Chapter 11 Martin #2
‘Well, no. It’s going to be one of my key policies.’
I laugh. I think he’s joking.
‘Scrapping child benefit? Surely, that’s …’
‘It’s a bold move but the majority of voters in this country support it,’ he says. ‘Besides, we’ll replace it with a universal system.’
Again, I scan his face for some sign of humour, some recognition that what he’s saying is appalling and illogical.
It’s not that I’m a champion of the underdog or some working-class hero (I mean, please) but I have always thought, despite Ben’s privilege and the insulation of his wealth and breeding, and despite the fact that he is self-interested and makes stupid mistakes and is capable of throwing people away like discarded sweet wrappers, that he had some flicker of decency; that his cruelty is an unwitting consequence of his flawed character, rather than a central plank of it.
‘I don’t know anyone who has ever been on benefits,’ Ben is saying now. ‘Do you?’
‘I do, actually. My mother. When she lost her job at the accountancy firm. She was only on benefits for a few months, but I believe the welfare state was a great help to her.’
‘Your mother? Really? Huh!’ he says as if I have told him an inane piece of trivia – the mating rituals of a South American egret, for instance, or how many balloons you’d need to blow up to reach the moon.
Ben sips his wine, swills it around his mouth.
He has hairs sprouting out of his ear, I notice. Ugly, grey, wiry things.
‘Anyway, other than that, it’s all going well, thanks for asking,’ he continues.
No further interest in my mother or my upbringing, of course.
No further mention of the hypothetical decision he’s toying with that will cause chaos and misery to millions.
‘It’s been a team effort. Ed’s been guiding me.
And Richard Take has been useful for the younger element of the party. ’
‘Extraordinary how that man has managed to turn stupidity into a virtue,’ I say.
Ben throws his head back and laughs.
‘Tell me what you really think, why don’t you?’
‘And Jarvis?’
‘Yeah, he’s been a great help with the financial backing. And it’s good he has experience in government. Don’t know what I’d do without him.’
Their intimacy still stings.
‘You’ll see him later, actually,’ Ben says, draining his glass.
My heart gives an unpleasant thump.
‘Oh, really?’
‘He and Bitsy have a weekend cottage a few minutes away.’
‘Cosy.’
Ben glances at me. He realises he’s said the wrong thing. I watch him recalibrate and then he leans forward, grabs my upper thigh and says, ‘Remember, LS, how we used to go swimming in the lake at Denby Hall? Those long, lazy summers?’
‘Of course.’
‘With dear, darling Fliss. I don’t think I’ve ever been happier, you know?’
His eyes moisten.
‘Your friendship and your loyalty has meant more to me than I can say,’ Ben continues.
Utter bullshit, I think. ‘Your understanding, too, over all that happened. I know Serena said some terrible things to Lucy. We just needed there to be some clear water for a while, while Serena calmed down and … well … I know you get it.’
‘Of course,’ I say again. ‘You can count on me.’
Ben is satisfied. He slaps my back and then we both stand and he hugs me tightly, kissing me on the cheek. Lips dry on my skin. ‘Thanks, mate,’ he says. And then: ‘Oh, before I forget, there was just one more thing.’
My shirt sticks to me clammily. This suit is really far too hot.
‘Yes?’
‘We had a bit of bother with one of the Guardian journalists, you know what they’re like.’ His hand is still on my shoulder, fingers pressing into the fabric of my shirt, then releasing, like a pulse.
‘What about?’
‘Diversity. They were threatening to write a piece about my team, saying we were all straight, white men – the usual crap.’ He puts on a weedy voice: ‘“Where are the Black lesbians? Why don’t you have any disabled transsexuals?”’
‘Transgender,’ I say.
‘Mm, well it’s nonsense obviously.’
‘But,’ I venture, ‘I suppose you are quite …’ I search for a word inoffensive enough for him to accept. ‘… monocultural.’
In the distance, an evening cuckoo sounds, the birdsong echoing across the valley and woodland beneath us.
Shortly after buying Tipworth, Ben told me there was an ancient oak tree in the grounds.
It was this oak tree, he said, that had provided shelter for the future King Charles II in 1651, retreating from Roundhead soldiers after a Royalist defeat.
Charles II had seen a Parliamentarian soldier pass beneath the oak’s pollarded branches while hiding there, Ben said, ‘so the moral of the story is: there’d be no royal family if it weren’t for that Tipworth oak!
’ I looked up the tale afterwards, only to find that Charles II had indeed hidden up an oak tree, but the tree was in Shropshire, not Oxfordshire.
I was never sure, with Ben, how much he lied and how much he didn’t know.
‘Monocultural,’ Ben repeats, adding a mirthless ‘Ha!’
His face is sharp. A twist in the mouth that is not quite a smile. The fading sun catches the planes of his forehead and nose. He is still so beautiful, that’s the thing. I can’t escape it.
‘Anyway, I hope you don’t mind,’ he says, ‘but I gave them your name as an example of our liberal outlook. To prove that we’re a broad church, as it were.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t follow.’ It’s not deflection. I truly don’t get it. ‘I’m a white man.’
‘But a gay one,’ Ben says, ever so lightly. ‘Which is great, obviously. Not an issue, why would it be, you’ve always been part of the …’
He’s about to say family but has the decency to stop himself.
A great whistling rush of air in my chest.
‘You told them I …’
I can’t finish the sentence. My legs begin to shake and for a moment, I think I might keel over, right there and then on the ancient stones.
‘We’ve never …’ I start again. Once more, I fail to complete the thought.
I want to say, we’ve never spoken about this, Ben, but I think what I actually mean is I’ve never spoken about it.
Not even to myself, really. This … this …
dark well of impulse is the source of my greatest confusion.
It is not something I choose to share or discuss with others.
Certainly not with Ben, of all people, who tormented me by refusing to see what I was and who exploited that wilful ignorance for years because it suited him.
And now, because it suits him to acknowledge my particular persuasion, he betrays me. Again.
‘You’ve outed me?’ I say. ‘In the Guardian?’
‘Oh, mate.’ He pretends to be crestfallen. ‘I didn’t think it was that big a deal. I thought … Jarvis said …’
‘I don’t give a fuck what Jarvis said. What on earth made you think you could do this?’
He shrugs. He actually shrugs. And in that singular movement, I see the smash-and-grab student he was at Cambridge, hurling plates and chairs around pub dining rooms because he knew that, the next day, his family money would pay for the damage.
I see the drunken toff who groped the teenage waitress as she bent to clear his place, who broke things out of habit because he could, because people like him always had, because hurting others didn’t matter when they were less powerful than you.
‘They’re not going to print the article,’ Ben says, guiding me back towards the house. ‘So don’t worry about it. I wouldn’t have said anything if I’d known it would upset you.’
But that isn’t the point, is it? Journalists will talk. I can’t bear the thought of them laughing at me. My mother was always disgusted by my wrongness. Now, here was the inescapable proof laid bare for gossiping hacks to pick over.
I think there is part of him that senses my distress. He stops and faces me, gripping my arms.
‘I’m sorry, LS.’ I meet his gaze. He looks sincere. ‘Truly.’
‘It’s alright,’ I say and I hate myself for saying it.
I let him usher me into the kitchen and I pretend everything is fine.
I’m good at that. I push all that just happened into a private part of my soul.
I concentrate very hard on the salt and pepper dishes – tiny granite bowls with even tinier wooden spoons.
A steaming dish of spaghetti bolognese appears (why hot pasta?
In summer? Just looking at it makes me sweat even more) and a green salad consisting mainly of rocket, the most overrated of the brassicas.
‘Thank you, Susan,’ Serena says to the housekeeper. ‘We’re so lucky to have you.’ Serena turns to me. ‘She’s a real treasure. They’re so difficult to find these days, aren’t they?’
‘Are they?’
‘Someone helpful but unobtrusive,’ she continues. ‘Who does what needs to be done but doesn’t overstep.’
Cosima makes a disgusted noise. She drops her head and her hair swings forward, obscuring her face.
Within minutes, Hector and Cressida are both on their phones and Bear has abandoned his chair in favour of the floor.
Occasionally I feel his solid little torso brushing against my leg and have to resist the urge to kick him away.
‘Bear, what are you doing down there, old chap?’ Ben asks. ‘Get back in your chair, there’s a good fellow.’
‘Leave him be,’ Serena says. ‘He’s pretending to be a dog.’
‘He’s eight, Serena, not three.’
‘Oh piss off, Ben,’ she says, twirling a microscopic amount of pasta around her fork and chewing it for an interminable length of time.
‘Mummy! Swearing!’ Cressida screams.
‘Fuck off, Cressy,’ Cosima says.
‘Mummy! Oh my God, Cozzie, you’re literally such an NPC.’
I raise my eyebrows.
‘Non-player character,’ Cosima explains. ‘It’s a gaming thing. She doesn’t even understand it.’
‘I do!’ Cressida shouts. ‘Tell her, Mummy.’
Serena ignores her children and smiles vaguely. I wonder if she’s medicated.
‘Remind me,’ she says, leaning into me. ‘I have to tell you about …’
She mentions the name of a local aristocrat whose wife is rumoured to be having an affair with a senior royal.
‘… completely besotted, I’ve heard,’ she says.