Jonathan Coe - Number 11

She wrote for forty-five minutes and then, at a quarter to ten, there was a ringing on the front door bell. She ran down to the nearest video monitor, which was on the first-floor landing, and turned it on. A grainy black and white image of Frederick Francis appeared. He was standing outside the hoarding waiting to be admitted. She buzzed him in and then went further downstairs to open the front door.

‘Hello,’ he said, ‘I hope you don’t mind me calling on you out of the blue.’

‘Not at all,’ said Rachel. ‘But Gilbert isn’t here. Madiana’s in New York and he’s … well, I don’t know where he is, exactly.’

‘I know,’ said Frederick. ‘It was you I wanted to see.’

‘Oh. Well, in that case … Come in.’

She led him into the sitting room, a place she rarely visited.

‘Are you going to offer me a drink?’ Freddie said, sitting down on the sofa nearest the door.

Rachel could smell alcohol on his breath already.

‘I’m not sure that it’s mine to offer.’

‘Oh, come on. After all you’re doing for this family at the moment, you’d be entitled to bathe in champagne every night.’

‘In a diamanté bath,’ said Rachel, smiling. ‘All right then, where do they keep the booze?’

Frederick rose to his feet and proved that he knew exactly where to find the drinks cupboard: it stood flush with the bookshelves that were full of unread eighteenth-century first editions. After a quick search among the bottles he plucked one out with an air of triumph.

‘Twenty-year-old Lagavulin,’ he noted, uncorking the bottle and pouring two large tumblerfuls. ‘Almost the same age as you, in fact.’

‘I don’t really drink wh —’

‘This is more than a whisky. It’s nectar.’ He clinked her glass. ‘Come on. Chin-chin.’

Rachel took a sip of the leather-coloured, peaty Scotch and had to concede that it was superb. All the same, she resolved not to drink too much.

‘So, to what do I owe this pleasure?’ she asked.

‘Well,’ said Freddie, ‘I was having a drink nearby, and I thought I might drop in to find out how you were coping, all by yourself, and also … Also, as it happens, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about our conversation the other day, on the plane.’

He had not returned to the sofa. He was pacing the room uncertainly, shooting glances of enquiry at Rachel’s face as he spoke.

‘Oh?’ she said.

‘The fact is, Rachel, that you obviously have rather a low opinion of me and … I’m not comfortable with that.’

‘I’m sorry if I gave that impression. It had just been a bit of a weird day, that’s all …’

‘I think it’s about more than just one day. You hate me. You don’t like what I do.’

‘No,’ said Rachel, taking another sip of whisky, and realizing that this conversation was going to be every bit as awkward as she had feared. ‘I don’t hate you. It’s true that I think your work is — well, a bit unethical …’

‘A bit! Come off it, Rachel. What I do stinks . It stinks to high heaven.’

She was taken aback. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Well, clearly you’ve had something of a change of heart in the last few days. But those are your words, Freddie. Not mine.’

‘I thought a bit of plain speaking was called for, for a change. And yes, I have had a change of heart. And I lied to you on the plane, Rachel. I said that everything Gilbert and I do is within the law. Well, it isn’t. At least one of the funds I’ve set up in Madiana’s name could land all of us in prison. And perhaps it should.’

‘I visited someone in prison, this week, as a matter of fact. A friend of mine. She’s doing three months for benefit fraud.’

‘I bet she hasn’t fiddled a fraction of what I’ve siphoned off for Gilbert over the years.’

Rachel wished that he would sit down. His pacing was beginning to make her dizzy.

‘Well, these are fine words, Freddie. So what are you going to do about it?’

‘I’m thinking,’ he said, ‘about going to HMRC and telling them everything. Or perhaps taking the story to the papers.’

Rachel took another, very cautious sip of whisky, and allowed herself a long look at Freddie while her lips were still to the glass. Nothing about this sudden conversion of his rang true, to her ears.

‘I wouldn’t do anything drastic,’ she said. ‘Having seen the inside of a prison, I don’t think it would suit you. And please don’t turn your whole life around on my account. Whatever your ethics, I don’t dislike you personally. Not at all.’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘Because it may surprise you to learn that your opinion means a lot to me.’

‘And why would that be?’

And suddenly he was upon her, pressing her up against the bookshelves, causing her to spill the rest of her whisky on the floor, his lips crushing down on hers, the full weight of his body bearing down on her. ‘Because you are … so … fucking … gorgeous,’ he said, between heavy, alcohol-soaked breaths. ‘Because … I can’t die happy … until I’ve got inside your pants …’

‘Get OFF me!’ Rachel shouted, and pushed him away with a force that sent him reeling across the room. He toppled against the grand piano, steadied himself, and then for a few moments they stared at each other. When he made no further move, she pointed at the door. ‘Get out. Get out now.’

It seemed that he was about to obey her. He wiped his mouth and started making for the door, but as he was passing beside her he made another lunge, grabbing her around the waist this time and throwing her to the floor. Now he was on top of her and she was pinned to the carpet.

‘Get OFF !’ she screamed again, and just then a child’s voice said, ‘Rachel?’ and they both looked towards the doorway, in which Grace and Sophia were standing, side by side, wearing their matching pyjamas and looking rumpled and sleepy.

Averting his eyes from the children’s questioning gaze, Freddie staggered to his feet and went over to the mirror above the fireplace, where he straightened his tie and smoothed down his hair. Rachel was still on the floor. The impact of the fall had bruised her and for the time being she didn’t think she could get up.

‘Are you all right?’ Sophia said, and they both came forward and held out their hands to help her.

Without another word, or so much as a glance in their direction, Freddie left the room and strode across the hallway towards the front door. They heard it open and then slam shut.

In a slow, painful movement, Rachel rocked herself into a sitting position, and then stayed that way for a while. Grace and Sophia knelt down on either side of her and put their arms around her. It was this display of sympathy, above all — so unexpected, so unlooked-for — that gave her the strength to raise herself finally, and stand upright.

‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s get you back into bed. I think we all need another night-time story, don’t you?’

‘Aren’t you going to say goodbye to Mr Francis?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I think he knows the way out.’ And then, holding hands, the three of them slowly climbed the stairs to the second floor.

*

Freddie certainly knew the way out. But he was in no hurry to leave. For ten minutes he stood in the Gunns’ front garden, next to the temporary site office, and tried to calm himself, breathing slowly and heavily, his breath steaming into the night air. It was a clear night, cloudless and starry. The moon, three-quarters full, threw antic shadows across the paving slabs, the patches of dried-out mud and cement, the temporary planking. The disorder of the builders’ materials seemed to suit his own deranged state of mind. He felt no immediate inclination to pass through the door in the hoarding. The thought of hailing a cab and making the journey home sickened him.