The Buddha of Brewer Street (36 page)

The cold front had passed and left behind a wondrously clear early summer’s evening. This was one of the views of London that Goodfellowe never failed to find inspiring, across the river to the City where the dark-suited dome of St Paul’s stood like a conductor before a vast orchestra of lights in the financial centre behind. It was an irresistible panorama of bridges and mirrors and ancient spires, cathedrals and temples of commerce, God and Mammon side by side, a marriage of artifice and aspiration that had lasted for a thousand years. Ambition shone through every window. ‘Give me your soul!’ they shouted. ‘Or give me your savings!’ Straightforward and so refreshingly sincere. And so unlike that other city on the river, his city, Westminster, where ambition was found loitering in dark Gothic corners like a playground bully.

On the occasions when he grew weary with the game of politics and had lost both his meaning and his motivation, he would come and soak up these awesome sights along the river bank. So much history gathered together in one spot reminded him that like all men he was but a small link in an endless and infinite chain, one that would soon stretch way beyond him. There was so much he wanted to do, so little time to do it. Yet on this spot he knew, too, that it was possible to make a difference. The view in front of him proved it.

Except that it was his usual practice to admire the scene from the vantage point of the walkway of Hungerford Bridge, a location which although often windswept was entirely free of charge. Unlike the restaurant in the Oxo Tower. Ouch. Sam had insisted on a victory celebration, and Mickey deserved one. This was going to hurt, and perhaps the bill would prove to be the smallest of the evening’s troubles.

‘Come on, Dad, don’t be such a sad haddock. Look as if you’re enjoying yourself.’

Goodfellowe dragged his thoughts back to the balcony overlooking the busy river and tried to shake the heaviness from his heart. So he’d won, a great victory, but already he’d lost the mood for celebration. Something mattered more. This was the evening he had set aside for his showdown with Sam, because showdown he had reluctantly decided there must be. Her pregnancy could wait no longer.

‘To an extraordinary boss,’ Mickey raised her glass in salute. ‘Even if at times you bear a close resemblance to a horse’s arse.’ And meant it. But she was talking. It meant she was healing.

‘Thanks. I think.’

‘And to the women who spur you on,’ Sam offered in her turn.

They raised glasses and Goodfellowe cursed. In his distraction he’d not only emptied his glass but also knocked over the bottle. He watched helplessly as eighteen quid’s worth of Ninth Island Chardonnay spilled across the metal table top.

‘I’ve never seen you waste even a drop before,’ Mickey observed. ‘You cracking up, Goodfellowe?’

‘Yeah, what’s wrong, Goodfellowe?’ Sam repeated. ‘Why aren’t you enjoying yourself ? Has it got anything to do with this mysterious personal problem you wanted to talk about? You been arrested or something?’

His face didn’t flicker.

‘Ah, is this a moment where my Jewish insight tells me I should suddenly become invisible?’ Mickey enquired. ‘Not that I do invisible very well,’ she added, moistening her lips, ‘but there’s a couple of wicked-looking fellows over by the bar. I could come back in a week or two.’

‘No!’ insisted Sam, who wanted to party.

‘No,’ concurred Goodfellowe, more cautiously. This was a family matter, and Mickey was practically part of it. Anyway, he felt that Sam might soon be in need of her support. The waiter finished mopping up and brought another bottle.

‘Sam, you know I’m not a moralizer,’ he began diffidently.

‘You’ve got precious little to moralize about,’ Mickey muttered.

He flinched. ‘Precisely. But I’ve been struggling for weeks to find the right way and the right words for this, and still I know I’m going to make a mess of it.’

‘Like my A-levels.’

He took a deep breath, as though about to dive deep underwater. ‘Sam, I know. About the pregnancy clinic. About your treatment. I know it’s been going on for a long time. Too long, Sam.’ His voice carried an edge of relief. At last it was out in the open. ‘I know.’

‘Oh, Dad, I’m so sorry.’

He closed his eyes. The whole of London had suddenly ceased to move. And through the silence he became aware of a noise. Like a window shattering, the fragments sounding like bells falling chaotically around him. Except it wasn’t glass. It was laughter.

Sam was laughing at him.

‘Oh, Dad, I’m so sorry.’ She bit her lip, struggling to control herself, almost embarrassed at her own reaction. ‘It’s not funny, but …’

‘You’d better believe it’s not funny, young lady.’

He was smouldering, about to ignite. She reached out and grasped his hand.

‘I’m not pregnant.’

‘Not pregnant?’ he copied, testing the notion.

‘Never was.’ She stifled her giggles, which had been nothing more than a youthful nervous reaction to the intense surprise. ‘And I’m sorry you’ve been worrying needlessly.’

‘Needlessly?’ He was beginning to sound like a parrot. ‘But what about the clinic? The bills?’

‘It was Edwina, not me.’

‘Edwina?’

‘She refused to tell her parents or her doctor and was terrified she’d get thrown out of school. So I helped her. Insisted she got some counselling. I’d come with her to the clinic. Here in London. Even helped her pay for it.’

‘One of your cheques bounced, you know. Was sent back to Gerrard Street.’

This seemed to puzzle Sam. ‘She was in a terrible state. Wouldn’t use her own name, didn’t dare use her own address, so … I lent her my name. I suppose she must have used your address. The first thing that came to mind. She was very scared. Please don’t be too angry.’

‘You … are … not … pregnant. You’re NOT pregnant.’ He wanted to say it slowly, in a number of ways, trying to discover which version would prove most definitive and convincing. ‘You mean – you’re really not pregnant?’

‘No. And neither is Edwina now.’

‘The clinic?’ he enquired, in evident distaste.

‘No, nature. After three months. It happens, you know.’

‘I am not going to be a grandfather,’ he sighed. Goodfellowe poured himself a fresh glass and sipped. Then he swallowed the rest in one draught and shook his head. ‘I think I am about to explode – whether in horror or in happiness I haven’t the faintest idea. But either you or Edwina owe me thirty-two pounds for your bounced cheque – I paid the bloody thing myself.’ He tried to sound ferocious, but failed. ‘I got it all wrong again, didn’t I? Perhaps I’d better have another drink.’

Sam poured for him. ‘Dad, why didn’t you ask me earlier?’

‘Didn’t want to rush you. It was too important for a hasty row. Elizabeth …’ – he mentioned her name diffidently, concerned for Sam’s reaction – ‘suggested it was right to wait for you to come to me, in your own time.’

‘She was right.’

‘So I sat and waited.’

‘And worried.’

‘A father’s burden.’

‘And opened my mail.’

‘Bloody Buddha,’ he sighed. He’d never get it right.

‘It’s OK. Just this once.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘Love you, Goodfellowe.’

‘You can call me Dad.’

She allowed his hand to fall, deciding the time had come to step out from beneath this shower of sentimentality. The Goodfellowes weren’t much good at all that, they operated better with a sharpened edge. ‘There are plenty of other things I could call you, too. Do you really think I’m the type of girl who would get herself pregnant? What type of person do you think I am? What type of father are you?’

‘Relieved. And so should Bryan be.’

‘Bryan?’

‘Saves me throttling the little bastard.’

‘Oh, Dad, you’re so … palaeolithic.’

He winced.

‘Anyway, Bryan was a long time ago.’

‘Six weeks is a long time?’

‘Seems like it. At least since I met Phil.’

‘Phil?’

‘Lives in Brighton. He’s got a Kawasaki, looks just great in leathers and …’

He waved his hands in surrender. ‘Do I have to know all this? I’d really rather not.’

‘Oh, Dad, you live in such a cocoon. Break out. Enjoy yourself. Look, I’d be happy to help. You know, if ever you need any advice.’ She offered her sweetest, most insincere smile. ‘About birth control. Safe sex, that sort of thing. Don’t be shy.’

And she was laughing at him again, with Mickey joining in, but Sam noticed the shadow of autumn storms that passed across her father’s eyes. She had blundered, been frivolous, taken a pace too far. She knew why. ‘How is Elizabeth?’ she asked. The name fell like a blanket, smothering the laughter.

‘Haven’t seen her for a while. Been … distracted.’

‘You should see her,’ Sam responded.

‘You think that?’

‘I was unfair about her,’ Sam apologized. ‘I had no right. I didn’t get it right.’

‘Neither did I. Not with Elizabeth. We had a sort of falling-out.’

‘Then give us all a break. Buy some flowers and go see the girl,’ Mickey agreed. It was beginning to sound unanimous.

‘Maybe.’ He seemed wounded.

‘No maybe about it. If you don’t invite her, I will,’ Sam insisted.

‘You leave me precious little choice.’

‘That’s the plan.’

‘Call her now,’ Mickey encouraged.

Dusk had begun to steal the light, leaving the skyline like a string of bonfires in the distance.

‘Too late now. First thing in the morning, maybe.’ He swallowed another mouthful of Ninth Island’s non-vintage. ‘Yes, why not? First thing in the morning.’

There was no chance of him sleeping. Too much anticipation.

Shortly after five he climbed on his bike and set off for the flower market at Nine Elms. This was an entirely new experience for him, cycling through streets empty of traffic, breathing in morning air rather than diesel, being able to enjoy what lay ahead rather than worrying about what was looming up behind. It felt so good he thought he might get up at this time every morning. He wasn’t making fast progress, the bump over the kerb at Brewer Street had caused more damage than he’d imagined. Not only was the wheel buckled but the frame alignment was off. The central locking was beginning to work loose. But what did that matter, so long as it got him there? He pressed on.

Most of the traffic that was around in London at that time of the morning seemed to have gathered at Nine Elms, laden with a choice of flowers that quite dazzled Goodfellowe. Flowers he didn’t even recognize. He chose a ludicrously large bunch of something stemmy and blue that looked as though only moments before they had been growing on the banks of the Amazon. These were placed in a large cardboard box which in turn was tied precariously across the front of the handlebars, causing the geometry of the bike to become seriously compromised. He’d arrived with a wobble and precious little authority, he was an even greater road hazard as he set off on the last leg of his journey. Next time he’d stick to bringing a bottle, he told himself. Next time.

Next time!

The thought added urgency to his efforts, but he wasn’t even sweating. The gym was really toning him up. She would be impressed.

It was shortly before seven when, with the rear mudguard complaining like a witch in a wheelbarrow, he turned into her mews. The cobbles made further progress impossible and he dismounted and pushed. Something dropped from the rear brakes. He felt fabulous.

Her house stood halfway down on the right-hand side.

And she was waiting for him, standing at the door in that fabulous silk robe of hers.

She hadn’t noticed him yet, the early sun was shining into her eyes.

She seemed so impossibly beautiful. He knew he was very much in love.

He waved, but still she didn’t see him and was moving back inside.

Goodfellowe drew nearer, and the warmth seemed to drain from the day. Someone else was with her. A man. Young, with that unquestionable look of being unmarried. Undeniably good-looking. Kissing Elizabeth goodbye. And smiling with that dusted look around his eyes which suggested – to Goodfellowe, at least – that whatever else the rest of the day might have in store, it couldn’t be better than what he’d already had.

Elizabeth.

‘Morning,’ he offered casually in response to Goodfellowe’s stare.

And he was gone.

Now Elizabeth had seen him. And the flowers.

‘You should have rung, Tom.’

‘You said when the Tibet thing was over …’

‘I said we should talk. You should have rung.’

‘Been keeping busy?’ There was no mistaking the damage in his voice.

‘I suppose you want to know whether he spent the night on my sofa. Or in my bed. Whether he’s my cousin or the latest in a long line of lovers.’

‘I suppose I do.’

‘Well, you have no right to ask.’

‘I thought we had an understanding.’

‘That we should keep ourselves only unto each other? No, we didn’t. We simply agreed to try again. To see whether you were capable of commitment. Because it’s your commitment that’s always been in question, Tom. Not mine.’

At that moment the flowers tumbled from his handlebars to lie like dead fish across the cobbles. Still, what did it matter? She’d get more flowers this afternoon. He began to lose it. He imagined her home full of them. She’d probably been keeping Nine Elms in business all by herself.

‘I’m sorry you’re hurt, Tom. You took too much for granted. As you’ve always taken me for granted.’

He was burning inside, a bonfire of dreams.

He raised his eyes from the cobbles, met hers, those wonderfully warm marmalade eyes that he wanted to look at across a pillow every morning of his life.

‘What do you want to do, Tom?’

‘I want …’ It was all he could manage. What did he want? He didn’t seem to know any longer.

‘Time to make your mind up, Goodfellowe …’

Michael Dobbs has carved out a unique niche as the country’s leading political thriller writer. His first book, House of Cards, launched the career of the villainous Francis Urquhart, one of the most memorable fictional characters of recent years, who was immortalized by Ian Richardson in three award-winning BBC TV series.