The Dilemma Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Epilogue

  ALSO BY PENNY VINCENZI

  ALSO BY PENNY VINCENZI

  No Angel

  Something Dangerous

  Into Temptation

  Almost a Crime

  An Outrageous Affair

  Sheer Abandon

  An Absolute Scandal

  Forbidden Places

  This edition first published in the United States in 2007 by

  The Overlook Press, Peter Mayer Publishers, Inc.

  141 Wooster Street

  New York, NY 10012

  www.overlookpress.com

  For bulk and special sales, please contact [email protected]

  Copyright © 1996 by Penny Vincenzi

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced

  or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

  including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval

  system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the

  publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection

  with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.

  Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available from the Library of Congress

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  ISBN : 978-1-590-20792-5

  For Paul, with love.

  And even more gratitude than usual...

  Prologue

  July 1994

  ‘All I want you to do,’ said Bard with a kind of deadly patience, ‘is say I wasn’t in London that day. That I was with you. In the country. Or somewhere, anywhere. It’s hardly a major lie. That surely isn’t so very much to ask?’

  Francesca looked at him for a long time, at this man she had thought she knew so well and loved so much, and felt panic rising so hard within her she felt physically near to choking on it.

  Knowing that if she refused it would not only mean that Bard might go to prison, would certainly be convicted as a crook (albeit of the more socially acceptable variety), that her children would be branded for the rest of their lives as the children of a crook, that the entire family, including her own mother, would turn against her, that many other people would face disgrace and disillusion, that some other scapegoat would have to be found for what Bard had undoubtedly done; but it would also mean that she would be free of him, free of the fear, the pressure, the nightmare, the lies. And free to go where she really wanted to go, with whom she really wanted to be.

  And she sat there in silence, staring at him, and she could see the desperation growing in his eyes, desperation and increasing antagonism, and fear added to her panic and she thought she could not imagine a dilemma more deadly, more dangerous, than the one she was in now.

  Chapter One

  Journalists writing about the Isambard Channings (and indeed Francesca Channing herself in semi-serious conversation) liked to say that Bard had proposed to her on television. This was not strictly true of course, but it made a nice story; what had actually happened was that she had been sitting in her pyjamas watching breakfast television and nursing a streaming cold one dark morning early in 1982, and there he had been sitting on a sofa with Anne Diamond, his brilliant dark eyes fixed intently on her (in the way Francesca was to come to know so well), talking about the rather high-profile deal he had just made, buying a small chain of cinemas via which he planned, as he put it, to get into movies (‘Do you think Kevin Costner has a chance against me?’), and Anne Diamond had said in her artfully artless way ‘And are you thinking of getting married again, Mr Channing?’ and he had said no he wasn’t, because he hadn’t found the right person, but he wanted her to know he was always looking for the right person and if anyone watching might care to apply for the job, he would be delighted to hear from them. ‘And that includes you, of course,’ he said to Anne, who looked at him from under her eyelashes and said she would certainly consider it, but she was very busy at the moment, and Francesca had promptly switched off the television and sat down and written a letter to Mr Isambard Channing, c/o TVAM, Camden Lock, and said she would like to submit her application for the position he had outlined on the television that morning and was enclosing a CV (Name Francesca Duncan-Brown, Age 21, Marital status single, Educ. Heathfield and St James’s Secretarial College, Current employer Gilmour, Hanks Gilmour, Advertising Agency, Personal Assistant to the Creative Director).

  She did not receive a reply and forgot all about it.

  A year later she was sitting in Reception at the agency (the receptionist having been struck down with what she called a stomach bug and what everyone else knew was the result of mixing vodka and coke – in the powdered rather than the liquid version, as Francesca’s boss, Mark Smithies, rather neatly expressed it), when one of the smoked glass doors was pushed rather impatiently open and Bard Channing walked in. She was later to discover that he did everything impatiently, that the normal pace of life frustrated him; her first encounter with the quality made her edgy, almost anxious, as if she must be in some way falling short of his requirements.

  He had an extraordinarily powerful presence; looking up at him, smiling her careful receptionist smile, Francesca felt as if she had received a mild slug in the stomach. He was quite short, probably no more than five foot eight or nine, heavily built, with a bullet-shaped head, the dark hair cut quite short. He was, she thought, almost ugly, and thought in the same moment that he was obviously hugely photogenic because on the television, flirting with Anne Diamond, he had looked quite good. Then he smiled and she realised that was the difference; the heavy features lightened, even in some strange way the big hawklike nose, and the dark, heavily lidded eyes became brilliant and alive.

  ‘I’ve an appointment with Mike Gilmour,’ he said. ‘Channing is the name, Isambard Channing.’

  His voice was lighter than she remembered, with an accent she couldn’t quite place: almost London but almost something else as well, something softer, something slow and flat. Later she was to discover it was Suffolk, a legacy from three years as an evacuee in the war.

  ‘Yes of course,’ she said, and then, unable to resist it, added, ‘I did recognise you. Please take a seat over there and I’ll call Mr Gilmour.’

  He did not respond to her remark, to her friendliness, simply moved over to one of the leather sofas, pulling out a sheaf of papers and ignoring the copies of Country Life that GHG kept in Reception to imply that their clients were country gentlemen rather than the City wideboys
that most of them actually were. Francesca felt mildly relieved that he had never answered the letter, never mind interviewed her about the position.

  He had come to see Mike Gilmour about possibly placing some of his business with the agency; the initial meeting went well. Two days later he was back.

  Francesca was still in Reception. ‘Good morning, Mr Channing,’ she said, ‘I’ll call Mr Gilmour.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, and then, without moving, added, ‘You seem much too bright to be doing that job. Why aren’t you with all those other smart girls upstairs?’

  Francesca felt an illogical sense of loyalty to the humble calling of receptionist.

  ‘It’s important,’ she said, only just polite, ‘this job. Giving a first impression of the agency. I like it.’

  ‘Quite right,’ he said unexpectedly. ‘Quite right. If you’re ever looking for a change of job, you can come and work for me.’

  ‘That’s very good of you,’ said Francesca, feeling herself patronised and hugely irritated by him, ‘but I did actually apply to you for a job once and you didn’t even answer my letter.’

  ‘Oh really?’ said Bard Channing, and his voice was instantly alert. ‘I’m extremely sorry. If you’d like to tell me when that was and the post you applied for, I shall take it up with Personnel. I don’t like that kind of inefficiency.’

  ‘It was a year ago,’ said Francesca, ‘and the post was that of your wife.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said and the eyes softened, sparkled into humour. ‘Oh, that one. I got quite a lot of letters. I’m afraid it was rather a rash offer. I ignored them. It seemed the safest thing to do. I should have asked for photographs, then I would have known at least to interview you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought personal appearance would be a prime requirement for your prospective wife,’ said Francesca tartly. ‘I’m disappointed in you, Mr Channing.’

  ‘And what prime requirement would you think I’d be looking for?’

  ‘Resilience,’ said Francesca (God, this is going to get me fired).

  ‘Possibly. Yes. Anything else?’

  The brilliant eyes were fixed on her now, hardly smiling; oh well, she thought recklessly, it can’t get any worse.

  ‘A brain. Obviously. A good one. Possibly not too good.’

  ‘Oh really? Why would you think that?’

  ‘I – think you’d both find it rather trying. If she was cleverer than you.’

  He glared at her, then suddenly laughed. ‘Quite right,’ he said. ‘Absolutely spot on. Anyway, better get Gilmour at the double. I’m running late as it is.’

  Francesca felt slightly sick when he had finally gone up in the lift, half expecting a summons from Mike Gilmour or at the very least Personnel. But nothing happened; she was just beginning to look forward to telling everyone else about it at lunch, when Bard Channing walked through Reception with Gilmour. He winked at her as he passed the desk, said goodbye to Gilmour and disappeared though the swing doors opening onto Brook Street. Francesca smiled sweetly at Gilmour, who nodded at her briefly and went back into the lift; she was in the middle of a complicated call from a photographic studio who had sent over the wrong prints and needed them back urgently when she looked up and saw Bard Channing standing in front of her desk. Some deeply perverse instinct made her finish the call before responding to him; then: ‘Yes Mr Channing?’

  ‘I enjoyed our conversation this morning,’ he said. ‘I’d rather like to continue with it. How would the Connaught suit you? This evening, six o’clock. In the American Bar.’

  Francesca was so shocked she knocked a pile of envelopes off the desk. Shit, she thought, now he’ll think he’s made me nervous. Which he hadn’t. Of course he hadn’t.

  ‘Well – yes – that would be – thank you,’ she said, hating herself for her lack of cool, and then determinedly redeeming herself and the situation. ‘Six is a little early. Could it be half past?’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘I have another meeting at seven. Six or nothing.’

  ‘Six then,’ said Francesca, ‘thank you.’

  And so it was that, having won the first, she lost the second round to Bard Channing.

  ‘So tell me about yourself, Miss – what is your name?’ he said to her, smiling over the champagne cocktail he had ordered for her. (‘They make the best in the world here, and I mean the world’). ‘How absurd that I don’t even know your name.’

  ‘Duncan-Brown. Francesca Duncan-Brown.’

  ‘Miss Duncan-Brown. What a very upmarket name. Are you an upmarket girl altogether?’

  ‘I don’t know quite what you mean,’ said Francesca coolly.

  ‘Of course you do. I mean are you posh? Did you grow up in a big house and have a pony and go to an expensive boarding school? I, as no doubt you can see, am not posh at all, and I have a great fascination with the subject.’

  ‘Yes, yes and yes,’ said Francesca, laughing.

  ‘How very nice for you. And do you have a boyfriend?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Is he posh also?’

  ‘Quite, I suppose. I’ve never really thought about it.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you have. What’s his name?’

  ‘Patrick. Patrick Forster. And he works for Christie’s. In the research department.’

  ‘And did you know him when you applied for the job with me?’

  ‘No I didn’t,’ said Francesca.

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it. I don’t like two timing. Not in a wife, future or otherwise.’

  ‘Are you really looking for a wife?’ said Francesca.

  ‘I am. Are you really interested?’

  ‘No, of course not!’

  ‘Why of course? Could be interesting. Lots of perks.’

  ‘Well – for a start – ’

  ‘Don’t say it. I’m much too old for you. Quite right. I’m forty-three and you must be at least twenty years younger than that. Am I right?’

  ‘Close. I’m twenty-two.’

  ‘Greater obstacles have been overcome. Of which there are two very considerable ones, I have to say.’

  ‘And what are they?’

  ‘My daughters, for a start,’ he said and there was genuine sadness now on his face, real pain in his voice. ‘They’re very young, Kirsten is eleven and Victoria only seven, and they have been very damaged, I fear, by an extremely unpleasant divorce. Kirsten in particular is intensely hostile to me, their mother is fast becoming an alcoholic, and the girls have to live with that on a daily basis. I hate it, but I don’t know what I can do.’

  ‘No,’ said Francesca, ‘no, I can see that.’

  ‘How extraordinary I should be telling you this,’ he said suddenly. ‘When I’ve hardly met you, hardly know your name. You invite confidences, Miss Duncan-Brown.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Francesca, unable to think of anything more interesting to say.

  ‘Now then,’ he said, his voice suddenly and deliberately lighter again, ‘perhaps you’d like to tell me what you would do, if you found yourself hired for this position we were discussing earlier. How would you deal with my daughters? My difficult daughters?’

  ‘Oh – I don’t really know,’ said Francesca. ‘Try to leave them be, I should think, not pressure them, not try to take them over. They’d be bound to hate me. For a long time.’

  ‘They would indeed. More than one putative Mrs Channing has withdrawn her application in the face of that hatred. The quality of resilience you put top of your list was certainly absolutely correct. What an extremely wise head you have on your very young shoulders.’

  ‘Well,’ said Francesca, ‘it’s easy to be wise in theory. Isn’t it?’

  ‘More wisdom. Yes, it is.’ He looked at her thoughtfully. ‘How do you like that silly job of yours? I still don’t think it’s worthy of you.’

  ‘I don’t really work in Reception,’ said Francesca, smiling, relieved to be on slightly safer ground, ‘but I wasn’t going to tell you that.’

  ‘Why
not?’ he said, waving impatiently at the waiter, ordering two more cocktails.

  ‘Because it really annoyed me. You making assumptions.’

  ‘I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘I make rather a lot of assumptions. It goes with my style of doing things. So what do you do, then?’

  She told him.

  ‘And you like that?’

  ‘Yes, I do. One day I want my own agency.’

  ‘Very ambitious. Why don’t you start right away?’

  ‘Well, because I don’t know enough,’ she said, laughing, ‘and also there’s the little matter of money. You need capital, to get going. We don’t have any, me and my mother.’

  ‘Or your father?’

  ‘My father’s dead,’ she said briefly. ‘He killed himself. Eight years ago. After losing an awful lot of money.’

  He stared at her. ‘He wasn’t Dick Duncan-Brown, was he?’ ‘Yes, he was.’

  ‘Good Lord. I knew him. Or rather I met him. A long time ago. I actually went to him for a loan. He turned me down.’

  ‘Really?’ she said. ‘I must tell my mother. It would amuse her.’ ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he knew so many people. And always backed the wrong ones.’

  There was a silence. Then: ‘Is there just you? Or do you have brothers and sisters?’

  ‘Just me. My mother said I was so nice she didn’t want to risk spoiling things. She’s very good at saying the right thing,’ she added, laughing.

  ‘I like her already. Tell me more,’ he said.

  ‘She’s great. My best friend. Corny I know, but she is. She’s very stylish and very funny, and she’s never let any of it get her down. She picked up all the pieces when he died, and went out and got herself a job selling dresses in Harrods, and was running the department in no time. We had a really nice house in Wiltshire and she sold it, just like that, no fuss, and bought a flat in Battersea, and she has a wild social life, better than mine, actually, and – well, that’s her. She’s called Rachel,’ she added.