a lot to lose. And he knew that, even now, sixteen years on, I could let the cat out of the bag. I could go to Scotland Yard and make a statement and he’d be out of Westminster before you could say ‘Big Ben’. But what good would be served by doing that, I wondered, as we drove through St Albans. Justice, of course. But who would actually benefit from it? I thought of Jimmy’s wife. She seemed a genuine, kind-hearted, nice person, and I had no wish to spoil things for her. She clearly knew nothing about what her husband had done—if he’d told her she would have been appalled. She might well not have married him. I know I wouldn’t if I’d learned something like that.
Now, as I passed Potter’s Bar, I wondered what Caroline did know about Jimmy’s past. He’d probably just told her that he’d been a bit of a radical. That would be okay. Having gone on demonstrations in your youth, even taking part in the odd riot, is no bar to public life. Or rather, it’s no bar as long as you haven’t done anything criminal. But Jimmy had. I wondered, as I often had wondered, what would happen to me if I told. This, clearly, was what Jimmy was still banking on. The fact that I’d lose my career. It would be even worse now than it would have been before—because of who Jimmy had become. It would be all over the newspapers—I shuddered at the imagined headlines—and that would be curtains for me. Even if there were no prosecution, I’d be tarnished. The TV company would drop me like a shot. Who’d want to watch me on Animal Crackers, knowing I’d done something like that? It was one thing to spray graffiti on a fur-coat shop. It was quite another to…I shuddered again as I remembered. Yes…That was quite another thing. There was, of course, one person who would benefit from any disclosure. All I knew was his name. David White.
That night I hardly slept. It was so hot I had the skylight above my bed wide open. I could hear the gibbons shrieking in the zoo, and the occasional roar of a lion—maybe that’s why I’d had that dream about The Wizard of Oz. Less romantically, I could hear the screaming of car alarms and the dull rumble of traffic from the Marylebone Road. My mind was in turmoil as I alternately dozed and then woke. I’d tried to bury this awful thing in my subconscious all these years, but now I wanted to unburden myself. But to whom? Certainly not to my parents. It’s not something I’d ever want them to know.
Now I wondered—as I so often had done—about confiding in Daisy, but I didn’t want to put our friendship at risk. As my carriage clock chimed three thirty I thought about writing to an agony aunt. Perhaps that nice woman, Beverley McDonald, on the Daily Post, with her support dog, Trevor? I’d seen her on TV a couple of times. She’d sounded sensible and sympathetic. I wondered what advice she’d give. And, as the first birds began to wake and whistle, I composed a letter to her in my mind.
Dear Beverley, I hope you can help me, because I have this dreadful problem. Sixteen years ago I was involved, albeit unwittingly, in something truly awful—something which caused a lot of damage and pain to a totally innocent person, but the thing is… I sighed, then turned over. I just couldn’t do it. Even if I used a pseudonym she might, somehow, discover it was from me and feel duty-bound to tell the police. I saw my life, already troubled by my crisis with Alexander, about to be utterly ruined. I wondered if I could talk it out with a counsellor or a therapist; but I didn’t have one and, again, what if they told? I sat up in bed, as Herman snoozed beside me, sighing intermittently—he even manages to look stressed in his sleep. And as the shreds of pink cloud began to striate the fading navy of the retreating night, I had another, better, idea. There were online therapists and psychiatrists—‘Cyber-shrinks’. I threw off the sheet and went downstairs.
I switched on my computer, entered ‘online counselling’ into Google and came up with about two thousand hits. There were ‘Share-Feelings’ and ‘Help2Cope’. There was a California-based one called ‘Blue.com’, which claimed to offer a ‘cure’ for any psychological problem ‘within ten minutes’. Sceptical, I clicked to the next. This one was called ‘Thought Field Therapy’ and claimed to use ‘advanced psycho-technologies’ to resolve ‘any personal issue’. These were listed alphabetically in a sort of tragicomic shopping list, from abuse, affairs and alcoholism through to snoring, transsexuals and stress. Which one of them would I click on? That was easy. ‘Guilt.’ It had squatted on my life like a dead weight. There were other sites with pictures of the sun rising, of rainbows and of clouds lifting. They all sounded appealing—but how could I choose? Then I stumbled on an Australian website, ‘NoWorries.com’ for ‘people who would like to talk to someone about their problems anonymously, and to do that with total confidence from home’. As I surfed the site I could hear soothing classical music, and there were images of flickering candles and messages in bobbing bottles. Attracted to its simplicity, I logged on.
It said that I could be counselled by e-mail, telephone or face-to-face. I opted for an e-mail session of fifty minutes—the traditional psychiatrist’s hour. When did I want it? I could book any time slot, so I clicked on the window marked ‘Now’. I used my Hotmail address as it’s more anonymous, then began to tap in my credit card number. Hang on…I hadn’t been thinking straight. My credit card has my name on it. Too dangerous. With a heavy heart, I pressed ‘Quit’. I went back to bed and lay there, staring through the skylight, trying to work out how I could unburden myself. And I was just wondering whether perhaps the simplest thing wouldn’t be to go to the nearest Catholic church and find a priest to confess to, when the phone went.
‘Hello?’
‘Sorry to ring so early,’ said Daisy. She sounded dismal.
‘That’s okay. I was just getting up. What’s the matter?’
‘Oh…nothing,’ she said, bleakly. ‘I’m…’ I heard her voice catch, ‘…fine.’
‘You don’t sound it. How was last night?’
‘Well, to be honest, not quite as “special” as I’d hoped.’
‘Where did he take you?’
‘The Opera House.’
‘But that sounds lovely.’
‘Well…yes. It was. Seats in the stalls. Champagne before and after. But…’
‘He didn’t…?’
There was the sound of a suppressed sob. ‘No. Although when I realized it was The Marriage of Figaro my hopes were right up. And at the end the singers were knee-deep in confetti, and I was just sitting there thinking…Well, you know what I was thinking.’
‘Hmm.’
‘Then afterwards, Nigel took me to this gorgeous little French restaurant, and I was convinced he was going to do it—at last. But we were just chatting in a perfectly normal way and he didn’t look at all nervous; and then he had to take an emergency call about this merger he’s working on, so he went outside. And at the next table was this couple, and I heard the guy propose to his girlfriend.’
‘Really?’
‘I actually heard him say the words. She just looked so radiantly happy, and then she started to cry. Then when the waiter realized what had happened he announced it and we all clapped and raised our glasses—and Nigel missed the whole thing. So when he came back to the table I told him what had happened; and instead of saying, “How romantic”, or “How lovely”, or even, “Will you marry me, Daisy?”, he just said, “How extraordinary”. Like that. As though it really puzzled him. Then he spent the rest of the evening talking about the opera.’
‘Hmm.’
‘And as he had to catch a very early flight to Bonn, I came home. I don’t think it’s ever going to happen!’ she wailed.
‘Well there’s always his fortieth, isn’t there? When’s that?’
‘Next month.’
‘Maybe the prospect of impending middle age will do the trick.’
‘But his dad didn’t marry until he was forty-six.’
‘It