Cat O'Nine Tales: And Other Stories (19 page)

Carol was also
a house officer at Guy’s, and on our first date made it abundantly clear that
she wasn’t looking for a long-term relationship. However, she underestimated my
one talent, persistence. She finally gave in after I’d proposed for the ninth
time. Carol and I were married a few months after she’d qualified.

Bob headed off
in the opposite direction. Whenever we invited him to dinner, he would turn up
escorted by a new companion. I sometimes got their names muddled up, a mistake
Carol never made. However, as the years passed, even Bob’s appetite to taste
some new delicacy from the table d’hôte became less hearty than it had been
during his student days; after all, we had both recently celebrated our
fortieth birthdays.

It didn’t help
when Bob was named in the student rag as the most eligible bachelor in the
hospital, not least because he had built up one of the most successful private
practices in London. He had a set of rooms in Harley Street, with none of the
expenses associated with marital bliss. But now that finally seemed to be
coming to an end.

When Bob
invited Carol and me to join him for dinner so that he could introduce us to
Fiona, whom he described as the woman he was going to spend the rest of his
life with, we were both surprised and delighted. We were also a little
perplexed as we couldn’t recall the name of his last girlfriend. We were fairly
confident it wasn’t Fiona.

When we arrived
at the restaurant, we saw the two of them seated in the far corner of the room,
holding hands. Bob rose to greet us and immediately introduced Fiona as the
most wonderful girl in the world. To be fair to the woman, no red-blooded male
could have denied Fiona’s physical attributes. She must have been about five
foot nine, made up of thirty inches of leg, attached to a figure honed in the
gym and no doubt perfected on a diet of lettuce leaves and water.

Our
conversation during the meal was fairly limited, partly because Bob spent most
of the time staring at Fiona in a way that should be reserved for one of
Donatello’s nudes. By the end of the meal, I had come to the conclusion that
Fiona would end up costing about as much, and it wasn’t just because she read
the wine list from the bottom upward, ordered caviar as a starter and asked,
with a sweet smile, for her pasta to be covered in truffles.

Frankly, Fiona
was the type of
longlegged
blonde whom you hope to
bump into, while perched on a stool in a hotel bar, late at night and
preferably on another continent. I am unable to tell you how old she was, but I
did learn during dinner that she had been married three times before she met
Bob. However, she assured us that, this time, she had found the right man.

I was only too
happy to escape that night and, as you have already discovered, I didn’t waste
much time making my wife aware of my views on Fiona.

The marriage
took place some three months later at the Chelsea Register Office in the King’s
Road. The ceremony was attended by several of Bob’s friends from St. Thomas’
and Guy’s–some of whom I hadn’t set eyes on since our rugby days. I felt it
unwise to point out to Carol that Fiona didn’t seem to have any friends, or at
least none who were willing to attend her latest nuptials.

I stood
silently by Bob’s side as the registrar intoned the words, “If anyone can show
lawful reason why these two should not be joined in matrimony, then they should
declare that reason to me now.”

I wanted to
offer an opinion, but Carol was too close at hand to risk it. I must confess
that Fiona did look radiant on that occasion, not unlike a python about to
devour a lamb–whole.

The reception
was held at
Lucio’s
on the
Fulham
Road. The best man’s speech might have been more coherent if I hadn’t consumed
quite so much champagne, or if I’d believed a word I was uttering.

When I sat down
to indulgent applause, Carol didn’t lean across to congratulate me. I avoided
her until we all joined the bride and groom on the pavement outside the
restaurant. Bob and Fiona waved goodbye before stepping into a white stretch
limousine that would take them to Heathrow. From there, they were to board a
plane to Acapulco, where they would spend a three-week honeymoon. Neither the
transport to Heathrow, which incidentally could have accommodated the entire
wedding party, nor the final destination for the honeymoon, had been Bob’s
first choice. A piece of information I didn’t pass on to Carol, as she would
undoubtedly have accused me of being prejudiced–and she would have been right.

I can’t pretend
that I saw a lot of Fiona during their first year of marriage, although Bob
called from time to time, but only from his practice in Harley Street.

We even managed
the occasional lunch, but he no longer seemed to be able to fit in a game of
squash in the evening.

Over lunch Bob
never failed to expound the virtues of his remarkable wife, as if only too
aware of my attitude to his spouse–although I never at any time expressed my
true feelings. I could only assume that this was the reason Carol and I were
never invited to dinner at their home, and whenever we asked them to join us
for supper, Bob made some unconvincing excuse about having to visit a patient,
or being out of town on that particular evening.

The change was
subtle to begin with, almost imperceptible. Our lunches became more regular,
even the occasional game of squash was fitted in, and perhaps more relevant,
there were fewer and fewer references to Fiona’s pending sainthood.

It was soon
after the death of Bob’s aunt, a Miss Muriel
Pembleton
,
that the change became far less subtle. To be honest, I didn’t even realize
that Bob had an aunt, let alone one who was the sole heir to
Pembleton
Electronics.

The Times
revealed that Miss
Pembleton
had left a little over seven million pounds in
shares and property, as well as a considerable art collection. With the
exception of a few minor bequests to charitable organizations, her nephew
turned out to be the sole beneficiary. God bless the man, because coming into
an unexpected fortune didn’t change Bob in any way; but the same couldn’t be
said of Fiona.

When I called
Bob to congratulate him on his good fortune, he sounded very low. He asked if I
could possibly join him for lunch, as he needed to seek my advice on a personal
matter.

We met a couple
of hours later, at a gastro pub just off Devonshire Place. Bob didn’t talk
about anything consequential until after the waiter had taken our order, but
once the first course had been served, Fiona was the only other dish on the
menu. He had received a letter that morning from Abbott Crombie & Co,
Solicitors, stating, in unambiguous terms, that his wife was filing for
divorce.

“Can’t fault
her timing,” I said tactlessly.

“And I didn’t
even spot it,” said Bob.

“Spot it?” I
repeated. “Spot what?”

“How Fiona’s
attitude to me changed not long after she’d met my aunt Muriel.

In fact, that
same night, she literally charmed the pants off me.”

I reminded Bob
of what Woody Allen had said on the subject. Mr. Allen could not understand why
God had given man a penis and a brain, but not enough blood to connect the two.
Bob laughed for the first time that day, but it was only moments before he
lapsed back into a maudlin silence.

“Is there
anything I can do to help?” I asked.

“Only if you know the name of a
firstclass
divorce lawyer,” Bob replied, “because I’m told that Mrs. Abbott has a
reputation for extracting the last drop of blood on behalf of her clients,
especially following the latest law lords’ ruling in favor of spouses.”

“Can’t say I
do,” I responded. “Having been happily married for sixteen years, I fear I’m
the wrong man to advise you. Why don’t you have a word with Peter Mitchell?
After all, with four
exwives
, he ought to be able to
tell you
who’s
the best advocate available.”

“I called Peter
first thing this morning,” admitted Bob. “He’s always been represented by Mrs.
Abbott–told me that he keeps her on a permanent retainer.”

During the next
few weeks, Bob and I returned to the squash court regularly, and I started
beating him for the first time. He would then join Carol and me for dinner
afterward. We tried to steer clear of any talk about Fiona. However, he did let
slip that she was refusing to leave the stage gracefully, even after he had
offered her half of Aunt Muriel’s bequest.

As the weeks
turned into months, Bob began losing weight and his golden locks were turning
prematurely gray.

Fiona, on the
other hand, seemed to go from strength to strength, taking each new hurdle like
a seasoned thoroughbred. When it came to tactics, Fiona clearly understood the
long game, but then she had the advantage of having experienced three away
victories, and was clearly looking forward to a fourth.

It must have
been about a year later that Fiona finally agreed to a settlement. All of Bob’s
assets were to be divided equally between them, while he would also cover her
legal costs. A date was set for a formal signing in chambers. I agreed to act
as a witness and give Bob, as Carol described it, much-needed moral support.

I never even
took the top off my pen because Fiona burst into tears long before Mrs. Abbott
had read out the terms, declaring that she was being cruelly treated and Bob
was causing her to have a nervous breakdown. She then flounced out of the
office without another word. I must confess that I had never seen Fiona looking
less nervous. Even Mrs. Abbott couldn’t hide her exasperation.

Harry Dexter,
whom Bob had selected as his solicitor, warned him that this was likely to end
up in a lengthy and expensive courtroom battle if he couldn’t agree to a
settlement. Mr. Dexter added, for good measure, that judges often instruct the
defending party to shoulder the injured party’s costs. Bob shrugged his
shoulders, not even bothering to respond.

Once both sides
had accepted that an out-of-court settlement could not be reached, a day was
fixed in the judge’s calendar for a hearing.

Mr. Dexter was
determined to counter Fiona’s outrageous demands with equally fierce
resistance, and to begin with Bob went along with all his recommendations. But
with each new demand from the other side, Bob’s resolve began to weaken until,
like a
punchdrunk
boxer, he was ready to throw in the
towel. He became more and more depressed as the day of the hearing drew nearer,
and even began saying, “Why don’t I just give her everything because that’s the
only way she’ll ever be satisfied?” Carol and I tried to lift his spirits, but
with little success, and even Mr. Dexter was finding it harder and harder to
convince his client to hang in there.

We both assured
Bob that we would be in court to support him on the day of the hearing.

Carol and I
took our places in the gallery of court number three, matrimonial division, on
the last Thursday in June, and waited for proceedings to begin. By ten to ten
the court officials began to drift in and take their places. A few minutes
later Mrs. Abbott arrived, with Fiona by her side. I stared down at the
plaintiff, who was wearing no jewelry and a black suit that would have been
more appropriate for a funeral–Bob’s.

A moment later Mr. Dexter appeared with Bob in his wake.
They took their places at a table on the other side of the courtroom.

As ten o’clock
struck, my worst fears were realized. The judge entered the courtroom–a woman
who immediately brought back memories of my old school matron–a martinet who
didn’t believe that the punishment should fit the crime.

The judge took
her place on the bench and smiled down at Mrs. Abbott. They’d probably been at
university together.