Читать книгу Never Tell - Claire Seeber, Claire Seeber - Страница 18

THE GENTLEMAN’S DIARY: UP THE CREEK?

We hear that Dalziel St John, eldest son of Lord Higham, our current Home Secretary and John Major’s great golfing buddy, has been living it up again of late. We all remember that St John Jnr went somewhat off the rails during his gap year: this kindly columnist will draw a veil over the episode. Suffice it to say that young Dalziel may have taken the ‘high’ in living the high life a little too literally down in North Cornwall’s elitist Rock. Now in his third year at Magdalen College, St John Jnr had apparently worried his parents again during the last summer holidays with talk of dropping out to model for Versace – amongst other ‘keen’ parties (homosexual French designer Gaultier famously called him ‘truly divine inspiration’, the fashion-conscious amongst you might remember). However, under the steadying influence of new girlfriend and sometime Sapphist Lena Holt (this lady is for turning obviously!), daughter of the late Marquis of Gloucester and opera singer Constantia Latzier, all has seemed well for a while: Dalziel has been safely ensconced back at Magdalen finishing his theology degree, after which he is expected to fly straight out to Argentina to manage the family polo farm for a while.

So could the rumours be true that Dalziel has just this weekend been caught defecating at the altar of Christ Church, the ancient cathedral? Yes you did indeed read correctly: defecating, not desecrating, though some might argue they are one and the same. It may yet turn out to be fortunate that his father is second cousin of the Bishop himself, although my sources tell me both men are very far from amused. Indeed, Lady Higham is so mortified that she has retired to Barbados for a sojourn at the Sandy Lane spa, citing ‘nervous exhaustion’ (something the poor lady has suffered much of, apparently, for one so young).

We shall, of course, keep our trusty readers posted of further developments – but let us just surmise for now that young Dalziel is well and truly up the creek and in the ‘proverbial’ with his folks …

‘Have you seen this?’ James threw the newspaper on the café table, spilling my tea. ‘I can’t believe that rag’s got hold of it.’

‘Yeah, I’ve seen it.’ I pushed the paper away and finished my poached egg as James sat down. ‘Me and the whole of college. I can’t believe you’d buy that rag, James.’ I was only half joking. I’d been discovering yet more political principles this term. ‘I’m shocked.’

‘You’re too liberal for your own good.’ He shook his dark head sorrowfully. ‘Dalziel’s old man did such a wicked job of keeping it quiet. He’s going to go ballistic. White coffee, please, love,’ James winked at the pretty waitress, who tossed her hair and immediately turned her back on him.

‘Who’ll go ballistic?’ I mopped up the last of the yolk. ‘Dalziel’s dad?’

‘No, stupid. Dalziel.’ James pinched a chip. ‘He’s done a deal with his dad to keep this kind of stuff out of the paper.’

‘How can he do that?’ I was intrigued. ‘Keep it out? He’s not God. Or royalty.’ I considered that last statement for a second. ‘Or is he?’

‘Not quite, but he’s pretty well connected.’

‘I never realised his dad was a lord. Or Home Secretary.’ I wasn’t quite sure whether to be impressed or contemptuous, given that St John Senior was such a dyed-in-the-wool Tory. My new worst enemies.

‘Anyway, Lord Higham owns half of Wapping. And,’ James lowered his voice, ‘Dalziel’s got stuff on his dad that would blow the government out of the water – and his dad knows it.’

‘God,’ I leaned forward, ‘like what?’ I was really curious now.

‘I’m not at liberty to say, petal.’ James stroked my cheek as the waitress brought the coffee. ‘He’d have my guts for garters if I breathe a word. Let’s just say it’s in Daddy’s interest – Daddy who likes lots of girls – it’s in his interest to cover Dalziel’s tracks. And anyway, he didn’t do it. Dalziel. The shitting thing.’

I felt inordinately relieved. It seemed so crass somehow; below Dalziel. The young waitress was staring at James’s fingers on my skin and shoved the cup down so hard boiling coffee slopped out, burning my arm.

‘Ouch!’ I looked at her reproachfully. She looked vaguely familiar, her hair pulled back tightly from her cross, freckled face.

‘Bloody students,’ she muttered, and slammed back into the kitchen.

‘Friend of yours?’ I raised an eyebrow at my some-time boyfriend.

‘Possibly,’ he grinned. ‘Are you jealous?’

I thought about it. ‘A little bit,’ I said, truthfully.

‘Don’t be. She’s just a skivvy.’

‘James!’ I was shocked.

‘A bit of rough can be a laugh, I guess.’ He raised his eyebrows at me, all arch. ‘An experience.’

‘For God’s sake, James.’ I took the bait. ‘You sound just like him.’

‘Who?’

‘Who do you think?’ I blew gently on my burned skin. ‘Your great lord and master.’

‘Don’t be fucking stupid,’ James bristled. ‘I’m my own man.’

‘Boy,’ I teased.

‘Man. No one tells me what to do.’

‘Oh, really?’

‘Yes, really.’ James ladled sugar in his coffee, spoons and spoons of it. ‘He’s started talking about us all meeting again, actually.’ He was casual as he stirred his drink.

‘Oh.’ My stomach tightened. ‘Why?’

‘Not sure. He’s got some grand scheme up his ruffled sleeve. It’ll be a laugh. Just think of last time.’ He winked at me again, rather lasciviously for such a young man. It turned my stomach a bit; I was shocked at my own reaction.

‘I’d rather not,’ I muttered. I was still haunted by the vacant look on Huriyyah’s face. The fact she hadn’t really been present despite her body being in the room; the body that had been no more than a piece of meat. The vague rumours I’d heard since that both boys and girls had been lining up to take turns with her.

‘Come on,’ James persisted, ‘we’d never have got together if he hadn’t held that party. And it was a laugh, you’ve got to admit.’

‘I suppose so,’ I smiled weakly.

We both jumped as Jen knocked on the glass window, her short hennaed hair blowing upwards in the December wind, cheeks ruddy from cycling.

‘Gotta go.’ I gathered my things, relieved suddenly to be leaving the steamy little café. ‘I’ve already paid for mine. See you soon, yeah?’

‘Oh, right.’ He looked put out. ‘Like when?’

The bad-tempered little waitress was watching us. I realised with a jolt it was Twiggy from the Hallowe’en do. Instinctively I leaned over to kiss James full on the mouth.

‘I’ll be in the college bar later, I think,’ I said. ‘About six.’

‘And what shall I tell Dalziel?’ James swung back dangerously on his chair’s back legs.

‘About what?’

‘He’ll want to know who’s in.’

‘I don’t know,’ I frowned. ‘I’m not that bothered, to be honest, J. I’ve got a lot on. I’ve just had another article actually commissioned for the Cherwell. It’s got to be in by next week.’

Jen knocked again more urgently, pointing at her watch in elaborate mime.

‘I’m going to be late for my seminar.’

‘All right, Goody Two-Shoes,’ James taunted.

I let it go. ‘I’ll see you later.’

Cycling through town, my fingers frozen round my handlebars despite my woolly gloves, my mind kept darting back to Dalziel and how I’d felt when he kissed me that cold winter night, and how I’d felt when I’d watched him kissing that boy. But most of all, to the face of the girl on the divan: how utterly lost she had been.

Leaving my tutor group later, I realised I’d lost my scarf; on the way home I popped into the café to see if it was there. The sulky waitress was cleaning the coffee machine behind the wooden counter.

‘Haven’t seen it,’ she muttered, and I had no choice but to believe her.

‘Really fancies himself now, that boyfriend of yours, don’t he?’ she said as I opened the door to leave.

I paused and turned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You should have seen him last year.’ Her pretty face was flushed. ‘He was like a – a lost puppy and he dressed like a right bloody spod, carrying that stupid guitar everywhere. Only too glad to mix with the likes of me then.’ She wiped the steam pipe so savagely I thought it would snap. ‘Not that I was interested in him.’

‘Oh,’ I said rather helplessly. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be. Much better fish in the sea.’ She turned her back on me again before I could read the expression on her face. Her voice was strangely muffled. ‘You’re welcome to him.’

There wasn’t anything else to say really. I saw her in town a few weeks later with another boy; she was wearing my scarf. I decided she could keep it.