A Question of Love (29 page)

‘And sometimes, Magda just gets a bit…het up,’ he went on, ignoring me. ‘But now she’s a lot calmer. Normal. Almost.’ The lights turned green.

‘Look Luke, I really don’t want to hurt your feelings—I realize that Magda’s the mother of your child, and must therefore be sanctified, or at least, not criticized, but the fact of the matter is, she’s insane. For the purposes of this argument, I am Jane Eyre, you are Mr Rochester, and Magda is Bertha Mason. Except that she isn’t locked up in the attic, she’s rampaging through the house with a pair of dressmaking shears. How do I know it won’t be a chainsaw next time? Or that she’ll decide to cut up my clothes while I’m still
wearing
them!’

‘Look, Laura, she’s offering you an olive branch—and I really hope you’ll accept it. She said that she’d like to meet you.’

I gasped. ‘No way!’

‘Please Laura.’

‘Not after that! No! How could I? And in any case, what’s the
point
?’

I heard Luke sigh. ‘The point
is
that I have to have a reasonable relationship with her, which means that
you
do too. Because we’re going to be together, Laura. Isn’t that what you want?’

I looked through the windscreen.

‘Yes…’ I said after a moment. ‘It is.’

‘Which means that Magda will be in your
life.
‘

‘I don’t…really see why. There are a million step-families in this country, Luke, and I imagine that in the majority of cases the first and second wives have zero contact. The children are dropped off, and their mum zooms away. And if that’s how it is with Magda then that’s fine by me.’

‘But it isn’t fine by
me
. Look, Laura, I know she can be a bit…tricky…’

‘You’re sounding like Comical Ali.’

‘But if you want to get on with Jessica, which I assume you do…’

I looked out of the window. We were in Chiswick.

‘Of course I do,’ I said quietly.

‘Then however much you may hate the idea, you’ll have to have a civilized relationship with Magda.’

‘Which would be fine if Magda
was
civilized, but on the evidence of last night, she
isn’t
.’

‘
Please
Laura. She can be perfectly…rational…sometimes.’

‘You want me to appease her,’ I said angrily. ‘She behaves
horribly,
destroys my things—but the idea is that I now bow and scrape to her like you do. Well I’m not bloody well
going
to!’

‘You don’t have to. You just have to be nice. I want you to help me realize my goal of a happy and harmonious setup for Jessica.’

‘I’m sorry, but I don’t think that’s possible.’

‘It
is.
You know those friends of mine you met at the gallery last night. Grant and Imogen? The ones with the baby?’

‘Yes.’

‘Grant and Rose split up five years ago, and a year later he met Imogen, and last year they had Alice. Now,
they
all get on really well. Rose likes Imogen, she brings the boys over most Sundays and they all have lunch; she also adores Alice and sometimes even baby-sits her while Grant and Imogen go out. Sometimes they all go down to his parents together. They’ve even talked about going skiing together. They’re all
friends
, Laura, and the children are happy and secure because of it—and that’s how I would like it to be with
us
.’

‘It sounds lovely,’ I said. ‘What could be more civilized? Utopian even…But the point is, Luke, that a) it sounds pretty unusual, and b) in your friend’s case, wife number one is clearly a nice, normal,
sensible
person—unlike Magda. I’m sorry to be so uncooperative here Luke, but she turned my silk kimono into dust rags. And now you’re asking me to sit down and take tea with her as though we’re in some play by Oscar
Wilde
!’

‘Well…yes. I suppose I am. She’ll be at the house tomorrow afternoon, and it would be wonderful if you could be there too. It would also help me, because I don’t want Magda to change her mind about my trip to Venice so I need her to feel confident and calm.
Please
Laura. I know it’s a lot to ask, but I hope you’ll do this for me.’

Why are people always asking me to do things I don’t
want
to do, I thought crossly? Why am I constantly being cajoled and coerced? But then, out of curiosity about Magda, as much as any desire to help Luke, I found myself saying.

‘Ohhhhh…All
right
then, dammit. What time?’

The tabloid hacks, fresh from their Easter holiday freebies, have had another go at me.
IS TV LAURA LOSING HER WAY? s
creamed the masthead of the
Daily News
this morning. There was a large headshot of me looking worried. On the centre pages was a splash by their showbiz editor about how my ‘
friends
‘ were worried that the ‘
strain of presenting the quiz
‘, the ‘
trauma
‘ of not knowing where my husband was, combined with the ‘
emotional agonies
‘ of dating a ‘
married man
‘ were beginning to get to me. There was a grainy photo of me dropping the question cards that time, captioned
‘The stress gets to Laura
‘—one of the audience must have taken it with a mobile. Beneath, one unnamed ‘
confidante
‘ was quoted as saying that the
‘guilt
‘ I felt at having ‘
stolen Magda’s husband
‘ was ‘
eating me up
‘, while another ‘
reliable source
‘ claimed that I wasn’t eating at all, but was ‘
struggling with anorexia
‘.

‘You’ve got to get your side of the story across,’ Nerys said when I went in to work. She patted her salon-stiff hair which, this week, was the colour of loganberries. ‘In
my
view, you’re letting them get away with murder. It’s awful.’

‘It is, Nerys. I’m absolutely sick of it.’

‘Then you should do an interview yourself,’ she said as she adjusted her headset. ‘Just my opinion. Good
morn
-ing, Trident Tee-
veee.
‘

‘
Nerys does have a point,’ said Tom. ‘This has been going on long enough. Maybe it’s time you played the media game, Laura—I know that’s what they think at Channel Four.’

‘I thought they were delighted with the rising ratings—aren’t we up to four million now?’

‘We are, but they’re worried about you. They feel you should respond.’

So when, later that day, Nerys took a call from a broadsheet journalist, I let her put him through.

‘Miss Quick?’ He sounded very earnest. ‘My name’s Darren Sillitoe. I’m from the
Sunday Semaphore
.’

‘Yes?’

‘First of all, can I just say that I’m a huge admirer of yours. I think the quiz is wonderful.’

‘Oh. Thanks.’

‘I saw that piece about you in the
Daily News
this morning.’ I felt my face flush. ‘I must say the tabloids have given you a pretty rough ride.’

‘You’re telling me.’

‘It was obvious that the
News
had made up most of those quotes.’

‘They had.’

‘I know you’ve so far refused to speak to the press, but I was wondering whether you don’t
now
feel that it’s finally time to go on the record—with a “proper” newspaper.’

‘Well…as it happens, I
had
been wondering that.’

‘Oh…then I’ve called at the right time.’

‘Maybe. But what would you want me to say?’

‘Well, it would be a profile of you—a positive one—but we’d want the human story, which would, I’m afraid, mean talking about your husband’s disappearance.’

My heart sank. ‘Would I have to?’

‘I’m afraid so, otherwise there’d be no point in doing the piece. But we would interview you very sensitively and then carefully report what you say. But while you’re on the phone, can I just ask you, by way of background, what sort of things have especially bothered you about the coverage you’ve had recently?’

‘
Well…
everything
,’ I replied. ‘But mainly the suggestion that I broke up Luke North’s marriage when his wife had left him ten months earlier, and that I’m difficult and demanding—I’m not.’

‘Well…it’s been very hard for you. But the
Sunday Semaphore
is at least a serious newspaper and for once the public would be reading about you in your
own
words.’ There was a pause. ‘I’ll give you my direct line and you can let me know if you’d like to go ahead.’

‘Would you let me see the copy in advance?’

He hesitated. ‘That’s
not
something we normally do.’

‘Well, giving interviews is not something
I
normally do. So I’ll only consider it if I’m allowed to see the piece beforehand.’ I was surprised to hear myself sound so tough.

‘Well—perhaps I
could
swing that—given the sensitivity of your position.’

‘And would your paper donate a fee to the National Missing Persons’ Helpline?’

‘I’m sure that could be done.’

‘Not less than five hundred pounds?’

I heard a quiet laugh. ‘You’re driving a hard bargain.’

‘If you want me to talk to you, I’m afraid that’s what it’ll take.’

‘We do want to talk to you—exclusively of course.’

‘Yes, of course. But I’d like to have a think.’

After all the lies that had been printed about me, I was very tempted to agree, but I wasn’t going to decide there and then. I had too many other things on my mind—not least my rendezvous with Hope. I was dreading it.

I arrived at Westminster underground a good ten minutes early, but Hope was already there. She was standing by the street map, her face as pale as papyrus. But although resentful at not knowing where I was taking her, she was at least reasonably calm. But as we set off across the bridge the atmosphere between us was strained; so, to distract her, I asked her about the request I’d had from the
Semaphore
.

‘Well, I suppose at least being a sensible broadsheet they won’t print brazen lies about you like the tabloids have done,’ she said as we walked over the bridge.

‘They also said they’d let me read the piece beforehand.’

‘They’d give you copy approval?’

‘Unofficially, yes.’

‘In that case, there’s no downside—go for it.’

‘I might. But I’ve got too many other things on my mind to make a decision now. Not least…this.’

‘So…where are we going then, Laura?
Please
tell me. I’m in agonies. Where are we
going
?’ she repeated as we crossed the Thames, the wind whipping our hair.

‘You’ll see.’

She emitted a frustrated sigh. ‘And how long will it take to get there, wherever it is?’

‘Not long.’ I looked away to the left. There was the London Eye, and the Oxo Tower behind it, and the elegant white masts on Hungerford Bridge. Terns were diving and swooping over the water. A pleasure boat passed underneath us, leaving a fan of water in its wake.

‘So Mike will be there, will he?’ I heard her ask, raising her voice above the rumble of the traffic. ‘I’ll see him?’

‘Yes, you will.’

‘I can’t believe I’m
doing
this,’ she said. ‘Just allowing you to take me to this unknown place without a clue as to what it is or where it is.’

‘Well you’re doing it because you asked me to follow Mike, and now I’m going to show you what I found out.’ We walked on without speaking.

‘Is it much further?’ she asked as we got to the other side of the bridge.

‘No. It isn’t.’ I stopped outside St Thomas’s. ‘In fact we’re here.’

‘Where? This is the hospital.’

‘Exactly.’

‘We’re going into the
hospital
?’

‘We are. Come on.’ We followed the signs round to the main entrance.

‘But why?’ I heard Hope ask. I didn’t answer.
‘Why
?’ she repeated as we walked through the sliding doors.

‘Because this is where we’ll find Mike.’ We passed the flower shop and the newsagents, and went through reception to the bank of lifts where ten or twelve people were waiting. ‘This is where he’s been coming.’

‘I don’t understand,’ she whispered. ‘He’s not ill, is he? Please don’t tell me he’s
ill
Laura.’

‘He’s not ill.’

‘Then what on earth could he be doing
here
?’ The lift doors drew back and we got in. ‘Is he visiting someone?’ she murmured. I pressed number seven.

‘Yes. He’s visiting someone.’ The lift stopped at the third floor, and the other passengers got out and no-one got on. We were alone.

‘Clare?’ said Hope. ‘He’s visiting Clare?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Oh. Oh my God.
She’s
ill…?’ I didn’t reply. ‘Is
that
it? He visits her because she’s
ill
? Poor woman…but what’s
wrong
with her? It must be serious if he’s been coming here for two months. Why won’t you just
tell
me, Laura? Why aren’t you saying anything?’

‘Because I want you to
see
it.’

‘But I don’t understand,’ she groaned. ‘Why all the mystery? And if she
is
ill she’s hardly going to want her boyfriend’s wife turning up at her bedside is she!’

Seventh floor. Doors opening…

As we stepped out, Hope saw the sign on the wall, then stopped. She’d gone white.

‘Is this the right place?’

‘It is.’

Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘So…’ there was a tiny gasp. ‘Oh my God…there’s a baby?’

‘There is a baby, yes.’

‘Oh my God,’ she repeated. ‘A baby. There’s a
baby
…’ She was shaking her head. ‘Oh
God…
I can’t go
in
, Laura.’

‘I think you should.’

‘I
can’t.
I can’t
possibly.
‘ Her eyes had filled. She was staring at me accusingly.

‘Trust me.’