Ned walked out of the hospital and over Westminster Bridge, smiling down at the water, the sun warm on his face. He could never remember feeling so happy, so fortunate. He had the job he had dreamed of, fear removed from his professional life, loneliness from his personal; he loved and was loved. It was a heady sensation.
He decided to walk down to St Luke’s, rather than get a taxi; it would only take about half an hour along the river and he had plenty of time before his afternoon clinic. He would miss his patients there, he thought. He had made friends among them, and their mothers – their fathers were rarely to be seen. It was women’s work, taking children to hospital. There was one little chap, Timmy Ford, the bravest and most cheerful nine-year-old; he had been born with one leg four inches shorter than the other, had had four operations, was in constant pain, and arthritis was already setting in. He had to wear calipers, and a heavily built-up shoe; his mother was always smiling, sometimes trailing one or more of her other four children into the clinic; and then there was Susan Mills, a cystic fibrosis case, also in leg irons, and with both bladder and bowel problems, a cheeky, curious child who called him Dr Make-me-Welles. It was a splendid name that he tried to live up to.
As he walked along Chelsea Embankment, he looked up at the extremely handsome mansion blocks, and thought how much he would like to live there, with the fantastic view of the river and the space they offered – a huge reception room, more than decent kitchen and some had three bedrooms. He could have a study and a proper guest room . . . And then thought, reckless with happiness, there would be room for a piano and he would be able to put his mother and other visitors up. One was for sale; he noted the name of the agent, and hurried on. It wouldn’t do to be late for his clinic.
‘Are you ready?’
Diana handed Leo Bennett a large gin and tonic, settled herself on the sofa on the opposite side of the fireplace from him, lit a cigarette. She wanted a clear head, not remotely befuddled by alcohol. ‘Go on, Leo, I’m all ears.’
It was Saturday; their assignation the previous week had been cancelled as he had been sent by the paper to Paris to attempt to interview Juliette Gréco about her affair with Miles Davis. He failed, but he did see her perform in Le Tabou, a music and poetry venue on the rue Dauphine, and wrote a rather amusing piece about the evening, the music, bohemian Paris, and hanging about for three hours hoping she would emerge, only to learn she had left quite early while he was in the gents.
‘OK. First, Celia. The one who my friends in the ladies’ lavatory said was still sobbing. It’s her speciality, sobbing. And yes, we did have a fling, not a very long one, which is why I thought it would be all right to finish it.’
‘That sounds a bit – harsh.’
‘I agree. But she’s an emotional girl, almost unstable I’d say –’
‘That sounds harsher.’
‘Sorry. I didn’t realise at the outset. Nor did I realise something else.’
‘What was that? She had some incurable disease?’
‘Diana, that’s hugely unfair. I really don’t think I deserved that. I’m doing my utmost to be honest with you. I don’t normally justify my behaviour in this rather pathetic way.’
‘Well, stop doing it then. I don’t mind. It was your idea. We can go our separate ways right now. Doesn’t matter to me.’
‘Fine.’ He stood up and walked towards the door. Diana looked after him. Even from the back he was attractive, slim, quite broad shouldered, his thick blonde hair beautifully cut, exactly the right length; his Saturday clothes – dark blue jeans, brown Chelsea boots, open-necked white shirt, navy tweed jacket – exactly the style she most liked, and he had a very sexy walk. She suddenly very much wanted him to stay. And –
‘I was being unfair,’ she said. ‘Hugely unfair. I’m sorry.’
She surprised herself with the thoroughness of her apology. She must really like him, she thought.
He turned; he still wasn’t smiling, as she had thought he would be, but he looked less angry.
‘Come back and at least finish your drink. I think I’ll join you.’
He walked back rather slowly and sat down; while she was making her drink, the phone rang. It was Ned.
‘Hello, Ned, darling. Lovely to hear from you. But I’ve got someone here right now, can I ring you back? Um – no, not this afternoon, sorry. Why? Oh, I see. Oh, Ned, what a good idea, they’re lovely those flats, and you are terribly squashed in your cottage, pretty as it is. Right. Well, see if you can arrange something for tomorrow or Monday and let me know.’
She put the phone down, went back to the sofa.
‘Sorry.’
‘Friend of yours?’
‘Yes. Ned Welles, he’s a doctor. You could say he’s my best friend,’ she added, determinedly banishing Tom Knelston from her thoughts.
‘I see. And – is he married?’
‘No. Couple of near-misses, but – no. Not yet.’
‘Oh – hang on a minute. Isn’t he a friend of the Bellingers? And Ludo Manners? I covered some wedding they all went to. And Michael Southcott and the delectable Betsey.’
‘Michael’s my brother.’
‘Really? Nice chap.’
‘Yes, well, I think so. Goodness, what a memory you’ve got.’
‘Fearfully good-looking, your friend,’ said Leo. ‘I always thought he was probably queer. Or certainly swung both ways.’
‘Ned! Heavens, no. I almost married him myself.’
‘And why didn’t you?’
‘Because I met my husband.’
‘From whom you’re now divorced? Tell me, Diana, do you have a vast past?’
‘Not really. Look, I thought we were going to discuss yours.’
‘OK. What was next on the agenda? Oh, yes, Baba.’
‘To whom you’re still married?’
‘Correct.’
‘Why did you tell me you weren’t?’
‘I tell everyone that. It saves a lot of tedious explanations.’
‘All right. Why do you deny your wife’s existence? It’s not the nicest thing to do.’
‘She’s not the nicest person.’
‘Leo –’ Diana was growing irritable now; she took a rather unladylike slug of her gin and tonic.
‘It suits her to be married to me. It goes like this. Marriage a big mistake. Soon dawned on us both. Anyway, we had no children, thank God, we agreed to divorce, and I was living in London anyway. She stayed in a house in the country we’d bought until it all went through. Only it didn’t. She discovered she was very happy in the country without me; there wasn’t anyone else, she just dug her heels in and wouldn’t get on with it. And I had no grounds for divorcing her. I wouldn’t anyway. Bad form.’
‘Leo! Honestly.’
‘Well, it is. No gentleman would divorce his wife.’ Clearly he meant what he said. She was surprised and amused in equal measure.
‘Anyway, the good news is she’s met someone, who’s rich, much richer than me, and good-looking and all the things that matter to her. So now she wants a divorce and quickly. I shall do the decent thing and provide grounds, you know, weekend in Brighton, and that will be that.’
‘Goodness,’ said Diana. She would have laid every kind of bad behaviour at Leo’s door, but not this rather upright gentlemanly stuff. ‘I didn’t like the lying, Leo. Well, actually I don’t mind lying when there’s a reason for it, but that all seemed so pointless.’
‘Like yours about Ned Welles?’