‘I thought he might be Russian for a moment.’
‘He’s quite establishment, actually. Harrow, Cambridge, civil service, then opportunist sexual blackmailer.’
‘Oh, well, Harrow, there’s your problem right there. Chip on his shoulder.’
‘He wants fifty thousand,’ I say, and give him a sympathetic expression.
‘Bloody hell, fifty? Will this money get rid of the problem? Such a thing could ruin my chances, you know?’ he says and looks really quite upset.
‘And that would be a great shame and a terrible loss for this country,’ I say.
‘Wouldn’t it?’ he says.
‘Tor doesn’t know I’m here, Lawrence. She’d be embarrassed if she knew I’d spoken to you.’
‘Of course. Once more, I’ll just have to bear the consequences of my wife’s indiscretion.’ He sighs. It’s comforting, like the sound of a wood pigeon in a copse.
‘I’ve been her go-between with this scurrilous individual,’ I say, smiling conspiratorially.
‘So you want money to pay him, is that it?’
‘Tor’s paid him already, actually, but the thing is, he wants another fifty thousand.’
‘Well, it’s cheaper than a divorce, I suppose. But why does he want paying twice?’ he says.
‘Oh, no, this is for another tape altogether,’ I say, and gently remove his hand from my thigh.
‘What do you mean?’ Lawrence doesn’t change his expression, but fear shows in his eyes.
‘There’s a tape of Zac Estall with a man wearing nothing but cowboy boots and a leather waistcoat, who looks the spitting image of you.’
Chapter60Mother-in-Law
Thursday, 9 January
At this dark and cold time of year, with the lights of Christmas back in their boxes and stowed away in the loft, it’s heartening to see delicate white snowdrops appear from the frozen earth. It gives hope for a brighter future and is a sign that our deepest wishes can emerge, fragile but unbroken, even at the darkest hour.
There are swathes of these bright white flowers beneath the bare beech trees and across the manicured lawns of Glynburgh Private Hospital. I imagine that the patients take a great deal of comfort from them. I’ve arrived a little early and take a walk in the grounds to pass the time, admiring the soft yellow stone of the house, and the large, landscaped lake.
At 10 a.m. I’m at the teak reception desk, where a smiling woman in a dazzlingly white tunic greets me. I doubt she’s a nurse as she looks about eighteen years old; however, it’s all about giving the impression of clinical expertise, even at check-in.
‘Lalla Rook,’ I say. ‘To see Madeleine Rook – she’s my mother-in-law.’
‘Of course, it’s good to see you. Is this your first visit to Glynburgh?’
‘No, it’s not. Sadly, I was here to visit her husband last year.’
‘Oh, well, I hope he’s better now.’
‘Not really,’ I say. ‘He’s dead.’
‘Oh, sorry,’ she says, the mortification glowing on her cheeks.
‘We all go sometime,’ I say, and smile.
She clicks away at her Apple computer, deciding to avoid further small talk, and suggests I take a seat. A nurse arrives within minutes, shakes my hand, and walks me to a well-appointed suite. Once she was out of the emergency room, Madeleine generously insisted on no longer being a burden on the NHS and came to Glynburgh to convalesce in more comfort. She’s been here for almost a month.
‘You may be surprised by her condition,’ she says, touching my arm. ‘If you’ve not visited her before.’
