The Sweetness of Liberty James (5 page)

Gradually, she drifted along in her own direction. Liberty was excellent at dealing with people, and with her practical mind she was very good at problem-solving. She was offered a position in PR and felt much happier than when she had been an equities trader. Because of this, she excelled at what she did, smoothing the road for the directors and making the bank appear to be a modern, forward-moving, people-friendly establishment, whereas in reality it was stuck in the past and simply lucky with the quality and loyalty of the men and women it employed.

As a wedding present, the Cholmondly-Radleys gave them the amazing gift of a sweet little mews house in Belgravia. Percy had found the deeds when going through a trunk years earlier. The Cholmondly-Radleys had been unaware they owned it, and Percy thought the rent the tenants had been paying for the last forty years was an abomination. Against his parents' wishes, Percy announced, ‘We have tipped the tenants out, it's ours now.' His parents had simply hoped he would keep it as an investment and were truly sad to say goodbye to their delightful daughter-in-law and their only son.

Liberty wanted to start a family and sell the house to set up her own company. There would be money left over to buy a small place in the country. Percy, though, was reticent. He knew at some point an heir apparent would have to be produced, but he couldn't bring himself to imagine the horror of a baby messing up his day. He didn't say so, just encouraged Liberty to remain in her job for a little while. ‘We have the rest of our lives to settle, let's have some time together first.' So she used one of her many practical talents to decorate their mews house. This was a tricky job as the place had very little natural light and small rooms. Liberty managed to make it look fabulous with the help of her friend J-T.

Bob and J-T had also (unbelievably, after J-T's own admission
of a somewhat debauched past) been an item since the night Liberty first met Percy, the only two of Liberty and Percy's friends who had remained together for the full three years of uni and emerged at the other side still an item. Fabulous, camp and ineradicably stylish, J-T had known that after reading English (because that was what one did, darling, after Eton) he would set up an interior design consultancy, and be brilliant, expensive and very, very famous. Within three years of opening his showroom J-T had succeeded in all three ambitions, and now spent most of his time phoning Liberty to ask her when she was going to let him into Anstley Hall. He was prepared to create something really sumptuous for her in-laws, and when could they begin? Liberty simply giggled, knowing that Anstley Hall would remain the showcase for years of family life, not plumped cushions and perfect colour schemes, but she embraced J-T's enthusiasm and passion.

J-T was forever clothed in Dolce & Gabbana, and it was rumoured that even his pyjamas bore their logo. He was always immaculately turned out, with his slicked back blond hair and one eighth of an inch of stubble perfectly clipped every day by his valet, José. Bob, dark and plump as a Botticelli cherub, was usually dressed in pink cashmere. He had opened his own gallery, showing an interesting mix of new artists and established painters. The couple were adored by their French bulldogs, Feran and Bulli, who never told them off for coming home at 5 a.m. after too many Martinis quaffed at the most recently opened club. After all, it was their job to meet all the latest TV and football stars, and somehow to let them know, in a most subtle way, that nobody except the two of them had any idea at all about what good taste was. What was more, Bob and J-T were there to create wonderful interiors and provide art for all these nouveau stars and give them an indisputable air of ‘having arrived'.

This was their primary skill. The introductions were vital. After that, they would introduce their style. Most interior
designers have a specific style. A potential client will look at their ‘book', like what they see and invite the designer to come and give their home a makeover, or ‘do their space', interior design speak for redecorating a home. This makes most homes which have been designed by a specific company look almost identical, and as most designers watch out for the latest trends and use the latest patterns, most of these homes look very similar.

J-T was different. He listened with great care to the clients. He then followed them around for a month or so to see what type of personality they had. If a footballer hesitated over a gold dolphin tap sticking out of a wall in a hotel, he would find an antique one to match, or have one antiqued to look as good. The client usually thought he, or more usually she, had chosen it personally.

J-T would recreate your house interior so it appeared as though you had personally collected every item yourself, but somehow things fitted together and looked miraculous, and of course incredibly stylish (and oh-so-expensive, darling). He was ‘quietly clever', as Liberty put it, but like Botox, you only told your nearest and dearest friends that you had employed him, because you wanted all your acquaintances to know just how intelligent and designer-savvy you were, and of course, he always bought the art through Bob, which in turn meant that Bob's gallery received unheard of success very quickly.

J-T knew Liberty well enough to tell her that she had no need of his services, and he could do no better. He had spent most of the long uni holidays at The Nuttery, and having seen the beautiful house, he knew that Liberty would want more of the shabby but lived-in look, and that she was perfectly capable of achieving this herself. And, selfishly, it meant he wouldn't have to deal with Percy, whom he found an insufferable prig, bullish and homophobic, although of course he would never dream of explaining this to his dear friend for fear of losing her.

After three years of married life, Liberty was still floating through her days. Nothing seemed very real to her. The parties
were fun, she stayed at Le Manoir or Gidleigh for appropriate birthdays and anniversaries and she found her working days so easy they barely registered in her brain.

Because she was so beautiful, she had advantages, but she had so many friends simply because she was a genuinely good, kind person. She would always be the first to help or listen to any of her colleagues, and once she had accepted someone as a friend she was loyal, generous and loving in a rare way. But this seemingly perfect girl had two fatal weaknesses. She was far too innocent, and she was loyal to the end.

From the moment her parents had separated, Liberty had disappeared emotionally into a tortoiseshell of protection. She had never regained her sense of taste or smell, so had kept a fine figure; although she retained considerable interest in her parents' professions, she believed she could never emulate them as she couldn't taste the outcome. Instead, she pursued perfection for its own sake, whether it was working hard ensuring her employer's bank became better thought of, being a good friend or running marathons for charity.

5

After three years of being badgered by Liberty, who was very keen to try for a baby, Percy decided they should produce an heir. However, twelve months later, nothing had happened. Despite checking dates in her diary with her usual care and ensuring she was ovulating (Liberty did not have a regular cycle, but everything appeared to function well) there was no pregnancy. After another six months, Liberty and Percy went together to the doctor and asked him to recommend a specialist. As Percy reminded Liberty, ‘Obviously, it's not me.' This was not intended as any form of criticism, but simply a fact in his mind. He was a fit man from a good family who had never had problems in that department.

Liberty was referred to the Snow Fast Fertility Clinic. Mr Probert was a remarkable man, specialising in IVF. He had only recently opened his own surgery in Tunbridge Wells, designed with an operating theatre. Like many specialists, he kept on learning about his subject, as he was keen to keep up to date with every new treatment and procedure, and he travelled frequently to listen to speakers on infertility and curiosities concerning the human body in the modern age. He was interested in the dichotomy of the Western world, which had good medicine and diet yet a high infertility rate, while poor countries produced more babies per woman despite their poor health. He also asked the question: why were so many couples in industrialised countries either putting off trying to start a family until they were too old to create a baby, or not managing to when they tried early on in their adult lives?

On the day of her appointment Liberty drove herself down from London to Tunbridge Wells. Percy was representing his bank at a conference in Paris, but Liberty, as ever impatient to get on with things, agreed to the first slot offered to her by the clinic. She arrived at the large Victorian building, parked her Range Rover with difficulty in a space meant for something smaller, and looked around her. The house looked smart; the windows were freshly painted and it seemed somehow both welcoming and efficient and nothing like a hospital.
So far, so good,
she breathed to herself.

As she unwound her grey scarf from her neck she was greeted by the friendly nurses in reception and asked to sit in the large airy waiting room, obviously once the drawing room. She glanced furtively at the other people sitting around, reading or pretending to read the latest country magazines. Most of them were about her own age, some girls on their own, others with partners, but there was one man who was about seventy-eight at a polite guess while, shockingly, the girl he was with was a young slip of a thing, probably not even out of her teens.
I hope that's her grandfather,
Liberty thought to herself.

The women in the room were trying hard to look relaxed, either reading magazines or chatting quietly to others, but they all had a set look about them, one that Liberty recognised from her own reflection in the mirror. It was a sort of terrified desperation, all of them hating their bodies for making them be there, wondering why it was that so many women could pop out five babies without a thought before they hit thirty while living on benefits, McDonald's and alcopops, whilst they, with their macrobiotic diets, yoga workouts and alcohol-free lifestyles, were keen to try anything to get pregnant, but couldn't. There must be some sort of evolutionary unfairness. But maybe that should be the advice: live on cheap food, smoke and never get any fresh air. Look as pasty as possible and never get out of a tracksuit, and then drop twins nine months later. She smiled at the thought.

It didn't help that the latest
Hello!
on offer included a ten-page spread of a supermodel who had just delivered another baby from her billionaire boyfriend, got her figure back in a mere six weeks and was now cavorting round their swimming pool in her minuscule bikini, while her baby was God knew where. ‘Oh, I barely knew I was pregnant,' the quote stated, ‘it was just so easy. Everyone should have a baby. It was such fun. Anyway, I am off to New York on an assignment next week, leaving darling Tia with Nanny. No, I don't think small babies should travel round the world, do you?'

OK, so that's it. The anorexic models are fertile and the poor breed like rabbits. Was everyone but Liberty having babies?
Obviously not,
she thought, looking around the room, feeling guilty and selfish.
All these people need help too
.

Thankfully, stopping her mind from spiralling into insanity, Liberty heard a text arrive on her phone from her godmother Paloma, a glamorous and successful restaurateur in the south of France and a Sophia Loren lookalike. Paloma was born in London, but moved to France after falling in love with a man ten years younger then herself. His parents owned a tiny restaurant, set in the hills above St Tropez. The parents died, the man disappeared to ‘find himself', and Paloma was left with the restaurant to run. Somehow along the way she became pregnant, so also had a baby boy to feed.

Liberty's parents had met Paloma when Alain helped her out after she was left with a large restaurant and little knowledge. Deirdre soon learned that Paloma was pregnant. Best of all for Liberty, Paloma was asked to be her godmother. She was a true fairy godmother, whisking her down to France to stay for the summer holidays, where she got to know little Claude, Paloma's son, and they spent many a happy summer playing on the beaches and in the dusty hills. As the years went by, wonderfully, Deirdre, Alain and Liberty stayed in touch separately with Paloma, sometimes going down to the resort for some relaxation, sunshine and excellent French cooking.

‘Well done, darling,' read the text, ‘try for one of those test tube babies for me, is it like those ships in bottles? How will you get it out? Remember to come and stay for some R&R when preggie, it will happen my angel.'

Liberty giggled and relaxed and felt much better. Her mother also texted and as Liberty looked at her phone again she laughed aloud. ‘Should I start knitting? Maybe will stick to baking. Tried making you a baby cardie but it ended up being full of holes. Good luck, darling, Martini waiting in Littlehurst when you need it.'

How lucky she was to have such a positive family. She had joined her father earlier in the week for lunch. He had been laughing about his latest squeeze, whom he had dumped unceremoniously when she told him she was ‘off carbs' and their affair had appeared in the red tops. ‘I don't bloody understand, it's not as though I've sold myself out to
Hello!
or the other ghastlies, so why the hell should they be interested in my personal life?'

‘Well, maybe, Daddy, it's because Angel has sold herself out! She has told the world how you tried out your latest sauce by pouring it all over her breasts and licking it off in the middle of your restaurant! I think the tabloids may like that sort of thing . . .'

Alain roared with happy laughter, and then looked sheepishly at Liberty.

‘Well, darling, it is all about passion, something I am blessed with.'

‘And what happened to wife number three? I didn't even meet her!'

‘Well . . . she is now singing in a pop group all paid for by muggins here, and sleeping with some aged punk. She is still a spoilt brat, too.'