It Had to Be You Page 3

  Perhaps it was just as well that Deborah wasn’t home. She would have raised her eyebrows at the sight of him going to the gin bottle before he even took his tie off.

  He poured himself a gin and Noilly Prat with ice and a slice, sniffed it eagerly, and took the first of many sips.

  He sat in a green eighteenth-century armchair – no three-piece suites for Deborah – and stretched his body and his legs into full relaxing mode. He gazed with pleasure, as he did almost every day, at the carefully chosen semi-abstract landscapes by little-known modern artists that decorated the most serene living room of this man who hardly knew what the word ‘serenity’ meant.

  At last, he gave a deep sigh, stood up carefully – his back was not something to be relied upon, especially after a long drive – and strode with sudden resolution towards the telephone. As he passed the piano, he ran his hand along the smooth walnut lid. It was a most beautiful piano. Neither he nor Deborah played. They had bought it for his brother Charles to play when he visited. James may have wished that he was Charles, but there was no envy in him. He was very proud of his brother.

  He picked up the telephone, paused for a moment, summoning up his strength, then dialled his daughter’s number. Well, he wasn’t sure if it was her number. He’d been given it by someone at a number which had previously been said to be her number. Deborah had tried it a few times, at moments when she’d felt brave, he standing beside her and touching her to give her the strength he hadn’t quite got. There had never been a reply. He felt brave now, his resolve stiffened by the task and the challenge set him by Dwight Schenkman the Third, and even more by the gin and Noilly Prat. But his chest was contracting, and his heart was beating as if it was a swallow trapped in a bedroom.

  He almost rang off. He should ring off. It wasn’t right to do this when Deborah wasn’t here. It would be a great moment, a historic moment, and she should be part of it.

  Just as he was about to ring off, there was a voice. A man’s voice.

  ‘Yep?’

  The shock was immense. He had to sit down.

  ‘Oh, hello. Um …’ He felt foolish. ‘Does … um … have I got the right number for …’ He could barely say it. ‘… Charlotte Hollinghurst?’

  Even as he spoke it the name seemed all wrong, so middle class, so … serene, satisfied.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘I’m her father. Charlotte Hollinghurst’s father. She … um …’ It was difficult to say the words. They made the fact of it so real. ‘… She … um … she disappeared from home a … um … long ago. Does … um …’ Oh, Lord. What answer did he want? ‘Is she … does she … live there?’

  ‘Yeah, she sure does.’

  Hope, fear but mainly astonishment surged through James. He had slowly become certain that he would never find her, that all alleys were blind, all clues imagined.

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘Yep. Wow.’

  ‘Um … who am I speaking to?’

  ‘Chuck.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I’m Chuck.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No, no. Not at all. Um … is Charlotte there, by any chance … Chuck?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  An electric current ran through James, as if he had been struck by lightning. She was there, alive and at the end of a phone line. He could barely bring himself to speak.

  ‘Um … could I speak to her, please?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  As easy as that.

  James heard the phone being put down and heard Chuck call out, ‘Babe, it’s your old man.’ Then there was silence.

  He was desperately trying to control his breathing. He was deeply shaken. Chuck and Babe? Babe and Chuck. What had happened in the last five years? How had Charlotte met Chuck? How had she become Babe? Oh, Charlotte, my … no.

  He heard nothing for a couple of minutes and wondered if he’d been cut off. How hard it would be to ring back. Then Chuck’s voice came again, and he was catapulted into sorrow that it wasn’t Charlotte speaking and relief that somebody was and, strangely, almost into a feeling that Chuck was his friend.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hi, Chuck.’

  ‘She says she has nothing to say to you. Sorry.’

  How naive to have even dreamt that it would be easy.

  ‘Not your fault, Chuck. Chuck, is she all right? Is everything all right?’

  ‘Yeah, man. Cool. Everything’s cool.’

  ‘Good. Good. That’s good. Chuck, will you try again? Could you tell her for me that she may have nothing to say to me but I have something to say to her? Could you tell her that I agree with her that it’s a wicked world and that the values of our civilisation are fucking crap and will destroy our planet unless we do something about it pretty quickly?’

  ‘Wow. Cool, man.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m … um … I’m quoting her actually. Um … so would you say to her that because it’s such a wicked world it’s all the more important for people who love each other as much as her mother and I love her to stick together and support each other. We just want to see her, Chuck.’

  Saying ‘we’ made him feel slightly better about making the call on his own.

  ‘Yeah. Right. Cool. Got that. Will do.’

  It was five years since he’d heard his daughter’s voice. She had rung, once, about two years ago, to say she was all right, but it was Deborah who had answered. Charlotte had left them a phone number, but had said that she would disappear for ever if they rang except in emergencies. They had phoned when a favourite godmother died, but by that time Charlotte had moved on. He wondered how much of what she had experienced in those five years would be reflected in her voice. But, when the voice came, it was Chuck’s again.

  ‘Hi there. Sorry. No dice,’ he said.

  James found himself nodding his head in acknowledgement that this was what he had expected, as if Chuck was in the room with him. He almost felt that Chuck was in the room with him.

  ‘Well, thank you for trying.’

  ‘No probs. Um …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘She didn’t sound angry. She didn’t say anything negative about you.’

  ‘Are you saying that that’s … surprising … unusual?’

  ‘Well, it is a bit, yeah. Sorry.’

  ‘No, no. Thank you. I …’ What? Nothing. This was all too difficult. ‘Well, thank you, Chuck. That’s something, I suppose.’

  ‘I think it might be.’

  Chuck’s reply surprised James, but his own next remark surprised him even more. He found himself saying, ‘Chuck? Look after my baby.’

  ‘I do try, Mr Hollinghurst.’

  ‘Do you know something, Chuck? I actually believe you.’

  As he’d talked to Chuck, James had almost felt relieved that he was talking about Charlotte rather than to her. But as soon as he had rung off he felt devastated that he had been so close to his daughter but still had not spoken to her.

  He looked at his glass indecisively, then went to the gin bottle and added quite a slurp of gin, but no more Noilly Prat.

  Why hadn’t he asked more? Why hadn’t he probed?

  Because he sensed that of all the courses he could take, probing would annoy her the most. He would have to wait till she was ready.

  If she was ever ready.

  ‘Oh, Debs, where are you?’ He realised that he had actually said the words out loud. He needed her there. He needed to tell her what was emerging as the most important, the most amazing point of all. Charlotte was alive and at least to a certain extent well and things were good enough to be described as cool and she was at the end of a telephone line and he knew the number and she was with a man and for no reason whatsoever and against all probability he trusted this man.

  He tried to rehearse the words he would use, but no words fitted. ‘Debs, there’s great news.’ Well, was it ‘great’? Was that the word? ‘Debs, I’ve found Charlotte.’ Well, not entirely. The word
s would come when he saw her, the strength of her presence would dictate the words. He stood at the window and looked for her car as she tried to find a parking place. The roof would be down and her straw-coloured hair would be streaming behind her and he would pour her a drink and within minutes they would be talking about their beloved, lost daughter. He was amazed to find how clearly he imagined her, how deeply he needed her, at this visceral moment. He took several sips of his drink in his excitement. It was a long while since he had wanted to share anything with Deborah as much as he wanted to share this news. It was really annoying of her to be late this day of all days. It was the Irish in her. He drowned his irritation with another sip. This was no time to be irritated. This … conditional though it might be, strange though it might be, terrifying though it might still be … was joy.

  He had completely forgotten Marcia’s remark about the police, but the moment the knock came, he remembered, and from the nature of the ring he knew that a policeman was calling. This ring said, ‘Hello. Police,’ not, ‘Sorry, darling, I’ve lost my key again,’ or, ‘Kathy and I wondered if you felt like popping to the pub for a quickie.’

  And he suddenly knew, because the call could now not be about Charlotte, that it would be about Deborah, it would explain why she was late, something had happened.

  As he walked towards the small entrance hall, James took a swallow of his drink and then hid the glass on the top of the piano behind the large photograph of Deborah and him on their wedding day twenty-four years ago.

  The policeman looked absurdly young.

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ said the officer. ‘It’s … um … it’s about your wife. Does she drive …’ he looked down at his notes. ‘… a silver Renault Mégane hard-top convertible?’

  ‘You’d better come in.’

  As he entered the living room, the policeman took off his helmet, revealing hair so close-cropped that he looked almost bald. He had the air of a man who had joined the force to bully members of the underclass, not to be offered a comfortable chair in a living room of the well-heeled.

  ‘What’s all this about, officer?’

  ‘I’m afraid your wife’s car has been involved in a serious accident, sir.’ He looked huge and wretched in his delicate chair. ‘I’m afraid the … um … the driver had no chance. I’m sorry.’

  He had often dreamt of this moment, in his fantasies, often when half awake, sometimes even when lying beside her in bed. Deborah dying suddenly, without pain, leaving him free, free, free.

  But this wasn’t fantasy. It wasn’t right that a man’s fantasy should suddenly become real. He was deeply shocked. He sat down heavily. He wondered if the officer could see into his thoughts – his dreadful thoughts.

  Of course he hadn’t really wanted Deborah to die. Only in make-believe.

  He was shocked that she had died.

  But, the fact remained, he had dreamt of being free and now he was free.

  He heard himself say, ‘Is there no chance, officer?’ and to him it was the voice of a man acting out the role of a grieving husband, and acting it badly. It was dreadful.

  ‘I wonder if you could get me a glass of water, officer,’ he said, to buy himself time. ‘The kitchen’s through there.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  The officer looked delighted to have something practical to do.

  As soon as he was alone, James closed his eyes and groaned. He couldn’t have explained what he was groaning about, whether he was groaning because Deborah had died or because he had dreamt of her dying or because he was dismayed at the confusion of his emotions or because it was so appalling that a man should have to face his fantasies in real life or because he was a worthless shit who was going to find it very difficult to live with himself.

  He had been glad to get the officer out of the room. Now he was glad to see him back. His dreary normality was comforting.

  ‘Glass of water, sir,’ said the officer, not without a glimmer of satisfaction at his success in carrying out this simple task.

  The water tasted quite wonderful. It really was the most magnificent drink. He couldn’t think why he ever drank gin or Noilly Prat or whisky or vodka or port or wine or beer or sherry or Madeira or Ricard or Campari or Manhattans or dry Martinis or Negronis or Harvey Wallbangers or Deborah’s damson gin. Deborah? He was never going to see her again, never feel the warmth of her smile. Never. He was free to marry the woman he loved, but never to see Deborah again, that really was a heavy price to pay.

  ‘What exactly happened, officer?’

  The officer consulted his notes, frowning with concentration. Reading didn’t come naturally to him.

  ‘It was on a road just outside Diss, sir.’

  ‘Diss?’

  ‘It’s a town in Norfolk, sir.’

  ‘I know it’s a town in Norfolk, but what was she doing there?’

  ‘I have no idea, sir.’

  ‘No, of course you don’t. Silly of me. Sorry. Carry on.’

  ‘She hit a Porsche head on, sir. Both cars are write-offs. Both drivers dead.’

  ‘I suppose I’ll have to go and identify her.’

  ‘I … um … I’m afraid that probably won’t be possible, sir. There’s … um …’

  The young officer began to break out into a sweat. What had he been on the verge of saying? There’s not enough of her left, sir?

  ‘It’s my understanding that it will be done with dental records, sir. Shouldn’t be too long.’

  ‘So the car might have been stolen? It might not be her.’

  ‘I suppose it’s possible, sir, but there was the remains of a handbag on the back seat, sir, with two credit cards of Mrs DJ Hollinghurst, and … um … on the floor at the back, a pair of high-heeled red Prada shoes, sir.’

  ‘I see. Thank you.’

  Cry, damn you.

  ‘It seems, sir, that the accident was entirely the fault of the other driver. He was overtaking. A witness said that there just wasn’t room. There was nothing that your wife … if it was your wife … could have done.’

  ‘It was my wife, officer. Nobody else would have had those red shoes in the car.’

  It was the shoes that puzzled him. Why should she have been taking them? She had God knows how many other pairs she could have taken. Why had she taken her very favourite pair, and to Diss?

  The policeman had gone half an hour ago, and he had done nothing, except think about having another wonderful glass of water, and then pour more Noilly Prat into his drink instead. He shouldn’t have poured himself any more. He had a lot of phone calls to make, and he didn’t want to end the evening slurring his words. He wanted to be dignified. He would need to have his wits about him. But he had persuaded himself that in pouring more Noilly Prat he was weakening the overall alcoholic content of his drink, since Noilly Prat was less alcoholic than gin, so that was all right.

  He’d wished that he hadn’t hidden the drink behind his wedding photograph. It had been difficult to recover it without looking at the photograph, and he could hardly bear to do that. Those smiles. That radiance. Those hopes. He waited for the tears to come. He waited in vain.

  So many phone calls. Oh, the burden of those calls. He felt so alone, so desperately alone. That was ridiculous. He had two devoted brothers, many friends he could rely on for support. And Helen. There was no need to be alone. He could ask Helen to come round. No, Helen here? How insensitive would that be?

  He could go round to be with her, though. He needed her. He must phone her first. But what could he say? Bad news, Helen. No. Wonderful news, Helen.’ No!

  Hello, darling. We’ve often talked about what we’d do if we were free, you’ve urged me to divorce Deborah, and I’ve said I just couldn’t, I couldn’t bear to hurt her that much, well, fate has taken a hand, she’s been killed, instantly, outright, thank goodness for that. We’re free, my darling, to spend the rest of our life together. Isn’t that wonderful?

  Couldn’t do it. Not yet anyway. Certainly couldn’t do
it in this room, in front of that photograph.

  Probably he’d need another drink before he rang her, and that thought struck him as very odd.

  No. It wasn’t odd. It was … seemly. He had loved Deborah for, oh, almost twenty-five years. Only in the last few years had he … after he’d met Helen … and even then he and Deborah had had good loving times. He didn’t think that she had suspected anything. She had continued to look after him most splendidly. He owed her a seemly death, a respected death. He … he loved her. In his way. Yes, he did. Despite … although … oh, God.

  No, he must ring Max first. Except he couldn’t. Max didn’t like being phoned at work. His bosses frowned upon personal calls. We were six hours ahead of Canada. Max usually finished work at about five-thirty. He’d try him on his mobile at twenty to six Canadian time.

  That meant that he’d have to stay at least reasonably sober until twenty to twelve British time. Oh, Lord.

  It had to be Charlotte. Oh, God.

  He forced himself to dial the dreaded number. He hoped he’d get straight through to her, so that in an instant the whole problem of speaking to each other after all those years would have been solved.

  ‘Yep?’

  ‘Oh, hello, Chuck. When I rang you earlier it was because I’d had a message that the police wanted to see me.’

  ‘You thought Charlie’d screwed up again.’

  ‘Yes. I have to say I wondered. But it wasn’t that. No, it was … there’s been a car crash. Charlotte’s mum’s been killed, Chuck.’

  ‘Oh, my God.’

  ‘Yes. Can I speak to her, please?’

  ‘Trouble is, Mr Hollinghurst …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Trouble is … oh, and I’m sorry. Real sorry. That’s a cunt of a thing to happen. Sorry. Bad language.’

  ‘Hardly matters under the circumstances.’

  ‘No. Quite. Trouble is, Mr Hollinghurst, I’ll have to tell her what’s happened or she won’t come to the phone. She’ll be so, Tell him to go fuck himself. Oh, sorry.’