A Matter of Marriage (4 page)

It's a perfectly clear blue sky here today at Old Trafford
.

Was their life now, full of daytime TV, takeaway, late-night calls and taxis to meet Simon's dealer or to get the money to pay him, just a temporarily not-so-good phase?

The test will be the second ball. I don't think the umpire could ignore a second ball like that
.

Now that she looked back, their frantic need to be together, for which she had given away her painting and everything else, seemed to have segued straight into this loveless, grey existence. The wonderful bright joyousness of painting all day, and going out at night with her RCA friends and even the odd one from Brick Lane, had turned into a flat that she felt she hardly left. Simon usually went out on his own now, to meet up with his friends: a lot of Hooray Henry brokers and trustafarians. And she refused to go with him on his twice-weekly visits to the one friend, the essential man, who always answered his mobile, who always had what Simon needed.

My mistake. It looks like there's just one small cloud here in this blue sky, directly over the batsman in fact, from our point of view in the commentary box . . .

And no painting at all, because she just didn't seem to be able to begin anymore, and anyway, she had been so stressed in that existence, after she got a name for herself and Tariq went fundo and stopped visiting, and before she and Simon had gotten together, hadn't she? Not knowing how to cope with gallery owners and agents, all the invitations and phone calls. All the trappings of success. Not such a problem now, that was for sure.

This almost wraps things up before lunch . . .

Simon had recently started to do a line before leaving the flat on Monday mornings and, from the scraps of foil she found in his jacket pockets, she suspected that he was now using at work as well, perhaps before big meetings or tricky interviews.

Memories of that brilliant century by Tendulkar . . .

And for some reason, even when he was at work or asleep on the couch, she could no longer paint, although since yesterday, when the invitation had arrived, she'd found herself pining for it. Like she used to.

An untraditional choice for the selectors: a high-risk choice, even. Team players have usually been preferred . . .

She hauled herself to a sitting position just as the televised crowd roared approvingly: someone must have hit a six. She considered going straight to her easel, but she'd already thought about it too much, so she dressed, squeezing into too-tight jeans, then trainers and a hoodie. She walked into the living area, thumped down in an armchair next to the television and contemplated Simon, wanting him to react.

That cloud's getting bigger . . .

His left arm was curled around an ashtray on his chest, and from where she sat, she could still smell on him the beer and ash of last night. He stretched out his right hand toward her and beckoned her forward, for a cuddle or a fight. She ignored it and stared at the ashtray.

His other hand moved then, to pull on his cigarette and tap it delicately into the ashtray, a heavy glass one with
Cat & Fiddle
stamped around its sides.
Cat & Fiddle.
Simon must have lifted it from the pub last night. He smiled at her suddenly, and her stomach tensed.

“Catholic and Infidel, eh? I don't forget what you tell me. I don't forget anything.”

“I never told you to take it.”

“Thought you'd appreciate it. Old times,” he said, drawing out the last two words as breathily as if they were the title of a Mills & Boon novel.

Richie, this day will truly be one for the history books.

The crowd roared again.

Rohimun could remember, at the beginning, holding forth to Simon, just like her father, about the political significance of old English pub names, how some of them went back to the Crusades and earlier, but she hated to remember talking to him like that, so freely and enthusiastically, how starry-eyed she'd been, how much she'd assumed about his interests and his values. She tried to dispel the memory, the sense of unease and disappointment it evoked. She'd far rather be angry.

She got up, trying to look purposeful, crossed onto the kitchen lino, and opened the fridge door.

“I'll get some milk.” She despised herself for needing to say something to ease the tension, give herself an excuse to leave.

“Some smokes too, love.” Simon spoke around his cigarette without missing a beat, as if he'd known exactly what she had been going to say before she'd said it.

Get them yourself, you bastard
. She picked up her purse and shuffled out of the kitchen.
Love
was for charladies and barmaids. She knew now that he'd never call any of the women in his crowd that. Just went to show, didn't it. But Rohimun didn't really want to think any more about what exactly it showed, just wanted to get out into the fresher, cleaner air of the street.

As she turned into the passage, her eyes flicked involuntarily, covetously, to the reassuring, shining square of the V&A invitation above the empty fireplace, like a talisman. Mum was always safety-pinning one of those onto Rohimun's vest before she went to school, especially before exams, or in winter if she had a cold. Little flat boxes of beaten silver sealed with wax, dangling from one of Mum's big nappy pins with a yellow teddy or pink duck on it, pulled out of the pleats of her sari at the last minute. The little boxes held a favored
surah
from the Qur'an that had been blessed by some village mullah back in Bangladesh and were supposed to protect you from harm, bring good luck. But if it was a PE day, once they were on their way to school, Rohimun would fumble it undone and tuck it in her pocket, to save herself embarrassment in the changing room.

She hesitated at the front door, wanting to go back and pick up the invitation, feel its stiff pasteboard safely between her fingers. But then Simon shifted on the couch, and she stepped out quickly and shut the door before he could decide to keep her company.

Outside, the air was warm, although the sky threatened rain later. Rohimun wandered past the park and the local shops, enjoying the midday dawdling as long as she could avoid the Desi shopkeepers. When she reached the local shopping center and saw the hairdressers just within the entrance, she ducked inside.

They could fit her in. She just had to wait her turn, so she sat and flicked the pages of a magazine, grateful for the clutter and activity. Older women complained comfortably about husbands, and teenage girls with dazzling fluorescent nails bitched about bosses and boyfriends. The hairdresser washed Rohimun's hair, joking about not having a sink big enough, needing a forklift for this lot.

After she muttered something about a wedding, the hairdresser dried it and pulled it back tightly and smoothly in a way Rohimun had never mastered, and coiled and pinned and sprayed it into a monstrous chignon, almost as big as her head. Its tight stiffness was loathsome, but should keep Simon happy, and would be one less thing to worry about tonight. And a clear announcement of her plans.

She spent the rest of the afternoon wandering around the streets trying to avoid her reflection in shop windows, her stomach gradually tightening as the day wore on, and she walked and walked, too on edge to while away the time sitting in a cafe. I don't care, she kept saying to herself. Today is my day, and tonight is going to be mine as well.

“
I
T'S YOUR BROTHER
on the line . . .”

Susan's invisible, inimitable voice was hesitant, its pitch rising with the tonality of a question. Very different to her usual brisk neutrality.

Richard Bourne looked at the clean expanse of his desk: only four briefs sitting patiently in the far left corner, a half-full in-box and the desk clock at three forty-five. For the first time in a while, he had no good reason to put Henry off. The hint of judgement from his Chambers' longest-serving secretary gave Richard an extra frisson of irritation. Knowing Henry, he'd have Susan thoroughly onside by now, had probably been sending her birthday cards and asking after her children. If she had any: Richard couldn't quite recall.

“Thank you, Susan.” His hand stretched out automatically to put the caller on speaker, then he changed his mind and picked up the receiver. Henry hated speakerphone and always ended up shouting as if he were calling his dogs across a field.

“Richard!” The line sounded as if his brother were in a roadside phone booth in some Third World country, rather than two hours' drive away.

“Henry. How are you? How's the new grant application?” Richard said, pulling the blotter toward himself and flattening its curling edges with his free hand. Amazing how restricting it felt, not having both hands available to fiddle with something.

“Oh, I didn't call about that. But, ah, as you mention it, perhaps you could, you know, when you next come down. The National Trust are so picky . . .”

How Henry had ever finished his degree, Richard did not know. “Shoot the details through to me and I'll get on to it.”

The blotting paper was tired and grimy, covered with illegible notations and calculations from his last trial. Richard propped the receiver under his chin and used both hands to edge each corner of the paper out from under its leather frame.

“Why don't you pop down in person this weekend? Or if that doesn't suit, maybe next. It's been a while. You'd want to see what's been done with the Abbey outbuildings. All the lath and plasterwork completely restored, using all the old methods. Absolutely brilliant.”

“I've seen the plans: they're looking good, all credit to you. And the builders' report.”

The old blotter was completely free now. Richard folded it on his knee one-handed, as quietly as he could, and wedged it into his wastepaper basket.

“Nothing like seeing it in the flesh though. And the sunken garden is amazing: looks like there used to be a well in the middle. Come on, Richard, you deserve the weekend off. Thee and the boys, they haven't seen you in ages.”

Richard picked up his fountain pen, wiped the sides of its nib on the pristine blotter, and started to turn the resulting smears of deep-blue ink into something more symmetrical. His recent run of back-to-back trials had finished, and the current briefs could be put off easily enough.

“Is Deirdre still around? You could bring her too, you know, or whoever. We could make do, and use the put-me-up. Or just come for the day.”

“It's not really Deirdre's thing.” To put it mildly. Deirdre in the country, Deirdre sleeping on a camp bed, Deirdre sharing a family bathroom were things unimaginable. Richard raised his eyebrows at the thought. “Look, I'll think about it. Perhaps I could manage a day. How're the boys?”

“Fantastic. Never better. Jonathon's going to be as tall as you, I think. And Andrew's turning into a killer footballer. So, you'll come?”

“I'll let you know.”

There was a small uncharacteristic pause: Henry was usually so keen to fill in every conversational gap.

“Thee's missing you too, you know. She always perks up when you come down.”

The line was tinny and faint, but even so, Henry's voice seemed to have gone unusually flat. Richard frowned and lifted his gaze to the blue and gold Persian rug on the wall opposite: Bourne Abbey's only contribution to his Chambers. Beautiful—though it had never looked entirely comfortable with the cool minimalism of the rest of the fittings.

No point in asking Henry if anything else was wrong; he was never one to come to the point, particularly over the phone. He would just warble on about the weather and the dogs and what was nesting in the hedgerows. If there was anything awry, Richard would have to visit in person. And he had been remiss lately.

“Look, I'll try to get down this month. Or thereabouts.” He heard a breath taken in: Henry wanting to pin him down, lock in a definite date. He quickly cut in. “I have to go, Henry. I'll call you next week.”

Henry didn't object, but after Richard had hung up he left his hand sitting on the receiver, wondering if he'd been too abrupt. It was true: his trips home were getting to be rarer, more easily put off. Maybe he would go down next weekend. Depending.

The phone rang again, just as the clockface flicked to 4:00. Susan's calm tones echoed slightly on the speakerphone.

“Richard, I have Felicity Harporth holding for you on the Reid matter. This is the third time she's called today. Would you like me to take a message?”

Richard suppressed a sigh. Some instructing solicitors were needier than others, and Felicity was a wonderful example of that genus.

“No, thank you, Susan. Put her through.”

“Richard, thank you
so
much for giving me a moment so late in the week: it's in relation to the Reid Family Trust matter. We just received your formal advice this morning and the Reids have already been in to discuss it. They are
very
keen to reduce Trust payments to their son to the minimum, as soon as possible. I was hoping to meet with you regarding what, ah, what you think the minimum would be, given the family. The rich are not like the rest of us, you know.”

“I'm happy to do that. Perhaps a meeting with the Reids present as well?” Felicity did sound more than keen to pass him this particular hot potato.

“That would be
most
satisfactory and—”

“I'll leave it to the capable Susan to organize the time. I'll look forward to seeing you then.” He paused. Some further direction was needed, especially as Felicity tended to be driven by her clients. “I would agree with you that this is a very difficult situation for the Reids: they will need to be considering all the implications, legal and otherwise, of any decision that they may make.”

“Oh, yes, but they're
so
happy that—”

“Yes. I'll look forward to meeting with you all, at that date to be fixed.”

“Thank you
so
much, Richard. The clients are
most
happy with—”

“You're welcome, Felicity. Enjoy the weekend. Goodbye.”

That must be some kind of a record for getting Felicity off the phone. The Reids were messed up as only the rich knew how, as Felicity herself might have said. And even now, with all that had happened, thinking that if they paid out enough money, held the purse strings tightly enough, that they could somehow fix their son up into the man they wanted him to be, rather than the well-dressed parasite that he was.

Four demands for additional funds the son had made in the last six months: all granted because the old family solicitor was as weak as dishwater and far too in awe of the family to say no to anything. At least Felicity was one step up from that. But she was clearly not managing her clients' expectations, so he was going to have to do it for her: ensure that the Reids were fully apprised of the fact that this was a lose-lose situation, however much was paid to solicitors and barristers.

The bad news coming from him would probably be taken better and be less likely to taint the solicitor–client relationship. He would have to think very carefully about moving the Reids' focus away from his own initial, purely legal advice that they could make all further extra Trust payments conditional upon their son's attendance at some expensive private rehabilitation center. And shift it to the extra-legal consequences: that, chances were, the fashionable rehabilitation center attended under duress would become a revolving door, leading inevitably to further demands for money, escalating threats from the parents and then complete estrangement.

He is lost to you either way
, was the thing Richard could not say.
You can't save people from themselves. I should know
.
The Trust
money, whatever you do with it, fixes nothing
. He thought of the young man who was the sole beneficiary of the Trust.
You will be fielding abusive phone calls from your own son, or hearing how he lied to and stole from your friends and relatives to feed his various addictions, and then be reduced to fighting him through the courts for the Trust money
. Just goes to show: family can be productive of the greatest misery of all.

Enough. He was leaving early today. He swept the mail into his bag, locked his room and took the long way out, strolling through the muddled privacy of courtyards, laneways and mews that made up the Inns of Court. He would pick up a cab to South Kensington and meet Deirdre for drinks at Bluebeard's, a new wine bar she'd heard about down that way.

Richard stopped by one of the Middle Temple's grassed areas, dropping his bag on the gravel to light a cigarette and lean on the heavy iron railing. Nice to see a bit of green. It was not often that he felt like a break from London, but this latest run of briefs, all dealing in one way or another with family schisms over debt and infidelity, had left him feeling sour and stale. What a walking disaster some families were. Maybe all families, once you scratched the surface. He straightened up and flicked the half-finished cigarette onto the gravel. Time to go: he'd said five and it was just past, and redheads would spoil if kept waiting too long.

—

B
Y THE TIME
Richard arrived at the wine bar, it was clear that, despite the early start, Deirdre had already had a few drinks. As usual, she was at the center of her crowd of gallery owners and art aficionados and the odd city suit. Her head was tilted back, and she was laughing at something with every appearance of abandon, but still managed to reach out a long arm to snag his, saying, “Doubles, darling. Late as usual and I've such a thirst on me.”

Since their last Friday, she had changed her hair. It was the same brilliant artificial red but now in a high bob that made her white neck seem even longer. In leggings and boots and a white smock belted on the hip, she looked like a cross between a flapper and a cutting-edge Joan of Arc, out to conquer the philistine hordes. Or at least sell them some art. Deirdre was using a cigarette holder, to great effect, if the mesmerized gaze of a couple of the suits was anything to go by.

She looked eminently fuckable, and Richard willingly gave the requisite public kiss, full on the lips but not hard enough to disturb the lipstick. Some of the men, but not all, moved back a little in acknowledgement of the kiss, and Deirdre stretched out a leg and hooked a barstool for him. He shook his head. This was not the place to be for more than one drink. There was totty moving in on the stockbrokers at the other end of the bar, and he was fairly sure that he could recognize an instructing solicitor, who had pursued him for dinner to the point of embarrassment, working her way toward him.

But Deirdre's glossy mock pout made it clear that she was not to be budged. Drinks were almost always work for her dealership as well as play, and some important artwork sale was clearly afoot or being celebrated. Or she was wanting to warm them up into a purchasing mood for the V&A exhibition. He hadn't asked Deirdre if any of her artists were exhibiting, or schmoozing, there tonight. Either way, dinner looked to be some time off, and he was hungry. Or perhaps just bored. He balanced his drink on a high table and buried his hands in his pockets to hide his irritation at the commitment he had made to attend the exhibition. Even if they only stayed an hour, it would be well after eight o'clock before they could leave. And Deirdre being Deirdre, she would be reluctant to leave until the bitter end. He had visions of relying on canapés and cocktail olives for his evening meal, and his stomach gave a dissatisfied rumble.

After another round of drinks and anecdotes, Richard pulled out his cigarettes to make a temporary escape. But Deirdre, suddenly amenable, announced to all that it was time they headed off, and followed him outside, trailed by some of the suits. She stole his lit cigarette as they began to walk the few blocks to the V&A.

“Anyone special in this exhibition then?”

“Not really, darling. There's one artist I'm hoping to catch up with. I delivered the invitation to her flat myself yesterday, but she's just the type to leave early if she comes at all. I've heard Nigel dropped her from his list. If I can commission something from her direct for some of my buyers, I'll save myself thirty percent.”

Richard half listened as Deirdre talked on through the swishing of rush-hour traffic on wet streets. A misty rain was falling, and by the time they could see the main entrance of the V&A, the only spot of color was a yellow awning over a distinctly soggy red carpet.

He threw away his cigarette and ducked his head under the awning's lip to join the queue, then realized that the main doors were not even opened yet. They were half an hour early, which never happened with Deirdre. When he looked around, she had left him to chat to some people further up the line. He watched, caught between amusement and irritation, as she took the long way in order to go past the bank of photographers waiting stoically just outside the awning's shelter. He put his hands in his pockets, bracing himself for the rising grey tide of boredom. Why was he here, again?