The Christmas Surprise
Page 54

‘But she’s a horrible old boot.’
‘She could be Adolf fucking Hitler, you still have to impress her!’
Rosie never, ever swore. Stephen looked at her.
‘I have an idea,’ he said.
‘Does it involve you sucking up to the social worker?’
Stephen shook his head.
‘No. But it might help. I’ll need to go away for a couple of days.’
She looked at him mistrustfully.
‘Where?’
‘London.’
‘Seriously?’
He shrugged.
‘Can’t hurt.’
‘Well, see that lovesick psychologist of yours while you’re down there. Tell her what you said when Joy was here and see if she agrees with me or you. And if she says you, that’s because she’s lust-fuddled and you’re STILL WRONG.’
‘Are you still cross with me and Apostil?’ said Stephen, nuzzling the baby under the chin.
‘I’m not cross with him,’ said Rosie.
‘Oh well, I’m halfway there,’ said Stephen.
Rosie bit her tongue. She wasn’t happy about Stephen going to London, not a bit. But the fact that he was looking for a solution rather than sticking his fingers in his ears and pretending this wasn’t happening was a big step forward.
Stephen took the first train to London. His old friend Piers came to meet him, as instructed, at St Pancras. They sat in a flashy champagne bar full of people shouting at waiters or into their phones or anything other than talking to each other.
Piers was as round and pink-faced as ever. Stephen had known him since school; he was an amiable bumbler, who had nonetheless managed to make an absolute fortune. His new lifestyle of extremely beautiful girls and eyewatering tabs at nightclubs where he didn’t even know who he was paying for didn’t look like much fun to Stephen, and it was starting to show on his girth and the broken veins across his nose.
‘So, crawling back to forget your principles?’ said Piers in a jolly fashion, ordering a bottle of the best champagne on the menu, even though Stephen was drinking coffee.
Stephen didn’t smile.
‘It’s all got a little more complicated.’
‘Thought as much,’ said Piers. ‘Women, huh, they’re all the same. Did she pretend to be all sweet and innocent till she had you and now it’s oh buy me some shoes, let’s go to this restaurant, let’s fly to the Maldives? They’re all the same, grasping minxes.’
Stephen tried to think of the last time Rosie had asked him for something. He couldn’t. She never bought herself anything either. The only time she spent money was on Lilian, whose thin skin only responded well to cashmere, or M&S at a push, and who loved beautiful clothes.
‘Not quite,’ said Stephen.
‘Got her pregnant then? If they can’t get you one way, they’ll always get you another.’
Stephen screwed up his face and decided not to go into it.
‘I’m just … I was just wondering … I mean, if I was to start in banking … I mean, would it be too late?’
‘Let’s see,’ said Piers, draining and refilling his glass in a satisfied manner. ‘I could start you off, but you’d be up against the eighteen-year-old barrow boys and the weird maths quant geeks. It’s fifteen-hour days on the computer now. You’d start cold-calling, though. Fourteen, fifteen hours of cold-calling a day, to offload our absolute shit. Bonds and big bundles of crap we couldn’t possibly sell to anyone with a brain in their head who can read our small print or understand what we’re selling, which they can’t, because it’s also our job to make it as obscure and confusing as possible. If you get good at selling toxic shit on some thick-ass pension funds in the north – no offence – we’ll put you on to better stuff. Defence firms, fags, all the slash-and-burn accounts nobody wants. Take it from there.’
There was a long pause. Stephen stared at his empty coffee cup. He wondered if Rosie had known that this was what would happen, and figured that she had. No wonder she’d been happy to let him come.
‘It was good to see you, Piers.’
‘Seriously, you’re going back to bury yourself in the country?’ said Piers, amazed.
‘I’d do anything to help my family,’ said Stephen. ‘But I cannot think of a quicker way to blow us apart than working like you guys.’
‘Great!’ said Piers, unperturbed. ‘Then we’ll be single men on the town again. You are ace at pulling. Even your limp seems to help.’
‘Thanks, Piers.’
‘What are you going to do, take a night shift at a chicken factory?’
Stephen sighed.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘And PLEASE don’t invest my pension fund.’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it, my old mucker. I’m sticking all mine under the bed.’
Diane, Stephen’s therapist, put her fingers to her lips, then crossly put them down on her notepad again. Outside it was freezing; London was heavily weighted down with Christmas lights, swaying gently in the breeze. There was a massive tree in the lobby of the smart Harley Street offices, where the beautiful receptionist who spoke four languages had tidily ticked Stephen’s name off the list, and sent him straight up to the elegant room with its antique desk, expensive roped curtains and striped wallpaper. There was a couch, but Stephen preferred to sit in the heavy leather armchair, stretching his long legs out in front of him, stick by the side of the fire. Diane was trying not to look at his legs.
‘Do you think you’re subconsciously trying to sabotage this?’ she asked calmly. ‘So you don’t have to move?’
Stephen looked horrified, and ran his fingers through his thick hair.
‘Oh God, what kind of a monster am I? Do you think I’d mess with my wife and child just so I didn’t have to move house?’
‘That’s one possibility,’ said Diane. ‘Or perhaps you’re trying to delay making a decision of another kind …’
She left the statement open-ended. Stephen stared out into the frosty morning.
‘I …’ He swallowed hard, then took a quick intake of breath as he realised something. ‘I don’t want Apostil to be in hospital.’
Diane nodded, pleased.
‘And why not?’
‘Because … because I can’t bear to be in hospital.’