The Line of Beauty (51 page)

Catherine said, "What's Gerald voting about?"

"Oh, darling, I don't know . . . it's obviously something pretty major."

"Can't we ring him?"

"Well, he's not answering the phone in the office. And if he's in the Chamber, or somewhere else about the Palace," said Rachel
impressively, "then we couldn't reach him anyway."

"He'll be back straight after the vote," said Nick. He knew that Gerald had Penny's new mobile phone; Rachel must be trying
to spare him a wild, irrelevant pep talk from his daughter.

"What is a takeover?" said Catherine.

"Well, it's when one company buys up another."

"They acquire a majority of the shares," said Nick. "Then they have control."

"So are they saying Gerald didn't have these shares?"

Rachel said, as if judiciously filtering the facts for her child, "I think sometimes perhaps people fiddle with the price
of the shares."

"Make them more valuable?"

"Exactly."

"Or less, of course," said Nick.

"Mm . . . " said Rachel.

"And how would they do that?"

"Well, I suppose they sort of. . . um . . ."

"Mm . . . " said Nick, after a bit.

They smiled doubtfully at their own unworldliness.

"It's not the same as asset-stripping, anyway," said Catherine.

"No . . . " said Rachel, with hesitant firmness.

"Because that's what Sir Maurice Tipper does. Toby told me. Maurice Tipper, Asset Stripper. That's when they get hold of something,
it's like an old house, they strip out all the marble fireplaces before they demolish it."

"And leave everyone on the street," said Nick.

"Exactly!" said Catherine.

"That, of course, is what Badger's supposed to have done all over Africa," said Rachel, with a guilty grimace. "I don't know
if it's true."

"Oh, Badger . . ." said Catherine, indulgent and dismissive at once. "What's become of poor old Badger, lately, I wonder."

"He's often away," said Rachel, as if to excuse her vagueness about him.

"I'm going to get in touch with him."

"Well, you could."

"I'm going to catch up with quite a number of people who've dropped out of my life. It's so pathetic to lose touch," Catherine
said, with a lively but disgusted look at her last summer, when everything about her had been pathetic.

"I'm sure he's not expecting a call . . . " said Rachel.

"I saw Russell today, for instance."

"Oh really?" said Rachel thinly.

"Do you remember?"

"Oh, I do."

"Me too," said Nick.

"He was asking about everybody."

"I should still be a bit careful with Russell," said Nick, with a supportive glance at Rachel.

"But that was all
before . .
. !" said Catherine, in happy exasperation.

Later, she said, "If Gerald resigns, you'll be able to come to Barbados with me, that would be perfect, wouldn't it, until
things blow over."

"That's very kind," said Rachel. "Though I can't help feeling there's more than one ' if in that sentence."

"Oh, Mum, this house has got an enormous swimming pool, as well as being right on the beach. You just take your pick!"

"No, I'm sure it's delightful."

"It could be just what he needs. A complete change of direction."

"You have the oddest idea of just what people need," said Rachel. "I've noticed it before."

"Well, let's face it, he certainly doesn't need the pathetic little
empees
salary."

' 'What you perhaps forget is that. . . your father wants to serve his country.''

"OK, when you get back,
plunge
into charity work! Probably much more useful than being Monster for Social Welfare and cutting everyone's grants. He could
found something. The Gerald Fedden Trust. People often have a complete change of heart when something like this happens. You
know, they go into the East End."

"Well, let's just wait and see, shall we," said Rachel, folding her napkin and pushing back her chair.

Nick and Catherine went up to the drawing room. "Will you put on some music, darling," said Catherine.

"I'm not sure your mother really . . ."

"Oh, just something nice. I don't mean God-dammery. All right, I'll choose." She went to the record cupboard, and knelt with
her head cocked sideways, humming teasingly as she picked out an LP and prepared to put it on. Nick heard the needle drop,
the kindling crackle.

"Turn it down a bit, darling . . . ?"

She did so, and tutted, "Uncle Nick!" Out from the speakers came the sinister little jumps that start Rachmaninov's
Symphonic Dances.
"There, you like that," she said.

"Up to a point," said Nick, knowing how much he didn't want to hear it.

"Oh, it's wonderful," she said, staring from the stage at an invisible dress circle and raising her arms. It was a piece he'd
adored as a teenager, and played all the time in his first year at Oxford to confirm and deepen the regretful longing which
seemed now to have been the medium he lived in—it unfolded for him like that endless tune on the alto sax. Now its melancholy
felt painful, even vicious. He half watched Catherine sweeping through the room, alarmingly unselfconscious. He had danced
to it himself, but by himself, in his room, drunk, at the end of days brightened or not by contact with Toby.

"It is a bit God-dammery," he said, as a Russian Orthodox chant made itself heard. Catherine waved her arms hectically. "It's
a bit like having a bop in St Basil's Cathedral." He tried to throw off his embarrassment with these square little jokes.
She smiled, stretched out a hand to him, and scowled for a second because he wouldn't join her. He thought of her four months
ago, trailing her hopelessness from room to room like a sad child with an inseparable rag; and now, mere chemistry, she was
Makarova. She didn't notice the melancholy, the insidious, shifting harmonies; it was movement and therefore life. He said,
"The thing is, darling, there's a bit of a crisis going on. You know, it looks rather odd leaping round like this when your
mum's so anxious—well, we all are." He spoke consciously as one of the family, to cover his private unease, at being both
needed and excluded by the terms of the crisis. Catherine didn't pay attention, she hummed, serenely, stubbornly, and a while
later stopped dancing as if on her own decision. She wandered to the big bay window at the back, and stood looking out through
her reflection at the lights beyond the trees. They seemed perhaps like elements in a pattern, which, read with the right
intuition for shape and meaning, might reveal an instruction. When she turned round she gave Nick a smile that hovered before
various possible cajolements. She sat on the broad arm of his chair and slid in sideways against him.

"I know," she said, "let's go out for a bit. Have you got the car here?"

"Um, yes," said Nick. "Round the corner. But. . . well, Gerald will be back soon."

"Gerald could be ages. You know they don't vote till midnight sometimes, if they're filimandering."

"Or gerrybustering."

"Exactly! We needn't be long. I've just got an idea."

Of course the idea of not being here when Gerald got back was very attractive. Rachel came in, and Nick felt he'd been caught
larking about, Catherine squashing him like some bolshie teenage attempt at seduction. "Gerald's just rung," Rachel said.
"It seems they're going to be really awfully late. It's a bill he's got to, um, you know, keep a bit of an eye on."

"How is he?" said Catherine fondly.

"He sounds fine. He says really not to worry." She had a new confidence, an almost pleasurable glow, and Nick felt sure she'd
just been told how much she was loved. She moved across the room, looking for some small task to perform; found fallen chrysanthemum
petals on a table top, swept them into her open palm, and dropped them in the wastebasket. "Oh, I like this," she said. "Isn't
it Rachmaninov?" The sad waltz of the second movement was just catching fire. She stood gazing over their heads at the caprice
by Guardi, and perhaps at some memory of her own. Nick thought for a moment she was going to start dancing too—she seemed
suddenly very like her daughter. But really it was only in charades or the adverb game that she took the licence to be silly.

Catherine said, "Mum, Nick and I are going out for half an hour."

"Oh, darling . . . really?"

"There's just something we've got to do. I'm not going to tell you, but . . . We'll be back!"

"Is it quite the best moment . . . ?"

"Yes, I wonder," said Nick.

"I'm not going to talk to anyone, don't worry!"

Rachel thought, and said, "Well, if you are going out, then obviously Nick should go with you."

"We'll just go in the car," said Catherine. "Nick will be with me the whole time." And she hugged him to her in the chair
with a delighted laugh.

Rachel looked rather narrowly at Nick, as the guarantor of this excursion. He thought he might be going to put up more resistance
than he did. He gave a half smile, a slow nod, a wearily tolerant closing of the eyes. She said, "Please don't be long. And
take the back way. Take a torch."

They went out, and as they started downstairs Nick heard the minatory little fanfares interrupt the waltz, and wondered if
Rachel would go on listening to it after they'd gone. In the hall it was still quite loud. The whole house seemed steeped
in a wilful air of romance.

Catherine wouldn't tell him where they were going, only where to turn. Nick sighed good-humouredly at this, and was half glad
she didn't notice his tension as they left the house further and further behind, and Rachel in it alone. When they swung around
Marble Arch and down Park Lane he said, "It looks as though we might be going to Westminster."

"In a sense," said Catherine. "You'll see." Her seductiveness had hardened to a brightness.

"There's absolutely no point in going to the House of Commons."

"No, no," she said.

They went down Grosvenor Place, wound through Victoria, and then headed straight towards Westminster. The floodlit front of
the Abbey appeared, and then they were gunning out into Parliament Square, the bright face of Big Ben, always stirring to
Nick, like the best picture in a child's book, showing 9.30: 9.30 was striking, iron circles fading in the bus roar. He said,
quite relieved, "I can't go in there, you know." But she made him turn left instead, towards Whitehall, past Downing Street,
and the Banqueting House, and then suddenly towards the river, and into a side street walled right up to the sky by a vast
Victorian building. It was a feature of the London riverscape Nick had almost unconsciously absorbed, without ever deducing
or being told what it was: he had an image of its roof, like a Loire chateau. He parked opposite, outside some dark ministry.
The whole street was oddly dark, except for the glowing glass canopies of the chateau's doorways, somehow redolent of gaslight
and cab horses, at one of which a porter in a peaked cap was silhouetted. For a moment a London sensation, unnoticed and perpetual
as the throb of traffic, came clear for him: of order and power, rhythmic and intricate, endlessly sure of obedience. Then
he remembered. "This is where Badger lives, isn't it?"

"It was just Mum mentioning him," said Catherine, as if it was an obvious breakthrough.

Nick saw that she was crazy, that the trip was not an inspiration but an irrelevance. He slumped and pursed his lips in tender
annoyance. He tried kindly to find a reason in her craziness. "You think Badger can somehow throw a light on this business?
He's probably not here, is he, darling—isn't he in South Africa?" But she had opened the car door, with no sign in her face
or voice that she was even aware of Nick's worry, or of any possible objection. She had her certainty, a source of joy and
tension, like revealed religion. Nick's objection was mainly that he didn't like Badger, that it was mutual, and that Badger
would like him even less for bringing his manic god-daughter round. It was a fuck-flat, in Barry Groom's hard phrase, not
a proper home. He had an image of small hotel-like rooms in which Badger conducted strained affairs with much younger women;
of Badger shooting a line as phoney as the prints on the wall and the Chippendale cocktail cabinet.

They went in under one of the glass canopies, and through a brown-marble entrance hall; a porter in a cubbyhole was listening
to the radio and nodded back at them as if they were always in and out. Catherine, in her dark coat, made up, evangelical,
had the confidence to pass anywhere; the sense of getting away with something was all Nick's. The wait by the lift was a reasonable
but finite chance to turn back: Catherine smiled and quivered, hands thrust into pockets flashing her coat open. "Are you
sure about this?" said Nick. He knew he ought to be restraining her and at the same time he was trying to live up to her.
Her conviction was a challenge to someone reasonably cowardly. He felt a vague intellectual awe of her insights, however mad.
He thought her state might be like the capable elation of coke, but more psychic. There was a warning plink, the doors opened,
and Penny came tearing out.

"Penny!" said Nick. He dawdled for a moment with a shrug and a helpful half smile. Catherine was already in the lift, narrow-eyed,
breathing audibly. Nick, feeling like a silly ass and then also feeling the loose smugness of having discovered something
without knowing what it was, grinned, and said considerately, "How are you?"

Penny had stopped and turned round, with a look both peevish and frightened. She went very white; and then a rich hot pink
started up in her round cheeks and spread (in the three or four seconds while Catherine stamped and said, "Nick, come on!")
into her neck and throat and ears. "Um, Nick," she said, in bossy defiance of her blush, "actually, I shouldn't, um . . .

Nick, confused, reluctant to be rude, but enjoying Penny's blush, in itself and for not being one of his own, had a foot in
the lift, and blocked the thrust of the door with his arm—it kept stolidly reasserting itself. "How's