A Stairway to Paradise (14 page)

Alex’s appearance, having precluded further speculation about his love life, might also seem to obviate it: Alex certainly had nothing of the aspect of the lover. He had—as generally—that look, both weary and feral, of the man who has no partner. Still attractive, too, thought Lizzie. Doesn’t even need much cleaning up. Poor darling. She kissed his weary, feral cheek. He smelt all right too. He handed her a bottle of Margaux. ‘You poppet,’ said Lizzie; Alex gave her a brief smile which might have melted a stonier heart. ‘Well now,’ said Lizzie, almost disconcerted; ‘what will you have to drink?’

Simon Beaufort arrived twenty minutes later with a bottle of Graves which they opened to drink with the meal, which was almost ready; at last they sat down.

First they talked about Alex’s black economy book, due to be published in the autumn. ‘Giving it all they’ve got, are they?’ asked Simon.

‘It’s getting a launch party,’ said Alex.

‘Oh, where?’

‘White’s.’

‘What a joke. Who’s coming?’

‘All of you, I hope.’

‘Naturally. Anyone else?’

‘The Chancellor may put his head around the door for a moment or two.’

‘Never!’

‘So the rumour goes. His PPS is not unhopeful.’

‘What a riot, I can’t wait. I must have a new dress.’

‘Must you?’

‘Alf, darling, don’t be a killjoy. I’ll pay for it myself.’

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to.’

Alex thought it time to divert the conversation from his own concerns and turned to Simon. ‘What exactly are you up to these days?’ he said.

Simon told him, and the talk became rather shoppy.

‘I tell you what, though,’ said Simon, suddenly remembering, ‘I saw that Gideon fellow the other day—your brother, isn’t he, Alf?’

‘Alas, yes.’

‘Just listen to him! Poor Alf. “Alas” indeed. Where did you see him, Simon?’

‘In a restaurant. Which one could it have been, now? One of those places.’

‘
Ah, les restaurants de Londres
.’

‘I remember who he was with, though, he was with that Emma Whatsit—you know—that agent, the one they call The Fox. And a BBC producer I vaguely recognised.’

‘Well, I must say that takes the biscuit—as far as we’re concerned the villain is meant to be holed up virtually incommunicado in the cottage in Dorset writing his absurd book.’

‘Don’t be silly, Alf, he’s almost finished that. He’d just buzzed up to town for the day, obviously. In fact, I think I know why.’

‘Well, I wish you’d tell me. Not that I care, one way or another. But it is my cottage.’

‘Or, as it were, ours. Yes, this is a most material point. He has no right, having borrowed it—’

‘Exactly: borrowed, you notice. Not rented.’

‘—having borrowed it, to leave it for a whole day without telling us.’

‘Well, you know what I mean. Here he is, in London after all, not a word to us—’

Lizzie threw up her hands. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said despairingly to Alex and Simon. ‘Ever since his wastrel younger brother whom he never tired of excoriating became a decent respectable media star Alfred has been in a perfect tizzy. His exasperation has, if anything, actually increased. Behold, the relentless logic of the legal mind.’

‘Well, it’s all so utterly spurious,’ said Alfred. ‘Not to say, completely
unreal
. All this fame and success. It’s not as if he’s had to
work
for it.’

At this, they all (except Alfred) howled with laughter. ‘How true!’ they cried. ‘How terribly true!’

‘Anyway,’ said Lizzie, recovering herself, ‘I’ll tell you why he was in that restaurant with The Fox and that producer—I think I know which one it was, too—it’s because he’s probably going to be doing a new series for the Beeb.’

‘Now I’ve heard everything!’

‘No kidding.’

‘Some sort of travel thing?’

‘Got it in one.’

‘Do we actually want another travel thing?’

‘Look at those we already have and I think the answer may come up before you in bright shining lights.’

‘That’s what Gideon is after. His name in bright shining lights.’

‘Don’t take any notice of Alf. Yes, it sounds quite good: sort of video diaryish, but more structured—obviously—a sort of independent travellers’ guide, but all shot on the hoof, so to speak.’

‘Could be classy.’

‘Just one major little problem.’

‘What’s that?’

‘They need a girl. Or, you know, a woman.’

‘Plenty of those. Should be able to find one.’

‘Yes, but Gideon’s rather keen to have one in particular.’

‘Oh, is he? Well, a TV contract beats a box of Milk Tray any day.’

‘Depends on the woman, I would have thought.’

‘That’s my Alfred. You’d swear he was serious, wouldn’t you?’

‘I am.’

‘No, but tell us, Lizzie—who’s the particular girl Gideon wants?’

Thus Simon. Alex sat dumbly, holding the stem of his glass, unable even to eat, looking down at the tablecloth. It had a pattern of thick blue and thin red stripes on a white ground. He thought he would never forget it. He knew—he had been seized by a chilling prescience, a mutation of the cold horror which had entered him as soon as Gideon’s name had first been mentioned—what was to come.

‘Yes, he wants that girl Barbara, the one he went to India with,’ said Lizzie. ‘You remember—did you see the video diary?’

‘Oh, of course. Barbara. Now which was she—the sylph, or the rather more voluptuous type?’

‘The latter.’

‘Hmmm. Could she do it?’

‘Something of a moot point, as she’s presently in Australia.’

‘Does Gideon want this show or doesn’t he?’

‘I understand that as soon as he’s got their agreement in principle he’ll put the hard word on her to get herself back here pronto and strut her stuff.’

‘Perhaps she’d rather have the Milk Tray, after all.’

‘Not if she knows what’s good for her.’

‘Can’t see how Gideon could be good for anyone, with or without a box of Milk Tray up front,’ said Alfred.

‘Ah, well,’ said Lizzie.

‘Nell thinks he’s
fabulous
,’ said Simon. His younger daughter Nell was nine years old. ‘She’s got a picture of him on her wardrobe door—I see it every time I go in to kiss her good night; no wonder I recognised him in that restaurant.’

‘The thing is,’ said Lizzie, ‘speaking as a pro, I do think that Barbara girl could have something as a presenter. Huge novelty, for a start. She’s so authentic. And she’s certainly attractive enough—rather gorgeous, really, in her way. They can do something about the clothes and so on. It’s just a question of whether she can do the business.’

‘Well, someone had better remind Gideon about the story of Citizen Kane and that singer creature.’

‘Or the other way around.’

‘No, no, I tell you—it isn’t like that. At least I don’t think so. No, Gideon genuinely
a
thinks she can do it and
b
equally to the point believes they
work
. As a team. The chemistry is right.’

‘Ah, chemistry.’

‘No, not
that
chemistry. Ye gods, you men—’

Well, Simon, actually. Alfred and Alex had both remained more or less silent: Alex wholly so. In fact, he must speak soon or his silence might begin to seem significant. ‘I should think he knows best,’ he said. ‘After all, he’s spent a lot of time with her, going to India, and then all around it. Must know her pretty well.’

Brave, brave Alex; and no one there to know it: no one, anywhere.

‘Just so,’ said Lizzie.

‘That has to be right,’ said Simon.

‘And she him,’ said Alfred, drily. ‘I dare say she’ll turn him down, in the event.’

‘Oh, I don’t know so much,’ said Lizzie. ‘She hasn’t got a lot else to do, from all one can gather. Anyway, we’ll see.’

At this moment naughty Henrietta, who was meant to be asleep, came into the room in her crumpled nightdress, blinking in the light and asking for water—that ancient ruse—and by the time she was dealt with the topic had changed altogether. Alex was out of danger.
In extremis
, but out of all danger.

All danger; all delight; all hope—yes; yes: that (now he saw it clearly) was the place he’d come to, again—now, when the knowledge was, just, endurable. Barbara would not, and could not, wait for him—even if he could (as of course he could) wait for her. He might hope no longer, if he had not stopped hoping already. He had returned—could anything be more cruel, more absurd?—to the dull stony place he’d inhabited before that Carrington party—or its aftermath—of a year ago. Welcome, summer, with your green leaves, your deserts. He was conscious of a silence and looked up. Alfred was offering more wine. Yes, he might as well get soaked; he wasn’t driving. ‘They want me to do another book,’ he announced. ‘About the Lloyd’s thing.’

‘Oh, well done. Have you said yes?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘You really might as well, why not.’

‘Yes, you’re probably right. Why not? Got to keep busy.’

Oh, God, thought Lizzie, poor old Alex. It just isn’t fair.

She said as much to Alfred after their guests had departed. ‘When you think,’ she said, ‘that Louisa and Robert actually met each other at Claire and Alex’s wedding—which they wouldn’t have done, otherwise. And look how happy they are. Whereas Claire and Alex, the cause of their happiness—as it were—are not happy themselves. It really is so unfair.’

‘Well, now you know all about life,’ said Alfred. ‘It’s unfair. And talking of that, how do you come to know so much about Gideon’s present circumstances, of which you haven’t mentioned one word to me? I knew nothing about this new television program.’

‘Oh, I hear things on the street,’ said Lizzie. ‘And anyway, I spoke to him on the phone the other day.’

‘You never told me.’

‘I didn’t want to annoy you unnecessarily.’

‘Huh.’ Alfred sighed. ‘Gideon,’ he muttered to himself. ‘When I
think
.’

‘The thing is,’ said Lizzie, ‘I do think it would be nice if you could be a
bit
pleased for Gideon. Or
about
him. Or both.’

Alfred considered this proposition. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’m pleased, of course. Pleased
enough
. As pleased as is warranted. But honestly, Lizzie—the rest of you, not to say
tout le monde
, seem so inordinately pleased with Gideon that—good God—I mean—there he is: hasn’t lifted a finger, properly speaking, except in pursuit of the devices and desires of his own heart, with the result that he’s got you all dancing around him like courtiers—The Fox, Auntie Beeb,
Times
,
Telegraph
and
Guardian—
what a shenanigans—all I can say is, it just seems to me absurdly unfair.’

‘Well,’ said Lizzie through her laughter, ‘now you, too, know all about life. It’s unfair.’

‘
Touché
,’ said Alfred. ‘Damn it.’

48

‘Kid get off all right?’

‘Oh, yes. Home and dry, as we speak. I telephoned the other evening.’

Mimi had been returned to sender some days previously; Andrew and Alex were drinking the post-squash beers; catching up. Taking stock.

‘Everything go well, then?’

Andrew drank, considering the question. ‘As well as could be hoped,’ he said. ‘She seems to have a reasonably good grasp of the situation.’

‘She’s quite happy, then?’

‘Happy enough. As far as I can tell. Yes—I’d say she’s happy.’

‘What is she now, six?’

‘Seven. Old enough to think.’

They considered the thinking capacities of the seven-year-old.

‘Yes,’ said Alex. ‘I should have thought so.’

‘I’ll have to try and get over there at Christmas time. For a few weeks, at any rate.’

‘There’s a good idea.’

‘Yes.’

What else to say, on this topic? Andrew’s sorrow, his stoicism, his honourable intentions, were all beyond the reach of comment. ‘Marriage, eh?’ said Alex. ‘You might as well walk across a minefield blindfolded.’

Andrew laughed very briefly. ‘Probably,’ he said. ‘Still, as long as the kid’s all right.’

Alex thought about this. ‘So you’d say,’ he said, slowly, ‘that children aren’t too badly affected by divorce, would you? That is—Mimi at any rate, seems to be all right: so for all we know—’

‘Well, everything depends on the particular circumstances, I suppose,’ said Andrew. ‘I mean, if the decision had been mine alone, or even chiefly mine, I dare say I mightn’t have taken the risk: but as it was, Janet simply took the matter out of my hands, so I had no choice. Had to get on and make the best of it. Perhaps we’ve just been lucky, with Mimi. In any case, it’s early days yet.’

‘Yes,’ said Alex. ‘Still—’

‘As a matter of fact, these studies of the effects of divorce on children—’

‘Yes.’

‘—universally agreed to be deleterious, to put it no worse—’

‘Yes—’

‘—are actually pretty worthless.’

‘Are they?’

‘Well, it’s not as if these surveys are, or even can be, scientific.’

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘We don’t know how miserable or how maladjusted the same children would have been if the parents had stayed together.’

‘No, I suppose we don’t.’

‘So one has to take one’s chances.’

‘All the same, as you said—if it had been up to you—’

‘Well, you know what we’re like. Blokes like us. We were brought up to believe—to know for a fact—that if a certain course of action seemed alluring, it was probably—or even certainly— wrong. So, leaving one’s partner—especially for another more agreeable one—is always going to look dodgy, isn’t it?’

‘ ’Fraid so.’

‘And who’s to know,’ said Andrew, unsmiling, ‘that it isn’t, after all?’

‘Who, indeed?’

‘You pays your money.’ Alex was silent. Andrew drank again. ‘It’s impossible, really. We’re all just stumbling around in the dark. We can’t possibly know what we’re doing—not really. We just do the best we can.’

‘For what that’s worth.’

‘As you say.’

They sat there, each momentarily tasting the sensation, here and now, of being the hero of such a tale—improvised, inglorious, inconclusive and ultimately, after all (unless you believed in a divine purpose), meaningless. Andrew thought fleetingly of Barbara, now in his memory another item in the account of loss and sorrow. He didn’t know now even where she was precisely— the Harbour Bridge postcard of a few months past had been her last communication.