The Would-Begetter Page 2

  ‘He’s my brother,’ Hector said, ‘Why?’

  ‘Just wondered,’ Caroline said. ‘Wasn’t Mudgeley a big name around here at one time? Didn’t they used to own most of Woodspring?’

  ‘And the Chronicle too,’ Hector agreed ruefully. ‘Not any more.’

  ‘But you never wanted to join the family firm?’

  ‘I never found the manufacture of protective clothing to be particularly stimulating,’ Hector said, holding her glance.

  Caroline detected a definite gleam in his eye, and debated within herself whether to respond in kind. She estimated that he was about ten years her senior and surprisingly well dressed. He was taller than she was (even in her highest heels) and had pleasant symmetrical features and thick greying hair. The thing however that most attracted her, was his habit of direct eye contact and his air of effortless self-confidence. She wondered whether it was justified, and found herself wanting to find out.

  He’d make a pleasant change from Vivian, she thought; less artistic but definitely more sensual… Not that I can actually do anything about him at this precise moment, with Jess here…

  Caroline collected her thoughts. ‘Do you work freelance?’ she asked her.

  ‘Nope,’ Hector answered for her. ‘She’s a wage slave, aren’t you Jess.’

  ‘I sometimes take photos for friends on days off or weekends,’ Jess said. ‘And I’ve been known to do the odd wedding.’

  ‘Mmmm,’ Caroline said. ‘Perhaps we could get together professionally? Not for a wedding (God forbid!) but I’m doing a presentation brochure and I need some mug shots of the Directors. The last ones we had done were quite ghastly; made them all look like delinquents. I’ll give you a ring, yes?’

  ‘Yes. I’d love to, but time could be a prob…’ Jess looked doubtful.

  ‘Excellent idea’ Hector enthused. ‘Industry and the Press will be all the better for a spot of mutual co-operation. I’ll square it with our Editor.’

  From the outset, Hector had been impressed by Caroline Moffat and now, with a bit of luck, Jess would be in touch with her further, which might create more opportunities for him to meet her too. He reckoned she was smart in every sense of the word. She was the type he could certainly fancy in a big way but mindful of the task ahead, as he and Jess drove back to the Chronicle building, he forced himself dutifully to run through his carefully considered list of ‘essential wifely qualities’ to assess her marks out of ten:

  Beauty – 6ish

  Personality – bit sharp, 5?

  Sex appeal – 7, maybe 8?

  Poise/Elegance – 10 definitely

  Intelligence – 9 (maybe a mixed blessing?)

  Wealth – 8 or more?

  Class/Accent – 10

  Suitable age range – 3oish. Perfect – 10

  Child-bearing hips – Mmmm, only 3

  Maternal potential – Hard to tell, 5+?

  Genetic endowment, diseases etc. – Unknown, but promising

  Politics – unknown

  Status – unmarried, available? 10 or nil.

  Useful connections – 9?

  Bingo! he thought, screwing up his face with the effort of mental arithmetic. That comes to a minimum of… 82, and potentially a great deal more, especially if she can cook. I must do some research. Caroline Moffat could be THE ONE!

  ‘Have you got a pain?’ Jess asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, you’re making awful faces.’

  ‘I’m thinking.’ Should I put my life-plan suggestion to Caroline, Hector wondered, or should I go ahead with it and not tell her? I know, I’ll sound out the female response – maybe not a universal one, but adequate. I’ll ask Jess.

  ‘Must be agonising,’ Jess said, ‘activating all those little synapses in the brain, and simultaneously too.’

  ‘Very funny. Look Jess, supposing someone made you a proposition along the lines of, “Would you be prepared to have my baby first and then get married afterwards,” what would you say?’

  ‘You don’t mean…?’ Jess flushed scarlet.

  ‘No! Not you, you complete and utter noodle. Good Lord, whatever next! I was speaking purely theoretically; asking your opinion, as a woman.’

  There was a pregnant silence. Hector glanced sideways and saw, to his consternation, that Jess looked about to burst into tears.

  ‘Hey!’ he said, slowing the car down. ‘I haven’t upset you, have I? I wouldn’t do that for the world, Jessy-boot, you know that. I just wanted an intelligent, unbiased womanly opinion, so who better to ask than you?’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Jess said, smiling hard. ‘It’s nothing. I’ve just got… an eyelash… in my eye.’ She reached into the sleeve of her jersey and then, taking her glasses off, dabbed at her face with a tissue.

  ‘Better now?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘So what do you think Miss Average would reply to such a proposition?’ Hector stepped on the accelerator again.

  ‘I’m not a great expert in such matters,’ Jess said, flung back against her seat by the unexpected thrust, ‘but I think she’d probably tell you to get knotted!’

  ‘Putting you through,’ Wendy Bing cooed in her carefully modulated telephone voice. She pressed a button and looked up from the switchboard just as Hector and Jess came in through the Chronicle’s swing doors. Wendy wondered why Jess didn’t make more of herself. With a body as skinny as hers, she could wear anything, so why did she have to choose such coarse mannish fabrics, and such a determinedly unfem-inine look? And why, while she was about it, didn’t she get herself some contact lenses and make herself less owl-like? Wendy exhaled in disapproval and stroked her own right shoulder reflectively. Beneath her fingers the pink angora sweater felt baby-soft, and she deliberately left her hand where it was whilst Hector approached, so that he would be bound to notice that its fourth finger was now invitingly ring-free.

  When she had passed thirty and yet remained puzzlingly single, Wendy had invented a fiancé to keep her end up. But when she had gathered that Hector was getting divorced, she had chucked the fake diamond into the bin and had lived in hope ever since.

  ‘Hi Wend,’ Hector said breezily. ‘I really must stop saying that, mustn’t I? Sounds just like “High wind”. Any messages for me?’

  Wendy smiled brilliantly at him. ‘Just the one, on that poaching story,’ she said, handing him a small oblong of yellow paper with a telephone number. ‘Can you phone a Mr Milligan?’

  ‘That it?’ Hector said, taking it and stuffing it into his pocket.

  ‘That’s your lot.’

  ‘Right.’

  Wendy watched him as he disappeared up the stairs to the Newsroom. She felt rather let down. Today he hadn’t said anything special to her. On good days he’d admire her hair or wink at her as though they had secrets in common. Of course, Wendy mused, they did indeed share secrets, although Hector himself wasn’t strictly aware of this fact. As the chief Receptionist of three, Wendy had always considered herself to be the nerve-centre of the Westcountry Chronicle and thus felt justified in being in the know about everything that was happening throughout the building. She didn’t exactly eavesdrop on conversations; that would be more than her job was worth. She just happened to overhear snippets as she switched calls about and made connections. It was strange but when Megan, Hector’s wife, called him at work, Wendy was often the unwilling recipient of a great deal of information, ranging from the mildly interesting to the very personal indeed. She knew for instance that Hector was seven years older than herself, that Hector’s marriage was in trouble long before he publicly admitted as much, that his and Megan’s arguments were invariably about starting a family, but that Hector’s sperm count – whatever wicked things her workmates were saying – was absolutely up to scratch.

  Wendy sighed and stopped stroking her shoulder. She had been wracking her brains for some foolproof scheme which would ensure that Hector actually saw her as a woman, not just as part of Reception. Next month’s office Ch
ristmas party seemed to be her best bet, but it was fancy dress this year and she couldn’t for the life of her decide what costume to wear. Should she go as somebody famous; Marilyn Monroe? No, she wasn’t blonde and she didn’t fancy a wig. Maybe something connected with one of Hector’s special articles? That way he’d be bound to notice her.

  Hector came down the stairs again and said, ‘Wendy? Don’t suppose you have any ideas on cooking pheasants do you? This poaching story is producing some rather tasty perks!’

  ‘Roast, casseroled or what?’

  ‘You’re wonderful,’ Hector said. ‘In a microwave for preference. I think I could just about manage that. Could you jot it down for me?’

  And it was whilst she was writing, from memory, the essentials of the recipe on another little yellow Post-it, that Wendy had her fateful idea.

  Chapter 2

  ‘Time to go?’ Barry Poole said, suddenly arriving in the doorway of Jess’s office, puffed, and flourishing a press release.

  Jess jumped. ‘I didn’t know you were coming with me today’ Barry was the Chronicle’s most recent graduate trainee, working on the paper whilst he studied for his qualifications in journalism. He seemed to Jess to spend most of his time alternately eating crisps, and in a day-dream about his future prospects. She quite liked him, in spite of the fact that he had been the main instigator of the ribaldry about Hector. Of course, from what she now knew, the taunts were quite unfounded, but she wouldn’t be able to tell Barry that. She’d promised.

  ‘Yeah. Nige says he wants a few supplementary questions. D’you know Jess, I really covet that man’s job. D’you think I’ll have made News Editor by the time I’m his age?’

  ‘Doubt it,’ Jess teased. ‘Come on then if you’re coming.’ She led the way out to the car park and climbed into the yellow Jeep which had the Chronicle’s logo painted prominently on both doors. Since she was out and about more than most of the staff, and on call at any time of day or night, she was the one who drove it the most often and considered it virtually hers.

  Ever since its visit to the garage, it had started perfectly, as it did now. They drove out of the High Street and left along Marine Parade. It had been a mild and unusually wet winter so far. Jess, glancing sideways briefly as she drove, could see another squall approaching across the flat grey sea.

  ‘Looks like we’re going to get soaked,’ Barry observed.

  ‘Mmmmm.’

  ‘You know Jess, I’ve been getting really hacked off with only rewriting press releases and doing wedding reports. I mean, what I’d ideally like is a good juicy human-interest story, but since I’m not offered one, I was thinking of doing an environmental piece on unpredictable rainfall. What d’you think?’

  ‘Hector usually does all the green issues. It’s his special interest.’

  ‘But not his only one, so I hear.’ Barry cackled. Jess was silent. ‘Well go on then. That was your cue to ask me…’ His plump cheeks quivered in anticipation.

  ‘I’ve heard all the cracks about him,’ Jess said, stopping at a red traffic light and turning to face him, ‘and I think they’re pathetic.’

  ‘Nah,’ Barry brushed them aside. ‘Ancient news. This is bang up to the minute. You know that classy female who was on the front page a couple of weeks ago; the top executive?’

  ‘Caroline Moffat?’

  ‘That’s the one. Well we all reckon that her and Hector are an item.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘True as I’m sitting here. One of the Subs saw them together at the Purple Matador the other night. He said H.M. was all over her!’

  ‘But she’s quite wrong for him,’ Jess protested. ‘I knew her years ago, and she isn’t Hector’s type at all.’

  ‘No accounting for taste,’ Barry said.

  ‘You’re having me on?’

  ‘No, honest, straight up.’ A car behind them hooted. ‘It’s green,’ Barry observed, ‘and at this point in time, I believe it’s normal to be in gear?’

  So far, Hector thought complacently, things with Caroline are motoring along nicely. He stretched himself back against the leather upholstery of his old and trusty Jaguar, and drummed his fingers cheerfully on the steering wheel in time to a burst of Wagner from Classic FM. Caroline clearly quite fancied him, and was happy to talk about herself. Up to now it had been light superficial stuff, but Hector had hopes of doing some in-depth research on her antecedents pretty soon. He wasn’t quite sure how he would go about the questions he wanted to put to her on the subject of genetics. He could hardly turn to her and ask baldly, ‘Any madness in your family?’ Yet if he merely said, ‘You look as though you come from fine healthy stock?’ she might just laugh and he’d be none the wiser. How to elicit vital facts without subjecting the woman to a cross-examination – that was the question.

  The more he thought about it logically, the more he was amazed at how casually people got together to procreate, with no thought of the Pandora’s box of concealed and potentially, heritable disasters. I mean, he told himself, people don’t go into business ventures until they’ve sussed out all the pros and cons. They don’t buy anything large or important until they’ve priced it in at least two different shops, so why on earth do they let themselves be conned by their hormones into choosing totally unsuitable breeding partners merely on the transient pretext of ‘love’? You only have to look about you at modern relationships, to realise that whole idea is doomed.

  Looking at things dispassionately, Hector thought, (which is what I must train myself to do, in spite of my normal human instincts) I’ve clearly got to try to find an ideal set of genes for my son to inherit. It’s not at all the same thing as eugenics – that whole concept is clearly abhorrent – it’s more like a positive affirmation of the best that humankind can offer…

  He avoided a wobbly cyclist by inches, but managed to hang on to his train of thought: after all, man had perfected his livestock by generations of selective breeding, so perhaps this wasn’t such a huge step…? Hector was still partly unconvinced… Maybe it was a little extreme? But this sort of thing would come – of that he had no doubt. It was just a pity that designer babies weren’t yet on-stream… Anyway, whatever happened it was obvious that an arranged marriage would be the best compromise he could realistically achieve – providing of course that he could arrange it in his own way.

  Hector drew the car in towards the kerb and stopped outside an ugly 1930’s house, the ground floor of which he was renting (very temporarily) as a flat. The sooner my divorce goes through and I can move from this dump, the better, he thought. I’m certainly not going to entertain Caroline here. Thank the Lord I’ve got an alternative venue. It might be a little tricky, but I’m pretty sure I can pull it off. He let himself in, and went straight to the living room where he poured himself a large whisky and sank reflectively into the depths of his capacious leather chair.

  Of course, he thought, body chemistry has to come into the equation. There’s no way I could contemplate getting together with a woman I didn’t desire, but again, that mustn’t be allowed to cloud the issue. It’s so easy to get carried away… He went over his plan in his head. If Jess’s reaction had been anything to go by, and Hector thought it most probably was, then he couldn’t afford to be open about his aims. He’d have to employ a bit of subterfuge; maybe tell the successful female candidate that he’d had a vasectomy? There were well-documented cases where the operation hadn’t worked, which would let him off the hook if subsequently necessary. Of course he’d have to make sure she hadn’t got a coil, or wasn’t taking the pill… Then, if a baby came along, all well and good, and if one didn’t, then back to the drawing-board and the search for another suitable partner. It was all so beautifully simple in theory.

  Hector took a long swig of Scotch and let out a sigh of contentment. Then of course he’d have to buy himself a proper house, in keeping with his status in life, but he would have to delay that until after the divorce and the question of the settlement had all been dec
ided. Once it was safely completed, and with Megan out of the picture, he would be free to liberate the funds he’d prudently stashed offshore, and begin again; maybe even recreate the same room for his son? Hector, in his mind’s eye, saw the young Morgan gurgling happily in a brand new cot, with the blue elephants and the alphabet frieze on the wall above the child’s precious head… the pit of his stomach did a little flip, as fanciful paternal pride swelled within him.

  After Hector had downed his Scotch and glanced at the early evening news on BBCi, he eased himself out of the chair to go to his bedroom and sort out a change of clothes for the evening ahead with Caroline. That night he had planned a quiet dinner in a discreet restaurant where each table was cosily boxed into its own alcove, the ambience illuminated by candlelight and mellowed by revolving Mozart. He debated out loud on his choice of shirt. The cotton or the silk? He stood in front of his full-length mirror and held each one up to his chest in turn. Then he leant forward rather smugly and inspected his hairline. Maybe the gods haven’t always been kind to me, he thought, and maybe I am going a little grey but at least, thank God, I’m not bald!

  Caroline dressed with care for her dinner with Hector, putting her hair up in a chignon and applying eye make-up with a steady hand; mouth half open to aid concentration. She regarded the finished product with some satisfaction. Vivian would approve. She hoped Hector would too.

  Caroline thought about Vivian as she drove towards her rendezvous with Hector. They had met years before when she had gone into his art gallery in Bath to buy a painting, and they had been friends and occasional lovers ever since. She had wondered initially whether he was gay, but had eventually concluded that he was just not all that fired-up about sex, rather like herself in fact. On the occasions when they did go to bed together, he made a good job of it (being a perfectionist at heart), but for both of them, a little seemed to go a long way. It did have the great advantage that they never got bored, or possessive, or took each other for granted. There were worse arrangements.