought, merged, restructured, relaunched, where it was said there was not a meeting room in London available even for breakfast, where planeloads of merchant bankers roared off every morning in pursuit of their prey, Praegers UK was a wallflower at the ball.

‘We have to do something,’ said their new PR consultant, Compton Manners, to Baby over lunch, a few weeks before the launch. ‘We have to do something to get your credibility up. That’s the problem. No credibility.’

‘Well that’s your problem,’ said Baby, unusually irritable. ‘I hired you to give me credibility, Compton. So far, you’ve hung onto it.’

‘I know. I admit it. I’m very sorry. We’ve done all the right things. The reception, the breakfasts, playing on the Praeger name. But it isn’t carrying the weight. What we need –’ He stopped, stared at Baby. ‘I just had an idea.’

‘Well, we certainly need one or two of those,’ said Baby. ‘What is it?’

‘Your brother-in-law. Lord Caterham. Would he help, do you think?’

Baby stared at him. ‘In what way? What could Alexander do? He wouldn’t know a client if it spat him in the eye.’

‘He doesn’t need to. He just needs to lend us his name.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well – allow me to plant a few stories about the family. Maybe what’s known as a photo opportunity at the house, with the children. With Charlotte, primarily, as she works for you, but maybe the others too. So that Praegers is linked with this very English dynasty. I really think it would help, Baby. Could you ask him, do you think?’

‘I’ll ask him,’ said Baby. ‘I don’t know how much good it would do, but I’ll ask him. I’d ask God to sit in on a photo opportunity if I thought it would do any good. But I’m not hopeful. He’s a cold fish, my brother-in-law, and he has an absolute obsession with that house of his. But you never know.’

‘Well, we have to do something,’ said Manners. ‘Otherwise you’ll just have to pack up and go back to the Big Apple.’ He smiled and tried to make it clear he was joking.

‘From where I’m sitting,’ said Baby, ‘that looks like kind of a nice idea. Give me a few days to think about it, Compton. I’ll get back to you.’

He decided to ask Angie what she thought of the idea. She was so close to Alexander, maybe she could even broach the subject for him. He hadn’t talked to her about anything for so long; maybe it would break the awful cold circle they had got themselves into. He called her at her office, and asked her if she was going to be home early that evening, that he wanted to talk to her; she sounded cool, distant, but said she’d try not to be too late. She was seeing clients, she told Baby briefly; he was too depressed, too heartsick to question her. He went home early himself with a heavy heart, picked at a plate of Welsh
rarebit Mrs Wicks cooked for him, and was watching television in his den when he heard her car. In spite of everything, his heart always lifted when he knew he was going to see her; he went to the top of the stairs to greet her.

She walked in through the front door and stood staring up at him; she was very pale, and her make-up was smudged. She had been crying; she looked almost dazed. Baby stared at her, wondering what had happened.

Angie started to walk up the stairs towards him and she was crying again, now, great tears brimming over in her green eyes. Baby held out his arms, and she went into them, blindly, like a child. She stood there for a while, her face buried against him; then she stood back, studying him very intently, as if she had never seen him before. Finally she spoke.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she said.

Charlotte had told her; had phoned her and said she wanted to see her, told her there was something she simply had to know.

‘Bossyboots,’ said Baby, half irritated, half relieved. ‘I’m sure she thinks she’s still running the school council.’

‘Well maybe. But I’m grateful. I don’t know what might have happened to us if she hadn’t.’

They were sitting up in bed, toasting their reunion – a spectacular one – in champagne, misery and fear temporarily held in abeyance. Baby tried to explain why he hadn’t wanted to tell her. Why he hadn’t wanted to tell anyone about it. It was because he felt somehow, he said, that while he didn’t talk about it, didn’t name it, didn’t give it any recognition, it didn’t really exist. The minute he said hey, look everyone, I have this terrible thing, and everyone started saying, hey, Baby Praeger has this terrible thing, he would be watched, worried over, sympathized with, stamped ‘invalid’; until that happened, he could pretend, tell himself it was nothing, a few odd little symptoms, small unimportant blips in his personal mechanism. He had enough troubles at the moment, without adding sickness, terminal fatal sickness to them. If he ignored at least that one, maybe, just maybe it would go away. Or at least stay dormant, quiet. That was exactly how he visualized it, an obscene, sleeping beast; he did not want it disturbed.

‘But you were doing such harm,’ said Angie. ‘To both of us. If I’d known I’d –’

‘Yes. What would you have done?’

‘Oh – you know. Been nicer.’

‘Well – I’m sorry. It was my way of coping.’

‘Pretty funny way,’ said Angie. ‘How many doctors have you seen, and how sure are they?’

Compton Manners phoned him the following afternoon.

‘Hallo, Baby. Have you talked to your brother-in-law yet?’

‘No,’ said Baby. ‘No, I haven’t. I’m sorry.’

‘Please give it a try, Baby. We could do something good there.’

‘I’ll ask,’ said Baby.

‘Alexander! Hi, it’s Baby.’

‘Hallo, Baby. How are you?’

‘I’m fine. Asbo – Alsoblutely –’ Baby realized with a sudden sick horror that he was having trouble enunciating his words. It hadn’t happened before, but he had been told that it might. It was one of the earlier symptoms. Something he should look out for, not be too alarmed by. Just a slight slurring occasionally – at first. Later you sounded permanently drunk, and then you couldn’t speak at all. They had also said it shouldn’t happen for a while yet. Not at the very early stage. So – was the stage not so early? Or was he galloping rather swiftly towards a later stage? Panic engulfed Baby, blind, hot panic. He felt sick, gripped the edge of his desk with his hand. His weak hand. It seemed reassuringly strong and normal. He swallowed hard, told himself not to be a neurotic fool. ‘I’m fine,’ he said firmly.

‘You don’t sound fine.’ Alexander seemed concerned. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I – wondered if I could come and see you. Want to ask you something. Over the weekend, maybe? We might come down to Watersfoot. Angie’s dep – dep –’ Christ, it was going again – this was a nightmare –‘desperate,’ he said finally, his voice very loud, ‘desperate for me to spend some time there.’ There, he’d got it out. It was OK. Just a silly slip. Nothing really.

‘Of course,’ said Alexander. ‘I’ll be delighted to see you. Sunday morning? Baby, are you sure you’re all right?’

‘Oh! Oh, yes of course. Fine. Honestly. Just a – a bit too much to drink. Heavy lunch. That’s all. Tried to cut it down, but it keeps creeping up on me. You know what they say. Once a drunk always a drunk.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Alexander. ‘I know what they say.’

Alexander, 1973

‘Once a drunk always a drunk.’ The doctor had looked at Alexander very solemnly. ‘I’m afraid your wife is a fairly bad case. Her drinking seems to be rooted in a disturbance, a neurosis, that I have been unable to get to the bottom of. She has worked very hard, we all have. And she’s off it now. But you have to remember that she will always, always be at risk. Any strain and she becomes totally vulnerable.’

Alexander had nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, I understand.’

‘But – with care, and patience, and a strong wish of her own to succeed, she should be all right.’

‘Good. Yes, that sounds good.’

‘You must be watchful, Lord Caterham. Don’t put temptation her way, don’t leave her alone if she is upset or stressed, try to save her from any unnecessary trauma.’

‘Yes of course. I love her very much. I want her to succeed.’

‘I know you do. I’ve been very impressed by your patience and your forbearance with her. She’s lucky to have you.’

‘Well – I have tried. I intend to keep trying.’

‘Good.’

It was true; he did want her to succeed. He had been frightened by the drinking, as well as upset by it, and sorry for her. And horribly, hideously grieved by the death of the baby. He often wondered why he was not more angry with her about that, about wilfully killing her child, which was what it had amounted to, but he was not; he had seen her own terrible grief and remorse, had known he was to a degree to blame himself, and anger was the one emotion he did not experience. But he had been afraid, and he had been revolted. It had been hideous to see the beautiful, cool woman he loved so much become ugly, stumbling, fumbling, dependent.

When she had started drinking, gaily, foolishly self-indulgent, it had irritated him, it had never amused him; but the irritation had never, as it logically might have done, turned to anger, it had turned to fear.

He watched her flirting, behaving outrageously at parties, and he had had the humiliation of half carrying her out as she giggled foolishly, waving to everyone in sight; and he had been terrified. And he had hated the hangovers, the white-faced headaches, the lying in bed, the vomiting (insisting she had eaten something that hadn’t agreed with her), it had all revolted him.

He had tried so hard to stop her, tried reason, tried hostility, but she had ignored the former, and the latter had made her worse, had made her drink for
comfort, for reassurance. It had been such a relief when she had told him she was pregnant; now, he thought, surely she would have to stop.

But it hadn’t worked that way; she had been so fearful, so anxious that the third baby would be a boy, so emotionally vulnerable, she had drunk for comfort, increasingly as the months went by.

And then the baby had been born, and had died, tiny, white, sad little Alexander, with his stick-like limbs and his large clumsy joints, his tiny eyes, his restless, painful movements, leaving him with a sorrow so deep and dreadful that he had wondered how he would ever feel anything else. He had been angry then, he had raged, but not at Virginia; he had raged at Fate, at himself, at the doctors, anything, everything, but the sad, sick woman who had lain in her hospital bed and said she wished she was dead, she was so sorry and so ashamed.

And then after that it had got worse; she had drunk more, harder, to forget, she had refused help, had refused even to try, had told him that she needed it, that it was the only thing that didn’t let her down. Alexander had never forgotten the agony of hearing her say that, of seeing her face when she said it, her bleak, hostile face. And still he had not given up, had gone on trying to help her; even when she had attacked him with her broken glass, and he had had to have stitches in his neck, he had still continued to be hopeful, loving, tender with her.