Douglas Kennedy: A Special Relationship

When I woke up early the next morning, my face was still puffy, my eyes still crimson, and every fibre in my body depleted. But the tears didn't start again. I knew I couldn't allow myself another descent into that emotional netherworld. So I put on a mask of stern resolve and went back to work - which is all you can ever do under the circumstances. All accidental deaths are simultaneously absurd and tragic. As I told Tony during the one and only time I recounted this story to him, when you lose the most important people in your life - your parents - through the most random of circumstances, you come to realize pretty damn fast that everything is fragile; that so-called 'security' is nothing more than a thin veneer which can fracture without warning.

'Is that when you decided you wanted to be a war correspondent?' he asked, stroking my face.

'Got me in one'.

Actually, it took me a good six years to work my way up from the City Desk to Features to a brief stint on the Editorial page. Then, finally, I received my first temporary posting to Washington. Had Richard found a way to get transferred to Tokyo, I might have married him on the spot.

'It's just you cared for Tokyo a little more', Tony said.

'Hey, if I'd married Richard, I'd be living in some comfortable suburb like Wellesley. I'd probably have two kids, and a Jeep Cherokee, and I'd be writing Lifestyle features for the Post... and it wouldn't be a bad life. But I wouldn't have lived in assorted mad parts of the world, and I wouldn't have had a quarter of the adventures that I've had and got paid for them'.

'And you wouldn't have met me', Tony said.

'That's right', I said, kissing him. 'I wouldn't have fallen in love with you'.

Pause. I was even more dumbfounded than he was by that last remark.

'Now how did that slip out?' I asked.

He leaned over and kissed me deeply.

'I'm glad it did', he said. 'Because I feel the same way'.

I was astonished to find myself in love... and to have that love reciprocated by someone who seemed exactly the sort of man I'd secretly hoped to stumble upon, but really didn't think existed (journalists, by and large, being the wrong side of seedy).

A certain innate caution still made me want to move forward with prudence. Just as I didn't want to think about whether we would last beyond the next week, month, whatever. I sensed this as well about Tony. I couldn't get much out of him about his romantic past - though he did mention that he once came close to marriage ('but it all went wrong... and maybe it was best that it did'). I wanted to press him for further details (after all, I had finally told him about Richard), but he quickly sidestepped the matter. I let it drop, figuring that he would eventually get around to telling me the entire story. Or maybe that was me also trying not to push him too hard - because, after two months with Tony Hobbs, I did understand very well that he was somebody who hated being cornered, or asked to explain himself.

Neither of us made a point of letting our fellow journos in Cairo know that we had become an item. Not because we feared gossip - but rather because we simply didn't think it was anybody's damn business. So, in public, we still came across as nothing more than professional associates.

Or, at least, that's what I thought. Until Wilson - the fleshy guy from the Daily Telegraph - let it be known otherwise. He'd called me up at my office to suggest lunch, saying it was about time that we sat down and had an extended chat. He said this in that slightly pompous style of his - which made it sound like a royal invitation, or that he was doing me a favour by taking me out to the coffee shop in the Semiramaris Hotel. As it turned out, he used the lunch to pump me for information about assorted Egyptian government ministers, and to obtain as many of my local contacts as possible. But when he suddenly brought up Tony, I was slightly taken aback... because of the care we had taken to keep things out of the public eye. This was the height of naϊveté, given that journalists in a place like Cairo always know what their colleagues ate for breakfast. But I still wasn't prepared to hear him ask, 'And how is Mr Hobbs these days?'

I tried to seem unflustered by this question.

'I presume he's fine'.

Wilson, sensing my reticence, smiled.

'You presume...?'

'I can't answer for his well-being'.

Another of his oleaginous smiles.

'I see'.

'But if you are that interested in his welfare', I said, 'you could call his office'.

He ignored that comment, and instead said, 'Interesting chap, Hobbs'.

'In what way?'

'Oh, the fact that he is noted for his legendary recklessness, and his inability to keep his bosses happy'.

'I didn't know that'.

'It's common enough knowledge back in London that Hobbs is something of a political disaster when it comes to the game of office politics. A real loose cannon - but a highly talented reporter, which is why he's been tolerated for so long'.

He looked at me, waiting for a response. I said nothing. He smiled again - deciding that my silence was further evidence of my discomfort (he was right). Then he added, 'And I'm sure you're aware that, when it comes to emotional entanglements, he's always been something of a... well, how can I put this discreetly?.. Something of a raging bull, I suppose. Runs through women the way...'

'Is there some point to this commentary?' I asked lightly.

Now it was his turn to look startled - though he did so in a quasi-theatrical manner.

'I was just making conversation', he said, in mock shock. 'And, of course, I was trading gossip. And perhaps the biggest piece of gossip about Mr Anthony Hobbs is the way that a woman finally broke the chap's heart. Mind you, it's old gossip, but...'

He broke off, deliberately letting the story dangle. Like a fool I asked, 'Who was the woman?'

That's when Wilson told me about Elaine Plunkett. I listened with uneasy interest - and with growing distaste. Wilson spoke in a low, conspiratorial tone, even though his surface tone was light, frivolous. This was something I began to notice about a certain type of Brit, especially when faced with an American (or, worst yet, an American woman). They considered us so earnest, so ploddingly literal in all our endeavours, that they attempted to upend our serious-mindedness with light-as-a-feather irony, in which nothing they said seemed weighted with importance... even though everything they were telling you was consequential.

Certainly, this was Wilson's style - and one that was underscored with a streak of malice. Yet I listened with intent to everything he told me. Because he was talking about Tony - with whom I was in love.

Now, courtesy of Wilson, I was also finding out that another woman - an Irish journalist working in Washington named Elaine Plunkett - had broken Tony's heart. But I didn't feel in any way anguished about this - because I didn't want to play the jealous idiot, musing endlessly about the fact that this Plunkett woman might have been the one who got away... or, worst yet, the love of his life. What I did feel was a profound distaste for the game that Wilson was playing - and decided that he deserved to be slapped down. Hard. But I waited for the right moment in his monologue to strike.

'... of course, after Hobbs burst into tears in front of our chap in Washington... do you know Christopher Perkins? Fantastically indiscreet... anyway, Hobbs had a bit of a boo-hoo while out boozing with Perkins. The next thing you know, the story was all over London within twenty-four hours. Nobody could believe it. Hard Man Hobbs coming apart because of some woman journo...'

'You mean, like me?'

Wilson laughed a hollow laugh, but didn't say anything in reply.

'Well, come on - answer the question', I said, my voice loud, amused.