The Truth

  And he remembered, with sudden panic, all the alcohol in his system.

  Must get out and make sure she’s OK, he thought. But when he tried to open his door, it was jammed. He unclipped his seat belt, yanked the handle and threw his weight against the door. It gave.

  He climbed out onto the road on unsteady legs. The girl with the red bicycle was still standing there, staring at him. He leaned against the side of the car, feeling a little sick, and looked down in horror at the dented, twisted, torn, scraped mess that was the driver’s side of his BMW. The outer skin of the door had been ripped open, as if by a tin opener, and a clutch of wires and part of the window mechanism were exposed.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he shouted at the girl.

  She gave a single, shocked nod.

  The rear bumper was sticking out sideways like a wing flap. He tried to push it back, but it would not move. The alcohol, he thought. Got to get out of here. He pushed it again, but it still wouldn’t move. Then in panic he pushed still harder and it bent back, not quite flush but good enough Someone was running towards him now.

  John decided to run, too. He needed to get the hell out before the police arrived.

  He cast a glance over the rusting skip, climbed back into the BMW and started the engine.

  In his mirror he watched the man who had been running stop, stare at him, then reach for something inside his pocket – a notebook, or maybe a mobile phone.

  John rammed the gear lever forward and accelerated away, faster than he’d intended.

  Chapter Eleven

  John came in through the front door looking like a ghost.

  Susan smelt the alcohol before she’d reached him. He staggered clumsily into her arms, and she had to take a step back to prevent both of them falling over.

  ‘Shorry – so late,’ he said.

  As she hugged him, she noticed his face was clammy with perspitation.

  ‘Darling,’ she said. ‘Hon.’ It hurt her to see him like this, this man of whom she was so proud, letting himself go, drunk and dishevelled. And it frightened her. This pillar of strength on which she had depended was crumbling and her life was crumbling with it.

  How drunk was he, she wondered. ‘Hon, are you OK to go out?’

  He said nothing.

  ‘I’ve put your dinner jacket and shirt out on the bed, and your patent leather shoes and some socks.’

  He eased free of her, sat on the bottom step of the staircase and sank his head in his hands. He was silent for a little while. Then he said, with choking emotion in his voice, ‘I nearly killed a child.’

  A ripple of goose bumps rose up through her. ‘What do you mean? What happened? When? How?’

  ‘It was just now – I was driving too fast. Stupid.’

  ‘Is the child OK?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You didn’t hit him – her –?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Hon,’ she said gently, ‘you have to pull yourself together. We’re going to be OK, we’re going to come out the other side of this.’

  He looked up, like a child himself, and nodded.

  Susan decided that he wasn’t as drunk as she had first feared. He was as much shaken as drunk. She had a sudden fear that if she allowed him to start finding excuses not to get out and meet people, it could be the start of a slippery slope. He must pull himself together, and she had the feeling that she was the only person who could make him. ‘You were keen to go to this do tonight, you said there might be some good people there to approach –’

  ‘I know,’ he cut in. ‘I just –’

  ‘We’ve accepted, we should go.’

  ‘I must have a shower.’

  She looked at her watch. ‘We don’t have time. Slap some water on your face and get changed. Come on, this is for both of us.’

  ‘I can’t drive – over the limit – I – you want to phone for a taxi?’

  ‘I don’t mind driving,’ she said. ‘We have to economise. I’m sure we can save a lot just by being careful.’

  ‘Bugger that.’

  ‘Come on, upstairs! You’re not going to let that man Clake beat us, are you?’

  John looked at her, and she could see that she was getting through. The mention of the name Clake had triggered a spark of determination in his face. ‘Because that’s what you’re doing right now. You’re letting Clake get you down. You have to fight back at him. And you have to remember, hon, that even if we do lose the business, the house, everything that we own, that we’re still not going to let Clake win, because we’re going to go on loving each other just as much, and he’ll never take that away from us, ever. OK?’

  ‘I – I’m shorry,’ John said. ‘I’ve had a bloody awful day. No dice. None at all.’

  ‘You can tell me about it in the car,’ she replied.

  Downstairs, fifteen minutes later, she picked up his car keys from where he had left them on the hall table.

  ‘Let’s go in your car,’ he said, hastily, his voice still slurring a little, but not so badly. ‘Easier to park.’

  Susan wondered why he was reluctant to take his, but, as she walked round to the driver’s side of the BMW, she saw the reason. ‘What happened?’

  He told her the full story on the way. She took it calmly, trying to encourage him to snooze for a few minutes, telling him he’d feel better when they got there, masking her concern. And she decided to say nothing about the lottery tickets. She wasn’t going to gain anything by criticising or prying. And she had a good feeling about this dinner tonight – she had picked up positive vibes from the invite.

  Maybe they had been invited as an afterthought, or even by mistake, but she was determined to milk the opportunity for all she could. What did they have to lose?

  Susan drove recklessly fast, and they made it to the Guildhall only twenty minutes late, which John told her was almost respectable.

  Inside the building, they presented their tickets to a liveried master of ceremonies, who announced them to a roomful of glittering people who were not listening. Their hosts, Mr and Mrs Walter Thomas Carmichael, were presumably somewhere in the vast, elegant hall, with its glittering chandeliers and fine statues and coats of arms and carvings.

  For some moments, overwhelmed by the grandeur of the setting, Susan’s confidence deserted her. Almost everyone appeared older than her and John, and she felt as though she had arrived at a club where everyone, except them, knew each other well.

  John was tired. The alcohol and the shock were wearing off, leaving him with a dull headache and a thirst. A waitress came up to them with a tray containing glasses of champagne or mineral water. John knew he needed to sober up and that he should drink water but he took a glass of champagne. Before the waitress had moved too far away, he had drained it and taken a second.

  ‘John …’ Susan said.

  He feel more confident, and a little punchy now. ‘Poor show when the hosts can’t be bothered to meet their guests. I still don’t understand why we’re here.’

  Susan was scanning the room. She had thought an author might be here whose book on the discovery of rare Oriental antiquities she had edited for Magellan Lowry six years back. She turned to John. ‘We probably haven’t got long to dinner. Shall we circulate, give it a whirl?’

  He swigged most of his drink. ‘Sure, let’s go for it.’

  As they made their way into the crowd, John detoured to a tray laden with canapés, and stuffed three scallops wrapped in bacon into his mouth in rapid succession. When he looked round, Susan had disappeared. He swallowed the last of his champagne and, as he did so, caught the eye of a tall, distinguished-looking man, who seemed to be on his own.

  The man smiled at him.

  ‘Beautiful room,’ John said.

  The man replied, in a cultured voice that carried only the faintest hint of broken English, ‘Yes, a very pleasant room.’

  They were in perhaps the most beautiful banqueting hall in Britain – the Queen Mother liked to eat here – but John detected
an air of put-down in the man’s tone, as if this room was too small for him, as if he normally dined somewhere infinitely grander.

  John struggled, unusually, to come up with anything more to say. He looked at the man’s face, trying to put an age on him, but found it hard; late fifties perhaps, but possibly older. It was a handsome, distinctly aristocratic face, just a fraction gaunt, with dark, youthful hair streaked elegantly around the temples with silver, and brushed immaculately back.

  The man’s eyes were grey and sharp, alive with observation and a twinkle of humour, and his countenance suggested a bon viveur who took care of himself and an air of rather old fashioned courtly elegance. He wore a dinner jacket trimmed with velvet, which John instantly coveted, and his bow tie put John’s small black clip-on one to shame.

  ‘Are you a friend of the Carmichaels?’ John ventured, helping himself to more champagne from a tray.

  ‘We go back a long way,’ the man said, in a polite but rather distant manner, his eyes overtly roaming the room as if he was in search of more interesting company.

  ‘Ah.’ John resisted the urge to swig from his glass and took just a small sip. He knew that he needed to find out what this man did but his companion’s attention was elsewhere.

  With his nerves still jumpy from the accident, John found it hard to think of a polite way of moving on. He glanced around, trying to spot Susan.

  ‘And yourself?’ the man said, still distant. ‘You are a good friend of Walter and Charlotte?’

  ‘I – ah – no. My wife’s in publishing – she has an author – Oriental antiquities. That’s how we – the invite –’ John dried.

  The man inclined his head and, with a polite smile, said, ‘Very charming to meet you. If you’ll excuse me, I must circulate a little before dinner.’

  As the man moved away into the crowd John cursed himself. Where the hell was Susan?

  He scanned the sea of faces but there was no sign of her. He tried to enter the thick of the crowd, but his path was blocked by an impenetrable wall of people locked in conversation. He stood by one group for a couple of minutes, trying to catch the eye of any of the three men engaged in an animated discussion about stock-market prices, but failed.

  Turning away, he noticed an area to the side where people were reading something. As he walked over, he saw that it was the seating plan. After some jostling he got close enough to locate his own and Susan’s places. They had been put on separate tables, which pleased him because it gave them more opportunities to meet people.

  He was on Table Four. On one side of him was Lady Trouton and on the other Mr E. Sarotzini. Neither name meant anything to him. He was about to set off again in search of Susan when he heard three loud knocks and a booming voice announced that dinner was served.

  According to the plan, Table Four was towards the far end. Lady Trouton was already at her place: she looked very old, wore tinted glasses and did not respond when John said hello. Not a good start, he thought, looking at the empty place on his right and hoping that this character, whoever he was, might be a more promising companion.

  As he reached forward to take a look at a menu, the portly man opposite him nodded without breaking off from his earnest conversation with the steel-haired woman next to him. John picked up the menu and glanced at it. There were some fine wines, and the food was elaborately described, six courses ending in a savoury, Angels on Horseback. No speeches were listed, and the sole clue on the menu as to the purpose of this dinner were the gold printed words, A DINNER HOSTED BY MR AND MRS WALTER THOMAS CARMICHAEL.

  As he put the menu back on the table, John was aware of a man taking the place next to him. He turned to acknowledge his dinner companion, and immediately tried to mask his disappointment with a smile.

  ‘So, we meet again,’ Mr Sarotzini said, peering at John’s place name. ‘Mr Carter. How very pleasant.’

  Grace was said.

  John held Lady Trouton’s chair for her, but she didn’t thank him, and when he tried again to introduce himself, she peered at him suspiciously. ‘You are a friend of Walter and Charlotte?’ she enquired in a tone of haughty disdain.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Are you?’

  A plate arrived, smoked salmon artistically arranged around a mousse. Simultaneously, a gloved hand poured white wine into one of John’s glasses. Then a basket of rolls appeared, which Lady Trouton waved away dismissively, before turning back to John. ‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘your views on unemployment.’

  John, taken aback, unwrapped a pat of butter while he considered the question. ‘It’s going to increase,’ he said. ‘Technology is –’

  She raised a hand to halt him. ‘I’m sorry, dear, I find it difficult to talk and eat.’

  John ate a mouthful of salmon, then drank some white wine, Bâtard Montrachet 1982, he remembered from the menu. He glanced at Mr Sarotzini, who had not yet touched his food.

  Without looking at him, his neighbour asked: ‘You are here alone or with your wife?’

  John peered around, found the table Susan was sitting at and pointed her out to the man.

  ‘A fine-looking young woman,’ Mr Sarotzini said.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘How long have you been married?’

  ‘Seven years.’

  A silence fell between them again. They ate for a few moments, then John said, ‘And you? You’re married?’

  Mr Sarotzini nodded slowly. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is your wife here?’

  John saw sadness in his expression as he replied, ‘I regret, no.’

  John sensed that the man did not want to talk about his wife. Perhaps they were separated, or she was ill. He felt sorry for him. ‘Do you have children?’

  Mr Sarotzini broke off a piece of his roll and buttered it carefully. His hands, with their long, elegant fingers, were a little unsteady and seemed to belong to an older man than his face suggested. ‘No. No children.’ His grey eyes clouded. ‘You are blessed with them?’

  ‘No. I’m not sure if they’re a blessing or a curse!’

  There was no reaction from Mr Sarotzini. Awkwardly, John picked up his wine glass, but when he brought it to his lips he discovered it was empty. He hadn’t realised he had been drinking so quickly.

  He glanced at Lady Trouton, who was engrossed with cutting her salmon into tiny squares. ‘It’s the coloureds who are to blame,’ she announced suddenly.

  John wondered for a moment who she was speaking to, and then realised she was speaking to him.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘We should never have let them in, to drive the buses, back in the Fifties. They’ve taken over, haven’t they? And look at the promises Mountbatten made to India. Now you can’t buy a newspaper from a white man.’

  John looked at her again, and wondered if they were both on the same planet. Disturbingly, he knew they were.

  Mr Sarotzini was now engaged in conversation with the man on his right. John ate his salmon in silence, while Lady Trouton continued, with studied concentration, to cut hers up into squares, eating only the occasional morsel.

  ‘A blessing,’ Mr Sarotzini said, startling him. ‘Children are most definitely a blessing.’

  Soup arrived in a silver tureen. Mr Sarotzini waited until John had been served, then tested the soup and seemed to find it wanting. He munched a croûton. ‘Yes, children. We must all remember, Mr Carter, that we have not inherited the earth from our ancestors, we have borrowed it from our children.’

  John was warming towards him a little. ‘Do you mind if I ask you – my wife and I, we’re not sure what the purpose of this dinner is?’

  ‘The Carmichaels are just marvellous hosts,’ Mr Sarotzini answered. ‘They always put on a little gathering for their friends when they are in London. They are here, of course, at the moment, because it is Ascot week. But you know,’ he said, ‘they’re not people who require much of an excuse to throw a dinner party.’

  ‘No,’ John concurred, trying to give the impression
that he was no stranger to the Carmichaels’ stratosphere.

  ‘Are you a racing man?’ Mr Sarotzini asked.

  ‘Yes. I prefer the flat season.’

  ‘Of course. Steeplechasing is –’ he waved a hand dismissively ‘– how should I put it? – rather inelegant. Were you at Ascot today?’

  ‘No, I’m going tomorrow.’ John was thankful for Archie’s invitation.

  Rack of lamb was served. The conversation moved on to travel: Mr Sarotzini had homes in Switzerland, America, England. He knew California well, and seemed familiar with the Venice Beach area of Los Angeles where Susan had grown up. ‘Where did you meet your lovely wife?’ Mr Sarotzini asked him.

  ‘On the UCLA campus in Westwood,’ John said. ‘I was giving a talk at a conference on on-line publishing and Susan was working as an assistant to one of the delegates from Time Warner.’

  ‘Synchronicity,’ Mr Sarotzini said, giving him a quizzical stare. ‘Perhaps you were brought together. It was meant to be.’

  ‘My wife is a fan of Jung. She believes in synchronicity.’

  ‘Are you familiar with the old Chinese proverb, “I hear and I forget, I see and I remember, I do and I understand?”’

  ‘No,’ John said, ‘but I like it.’

  ‘Your wife,’ Mr Sarotzini said. ‘I imagine she would like it also?’

  ‘Yes, I expect she would.’ John was a little surprised by the question. He cut a slice of lamb, chewed it, then washed it down with a mouthful of Mouton Rothschild ’66. His glass was instantly refilled.

  It did not seem to matter how much John drank tonight, it just made him feel increasingly alert and alive. Now he was thoroughly enjoying his conversation with Mr Sarotzini, they were getting on famously, and neither had yet asked what the other did. John was starting to feel that, if he played his cards right, Mr Sarotzini might be the man to help him, and deliberately kept away from the topic of business, not wanting to seem pushy.