This Honourable House Read Online Free Page A

chosen wisely.
    Crashing rolls of organ music announced the arrival of the bride. Above her head, bells rang out joyously. The crowd were giving faint cheers, as if it were expected of them, though many were foreign tourists and somewhat bewildered. Christine was radiant in cream silk, a slight furrow on her brow as she switched the bouquet of lilies and roses from one hand to the other and adjusted her veil. The diamond tiara, it was reported, had been lent by a friendly peeress. Two tiny bridesmaids and an older girl fussed over the dress and train. Then, calmly, she stood proudly on the arm of her father and began to move inside at a regal pace.
    So who was that with Andrew Marquand? Betts peered closer. The face was familiar: she was dark-haired, trim, pretty, in a smart navy suit. Betts picked up the phone and murmured a question. He did not have to wait long. ‘Fiona Sutton,’ came the answer. ‘Works in the PR agency that handled the election for the government.’
    ‘A PR girl, then?’ Betts murmured. As Christine’s face hove into view on the screen, he added, ‘Another PR girl. Place is lousy with them.’
    He reached for his black notebook and recorded the information. He would find out more. Some day, it might turn out useful.
     
    One person watching television at home felt an uncomfortable mix of wistfulness and despair. It would have been too easy to cry. A box of Kleenex was at her side, an open packet of chocolate digestives in her lap.
    Gail Bridges, Frank’s estranged wife, had been married in a hasty register office ceremony in Leece Street within odoriferous distance of the Mersey, near the main police station to which her fiancé had been transferred. He had been in uniform, at her insistence: she adored a man in uniform. It made him so respectable. The silver buttons had shone and you could see your face in his boots. He’d still had a hangover from the stag night, and so had his mates: he had leaned on her when they signed the register.
    Gail had worn a big cartwheel hat, rather like Benedict’s mother’s; a defiant gesture. The photographs, taken with a box camera by her brother, a mite out of focus, had recorded that same concentrated furrow of the brow that Christine had. No doubt for a similar reason, for the thoughts of every bride are the same: Do I look okay? Will I make a fool of myself? Did I make a mistake insaying yes? Did I have any choice, when it came down to it? Will he make a good husband, or will I live to regret this moment for the rest of my life?
    A lump came to Gail’s throat. She was sprawled on the floor of their Cheshire home, though it would not be hers for much longer. She had dressed in leggings and an ancient sweater and sat surrounded by the soft toys of which she had made a collection, much to Frank’s annoyance. He used to speculate that they were a substitute for children, which might have been true but was still hurtful. Gail had retorted that he should be thankful she hadn’t taken to breeding chihuahuas or poodles. He had snorted, and that had been an end of it. Till the next time the subject of her barrenness came up.
    It was not her fault. The doctors had said there was no obvious reason why she should not have children, and suggested that Frank should have a test. He had rejected that idea out of hand. Gail suspected that he did not want the results of any such tests. If a woman was infertile, that was her responsibility. If it was the man, especially a man so full of macho sensitivity as Frank, his self-esteem was irreparably damaged. And that would never do. A modern couple might have pursued the issue via IVF, with donor sperm. Another man’s children? That was unthinkable, for them both. The conversation had never taken place, but Gail could have repeated it word for word, exactly as it might have occurred.
    In any case, his days were full without children. Had he been a father, he would have been a neglectful one, Gail was sure. He was a fine man