Wicked Pleasures (80 page)

It had been terrible to witness her suffering in the clinic, dreadful to see, to feel her withdraw from him; but still he went on, visiting her every day, bringing her an endless supply of different soft drinks, the cigarettes she had started to smoke, plying her with chocolates, and gradually she came back to him – frail, frightened, and very dependent.

Her dependence pleased him; it made the problems, the unpleasantness less hard to endure. He liked the way she clung to him, even physically, asked his advice about everything, seemed unable to do anything without him at her side. The one thing that did grieve him, angered him even, was the way she refused to go home to Hartest.

She did in the end of course; after visiting her parents, and having a holiday with Baby, she said yes, she could go back. It had hurt too, the way she had been so afraid of it, not recognized the beautiful, healing atmosphere of the place, he had found that absolutely incomprehensible, and the way too she clung to him in the car, held his hand so tightly as she walked up the steps that his knuckles were red and tender afterwards. It had been a rejection of himself, a threat almost, he felt, to everything that most mattered to him, to them both; but she had conquered it, had settled again into her life and role as mistress of the place, and in time he had begun to forget.

And then Hartest was really threatened. Threatened financially. He had lost money on the stock market, more on his failed stud farm; but the really bad news had been that the place was infected with dry rot and subsidence. ‘You need a new roof,’ the man from the dry rot company had said, ‘and a virtual
rebuilding.’ The initial estimate had been between four and five million. Alexander had almost nothing. The farm had never made a profit, in a good year it broke even; he had no money at all, no cash, everything he possessed was bound up in the house and the land.

Panic struck Alexander; blind, unreasoning panic. He had gone out and stood at the top of the Great Drive, looked down at the house, standing exquisitely golden and serene in the sunlight, and tried to visualize it crumbling, rotting, dying. Tears had sprung to his eyes. Somehow he had to get the money. He couldn’t fail Hartest. He couldn’t.

Virginia was in New York. She spent more and more time there. He hated it, but he let her go. It made her happy, and kept her safe. He called her, told her what had happened, listened impatient, shocked, but hardly surprised as she told him she had very little of her own personal fortune left, asked her (shrinking from talking to Fred, from revealing his incompetence) if she thought Baby would help. She said she wasn’t sure if he would be able to do anything, but that she would ask him; she phoned next day to say such a large sum was outside Baby’s discretion.

‘Then I will have to talk to your father.’

‘Well, Baby has offered to talk to him first. To pave the way. Would you like that?’

‘Very kind,’ said Alexander shortly. He found it increasingly difficult to be civil to Baby.

Fred had been intolerable; smug, playing cat and mouse, suggesting he should sell his Van Gogh, his Monet. Alexander sat quietly, willing himself to remain calm, pretending to consider the suggestions. When Fred said he should open Hartest to the public, set up a motor museum and a funfair, he felt physically sick; he closed his eyes briefly, feeling the room sway round him. Then he managed to smile, to look positive.

‘What I really hoped for,’ he said carefully, ‘was a loan. On a strictly business basis, of course.’

And Fred had looked at him, his sharp eyes snapping with amusement, and said no, he would not even consider it, and then, as if eager to extract as much pleasure from the interview as possible, had added that he would give Alexander a very good price for the Monet.

He would probably have spared Virginia even then; had she not sided with her father over the house, and said opening to the public seemed to her a sensible thing to do, that Blenheim and Castle Howard had not been damaged by the experience, that at least the house would be safe. He had been so angry, then, he had wanted to hurt her so much; and it had been then, at that moment, that he had seen what he would have to do.

It had been quite complex, really, pulling all the elements together; but he had enjoyed it in a way.

Suggesting to his mother that he took Georgina up to stay with her, that had been a master stroke: ‘Ma?’ he had said, ‘Ma, I think this nonsense has gone on long enough. I am terribly terribly sorry to have been loyal to Virginia, in keeping the children from you; it has been very difficult, but I can see I was wrong. If you will forgive me and allow me to at least bring Georgina up to see you, it would make me very happy. She is the most amazing child, mature far beyond her years, I know you will love her.’

And after an initial coldness, his mother had been so delighted, so eager to meet her grandchildren, that her pleasure alone eased any guilt he had been feeling. And then once they had been there, seeing how much she liked Georgina, how happy she was, it had been ridiculously easy to suggest that she should meet Charlotte and Max too. It would be very bleak for Virginia, alone at Hartest, without the children, with no Easter egg hunt to run, no lunch party, no one to talk to. But then it had been bleak for him, alone there too, even though he had had the children, for almost two months; she would see perhaps how hard it was for him to bear, and be sorry. And it had been a master stroke taking the children off on a camping trip, so they wouldn’t even be at the castle if she wanted to speak to them.

It had been quite easy, finding out about her new prospective clients. They were all listed in her files. Virginia’s efficiency was awe-inspiring.

And then they each received a call, from her doctor at the clinic, and then from himself, saying she was really not very well just at the moment, not well enough to be taking on any more work, and that it would be a kindness simply not to give her the business; that had been easy too.

And a similar call to Catriona Dunbar, telling her that Virginia was simply not up to taking on the strain of the Riding for the Disabled Committee (which Virginia had told him she had decided to accept, that she was pleased to have been asked) and that the kindest thing she could do was pretend it was too late, that they had someone else on the committee now.

Probably that would be enough. Of course he couldn’t be sure; but the situation was very promising. She would be alone, vulnerable, depressed. Nanny was away, and she would be too hurt at Catriona’s rejection to spend any time with the Dunbars. He had made sure that the door to the cellar was unlocked. It might not work, but it probably would.

When they got back from Scotland, she had undoubtedly been drinking. She wasn’t quite drunk, but she had been drinking. He could smell it on her breath. He was distant with her, cold.

Next day she was drinking again. And then the children went back to school, and she went to London and he left her forty-eight hours and then went to find her, and she was hopelessly drunk. And that night, as they sat having dinner, he told her that it was going to break his heart, but he thought he would have to open Hartest to the public after all. He followed her out to the kitchen; she was making herself a hot drink, she said. The hot drink smelled reassuringly of whisky. He drove back to Hartest that night.

Baby phoned him. He said he had called Virginia in London, as Alexander had suggested, and that she had sounded very drunk. Was she drinking again? Hadn’t she just been to a clinic to dry out?

Alexander had said, yes, she was drinking, heavily, and he didn’t know what to do. The doctor had said it was the strain, worry about Hartest. He was distracted and worried himself, unable to care for her adequately. And of course her clinic bills had been enormous, running into thousands.

Baby said he would pay the clinic bills and asked what Alexander was going to do about Hartest.

Alexander told him he simply didn’t know.

He arranged for Virginia to go back into the clinic. He rang Baby and told him, thanked him for his help.

Fred rang. He said he couldn’t have Virginia sick again, that it was disgusting and appallingly bad for the children and both family names, and that if the new roof was going to cure her, then there had better be a new roof.

When he saw how happy Virginia was at the news, he almost managed to persuade himself that he had been telling Baby the truth.

Angie, 1985

‘OK, I want the whole truth,’ said Angie. ‘No hedging, no sparing my feelings. Just tell me. Please.’

She was very pale; her eyes looked enormous. She was wearing jeans and a black sweater, and cowboy boots. Dr Curtis smiled at her.

‘You look hardly old enough,’ he said, ‘to be Mr Praeger’s wife. More like his daughter.’

‘I’m not his wife,’ said Angie briefly, ‘and I do assure you I’m a lot older than his daughter. But I do love him and I live with him, I’m the mother of some of his children, and I need to know what I’m in for. I’m getting a little tired of all this evasion.’

Dr Curtis looked at her sharply. Her lip and her voice had quivered just momentarily.

‘I’m sorry, Miss –’

‘Burbank.’

‘Burbank. I didn’t mean to be evasive. You’re obviously a brave girl. All right, then, I’ll give you the whole truth. Mr Praeger has, as you know, motor neuron disease. A wasting away of the cell stations and the neurons, that is to say nerves from the brain, responsible for moving muscles. As they waste, the muscles waste. There is a consequent weakness throughout the limbs. As the disease progresses, the arms and legs become not only weak but stiff, and they often twitch. Walking becomes increasingly hard and it is very difficult for the patient to hold anything.’ He paused. ‘Is this really what you want to know?’

She nodded, her eyes fixed on his like a rabbit with a fox.

‘I wouldn’t say I want to. But I need to.’

‘Very well. Later, there is a problem with the control of speech – it will be slurred initially, eventually becoming almost unintelligible. Eating is another problem, swallowing is difficult, and there is a danger of choking. Some patients –’ He paused.

‘Yes? Some patients what?’

‘Some patients tend to dribble, they cannot control the flow of saliva, you see.’

‘Oh shit,’ said Angie.

‘Your – Mr Praeger’s chest muscles will become weak, his breathing may be difficult, especially at night.’

‘Treatment?’ asked Angie very quietly.

‘None, really. Physiotherapy can be helpful. Gentle swimming can help the muscles. Splints can be made to help the grip. Drugs can ease the muscular jerking.’

‘And – what is the prognosis? I mean how long does he have?’

‘It’s hard to say. Three to five years. Maybe less. Few people live for more than five years after diagnosis.’

‘I see,’ said Angie. ‘Well, thank you. It may seem a little hard for you to believe but I feel better now. Does Mr Praeger know all this?’

‘I have given him a slightly – shall we say – sanitized version. I have certainly not buoyed him up with false hopes.’

‘Good. None of it sounds too sanitized.’ She smiled briefly. ‘So Dr Curtis, what should I do? Should he be encouraged to give up work?’

‘Absolutely not. If he enjoys it. But I have to say, in all honesty, I don’t think he will be able to work for very long. He –’

‘Yes?’

‘He seems to be deteriorating quite fast. The right hand is considerably weaker than I would have expected at this stage.’

‘Oh.’ It was a small bleak sound.

‘The worst thing, of course, is coming to terms with it. And living with it. Recognizing what has to happen. Accepting what help can be given. False hopes are definitely not helpful. He must confront it, and try to accept it.’

‘He’ll confront it all right,’ said Angie, ‘but I don’t think he’ll ever accept it.’

Angie felt very odd, frightened and yet oddly calm at the same time. She went for a walk in Regent’s Park, looked at the trees with their fresh green leaves and thought inconsequentially that soon they would turn dusty and brown and start to die, and it seemed oddly and harshly appropriate. She thought of Baby, and what was going to happen to him, saw him frail and immobilized and helpless, his vigour gone, his capacity for extracting pleasure from every corner of his life gone, saw him frail and weak instead of vital and strong, and for perhaps the first time in her life she did not think for a moment of herself, of what it would mean to her, but wondered simply how he would bear it.

Charlotte, 1985

‘You cannot be serious!’ McEnroe’s petulant face stared up at the umpire, his racket hanging from an arm limp with disbelief.

Charlotte smiled indulgently at him; he reminded her of Gabe.

‘Spoilt brat!’ said a voice beside her. ‘Needs a good thrashing if you ask me.’

‘Maybe,’ said Charlotte politely. The voice belonged to Brian Watson, MD of Watson and Shell, one of their most important new clients. ‘Mr Watson, your glass is empty, let me find you some more champagne.’

‘Thank you, Charlotte. Very kind. Never normally drink at this hour, of course. Need m’nerves soothed, watching that young whippersnapper. Should have been sent to a decent school.’