A Special Relationship (11 page)

‘But I thought you’d already put your pages to bed?’

‘I never said that. Anyway, while you were unconscious, the Russian Deputy Prime Minister was rumbled for his involvement in a kiddie porn ring, and a little war’s broken out among rival factions in Sierra Leone …’

‘You have a man on the scene in Freetown?’

‘A stringer. Jenkins. Not bad, for a lightweight. But if the thing blows up into a full-scale war, I think we’ll have to send one of our own.’

‘Yourself, perhaps?’

‘In my dreams.’

‘If you want to go, go. Don’t let me stop you.’

‘I wouldn’t, believe me.’

His tone was mild, but pointed. It was the first time he’d directly articulated his feelings of entrapment. Or, at least, that’s how it came over to me.

‘Well, thank you for making that perfectly clear,’ I said.

‘You know what I’m saying here.’

‘No, actually, I don’t.’

‘I’m the Foreign Editor – and foreign editors don’t dispatch themselves off to cover a pissy little firefight in Sierra Leone. But they do have to go back to the office to get their pages to bed.’

‘So go then. Don’t let me stop you.’

‘That’s the second time you’ve said that tonight.’

He placed his gift of newspapers and wilting flowers on the bedside table. Then he gave me another perfunctory kiss on the forehead.

‘I’ll be back tomorrow.’

‘I certainly hope so.’

‘I’ll call you first thing in the morning, and see if I can get over here before work.’

But he didn’t call me. When I rang the house at eight-thirty, there was no answer. When I rang the paper at nine-thirty, Tony wasn’t at his desk. And when I tried his mobile, I was connected with his voice mail. So I left a terse message: ‘I’m sitting here, already bored out of my mind, and I’m just wondering: where the hell are you? And why didn’t you answer the phone? Please call me ASAP, as I really would like to know the whereabouts of my husband.’

Around two hours later, the bedside phone rang. Tony sounded as neutral as Switzerland.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Sorry I wasn’t available earlier.’

‘You know, I called you at home at eight-thirty this morning, and discovered that nobody was home.’

‘What’s today?’

‘Wednesday.’

‘And what do I do every Wednesday?’

I didn’t need to furnish him an answer, because he knew that I knew the answer: he had breakfast with the editor of the paper. A breakfast at the Savoy, which always started at nine. Which meant that Tony inevitably left home around eight.
Idiot, idiot, idiot … why are you looking for trouble?

‘I’m sorry’ I said.

‘Not to worry,’ he said, his tone still so detached, almost uninvolved. ‘How are you doing?’

‘Still feeling like shit. But the itch is under control, thanks to the calamine lotion.’

‘That’s something, I guess. When are visiting hours?’

‘Right now would work.’

‘Well, I’m supposed to be lunching with the chap who skippers the Africa section at the F.O. But I can cancel.’

Immediately I wondered: now why didn’t he tell me about this lunch yesterday? Maybe he didn’t want to let me know, then and there, that he wouldn’t be able to visit in the morning. Maybe the lunch was a last-minute thing, given the situation in Sierra Leone. Or maybe … oh god, I don’t know. That was the growing problem with Tony:
I didn’t know
. He seemed to live behind a veil. Or was that just my hypertension fatigue kicking in, not to mention my
cholestasis,
and everything else that was now part and parcel of this wondrous pregnancy? Anyway, I wasn’t about to raise the emotional temperature again by kicking up a stink about his inability to get in here immediately. Because I wasn’t going anywhere.

‘No need,’ I said. ‘I’ll see you tonight.’

‘You certain about that?’ he asked me.

‘I’ll phone Margaret, see if she can pay me a visit this afternoon.’

‘Anything I can bring you?’

‘Just pick up something nice at Marks and Spencer’s.’

‘I shouldn’t be too late.’

‘That’s good.’

Naturally, Margaret was at the hospital within a half-hour of my call. She tried not to register shock when she saw me, but didn’t succeed.

‘I just need to know one thing,’ she said.

‘No – Tony didn’t do this to me.’

‘You don’t have to protect him, you know.’

‘I’m not –
honestly.’
Then I told her about my charming little interaction with Hughes, and how I refused to become a citizen of Valium Nation.

‘Damn right you should refuse that stuff,’ she said, ‘if it’s giving you the heebie-jeebies.’

‘Trust me to get aggressive on Valium.’

‘How did Tony handle all this?’

‘In a very English, very phlegmatic kind of way. Meanwhile, I’m quietly beginning to panic … not just at the thought of three weeks’ enforced bed rest in here, but also the realization that the paper isn’t going to like the fact that I’m out of action.’

‘Surely the
Post
can’t let you go?’

‘Want to put money on that? They’re financially strapped like every damn newspaper these days. Rumour has it that management has been thinking about cutting back on their foreign bureaus. And I’m certain that, with me out of the picture for the next few months, they’ll evict me without a moment’s thought.’

‘But surely they’ll have to give you some sort of a settlement?’

‘Not if I’m in London.’

‘You’re jumping to conclusions.’

‘No – I’m just being my usual Yankee realist self. Just as I also know that, between the mortgage and all the renovations, spare cash is going to be scarce.’

‘Well then, let me do something to make your life in hospital a little easier. Let me pay for a private room in here for the next couple of weeks.’

‘You’re allowed to upgrade to a private room?’

‘I did when I had my kids on the NHS. It’s not even that expensive. Around forty pounds a night tops.’

‘That’s still a lot of money over three weeks.’

‘Let me worry about that. The point is: you need to be as stress-free as possible right now … and being in a room on your own will certainly aid the process.’

‘True – but say my pride doesn’t like the idea of accepting charity from you?’

‘It’s not charity. It’s a gift. A gift before I kiss this city goodbye.’

This stopped me short. ‘What are you talking about?’ I asked.

‘We’re being transferred back to New York. Alexander only heard the news yesterday.’

‘When exactly?’ I asked.

‘Two weeks. There’s been a big shake-up at the firm and Alexander’s been made the senior partner heading up the Litigation Department. And since it’s mid-term at school, they’re shipping us all back in one go.’

I now felt anxious. Margaret was my one friend in London.

‘Shit,’ I said.

‘That’s about the right word for it,’ she said. ‘Because as much as I complain about London, I know I’m going to miss it as soon as we’re ensconced back in the ‘burbs, and I turn into some soccer mom, and start to hate every other white-bread I meet in Chappaqua, and keep wondering why everyone looks the same.’

‘Can’t Alexander ask to stay on longer?’

‘Not a chance. What the firm wants, the firm gets. Believe me, three weeks from now I am going to
so
envy you. Even though this town may be completely maddening, it’s always interesting.’

By the time Tony arrived at the hospital that evening, I had been transferred into a perfectly pleasant private room. But when my husband asked me how the upgrade came about – and I told him of Margaret’s largesse – his reaction was both abrupt and negative.

‘And why the hell is she doing that?’

‘It’s a gift. To me.’

‘What did you do, plead poverty with her?’ he asked.

I stared at him, wide-eyed.

‘Tony, there’s no need for …’

‘Well, did you?’

‘Do you really think I would do something like that?’

‘Well, she obviously felt so sorry for you that …’

‘Like I said:
it’s a gift.
Her very kind way of helping me out …’

‘We’re not accepting it.’

‘But why?’

‘Because I’m not accepting charity from some rich American—’

‘This is not
charity.
She’s my friend and—’

‘I’ll pay for it.’

‘Tony, the bill is already settled. So what’s the big deal?’

Silence. I knew what the big deal was: Tony’s pride. Not that he was going to admit such a thing. Except to say, ‘I just wished you’d talked this over with me.’

‘Well, I didn’t hear from you all day – and until I was moved in here, where there’s a phone by the bed, it was a little hard to get up to make calls. Especially when I’ve been ordered to hardly move.’

‘How are you doing?’

‘The itch is a little better. And there is a lot to be said for being out of that godforsaken ward.’

A pause. Tony evaded my gaze.

‘How long did Margaret pay for the room?’

‘Three weeks.’

‘Well, I’ll cover anything after that.’

‘Fine,’ I said quietly, dodging the temptation to add, ‘Whatever makes
you
happy, Tony.’ Instead I pointed to the Marks and Spencer bag in his hand and asked, ‘Dinner, I hope?’

Tony stayed an hour that night – long enough to watch me gobble down the sandwich and salad he brought me. He also informed me that he’d called A.D. Hamilton at the
Post
to explain that I had been rushed to hospital last night.

‘I bet he sounded disconsolate,’ I said.

‘Well, he didn’t exactly radiate enormous concern …’

‘You didn’t say anything about how I’d be out of commission for the next few weeks?’ I asked.

‘I’m not that dim.’

‘I’m going to have to call the editor myself.’

‘Give yourself a couple of days to feel a little better. You’re shattered.’

‘You’re right. I am. And all I want right now is to fall asleep for the next three weeks, then wake up and discover that I’m no longer pregnant.’

‘You’ll be fine,’ he said.

‘Sure – once I stop looking like a battered wife.’

‘No one would believe the “battered wife” thing anyway.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because you’re bigger than me.’

I managed a laugh, noting my husband’s ability to divert me with humour whenever we veered into argumentative terrain, or when he sensed that I was becoming overly exercised about something. But though I was concerned about plenty right now, I was also too tired to start a recitation of everything that was worrying me – from my physical state, to the fear I had of losing the child, to how the
Post
would react to my extended medical absence, not to mention such trivial domestic details as the state of our half-finished house. Instead, a wave of exhaustion seized me – and I told Tony that I’d best surrender to sleep. He gave me a somewhat perfunctory kiss on the head and said he’d drop by tomorrow morning before work.

‘Grab every book you can find,’ I said. ‘It’s going to be a long three weeks in here.’

Then I passed out for ten straight hours, waking just after dawn with that mixture of drowsy exultation and sheer amazement that I had slept so long. I got up. I wandered into the en suite bathroom. I glanced at the mangled face in the mirror. I felt something close to despair. I had a pee. The itching started again. I returned to my bed and called the nurse. She arrived and helped me pull up my nightgown, then painted my stomach with calamine lotion. I dropped two tabs of Piriton, and asked the nurse if it was possible to have a cup of tea and slice or two of toast.

‘No problem,’ she said, heading off.

As I waited for breakfast to arrive, I stared out the window. No rain – but at 6.03 am, it was still pitch black. I suddenly found myself thinking how, try as we might, we never really have much control over the trajectory of our lives. We can delude ourselves into believing that we’re the master captain, steering the course of our destiny … but the randomness of everything inevitably pushes us into places and situations where we never expect to find ourselves.

Like this one.

Tony arrived at nine that morning, bearing the morning papers, three books, and my laptop computer. We only had twenty minutes together, as he was rushing to get to the paper. Still, he was pleasant in a pressed-for-time way, and happily made no further mention of our little disagreement about the private room business yesterday. He sat on the edge of the bed and took my hand. He asked all the right questions about how I was feeling. He seemed pleased to see me. And when I implored him to keep the pressure on the builders and the decorators (as the last thing I wanted was to walk back into a construction site with a baby in my arms), he assured me that he would make certain they were all kept on task.