Wicked Pleasures (95 page)

She had found Georgina a very nice little flat in Chiswick, which she said Georgina could have for nothing for the time being at least; Georgina argued, and said she must give her something for it, that she had some money from investments, but Angie told her to shut up, that she needed every penny she’d got, and that she could pay her back one day.

‘Bloody Alexander. What a pig,’ she said. She had gone round to the flat to see if everything was in order, the day Georgina moved in.

Georgina looked at Angie, who seemed very upset and drawn, and altogether wretched. Well, it was hardly surprising; it was only a month since Baby had died.

Georgina slipped into an oddly peaceful routine, and soon felt as if she had been living in Chiswick for ever. She took great care of herself, feeling that however irresponsible it might be to become an unmarried mother, and one moreover with no gainful employment at her fingertips, she owed it to her baby to see that they were both as healthy as possible. She ate all the right things; she rested every afternoon; she saw Lydia Paget regularly for her checkups and she went to antenatal classes at Queen Charlotte’s every week, and lay on the floor with a lot of other pregnant ladies, learning to relax and to do special breathing exercises.

She had expected to feel bored and lonely, but she was neither; a curious tranquillity had taken her over. Everyone told her it was hormonal. She read a great deal, she walked for at least an hour a day and she redecorated the flat entirely, taking special delight in the nursery, which she painted white with huge golden sunflowers climbing up the wall, and a trompe l’oeil on one wall of a window looking out onto a child’s picture-book scene of blue skies, white cotton-wool clouds and rolling eiderdown hills, studded with sheep and horses.

Charlotte and Tommy were her most frequent visitors: Charlotte to check on her and cluck over her and to put in at least ten minutes every time trying to persuade her to tell Kendrick, and Tommy just to chat (and also she suspected
to check on her). So far the two of them had avoided arriving at the same time; it seemed bound to happen sooner or later.

Charlotte was worried and distracted about the office. Freddy had been on a couple of flying visits with Chris Hill, ‘checking things out’. Bill Webb, the chief trader, had already threatened to leave, and so had Charlotte’s immediate boss, Peter Donaldson.

‘And I get to do the square root of nothing most of the time,’ said Charlotte disconsolately. ‘When I think of how fast I was getting on in New York – well–’

‘Any chance of getting back to New York soon?’ asked Georgina.

Charlotte shook her head and sighed. ‘Absolutely none. Grandpa is still hardly speaking to me. I’m so sick of it, Georgie, I can’t tell you. I keep talking to Charles about going into law. I’m sure I’d be happier.’

‘And what does Charles say?’ said Georgina.

‘Well, he says I have to remember what I’ll be giving up, and how much I loved it in New York. And I suppose he’s right. Anyway, I’m hanging on for now. I don’t have much alternative.’

When she had gone, Georgina sat and thought about Charles. She hadn’t met him, but he sounded incredibly nice. She wished she had a Charles: someone who cared about her, who she could talk about her future to, someone to advise her, someone who was hers. The nearest she had to such a person at the moment was Tommy, and he hardly came into the same category. Not that she wasn’t very fond of him, she was. She had told Max so, and he had laughed in a rather smug way and said he’d told them all Tommy was a good egg and now they were all coming round to the idea.

‘Charlotte isn’t,’ said Georgina.

‘Charlotte gets more like a head girl every day,’ said Max.

She missed Alexander a lot; that was her only real sadness. She loved him, very much, and they had been extremely close; he suddenness with which he had thrown her out of his life had literally shocked her. She also felt an appalling sense of injustice, and anger, that after all she had done, given up for him, he had not supported her when she needed him. At first she had expected to hear from him, had thought he would phone or write and say he was sorry, ask her to come home; but he didn’t. Nanny phoned quite often to see if she was all right, and told her Alexander was still going round like a bear with a sore head, but that he never mentioned her. It hurt, Georgina found, exploring this piece of knowledge rather as if it was a sensitive tooth; it hurt badly.

And as the child within her grew, larger, stronger, more vigorous, so did her interest in, her speculation about, her feeling of need for her other, shadowy father.

Her other regular visitor was Mrs Wicks, who dropped in at least twice a week with a box of eclairs; she had heard about the baby from Angie, and she had always liked Georgina, so had taken it upon herself to play Mum, as she put it. The first time she came she asked Georgina if there was anything she fancied
and Georgina had said promptly, ‘A chocolate eclair,’ and now they shared several over a cup of good strong tea each visit. Mrs Wicks was also knitting for the baby, and showering upon Georgina a vast number of bootees, bonnets and matinée jackets all in rather strong colours. She said she never could understand why babies had to be dressed in washed-out pinks and blues and had been particularly delighted when she had found some skeins of bright, rainbow-coloured wool at the Kilburn Market on her way to Clifford’s flat. Nanny, who had been to visit Georgina a few times, had found the drawerful of luridly coloured clothes; when she heard their source her lips had been drawn in so tightly they could not be seen at all, and she had said she hoped Georgina wouldn’t actually be dressing the baby in them, as you couldn’t be too careful these days. She was very jealous of Mrs Wicks’s regular access to Georgina, and told her not to take any notice of any advice Mrs Wicks might give her about the baby: ‘She’s an old woman, Georgina, she wouldn’t know what was what at all any more.’

One afternoon towards the middle of December she was wandering round the Marble Arch branch of Marks and Spencer looking rather hopelessly for Christmas presents (and wondering whatever she might do for Christmas: clearly not go home, even if Alexander did ask her, which seemed increasingly unlikely, and the one on offer, to spend it with Tommy and Angie, didn’t feel quite right) when she bumped into Catriona Dunbar right by the thermal underwear. Bump was the word; her stomach met Catriona before anything else did. In just the last two weeks she seemed to have grown dramatically. (‘Carrying it right to the front,’ Mrs Wicks had said confidently, ‘got to be a girl.’ Georgina had been slightly puzzled by this as all babies seemed to her to be carried in the front, but she knew better than to argue with Mrs Wicks.)

‘Georgina!’ said Catriona, rallying swiftly from what must have been a considerable shock. ‘How nice. How are you? Your father said you’d gone back to university.’

‘Oh – oh, yes I have,’ said Georgina, not wishing to make Alexander appear a liar with all the attendant complications of such a scenario. ‘I’m just up here for some shopping. How are you? And Martin?’

‘Oh absolutely fine. Jolly busy, of course. Marvellous idea of your father’s about the dairy, isn’t it?’

‘Marvellous,’ said Georgina.

There was a silence. Then Catriona said, ‘Well – I must be getting on. It’s so crowded, isn’t it, and I’ve hardly started. We’ll see you at Christmas, of course. You’ll come and have a drink or something, won’t you?’

‘Oh – yes, of course,’ said Georgina. ‘Thank you. Bye, Catriona.’

The next day her phone rang. It was Martin Dunbar. Georgina almost dropped it, she was so amazed. He sounded hesitant, and was clearly very embarrassed.

‘Georgina. How are you?’

‘I’m absolutely fine, Martin, thank you.’

‘Good. Because my wife said – well – look, Georgina, please don’t think I’m
interfering, but does your father know about – well, the baby? I mean you’re not – not – well, in any kind of jam, are you?’

Georgina felt a rush of tenderness towards him: that he should have the courage and the concern to ring her and broach the subject of what he clearly thought must be a secret to be kept from her father. She smiled into the phone.

‘Martin, that’s so sweet of you. I’m so touched. No, I’m not in a jam, I’m living in a very nice flat and I’m being well looked after by everyone. And yes, Daddy does know. Honestly. He’s a bit upset about it, because I’m not married or anything, you know.’

Martin sounded relieved. ‘Well, I was just – well, worried.’

‘You’re so nice to worry.’ She felt close to tears at his kindness. ‘Thank you. Um – how did you know where I was?’

‘Oh, well, I asked Nanny,’ he said, and sounded rather proud of himself at this piece of duplicity. ‘I thought she was bound to know, even if your father didn’t.’

The room swam in front of Georgina’s eyes. To think of Martin, so painfully, desperately shy, seeking out Nanny, and asking her where he could find her, seemed almost unbelievable. For some reason she thought quite illogically of Lady Macbeth, and her command to her husband: ‘Now screw your courage to the sticking point.’ Martin must have had to do that, right to the sticking point; he must be genuinely and extremely fond of her.

‘Look,’ he was saying, ‘if you do need anything, money or anything, I mean, you will let me know, won’t you? Promise me. I’d hate you not to be properly taken care of.’

‘Oh Martin,’ said Georgina, ‘I just don’t know what to say. But yes, I promise I will. Let you know, I mean.’

‘Good,’ he said, and then after a pause, ‘Well, I’d better go. When – when is the baby due, by the way?’

‘Oh – the end of February,’ she said, ‘or thereabouts.’

‘Well you’ll let me know, won’t you?’

‘Of course I will. But maybe I’ll see you before then. I hope so.’

‘I hope so too. Will you be coming home for Christmas?’

‘I’m – not sure,’ she said.

Two days later, a letter arrived for her, the envelope addressed in Nanny’s writing, from Alexander.

‘Dear Georgina,’ it said, ‘I hope that you are well. I would not wish you to spend Christmas alone in London, and therefore I want you to know that you will be welcome at Hartest for the holiday. Your affectionate Father.’

She read it several times, half pleased that he was holding out an olive branch, however puny, half shocked at the letter’s chill tone (despite the dutiful ‘affectionate’). He was obviously still extremely angry, could not bring himself to apologize for his behaviour, or even to say he missed her. She could not help contrasting it with Martin’s gentle, determined kindness. She set it aside, not sure what to do about it, and found that she felt rather sick.

Georgina was not home for Christmas, and nor was she with Angie and Tommy, or with Mrs Wicks and Clifford, which had also been on offer. She was in hospital. The day before Christmas Eve she had suddenly developed a dull ache in the bottom of her back, which had developed into quite severe cramps; Lydia Paget had promptly had her admitted to Queen Charlotte’s.

‘It’s probably not necessary, but we can’t be too careful. The head’s engaged, and it’s early for that. Don’t look at me like that, Georgina, I’m sure you’ll be fine. Bed rest for a week usually solves all these little problems.’

She lay, frightened and depressed, in the antenatal ward on Christmas Eve; it was largely empty except for a large black lady who was moaning gently in the next bed: everyone who was considered fit had been sent home.

Charlotte, who had rushed in to see her as soon as she heard, was sitting on one side of her bed, Lydia Paget on the other.

‘Look,’ said Lydia, ‘there really isn’t anything to worry about, I’m sure. The cramps have stopped, haven’t they, Georgina, and the foetal heartbeat is very strong. And the baby’s lashing about. Look at him.’ They all looked and laughed; Georgina’s large stomach, under the hospital sheet, was heaving up and down. ‘Now I know it’s horrid being here for Christmas, but it’s a great deal better than risking losing the baby. Look at it that way.’

The day after Boxing Day she had just been told she could get up for an hour when the ward doors opened and a tall, stooping figure wearing wellington boots and a Barbour walked towards her bed. He held out a rather tatty bunch of flowers and smiled at her.

‘Martin!’ she said, so amazed she could feel her jaw actually drop. ‘How lovely to see you. What on earth are you doing here?’

‘Well believe it or not I’ve come to visit you,’ he said, looking rather helplessly round him.

‘But I don’t understand. Why aren’t you at home? It’s Christmas.’

‘Oh, I’m not a great one for Christmas,’ he said, ‘I get very tired of it very quickly. And Catriona had to go and visit her mother in Bournemouth, she’s not at all well, and I thought – well I thought I’d come and see you.’

‘Well, that is just the nicest present I’ve had all Christmas,’ said Georgina. If Santa himself had walked in, she thought, complete with Rudolph, she could hardly have been more amazed. ‘Come and sit down.’

‘Thank you.’ He sat on the bed rather gingerly. ‘Are you all right? Charlotte told me you were in hospital and I was worried about you.’ He looked worried, she thought; the lines on this thin face were even deeper than usual.