Edward Aubyn - The Patrick Melrose Novels - Never Mind, Bad News, Some Hope, and Mother's Milk

‘Have fun, darling,’ gasped Jane, longing for him to leave.

‘It won’t be fun without you,’ said David, wondering whether two condoms were enough.

‘Don’t be silly, darling, you’ll forget about me on the motorway.’

David couldn’t be bothered to contradict the truth of this assertion.

‘I hope you feel better tomorrow,’ he said instead. ‘I’ll call you first thing.’

‘You’re an angel,’ said his wife. ‘Drive carefully.’

* * *

Johnny had called to say that he would take his own car after all, and so Patrick left London alone, relieved to get away before it was dark. He marvelled at the feverish excitement he had once been able to put into partygoing. It had been based on the hope, never yet fulfilled, that he would stop worrying and stop feeling pointless once the movie of his life took on the appearance of flawless glamour. For this to work, though, he would have had to allow the perspective of a stranger leafing through the filled pages of his diary to eclipse his own point of view, and he would have had to believe, which was far from being the case, that if he got enough reflected glory he could be spared the trouble of seeking out any of his own. Without this snobbish fever he was stranded under the revolving ceiling fan of his own consciousness, taking shallow breaths to get as little oxygen as possible into a brain apparently unable to manufacture anything but dread and regret.

Patrick rewound Iggy Pop’s ‘The Passenger’ for the third time. His car shot down the hill towards the viaduct suspended between the factories and houses of High Wycombe. Released from the trance of the music, a fragment of the dream he’d forgotten that morning came back to him. He could picture an obese Alsatian flinging itself against a padlocked gate, the rattling of the gate. He’d been walking along the path next to a garden, and the dog had been barking at him through the green chicken wire that so often marks the boundary of a French suburban garden.

His car swept up the hill on the other side of the viaduct while the introductory notes of the song strummed through the speakers. Patrick contorted his face, preparing to sing along with Iggy, starting to shout out the familiar words half a beat too early. The smoke-filled car sped tunelessly on into the gathering darkness.

* * *

One of the reservations Laura had about her personality was that she sometimes got this thing about leaving her flat. She couldn’t get through the door, or if she did she had to double back, she just had to. Lost and forgotten objects surfaced in her bag the moment she stepped back inside. It had grown worse since her cat died. Making sure the cat had water and food before she went out, and making sure it didn’t follow her into the corridor, had helped a lot.

She had just sent China off to fetch the car with the excuse that the bags were too bulky to carry far, but really so that China didn’t witness the propitiatory ritual that enabled Laura to get out of the flat. She had to walk out backwards – it was ridiculous, she knew it was ridiculous – and touch the top of the door frame as she went through. There was always the danger of one of her neighbours finding her reversing out of her flat on tiptoe with her arms outstretched, and so she glanced down the corridor first to check that it was clear.

‘We could play a game in the car,’ China had said. ‘The person you’d least like to sit next to at dinner.’

‘We’ve played that before,’ Laura had complained.

‘But we could play it from other people’s point of view.’

‘Oh, I hadn’t thought of that,’ Laura had said.

Anyhow, thought Laura as she locked her front door, Johnny was China’s ex-boyfriend and so at least she could have some fun on the drive down, asking about his habits and about how much China missed him.

* * *

Alexander Politsky, whose extreme Englishness derived from his being Russian, was perhaps the last man in England to use the term ‘old bean’ sincerely. He was also widely acknowledged to have the best collection of shoes in the country. A pair of pre-First World War Lobb riding boots given to him by ‘a marvellous old boulevardier and screaming queen who was rather a friend of my father’s’ were only brought out on special occasions when the subject of boots or shoes arose spontaneously in the conversation.

He was driving Ali Montague down to the Bossington-Lanes’, where they were both staying. Ali, who had known Bill Bossington-Lane for forty years, had described him and his wife as ‘the sort of people one never sees in London. They just don’t travel well.’

Someone once asked Bill if he still had his beautiful manor house. ‘Beautiful manor house?’ he said. ‘We’ve still got the old dump, if that’s what you mean.’ ‘By the way,’ Ali continued, ‘did you see that thing in Dempster about tonight? After all the usual rubbish about the best shoot in England, and ten thousand acres and Princess Margaret, there was Bridget saying, “I’m just having a few people round to celebrate my husband’s birthday.” She just can’t get it right, can she?’

‘Ugh,’ groaned Alexander, ‘I can’t stand that woman. I mean, I almost don’t mind being patronized by Princess Margaret, and no doubt will be tonight—’

‘You should be so lucky,’ interjected Ali. ‘Do you know, I think I prefer parties given by people I don’t like.’

‘But,’ Alexander continued, unperturbed, ‘I won’t be patronized by Bridget Gravesend, née Watson-Spot or whatever it was.’

‘Watson-Spot,’ laughed Ali. ‘Oddly enough I knew the father slightly in another lifetime. He was called Roddy Watson-Scott, frightfully stupid and jolly and rather used-car salesman, but nice. As you know I’m not a snob, but you didn’t have to be a snob to drop that man.’

‘Well, there you are,’ said Politsky. ‘I don’t want to be patronized by the daughter of a used-car salesman. After all, my family used to be able to walk from Moscow to Kiev on their own land.’

‘It’s no use telling me about these foreign places,’ said Ali. ‘I’m afraid I just don’t know where Kiev is.’

‘All you need to know is that it’s a very long way from Moscow,’ said Alexander curtly. ‘Anyway, it sounds as if Bridget’ll get her comeuppance with this Cindy Smith affair.’

‘What I can’t understand is why Cindy’s gone for Sonny,’ said Ali.

‘He’s the key to the world she wants to penetrate.’

‘Or be penetrated by ,’ said Ali.

Both men smiled.

‘By the way, are you wearing pumps this evening?’ asked Alexander casually.

* * *

With her fist, Anne Eisen rubbed the Jaguar’s back window and got nowhere; the dirty fog on the other side stood its ground.

The driver glanced in the rear-view mirror disapprovingly.

‘Do you know where we are?’ asked Tom.

‘Sure,’ said Anne. ‘We’re out of our minds.’ She spaced the words slowly and evenly. ‘That’s where we are. We’re on our way to see a lot of museum pieces, arrogant snobs, airheads, and feudal boondockers…’

‘Harold tells me that Princess Margaret is coming.’

‘And thick Krauts.’ Anne added this last item to her list with satisfaction.

The Jaguar turned left and crept down to the end of a long drive where the lights of an Elizabethan manor glowed through the fog. They had arrived at Harold Greene’s, their host for the weekend.

‘Wow!’ said Anne. ‘Get a load of this: fifty rooms, and I’ll bet all of them are haunted.’

Tom, picking up a battered leather case from the floor, was not impressed. ‘It’s a Harold-type house,’ he said, ‘I’ll give you that. He had one just like it years ago in Arlington, when we were young and saving the world.’