‘Well, of course,’ said Richards. ‘I’m just pointing out it’s not all bad.’
Diana was in her version of behind the squash courts: a pub called the Salisbury in Charing Cross Road, waiting for the equivalent of her blood brother, one Tom Knelston. She wasn’t quite sure if she was waiting in vain. He had been quite cross when she called him, saying he was working on a difficult case and had to have the documentation finished by the last post.
‘Well, I’m sorry, but I need to talk to you, Friend Tom. Very badly. Couldn’t we meet after work?’
‘No, Diana, we couldn’t. I’ve got a wife and two small children at home, and I need to be there, helping Alice. She has a lot to do. She has to share me with the Labour Party as it is.’
‘Couldn’t you pretend I was an official of the Labour Party?’
Tom tried and failed not to laugh. The concept of Diana Southcott, with her fame and beauty and her expensive clothes, taking on the persona of the Labour Party was so absurd it was funny.
‘There, you see, I’ve made you laugh. It’ll cheer you up meeting me at the Savoy. It can’t be that much fun at home with two tinies grizzling and filling their nappies.’
‘Kit and Lucy don’t grizzle,’ said Tom firmly and loyally.
‘What lovely names. Now come on, even if they don’t grizzle, I’m sure they fill their nappies.’
‘Well, they do but Diana, even if I did meet you, it couldn’t be at the Savoy. Someone might see me. It’s hardly a suitable venue for a prospective Labour MP.’
‘All right. Wherever you like. I know, there’s a lovely pub in Charing Cross Road called the Salisbury. It’s full of fairies. They love it there. Which reminds me, I want to ask you something. Will you meet me there? I really do need you, dear Friend Tom.’
Twin visions swam before Tom’s eyes. One was of him removing a well-filled nappy before putting its owner into the bath and dealing with it, and then, bath-time done, washing the nappies, putting them through the mangle and hanging them outside; these were his regular evening activities as soon as he got home. The other was sitting in the Salisbury, the lovely pub in Charing Cross Road, all brass railings and etched glass, with a beautiful woman who was desperate to talk to him.
‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘I really can’t.’
Alice had had a bad day; Lucy did grizzle occasionally when things were not entirely to her liking. Kit found it hilarious to imitate her. The noise had been going on all afternoon, and her head ached. She looked at her watch: Tom would be home soon and then she’d feel better. Although she did have something to tell him which certainly wouldn’t make him feel better. The one time Tom had suggested sex (that was yet another misery for her, his appearing to have completely gone off the whole thing) she had been so relieved, so hungry for it, she had decided not to go through the spell-breaking procedure of fetching and inserting her Dutch cap. Now, two weeks later, her period was a day overdue. Only a day – but her cycle ran like a clock. The thought of nine months of vomiting and exhaustion with two small children to care for at the same time, was too awful to contemplate.
‘I’ll have a gin and tonic, darling, please.’
‘OK. Now Diana, before we start, I have to leave by six thirty. I promised Alice I’d be home by seven and even that’ll be cutting it fine.’
‘I’ll be quick,’ she said. And watched him fondly as he went over to the bar, his tall figure and dark red hair cutting a swathe through the crowd.
God, Tom was good-looking. And so sweet. Alice was a lucky girl. He returned with her gin and tonic and what looked like a tomato juice.
‘Cheers,’ she said, ‘and thank you so much for coming. Is that a Bloody Mary?’
‘No,’ said Tom. ‘A tomato juice. I’m not arriving home drunk as well as late. Now, what’s the matter?’
She took a large sip of her drink and hesitated, looking into the glass. Then she said, ‘Johnathan wants a divorce. He wrote me a curt little note saying he wants to instigate proceedings. Gave me the name of his solicitors, to make it all easier and quicker.’
‘I’m so sorry. But . . . has he got grounds?’ She looked down into her drink; then up at him. He couldn’t quite analyse the expression on her face. It was – complex. Hurt, irritation, amusement and – what? Humiliation?
‘He’s providing them,’ she said, and smiled, a brisk bright smile. ‘It’s him who wants the divorce. So, aren’t I lucky?’
‘He’s providing them? But –’
‘No buts, darling. Apparently he has some woman up there. Mainstay – or one of them – of the local community. Name of Catherine. Very nice and admirable, but not exactly a looker. I can’t imagine what he sees in her.’
Tom could imagine it all too well. Kindness. Loyalty. Appreciation. Love, even. He didn’t say all that, of course. ‘Diana, not all women can be beautiful fashion plates.’
‘No, of course not. I’m being bitchy. Obviously she gives him everything I don’t. And we couldn’t go on as we are. He deserves a proper decent wife. Apparently she’s marvellous with Jamie and he “adores her”, according to Johnathan. Now that does hurt.’
‘It must.’ He tried to imagine the pain of another man in Kit’s little life, another man who played with him and hugged him and made him laugh. It was awful.
‘Anyway, I deserve it all, of course I do. And it’s so lucky for me he’s got Catherine, not least because he might have delved into my life, looking for grounds. Well, he’d have found them, of course.’ Her dark eyes were brilliant with tears. ‘Darling, get me another drink, would you? A double this time.’
Something akin to jealousy was going through Tom. A nasty pernicious little worm that was boring its way into somewhere at the heart of him, and that completely, illogically hurt.
He went to the bar again, and got himself another tomato juice, went back.
‘I had an affair,’ she said. ‘With a photographer. Freddie Bateman. He’s awfully famous, have you heard of him?’
‘Rather strangely, not,’ said Tom, grinning suddenly and thinking how totally Diana must trust him to be giving him all these details. It made the worm feel less insidious.
‘He’s American. Awfully good-looking and a complete bastard, of course. Oh, dear . . .’ Her eyes brimmed with tears. ‘Sorry, Tom, sorry. It’s so nice to be able to talk about it.’
‘Well, I’m glad I can do something to help, and I’m sorry. But – forgive me for asking – why are you so upset about Johnathan wanting a divorce? You don’t seem to care about him in the least, you’ve got a life of your own, and you don’t move in the kind of circles that are going to ostracise you.’
‘It’s just that I feel very rejected. I mean, I did love Johnathan in the beginning. He certainly loved me.’
‘And – this Bateman fellow?’