A Special Relationship (56 page)

There was a long, shocked silence, broken by Traynor.

‘As I also find that there was malice directed against the respondent, I order that the applicant pay the respondent’s costs.’

Lucinda Fforde was instantly on her feet.

‘I seek leave to appeal.’

Traynor peered down at her. And said, ‘Leave refused.’

He gathered up his papers. He removed his half-moon glasses. He looked out at our stunned faces. He said, ‘If there is no further business, I will rise.’

Fifteen

S
IX WEEKS LATER
, London had a heatwave. It lasted nearly a week. The mercury hovered in the early eighties, the sky was a cloudless hard dome of blue, and the sun remained an incandescent presence above the city.

‘Isn’t this extraordinary?’ I said on the fifth day of high temperatures and no rain.

‘It’ll break any moment,’ Julia said. ‘And then we’ll be back to the grey norm.’

‘True – but I’m not going to think about that right now.’

We were in Wandsworth Park. It was late afternoon. Around a half-hour earlier, Julia had knocked on my door and asked me if I was up for a walk. I pushed aside the new manuscript I was working on, moved Jack from his playpen to his pushchair, grabbed my sunglasses and my hat, and headed off with her. By the time we reached the park, Jack had fallen asleep. Parking ourselves on a grassy knoll by the river, Julia reached into her shoulder bag, and emerged with two wine glasses and a chilled bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.

‘Figured we should celebrate the heat with a drop of drinkable wine… that is, if you can indulge just now?’

‘I think I can get away with a glass,’ I said. ‘I’m down to two anti-depressants a day now.’

‘That is impressive,’ she said. ‘It took me nearly a year to be weaned off them.’

‘Well, Dr Rodale hasn’t pronounced me “cured” yet.’

‘But you’re certainly getting there.’

She uncorked the wine. I lay back for a moment, and felt the sun on my face, and let the sour lemon aroma of the grass block out all the usual urban odours, and thought:
this is rather pleasant.

‘Here you go,’ Julia said, placing a glass beside me, then lighting a cigarette. I sat up. We clinked glasses.

‘Here’s to finished business,’ she said.

‘Such as?’

‘Finally wrapping up a fucking awful project.’

‘The East Anglian history thing?’

‘Yes, that beast,’ she said, mentioning some tome she’d been editing which had bored her senseless (or so she had kept telling me). ‘Done and dusted last night. And anyone who’s spent three months enveloped in East Anglian history deserves a few glasses of wine. You still working on the
Jazz Guide?’

‘Oh, yes – all 1800 pages of it. And I still haven’t gotten beyond Sidney Bechet.’

‘Watch out – Stanley will get worried.’

‘I’ve got seven weeks before it’s due. And given that Stanley just asked me out, I doubt he’ll be hectoring me about—’

Julia nearly coughed on her cigarette.

‘Stanley asked you out?’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘My, my – I am surprised.’

‘Over the course of my adult life, men have occasionally asked me out.’

‘You know what I’m talking about. It’s Stanley. Not exactly the most forward of men. And even since his divorce, he’s maintained a pretty low profile on that front.’

‘He’s quite charming, in his own avuncular way. Or, at least, that’s the impression I got when we had that lunch all those months ago.’

‘And he’s only in his early fifties. And he does look after himself. And he is a very good editor. And I hear he does have a rather nice maisonette in South Ken. And—’

‘I’m certain he can hold a fork in his hand without drooling.’

‘Sorry’ she said with a laugh. ‘I wasn’t really trying to sell him to you.’

‘Sell him as hard as you like. Because I’ve already told him I’m too busy for dinner right now.’

‘But why? It’s just dinner.’

‘I know – but he is my sole source of income at the moment. And I don’t want to jeopardize that by veering into situations non-professional. I need the work.’

‘Have you reached a settlement with Tony’s solicitors as yet?’

‘Yes, we’ve just got there.’

Actually, it was Nigel Clapp who got us there, forcing their hand through his usual hesitant determination – a description which, if applied to anyone else, would sound oxymoronic, but made complete sense when portraying Nigel. A week after the hearing, the other side got in touch with him and made their first offer: continued shared ownership of the house, in return for 50 per cent payment of the ongoing mortgage, and an alimony/child support payment of £500 a month. Tony’s solicitors explained that, given he was now no longer in full-time employment, asking him to pay the entire monthly mortgage, coupled with £500 for the upkeep of his son and ex-wife, was a tremendous stretch.

As Nigel explained to me at the time, ‘I… uhm… did remind them that he did have a wealthy patroness, and that we could dig our heels in and force him to hand over ownership of the house to you. Not that we would have had much chance of winning that argument, but … uhm… I sensed that they didn’t have the appetite for much of a fight.’

They settled rather quickly thereafter. We would still own the house jointly – and would split the proceeds when and if it was ever sold, but Tony would handle the full mortgage payment, in addition to £1000 maintenance per month – which would cover our basic running costs, but little more.

Still, I didn’t want any more. In fact, in the immediate aftermath of the hearing, my one central thought (beyond the shock of winning the case, and getting Jack back) was the idea that, with any luck, I would not have to spend any time in the company of Tony Hobbs again. True, we had agreed joint custody terms: he’d have Jack every other weekend. Then again, the fact that he’d be spending all forthcoming weekends in Sydney ruled out much in the way of shared custody… though Nigel was assured, through Tony’s solicitors, that their client would be returning to London on a regular basis to see his son.

Tony also assured me of this himself during our one conversation. This took place a week after the hearing – the day both our solicitors had agreed upon for Jack to be returned to me. ‘The hand-over’ as Nigel Clapp called it – an expression that had a certain Cold War spy novel ring to it, but was completely apt. Because, on the morning before, I received a phone call from Pickford Movers, informing me that they would be arriving tomorrow at nine am with a delivery of nursery furniture from an address on Albert Bridge Road. Later that day, Nigel rang to say he’d heard from Tony’s solicitors, asking him if I’d be at home tomorrow around noon, ‘as that’s when the hand-over will take place’.

‘Did they say who’ll be bringing Jack over?’ I asked.

‘The nanny’ he said.

Typical Tony, I thought. Leave it to a third party to do his dirty work for him.

‘Tell them I’ll be expecting Jack at noon,’ I said.

The next morning, the movers arrived an hour early (‘Thought you wouldn’t mind, luv,’ said the on-the-job foreman). Within sixty minutes, not only had they unloaded everything, but they’d also put Jack’s crib, wardrobe, and chest of drawers back together again in the nursery. Accompanying the furniture were several boxes of clothes and baby paraphernalia. I spent the morning putting everything away, rehanging the mobile that had been suspended above his cot, setting up a diaper-changing area on top of the chest of drawers, repositioning the bottle sterilizer in the kitchen, and setting up a playpen in the living room. In the process, I started erasing all memories of a house without a child.

Then, at noon, the front door bell rang. Was I nervous? Of course I was. Not because I was worried about how I’d react, or whether the momentousness of the moment would overwhelm me. Rather, because I never believed this moment would happen. And when you are suddenly dealing with a longed-for reality – especially one that once seemed so far beyond the realm of possibility – well, who isn’t nervous at a moment like that?

I went to the door, expecting some hired help to be standing there, holding my son. But when I swung it open, I found myself facing Tony. I blinked with shock – and then immediately looked down, making certain that he had Jack with him. He did. My son was comfortably ensconced in his carry-chair, a pacifier in his mouth, a foam duck clutched between his little hands.

‘Hello,’ Tony said quietly.

I nodded back, noticing that he looked very tired. There was a long awkward moment where we stared at each other, and really didn’t know what to say next.

‘Well…’ he finally said. ‘I thought I should do this myself.’

‘I see.’

‘I bet you didn’t think I’d be the one to bring him.’

‘Tony,’ I said quietly, ‘I now try to think about you as little as possible. But thank you for bringing Jack home.’

I held out my hand. He hesitated for just a moment, then slowly handed me the carry-chair. I took it. There was a brief moment when we both held on to him together. Then Tony let go. The shift in weight surprised me, but I didn’t place the carry-chair on the ground. I didn’t want to let go of Jack. I looked down at him. He was still sucking away on his pacifier, still hanging on to the bright yellow duck, oblivious to the fact that – with one simple act of exchange, one simple hand-over – the trajectory of his life had just changed. What that life would be – how it would turn out – was indeterminable. Just that it would now be different from the other life he might have had.

There was another moment of awkward silence.

‘Well,’ I finally said, ‘I gather the one thing our solicitors have agreed upon is that you’re to have contact with Jack every other weekend. So I suppose I’ll expect you a week from Friday.’

‘Actually’ he said, avoiding my gaze, ‘we’re making the move to Australia next Wednesday.’

He paused – as if he almost expected me to ask about whether he’d managed to work things out with Diane after all the courtroom revelations about his past bad behaviour. Or where they’d be living in Sydney. Or how his damn novel was shaping up. But I wasn’t going to ask him anything. I just wanted him to go away. So I said, ‘Then I suppose I won’t expect you a week from Friday.’

‘No, I suppose not.’

Another cumbersome silence. I said, ‘Well, when you’re next in London, you know where to find us.’

‘Are you going to remain in England?’ he asked.

‘At the moment, I haven’t decided anything. But as you and I have joint parental responsibility for our son, you will be among the first to know.’

Tony looked down at Jack. He blinked hard several times, as if he was about to cry. But his eyes remained dry, his face impassive. I could see him eyeing my hand holding the carrying chair.

‘I suppose I should go,’ he said without looking up at me.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I suppose you should.’

‘Goodbye then.’

‘Goodbye.’

He gazed at Jack, then back at me. And said, ‘I’m sorry.’

His delivery was flat, toneless, almost strangely matter of fact. Was it an admission of guilt or remorse? A statement of regret at having done what he’d done? Or just the fatigued apology of a man who’d lost so much by trying to win? Damn him, it was such a classic Tony Hobbs moment. Enigmatic, obtuse, emotionally constipated, yet hinting at the wound within. An apology that wasn’t an apology that
was
an apology. Just what I expected from a man I knew so well… and didn’t know at all.

I turned and brought Jack inside. I closed the door behind us. As if on cue, my son began to cry. I leaned down. I undid the straps that held him in the carry-chair. I lifted him up. But I didn’t instantly clutch him to me and burst into tears of gratitude. Because as I elevated him out of the chair – lifting him higher – to the point where he was level with my nose, I smelled a telltale smell. A full load.

‘Welcome back,’ I said, kissing him on the head. But he wasn’t soothed by my maternal cuddle. He just wanted his diaper changed.

Half an hour later, as I was feeding him downstairs, the phone rang. It was Sandy in Boston, just checking in to make certain that the hand-over had happened. She was at a loss for words (something of a serious rarity for Sandy) when I told her that it was Tony who had shown up with Jack.

‘And he actually said sorry?’ she asked, sounding downright shocked.

‘In his own awkward way.’

‘You don’t think he was trying to wheedle his way back into your life, do you?’

‘He’s off to Sydney with his fancy lady in a couple of days, so no – I don’t think that’s on the cards. The fact is, I don’t know what to think about why he was there, why he apologized, what his actual “agenda” was… if, that is, there was any agenda at all. All I know is: I won’t be seeing him for a while, and that’s a very good thing.’

‘He can’t expect you to forgive him.’

‘No – but he can certainly
want
to be forgiven. Because we all want that, don’t we?’

‘Do I detect your absurd lingering guilt about Dad?’

‘Yes, you most certainly do.’

‘Well, you don’t have to ask for my forgiveness here. Because what I told you back in London still holds: I don’t blame you. The big question here is: can you forgive yourself? You didn’t do anything wrong. But only you can decide that. Just as only Tony can decide that he did do something profoundly wrong. And once he decides that, maybe…’

‘What? A Pauline conversion? An open confession of transgression? He’s English, for God’s sake.’