The Men and the Girls (22 page)

‘I will quote Doctor Johnson,' Miss Bachelor had said with some severity. ‘He said that those who do not feel pain seldom think that it is felt.'

Kate looked up at Mark again. He had turned back and was staring at her, challenging her to react to him. The trouble about pain, she thought suddenly, was not so much the insensitivity of the pain-free, as the wild variations among the sufferers. She tried a small smile, and held her hand out. ‘Sorry,' Kate said.

‘I congratulate you,' Kevin McKinley said. His desk was strewn with newspaper cuttings. ‘TV Death Show' said one of the headlines Hugh could read upside down. ‘TV Programme Defends Our Ultimate Choice', ‘Nationwide Protest at Death Plug'.

Kevin McKinley smiled. He had kept Hugh waiting for nearly twenty minutes – ‘I'm in no hurry to see the old fart,' he'd said to his secretary – and was not intending to offer him a drink or even a cup of coffee.
Is the Choice Yours?
had earned viewing figures of eleven million, and headlines in every single newspaper. If Miss Bachelor and Leonard Mallow had not, on advice, remained anonymous, they would have been, by now, under siege from the press in Jericho.

‘Great old lady,' Kevin said.

Hugh nodded. He was bursting with pride and relief, and was holding himself in with every nerve and muscle in order to suggest that pulling off a success like this was something he was extremely accustomed to.

‘I don't think we'll have any trouble from the ITC. They can always say they were never told about it, which of course is no less than the truth. I didn't tell them on purpose.'

‘Quite.'

Hugh's eyes fell on the cuttings again. He couldn't see the one that he very much wished brought to Kevin McKinley's notice. It was a comment piece, from a well-known journalist who specialized in the media, admiring not only the programme but Hugh's presentation of it, and interview technique. ‘If Midland have any sense,' the journalist had written, ‘they will capitalize on the unexpected depths revealed in a hitherto lightweight presenter.' Hugh wondered how he might discover if Kevin had seen the feature.

‘Have you seen all the press?'

‘The main stuff—'

‘There's an excellent piece in the
Telegraph
.'

Kevin gave a little bark of laughter. ‘If I ever read the
Telegraph
, I'll be in a bath chair.' He stood up. Hugh had had his five minutes. ‘Mustn't keep you, Hugh.'

Hugh hesitated. Was there going to be no further word, no mention of a follow-up programme, no – even – general jolly remark like, Keep it up? Apparently not. Hugh squared his shoulders and smiled broadly.

‘Nice to keep the opposition hopping, anyway.'

‘Oh yes,' said Kevin.

The door opened.

‘I've got Los Angeles on the line for you,' Kevin's secretary said.

‘'Course—' Hugh said.

‘Bye, then—'

‘Bye,' Hugh said, still smiling. ‘Bye.'

Then he went out into the corridor and Kevin McKinley's office door was shut behind him so quickly that it almost caught his heel.

Eleven

Kate had asked Joss to meet her after school in the covered market. She had chosen the market because it was only two minutes from the restaurant and because it was busy. After her last telephone call to Joss, some instinct had told her that to meet in a busy place would be better for both of them. Also, Kate had something she wished to say to Joss. She intended to suggest that Joss come to Osney at once, that they abandon the farce of Kate and Joss living apart, now that Joss had made her statement of independence, and had had it honoured for two months.

She had said she would meet Joss by the hot little shop that baked huge American cookies on the spot, which you could carry away, warm and scented in an excitingly unEnglish kind of paper bag. Joss was late. Kate put her hands in her trouser pockets, and leaned against a blind wall of the cookie shop, and watched the people throng past, the local people buying cabbages and pounds of sausages, and the tourists, drifting in the mildly, aimlessly inquisitive way peculiar to all tourists. Everybody was carrying something, bags and cameras and plastic carriers and folded mackintoshes and babies and books and newspapers and paper cones of flowers and . . .

‘Hi,' said Joss. She too was burdened. Over her shoulder was slung her black school sack, and in one hand she held a plastic bag out of which protruded the bright leaves of a head of celery, and the end of a cucumber. Joss was wearing a pink sweatshirt which startled Kate as much as if Joss had been naked. She let Kate kiss her.

‘What's all that?' Kate said, indicating the vegetables.

‘Celery,' Joss said, ‘a cucumber.'

Kate gave her a broad, deliberate smile. ‘I can see that. I mean, why are you carrying it?'

‘Why not?' Joss said. ‘James can't do all the shopping and Uncle Leonard's so rude to Mr Patel we can't let him go in there.'

Kate remembered Mr Patel's perfect courtesy with a sudden pang.

‘Tea?' she said to Joss.

‘OK,' Joss said, ‘but I can't be long.'

‘Nor can I—'

Joss looked at her. ‘Well, that's all right then.'

Across the tiny, plastic-topped table in the café, Kate said, ‘You look different.'

‘No, I don't—'

‘Yes, you do. Brighter, somehow.'

‘Thanks a million!'

‘It's nice to see you in pink.'

Joss plucked at her sweatshirt with scorn. ‘It's Angie's. We did a swap.'

‘Angie? I don't know Angie—'

Joss took a messy bite of bun and said through the crumbs and sugar, ‘She's at school.'

‘New?'

‘Nope.'

Kate leaned forward. ‘What's she like?'

‘She's OK.'

‘Joss.'

‘I told you,' Joss said, sucking her fingers, ‘she's at school, she's OK, she swapped this sweatshirt.' She paused, then she added, ‘She's coming to supper. She's a veggie.'

‘She's coming to supper! At Richmond Villa!'

Joss stared. ‘Why not?'

‘You never brought anyone home—'

‘Well, Angie's coming.'

Kate said bravely, ‘What on earth will Uncle Leonard say to a vegetarian?'

‘Oh,' Joss said dismissively, ‘you don't want to take any notice of him.'

‘Joss,' Kate said. ‘Joss, I want to ask you something, suggest something.'

Joss looked wary.

‘It's about you and me.'

Joss ducked her head. ‘Don't get heavy—'

‘It's not heavy, but it's serious.'

‘That's heavy,' Joss said, pushing back her metal chair.

‘Please—'

‘Leave it, Mum,' Joss said, ‘just leave it.' She stood up and began to gather up her burdens.

‘Joss, you must listen to me.'

‘No, I mustn't. I got to go. Honest.'

‘Don't you miss me?'

Joss looked appalled. ‘I said, don't get heavy—'

‘I don't know what's going on any more,' Kate cried. ‘I don't know what you're doing, who you're seeing! What about Garth?'

‘Garth?' Joss said, almost sneering.

‘Yes, yes, are you still seeing Garth?'

‘Not him,' Joss said, ‘I wouldn't see
him
.' She shouldered her sack.

‘What happened?'

‘Can't remember,' Joss said. She stopped to brush her face against Kate's in the echo of a kiss, and her bag crashed against the table.

‘Careful—'

‘See you Mum,' Joss said. ‘Take care.' Then she was gone.

‘He wants to see you,' the secretary said.

‘Are you sure? Are you sure it isn't my husband he wants, my husband Hugh?'

‘No,' the secretary said. Her eyes ran over Julia's clothes as if she were labelling and pricing every garment. ‘He said he'd be grateful if you'd spare him ten minutes before lunch. Twelve-thirty, he said.'

‘Of course.'

There was a little pause. The secretary, who had come down to Julia's office rather than telephone on the off-chance of seeing Rob Shiner, on whom she had her eye, waited to be thanked. All Julia did was smile. Snotty cow, thought the secretary, and went out. Rob Shiner's office door stood open, but he was not inside. Who cares, the secretary said to herself, who bloody cares? Not me. She walked slowly back to the lift. Julia dialled Hugh at home.

‘He's sent for me!'

‘Kevin?'

‘Yes. At lunchtime! He actually sent his secretary down to ask me to go up and see him before lunch!'

Hugh blew kisses down the telephone. ‘Hold on to your hat, my darling!'

Kevin McKinley's office had been redecorated, under Fanny's eye, to suggest being both in power and in touch. It contained sleekly sculpted plywood furniture, magnificent black-and-gold curtains printed with a neo-classical design, and banks of telephones and computer screens. The only pictures were Francis Bacon prints. By the window, an immense weeping fig in a terracotta urn cast dappled shadows on the carpet.

‘Good to see you, Julia,' Kevin said. He stood up behind his modern maplewood desk, and held his hand out to her. He was smiling. ‘I wanted to see you personally.'

She inclined her head. The room made her feel elated and apprehensive all at once. She took his hand, and then the chair he indicated.

‘I've been talking to Rob Shiner. I hear good things.'

Julia waited. She suddenly remembered sitting in her headmistress's study at school when she had thought she was going to be made head girl and she hadn't been, only deputy head. It had been a salutary lesson, and one that she had taken to heart. Kevin McKinley was going to say that he was pleased with the
Night Life
series, but that he didn't want to over-egg the cake and therefore there wouldn't . . .

‘I want to offer you a contract, Julia. Two years.'

She gazed at him.

‘You don't look very thrilled.'

‘Oh, I am, I am—'

‘I want more documentary stuff, you see, and from a nineties angle, a softer, more serious approach. You fit the bill.'

‘I'm delighted, absolutely delighted—'

He gave her part of a smile. ‘So glad.' There was a little pause, and then he said, ‘We can't renew Hugh's contract, you see. On account of his age. But at least this way, it keeps it in the family. Don't you think?'

Hugh was very quiet but Julia didn't think he was asleep. As for herself, she felt sleep was for ever out of the question. There simply couldn't, ever, have been a more terrible evening for any couple anywhere, not because of quarrelling, but because of agony. It was an agony that had begun in Kevin McKinley's office and had grown as Julia drove home and then had grown and grown still further all evening until it had landed them in bed, silent, separate, and wretched.

‘Shall I refuse it?' Julia had said. ‘Shall I turn it down?'

Hugh shook his head. ‘What good would that do? He'd never hand it to me instead. It's you or nothing. You go for it, sweetheart,' he'd said, not looking at her. ‘You go for it.'

Once, Julia had believed that she would be able to go for it, when she had to, and that she would firmly, kindly, make it plain to Hugh that he had to accept it. She remembered sitting by the Aga, and planning the future calmly and sensibly to herself. She couldn't do that now, not because she had lost her sensibleness, but because she hadn't taken into account how she would feel to see Hugh crushed. She felt so badly, so keenly, about it that she wasn't sure she could bear it, but the one person she wanted to turn to in her pain – Hugh – was the one person she couldn't turn to. He hadn't shouted or sworn or cried or hit the bottle. He had even tried to eat his supper, and he had certainly tried to be generous.

‘I am proud of you.'

‘Don't—'

‘Julia, I am. This is great news.'

‘Please—'

‘Every dog has his day.'

In her turn, she had been as understanding as she knew how, as gentle and sympathetic as possible. It was no effort, because she felt it; she wanted to hold him and soothe him and admire him. But he hadn't seemed to want that. He hadn't touched her or let her touch him. He lit cigarette after cigarette and sat staring across the room. Julia had tried to analyse Kevin McKinley's reasons for giving her the contract, to reassure Hugh that he was the victim of cockeyed malevolence and not a failure, but Hugh wouldn't let her.

‘I mean, it's mad, you got eleven million people watching and they haven't even shown
Night Life
yet!'

‘Leave it, sweetie.'

‘I'm sure you can argue. Why don't you ring Maurice, why don't you—'

‘Julia,' said Hugh, looking at her, ‘there is nothing to be done. This has been coming at me for years, and now it's arrived.'

‘But you've still got your supermarkets. And that health club.'

His face twitched. Was he smiling? ‘Yes. I've still got those.'

‘I love you,' she said to him later, over and over. ‘It doesn't matter what you do, I love you. And I need you. I can't manage without you. When I thought the twins were lost, my first instinct was to telephone you—'

‘Shh,' Hugh said, not unkindly.

‘Nothing need be different between us, nothing can touch that.'

He looked at her. His glance was quite affectionate but also a little appraising. She felt suddenly young, young and uncertain and a trifle silly. She put a hand out to him. ‘Hugh?'