The Birthday Present Read Free

emerged that my advice was to be asked about the Hebe Furnal affair.
    As I've said, he'd decided against buying her a flat and to continue in the unsatisfactory way they were carrying on their illicit meetings. He had already asked to borrow our house at some time in May, which was four months ahead, and when he mentioned it again I was a bit apprehensive. I thought he might be going to ask if he could use it on a regular basis. But I soon saw that this wasn't what he wanted. He had his own flat. The difficulty was not that they had nowhere to go—he could after all have used a hotel—but that for most of the time Hebe was Justin-bound.
    “It's supposed to be the way to keep a relationship from flagging,” I said. “I mean, making it hard to meet and the meetings few and far between.”
    “I hate that word
relationship,”
he said, looking peevish. “Sorry, but the very sound of it puts a damper on things.Think of meeting someone you're mad about, like I am about Hebe, and saying, ‘I want to have a relationship with you.' Do you think people actually say that?”
    That made me laugh. I said I didn't know, I wouldn't be surprised.
    “Anyway, our affair isn't flagging. It doesn't get the chance to flag. I don't think it would if we met every day. Not that there's any prospect of that, the way things are.” He paused and gave me a sidelong look. “I haven't asked her yet, but I'm thinking about it—I mean of asking her to leave Gerry Furnal.”
    “And move in with you?” Remembering his time with Nicola Ross, I was surprised, but it turned out that this wasn't in his mind at all.
    “Not exactly,” he said, looking at me and looking away. “I've decided against buying, but I thought of renting a place for her.”
    “You mean she's to leave her husband and not live with you but live in a rented love nest? And what about the little boy?”
    I was very child-conscious at the time; still am, but in a more level-headed way. In the spring of 1990, when Nadine was six months old, my eyes were caught by every baby and infant I passed in the street. I couldn't read about child cruelty in the papers. I couldn't look at those pictures the NSPCC put out in their publicity. Someone took Iris and me to the opera, it was
Peter Grimes,
and I had to go outside when it got to that bit about Grimes being at his exercise and he's beating the boys. So my mind went at once to two-year-old Justin Furnal.
    “She'd bring him with her, you know,” I said.
    “Do you think she would?” he said. “I hadn't thought of that. It would be a bit of a drawback.”
    I'm very fond of Ivor, but I wasn't then. As sometimes happened, I came near to disliking him for a moment or two. I'd be aware of his charm and that sort of dashing reckless quality he had, and then he'd say something to turn it all around, almost shocking me.
    “Even supposing she left her husband, and it doesn't seem to me you've any reason to think she would, what happens next? Furnal and she would get divorced surely and she'd get custody of Justin.” I used his name because calling him “the child” was distasteful.
    “But would she, Rob? I mean, she'd have been the one committing adultery.”
    I told him he was supposed to be a lawyer and hadn't he ever heard of no-fault divorce? Unless she was a criminal or a druggie she'd get custody, never mind how saintly Gerry Furnal might be.
    “I hadn't thought of that,” he said. “I couldn't stand having that child around. It's bad enough when we're talking on the phone.” He seemed not to notice my slight recoil. I took a deep swig of my wine. “If Gerry divorced her I'd have to marry her, wouldn't I?”
    “Ivor,” I said, “for someone so advanced in your sexual tastes”—I remembered in time I'd better not admit to knowing what Iris had told me in confidence—”you're surprisingly old-fashioned. A mistress in a love nest, a clandestine love affair, and now you think you'd have to save her honor. Of course you