The Would-Begetter (2 page)

He had decided upon a plan, and he had structured it in such a way that he would feel bound to stick to it and not be distracted, as he had been so often in the past, by mere dalliance and sexual adventure. This idea of his was designed to concentrate his mind on the job in hand (even if it might appear a trifle artificial and cold-blooded); the serious business of getting an heir.

‘Right,’ Jess said, aiming her loaded camera, and making him jump. ‘Do you want to be in these ones, or are you too busy day-dreaming?’

‘Oh… why not?’ Hector moved round the room as she popped off several shots, putting himself in the foreground of each one so as to direct her towards what he considered to be the best composition. ‘Wide-angled lens?’

‘Of course,’ Jess said. ‘Teach your grandmother!’

‘Sorry.’ He went on smiling at her until she dropped her eyes from his. She was a sweetie. He was sure she wouldn’t rat on him at the office. The last thing he wanted was to be an object of pity, or worse still a laughing stock. He thought he might have mentioned wanting a son to the odd person here and there, in passing, but he doubted whether they’d really registered it.

‘One more?’ Jess asked.

‘If you like.’ At least, Hector thought, at least I’ll have something to show the boy – something along the lines of
Pictures of your father in the elegant house in which you were conceived
.

When they got outside again it was raining, but Hector wanted a few exterior shots. Jess watched him with a half-smile as he posed beside the high lion knocker on the heavy oak front door.

These are going to come out just like my Uncle Fred’s holiday snaps, Jess thought – Aunty Kath in Egypt, with the pyramids somewhere under her left elbow; Aunty Kath in Sicily, with Mount Etna smoking from the back of her neck; Aunty Kath headless in Gaza, and so on. I wonder why Hector wants to be in all of them? I always run a mile if anyone points a camera at me. I suppose if you look as good as he does, it’s easy.

‘Excellent,’ Hector said. ‘That should do it. Thanks Jess. Now we’d better get going prestissimo.’

Jess got back into the passenger seat of the car. It was a novel experience to be driven by Hector, and one she was not in a hurry to repeat. She hoped her official Photographer’s Jeep would indeed be repaired by lunchtime. This unfortunate vehicle was the smallest of the half-dozen company cars available, and the one which Hector most despised. He had already bumped it into several hard objects in the hope of ending its natural life, so far to no avail. Jess looked back at the house as they drove rather jerkily away.

‘It’s very large,’ she said, ‘especially for one person.’

‘Yes,’ Hector agreed bitterly. ‘It’s crying out to be a family home, isn’t it? What makes it even worse is that Megan is hardly ever in it. Most weekends she buggers off to Wales to see to her geriatric father, so the place stands empty. It’s a wicked waste and, what’s more, an open invitation to any passing yob who fancies helping himself to the television and the video and God knows what else.’ He sighed. ‘I’ve tried to make her see sense, but it just makes her more bloody-minded. Women!’

‘Some of us are quite pleasant,’ Jess suggested.

‘Some of you are little gems,’ Hector agreed, taking his eyes off the road for rather too long. ‘It’ll be a lucky young bloke who turns your head.’

‘It’s odd, but I’ve always been attracted to the older man,’ Jess ventured.

‘Is that a fact?’ Hector said, taking a bend too fast, but recovering with panache. ‘Oh God, what am I going to say to this Moffat woman? As far as I can see she’s some pushy superwoman who’s been brought in as new MD to our biggest local employers hereabouts, at the unripe old age of thirty, no doubt over the backs of legions of hard-pressed married men with babies to support. Not the ideal person with whom to spend half an hour, but I suppose it’s better than being in the Newsroom glued to the bloody phone, which seems to be mostly where I find myself these days. You photographer bods don’t know you’re born, you know, gadding about all day, special transport, mobile phone…’

‘Long hours’ Jess put in.

‘I used to work long hours too, but I didn’t mind that. I was out and about all the time in the old days, with my ear to the ground, getting contacts, being given tip-offs. I was a proper reporter then, but nowadays it’s all cuts; less money, fewer staff… boring, boring, boring.’

‘Cheer up,’ Jess said. ‘You don’t know it but you’ve got a treat in store. I actually know your so-called superwoman and she’s not pushy at all. In fact I’m really looking forward to seeing her again. She was my role model years ago, when we were at school together. In fact I had quite a crush on her, would you believe, when I was in the third form. Haven’t seen her since.’

‘All-girls’ school, eh?’ Hector smiled knowingly. ‘Ah… That explains a lot. Hothouses of repression and misandry. No wonder she’s a bra-burner.’

‘I suppose you do realise that you’re an appalling chauvinist?’

‘Nonsense,’ Hector said cheerfully. ‘You wouldn’t have me any different.’ Jess raised two sceptical eyebrows. ‘I do it on purpose,’ Hector assured her. ‘Works a charm every time. You rise to the bait just like a sheep.’

‘Right,’ the surprisingly suave reporter said to Caroline, with biro poised above his notepad. ‘Shall we get started then? I’m Hector Mudgeley, and I believe you already know Jessamy Hazelrigg our photographer.’

‘Hello. Jess! How lovely to see you again. It’s years since we last met! I didn’t realise you worked for the
Chronicle!

‘Yes. It’s twelve years actually and you look just the same.’

‘You don’t! We must talk later.’

‘Yes!’

Hector waited with studied patience for a moment or two, until Caroline had rewarded him with her full attention. Then he continued, ‘And you are Caroline Moffat; two
f’s
, one
t
? Now, may I reveal your age?’

‘Why not?’ Caroline said, ‘Since it’s pertinent to the whole thrust of the article.’

‘Quite. And are you… ah… married at all?’

‘Not even slightly.’

‘Oh.’ He looked up and caught her eye with a humorous
glance. ‘Right, and how long were you with your previous company?’

As the interview progressed, Caroline thought, why is it that I always have to play games; see if I can disconcert them? This one is different though; a cut above your average Press reptile. Could it be because he’s from a wholesome and straightforward provincial weekly? No, I think there’s more to it than that. Mmmm… But how odd to see Jess grown up! I remember her so clearly at thirteen, very shy, rather plain, the vulnerable sort.

When the questions were finished, and Hector had shut up his notepad with a satisfied snap, Caroline asked him, ‘Are you any relation to Ifor Mudgeley of Mudgeley Goggles Ltd?’

‘He’s my brother,’ Hector said, ‘Why?’

‘Just wondered,’ Caroline said. ‘Wasn’t Mudgeley a big name around here at one time? Didn’t they used to own most of Woodspring?’

‘And the
Chronicle
too,’ Hector agreed ruefully. ‘Not any more.’

‘But you never wanted to join the family firm?’

‘I never found the manufacture of protective clothing to be particularly stimulating,’ Hector said, holding her glance.

Caroline detected a definite gleam in his eye, and debated within herself whether to respond in kind. She estimated that he was about ten years her senior and surprisingly well dressed. He was taller than she was (even in her highest heels) and had pleasant symmetrical features and thick greying hair. The thing however that most attracted her, was his habit of direct eye contact and his air of effortless self-confidence. She wondered whether it was justified, and found herself wanting to find out.

He’d make a pleasant change from Vivian, she thought; less artistic but definitely more sensual… Not that I can actually do anything about him at this precise moment, with Jess here…

Caroline collected her thoughts. ‘Do you work freelance?’ she asked her.

‘Nope,’ Hector answered for her. ‘She’s a wage slave, aren’t you Jess.’

‘I sometimes take photos for friends on days off or weekends,’ Jess said. ‘And I’ve been known to do the odd wedding.’

‘Mmmm,’ Caroline said. ‘Perhaps we could get together professionally? Not for a wedding (God forbid!) but I’m doing a presentation brochure and I need some mug shots of the Directors. The last ones we had done were quite ghastly; made them all look like delinquents. I’ll give you a ring, yes?’

‘Yes. I’d love to, but time could be a prob…’ Jess looked doubtful.

‘Excellent idea’ Hector enthused. ‘Industry and the Press will be all the better for a spot of mutual co-operation. I’ll square it with our Editor.’

From the outset, Hector had been impressed by Caroline Moffat and now, with a bit of luck, Jess would be in touch with her further, which might create more opportunities for him to meet her too. He reckoned she was smart in every sense of the word. She was the type he could certainly fancy in a big way but mindful of the task ahead, as he and Jess drove back to the
Chronicle
building, he forced himself dutifully to run through his carefully considered list of ‘essential wifely qualities’ to assess her marks out of ten:

Beauty – 6ish

Personality – bit sharp, 5?

Sex appeal – 7, maybe 8?

Poise/Elegance – 10 definitely

Intelligence – 9 (maybe a mixed blessing?)

Wealth – 8 or more?

Class/Accent – 10

Suitable age range – 3oish. Perfect – 10

Child-bearing hips – Mmmm, only 3

Maternal potential – Hard to tell, 5+?

Genetic endowment, diseases etc. – Unknown, but promising

Politics – unknown

Status – unmarried, available? 10 or nil.

Useful connections – 9?

Bingo! he thought, screwing up his face with the effort of mental arithmetic. That comes to a minimum of… 82, and
potentially a great deal more, especially if she can cook. I must do some research. Caroline Moffat could be THE ONE!

‘Have you got a pain?’ Jess asked.

‘What?’

‘Well, you’re making awful faces.’

‘I’m thinking.’ Should I put my life-plan suggestion to Caroline, Hector wondered, or should I go ahead with it and not tell her? I know, I’ll sound out the female response – maybe not a universal one, but adequate. I’ll ask Jess.

‘Must be agonising,’ Jess said, ‘activating all those little synapses in the brain, and simultaneously too.’

‘Very funny. Look Jess, supposing someone made you a proposition along the lines of, “Would you be prepared to have my baby first and then get married afterwards,” what would you say?’

‘You don’t mean…?’ Jess flushed scarlet.

‘No!
Not you, you complete and utter noodle. Good Lord, whatever next! I was speaking purely theoretically; asking your opinion, as a woman.’

There was a pregnant silence. Hector glanced sideways and saw, to his consternation, that Jess looked about to burst into tears.

‘Hey!’ he said, slowing the car down. ‘I haven’t upset you, have I? I wouldn’t do that for the world, Jessy-boot, you know that. I just wanted an intelligent, unbiased womanly opinion, so who better to ask than you?’

‘It’s okay,’ Jess said, smiling hard. ‘It’s nothing. I’ve just got… an eyelash… in my eye.’ She reached into the sleeve of her jersey and then, taking her glasses off, dabbed at her face with a tissue.

‘Better now?’

‘Fine.’

‘So what do you think Miss Average would reply to such a proposition?’ Hector stepped on the accelerator again.

‘I’m not a great expert in such matters,’ Jess said, flung back against her seat by the unexpected thrust, ‘but I think she’d probably tell you to get knotted!’

‘Putting you through,’ Wendy Bing cooed in her carefully modulated telephone voice. She pressed a button and looked
up from the switchboard just as Hector and Jess came in through the
Chronicle’s
swing doors. Wendy wondered why Jess didn’t make more of herself. With a body as skinny as hers, she could wear anything, so why did she have to choose such coarse mannish fabrics, and such a determinedly unfem-inine look? And why, while she was about it, didn’t she get herself some contact lenses and make herself less owl-like? Wendy exhaled in disapproval and stroked her own right shoulder reflectively. Beneath her fingers the pink angora sweater felt baby-soft, and she deliberately left her hand where it was whilst Hector approached, so that he would be bound to notice that its fourth finger was now invitingly ring-free.

When she had passed thirty and yet remained puzzlingly single, Wendy had invented a fiancé to keep her end up. But when she had gathered that Hector was getting divorced, she had chucked the fake diamond into the bin and had lived in hope ever since.

‘Hi Wend,’ Hector said breezily. ‘I really must stop saying that, mustn’t I? Sounds just like “High wind”. Any messages for me?’

Wendy smiled brilliantly at him. ‘Just the one, on that poaching story,’ she said, handing him a small oblong of yellow paper with a telephone number. ‘Can you phone a Mr Milligan?’

‘That it?’ Hector said, taking it and stuffing it into his pocket.

‘That’s your lot.’

‘Right.’

Wendy watched him as he disappeared up the stairs to the Newsroom. She felt rather let down. Today he hadn’t said anything special to her. On good days he’d admire her hair or wink at her as though they had secrets in common. Of course, Wendy mused, they did indeed share secrets, although Hector himself wasn’t strictly aware of this fact. As the chief Receptionist of three, Wendy had always considered herself to be the nerve-centre of the
Westcountry Chronicle
and thus felt justified in being in the know about everything that was happening throughout the building. She didn’t exactly eavesdrop on conversations; that would be more than her job was worth. She just happened to overhear snippets as she switched calls about
and made connections. It was strange but when Megan, Hector’s wife, called him at work, Wendy was often the unwilling recipient of a great deal of information, ranging from the mildly interesting to the very personal indeed. She knew for instance that Hector was seven years older than herself, that Hector’s marriage was in trouble long before he publicly admitted as much, that his and Megan’s arguments were invariably about starting a family, but that Hector’s sperm count – whatever wicked things her workmates were saying – was absolutely up to scratch.