How It All Began

  And so it all began. A lunch. Surreptitious phone calls. Texts. Once, they walked to the river, hand in hand, and he kissed her on a seat on the Embankment. Still, nothing was said about the future. Fine, play it by ear. And in the meantime, there was something distinctly enjoyable about the present.

  It wouldn’t do for Marion to know about this. Jeremy had the feeling that Marion was getting more perfunctory about their relationship; he wouldn’t put it past her to dump him. And he didn’t want that; he needed her. Of course, she’d known all along that he was determined not to let Stella divorce him, and that was one thing, but for her to sense that he was having . . . well, a rather delicious sort of affair with Stella was another. She’d slam the door on him.

  Clandestine meetings with your wife were titillating—no getting away from it. The whole situation made Jeremy feel boyish, rather naughty. And it had lent Stella a new charm. She was so attractive; he fancied her something rotten, and was dying to get into bed, but that meant taking her to the flat, which was a decidedly unromantic site. He’d have to think about this.

  Marion had had to extend her overdraft. She had had to go cap in hand to the bank. The figures terrified her. Never before has she been in this situation, or anything like it. And all because of a wretched man she had fetched up lunching alongside on an occasion she should never have been at in any case.

  She took legal advice. The advice was exactly as she had anticipated. She did indeed have a claim, a considerable claim, but one that it could take years to pursue. The legal adviser would make some checks on George Harrington—“We can keep a tab on him, at the very least”—but could only recommend patience. Resignation, more like, thought Marion.

  In the meantime, money was going out—hemorrhaging out—but not coming in. The trophy wives were still not making over a sitting-room or a bedroom. Marion tried a mailshot to old clients, to remind them of her existence, with enticing suggestions about new fabrics she had sourced, new wallpapers.

  She was tired, stressed. I need a break, she thought. A couple of days away, diversion, stop thinking about this all of the time. Where? Who with? Well, Jeremy, I suppose. He’d be pleased, anyway—it’s not usually me who suggests an outing. She rang him.

  “This weekend? Oh, darling, I can’t. Would you believe it, I’ve got a consignment of stuff coming in from a sale in Cheshire—I must be here, sort it and so forth. What a bore.”

  Marion was surprised; she felt a bit let down. Not like him to pass up a jaunt. Oh, well.

  I don’t know what’s going on, thought Stella. Why am I feeling like this? All sort of . . . stirred up. Excited. I must be mad. What am I doing?

  “Actually,” she said to Gill, “don’t come over. I’ll be away this weekend. That old school friend of mine has invited me—Mary. The girls? No, the girls aren’t coming. They’re going to friends—it’s just a couple of nights.”

  “Your husband’s continued intransigence . . .” wrote Paul Newsome.

  Henry was finding that he rather enjoyed Mark’s presence at Lansdale Gardens. The mornings were enlivened by Mark’s occasional deferential inquiries, as he emerged from the lobby—now called his office—with a file in his hand. “I’m just wondering if it might be an idea to open a database listing your contacts chronologically—might make it easier when doing a search or a check.”

  Henry had run for cover at Mark’s initial suggestion of an online system. “No, no, no, dear boy. I can’t stand those screens. Paper. I’ve got to have paper in my hand.”

  Mark was all compliance. “Of course—I quite understand. We’ll set up a nice traditional card index, cross-referenced to files. And may I just say how rewarding I’m finding this. But one does need to take it slowly and carefully—with an archive of this depth and variety one has to be so sure not to miss anything.”

  Henry purred. Rose, bringing letters to be signed, slammed them down on the desk.

  Mark too was entirely satisfied with the arrangement. His Lansdale Gardens mornings were nicely funding afternoon work fine-turning his thesis for potential publication; a monograph, probably, with a couple of articles before long to arouse interest—get one’s name established as the coming man, where the Scottish Enlightenment was concerned. The cataloguing of Henry’s papers was a task that could be made as leisurely as one liked. The old boy was obviously only too pleased to have someone dancing attendance, all you had to do was butter him up fairly regularly, and learn to go selectively deaf when he got into reminiscence mode. Quite enough about Isaiah Berlin and Maurice Bowra, thank you very much. Though, that said, it was wise to lend half an ear—you never knew what might turn up. Mark was a born opportunist; his progress to date had been owed to a mixture of natural talent, application, and the recognition of any promising moment. His entrée into the world of television had come about because Delia Canning came to give a talk to a college society when he was finishing off his thesis, and he had made sure to go up afterward and tell her that he had been so fascinated by what she had to say, such an insightful account of documentary film-making. Etcetera. Hang around her long enough to be sure that he had left an impression.

  And so it was, thank you, Delia, for Henry Peters. Delia was of no further interest, as far as Mark was concerned, but she had been nicely useful, as it turned out.

  Mark was finding that Henry’s papers were a midden of academic gossip and infighting, heavily mulched with similar material from the world of public affairs—the whole larded with serious scholarly stuff, notes and articles and notes for articles and booklists and catalogues. And the whole mass crawled with people—names, names, names: students and colleagues and friends and enemies and those in high office and those who had aspired to high office and all those with whom Henry had at one time or another exchanged compliments or insults or simply drunk a few bottles of claret. Hence Mark’s thought about a database—get this bunch sorted once and for all, dead or alive.

  He began to enter names as he came across them, as they lifted from the morass of files: the writer of a letter, the recipient of a letter, colleagues, students, persons discussed or praised or reviled. Early on, he came across the communication from the Labour elder statesman that has prompted Henry’s blizzard of proposals to newspaper editors. Mark read this with slightly raised interest but perceived—unlike Henry—that this ancient political scandal had no staying power. He did not, of course, know of Henry’s efforts, but was himself keeping a vague eye out for useful fodder. Somewhere in here there might be something of real potential, but this was not it.

  “Paris!” Stella had said.

  “Is it too much of a cliché, darling? I just thought—Paris in the spring with you, what a heavenly thought. So easy—Eurostar, you’re there in a trice. So I’ve booked—took a gamble. Is it all right?”

  One of those furtive phone calls, that had been—furtive on Stella’s part, making sure the girls weren’t around, feeling guiltily that Gill would somehow know about it, by some osmotic process, the airwaves leaking the conversation.

  And now here they were, in this gorgeous little bistro on the Left Bank, not far from the hotel, where they had done no more than leave their bags, check out the room, and at the sight of the double bed Stella had felt herself blushing, for heaven’s sake. As though this weekend were some adulterous assignation.

  “Ah—canard à l’orange. One of your favorites, isn’t it? Or do you fancy the fish?” Jeremy was solicitous, attentive. She was reminded of . . . oh, goodness, of right back when they first went out together, and she’d never met anyone like him before, funny and fond and different. Other men paled by comparison, as they did again now. Somewhere far away, Gill was scolding; Mr. Newsome admonished across his desk.

  Jeremy was on a high. Such fun. A spring evening in Paris with a pretty woman, and the fact that she was his wife made it all the more intriguing. Of course, Paris is always magic. Does it have that effect on Parisians? Are they on cloud nine all the time? Probabl
y not—the effect has been cleverly groomed for the tourist trade. That, and French women. The girl over there—wow! And her at the next table—fifty if she’s a day, but look at her! And, actually, Stella’s holding her own nicely—super, that black dress, shows off her figure. Forget French women—we do our own, thank you.

  The dress had been a bit of an extravagance—Stella had found she hadn’t a thing to wear, really not a thing, and Paris is rather special, after all. So there had been a hasty raid on that favorite boutique, and the dress was pricey but so exactly right. And here was Jeremy being so appreciative. And such good company—she hadn’t laughed like this in ages. What a lovely evening. But what is going on? What are we doing?

  She said it. Over coffee, in a sudden moment of disbelief, of panic.

  “What we’re doing, darling,” said Jeremy, “is just having a lovely time. And in a minute we’re going back to the hotel to have even more of a lovely time, aren’t we? But first we’ll walk along the Seine for a few minutes—let’s spin it out. And what shall we do tomorrow? Versailles? The Pompidou? I’ve always loved the Cluny Museum.”

  He wasn’t entirely clear himself what they were doing. Reconciliation? Romance? Whatever, it’s a whole lot of fun. Why spoil things with introspection?

  Marion found that she was missing the Poles—their cheery camaraderie in the Hampstead flat. The flat itself had left a void in her life—no major work project, very little work at all, indeed. The media told her that she was a statistic, a victim of recession, alongside factory workers and civil servants and all those who could not get on the housing ladder or pay off their credit cards. In her mind’s eye, recession and George Harrington were lined up side by side, grinning.

  Not my fault, she told herself. I am still good at what I do. I am merely a statistic, and the fall-out from some piece of financial chicanery. She hoped that Harrington was in a peculiarly insalubrious lock-up; no more Brittany scallops, John Dory fillets, tian of smoked chicken.

  But in the meantime the overdraft growled away, and cash did not flow. What to do? Realize assets? Diversify? Her only asset was the house—both home and business center. Diversification was a challenge. How? Into what could she diversify herself? She rang Jeremy, needing company, and suggested he come round that evening. She bought salmon, the first of the season’s strawberries, an expensive cheese; sucks to the recession.

  Jeremy was apparently in high spirits. He brought wine and a rather jarring exuberance: “Isn’t life wonderful!”

  Marion, who had not been feeling that it was, stared at him. “If you say so. Did you get your Cheshire sale stuff sorted?”

  “Cheshire? Oh yes, yes. Shall I open this?” He waved the bottle.

  Over the salmon, she said, “I’m thinking of diversifying. More by way of retail, while there are so few commissions coming in. None, to be precise. I’m wondering about sourcing abroad—trawling French brocantes and markets. Actually, it’s something we could do together—there’d be material for you, too.”

  Jeremy frowned. “Well, it’s a thought. Of course, the euro’s quite strong at the moment. One would be paying more.”

  She had expected greater enthusiasm. “I’ve this idea of turning the showroom into much more of a retail outlet—specializing in French provincial.”

  He was doubtful. “You’d find it quite an undertaking, darling. And is there the space?”

  “I might think of expanding. Take on a bigger outlet.”

  Jeremy pursed his lips. “Hmmn. Bigger overheads.”

  “This isn’t like you,” said Marion. “I’ve always seen you as a go-for-it man. Or do you reckon I’d be setting up in competition?” she added nastily.

  He was affronted. “Hardly! Just, I wouldn’t want you to come a cropper.”

  “I already have. I’ve got to think about some self-help. The bank . . .”

  “Oh, never let a bank get you down. You can always string them along. Don’t worry. You’ll have some lovely big commission arrive any day now—just you see.” He had had enough of this theme, that was clear—the exuberance took over once more. He began to talk about the Cluny Museum in Paris, for some reason, those amazing tapestries, how he’d had the idea that he ought to get hold of huge blown-up images of old tapestries and line the walls of the warehouse, create atmosphere, it would be fabulous . . .

  Marion heard him in silence. She was beginning to regret the evening. One should have borne in mind that empathy was not Jeremy’s strong point.

  Mark’s work on the files continued, in a leisurely way. Out of the midden there would lift a voice, every now and then. A clear voice from 1965, or 1979, or 1985—complaining or maligning or arguing. One particular voice caught his attention: “. . . shameless . . . whole passages virtually replicated . . . theft of intellectual property . . . plagiarism, frankly.” Plagiarism? Really? Mark read on, and then reread, with more than casual attention. The writer was a well-known historian, writing to Henry in the late 1970s. He was commenting upon the recently published work of a fellow historian, whose book, he alleged, bore an uncanny resemblance to an earlier publication of his own on the same subject. Both men were now dead, but their respective œuvres were still seen as standard sources. Mark considered, now distinctly interested.

  More fun if they were still alive, of course. One could really stir things up. Even so, there was scope here for a titillating piece in one of the scholarly journals—cast doubt on a standard work, question an established reputation, get one’s own name into the public eye, or, more important, into the eyes of academia. Henry would have to be compliant, of course.

  Mark showed the letters to Henry, who was mildly surprised. “I’d entirely forgotten that fuss. Old George Bellamy going on about Carter, which of them owned nineteenth-century parliamentary reform studies. Not my field at all, of course, but one’s opinion was rather sought after. Bellamy wanted me to get up a crusade for him against Carter.”

  “And did you?”

  “Good heavens, no. Far too busy.”

  “And did he?”

  “No, no. Hadn’t the guts. Spineless fellow, Bellamy.”

  “Was it plagiarism, do you think?”

  “Oh, possibly,” said Henry cheerfully. “Plenty of it about. Why do you ask?”

  Mark told him, up to a point. This idea for a rather fascinating article for one of the journals, using the letters to cast doubt upon the reliability of Carter’s classic work on the Reform Acts. Generate a controversy.

  Henry was intrigued. “Carter’s reputation wouldn’t survive. I never did care for the man, I have to say. I suppose one’s name would have to come into it?”

  Indeed. But this would be entirely advantageous. The archive would be mentioned—a trailer for My Memoir. Appetites would be whetted, potential publishers alerted.

  “Marvelous idea, dear boy. How good you’re being so careful about checking the materials, and found this.”

  Mark inclined his head in graceful acknowledgment. His plan, he explained, was to structure the article as a general discussion of plagiarism which would lead up to this challenging and relatively recent instance, inviting readers to reconsider the status of an established authority. The ensuing correspondence could run for months. Did Henry feel that he should go ahead?

  “But of course—in the interests of scholarship.” Henry beamed. “I think we need a glass of claret to celebrate this. Ask Rose to bring some through.”

  Paul Newsome was becoming—not exactly restless, that was not his style—but more pressing. “In the continuing absence of any co-operation on your husband’s part, I am bound to consider the possible efficacy of a direct appeal to him from yourself. I am well aware that hitherto I have advised strongly against any contact, but given this position of stalemate, we may have to reconsider the options.”

  Stella read the letter with alarm. She was to tell Jeremy to find himself a lawyer, and get going on the divorce?

  Paris had been
amazing. So . . . well, romantic. Of course, Paris is romantic anyway, it apparently can’t help being so, but she had a feeling that somehow right now even a weekend in Swindon with Jeremy would have been romantic. She wrote Paul Newsome a holding letter saying it was possible that her husband was out of the country on business, he sometimes had to make a trip abroad to inspect possible purchases. When next she spoke to Jeremy she told him what the solicitor had said, and they had a laugh.

  Gill was another matter. She had noticed some euros on Stella’s dresser.

  “Where are these from? It’s ages since you’ve been abroad.”

  Stella prevaricated. “. . . came across them somewhere. Thought I might as well get them changed.” She felt herself blushing, and knew Gill had seen. Her face glowed. Gill stared at her.

  “Where was it said you went that weekend—when you didn’t want me to come over?”

  “That old school friend of mine, you know . . .” No good, she is rumbled. The treacherous euros pulsate upon the dresser.

  “Stella,” said Gill. “You’re not having an affair with someone, are you?”

  No, no. Heavens, no. What an idea!

  The blush deepened. Gill’s stare was more intense.

  “You do realize, don’t you, that any misdemeanor of your own would absolutely compromise the chances of a satisfactory divorce—a divorce in which we get the best possible settlement for you and the girls?”

  Stella protested. No misdemeanor. No way had she misdemeanored. No, no.

  “So long as you’re quite clear about the consequences.” Gill was still suspicious, accusatory. Thus, in their childhood, had Stella been unable to lie herself out of some minor peccadillo. She would be watched, now. Gill would have her covered, she would have to account for every move.

  She told Jeremy.

  “God, that sister of yours! But what a hoot—she thinks you’re having an affair! Well, you are, aren’t you?”

  Suppose I just tell her, Stella had been thinking. And Paul Newsome. But if I do, that means I don’t want a divorce anymore. I’m taking Jeremy back.