Part 1
* * *
4 February 2004
In a waiting room at St Mary’s Hospital, Paddington, George Cleverley sits quietly, looking at his five-year-old son Nelson and four-year-old daughter Elizabeth, at their sleepy expressions and unkempt hair. They were never supposed to be here at this time, so early on a Wednesday morning. They’re frightened and confused.
‘I thought we weren’t going to have another baby for six more weeks,’ says Nelson, who’s been keeping a time chart on his wall, counting down the days to what he hopes will be the arrival of a younger brother. He’s wearing a cowboy costume, although he forgot his hat and toy gun.
‘That was how it was supposed to be,’ says George, putting his arm around the boy and pulling him close. ‘But sometimes, babies arrive a little earlier than expected.’
‘Is Mummy going to die?’ asks Elizabeth, who heard the anguished screams of her mother as the ambulance arrived and watched as the blood soaked into Beverley’s nightdress.
‘Of course not,’ replies her father, although he’s not certain. The first two children’s births took place without any fuss, but this pregnancy has proved very difficult. He’s done everything he can to help Beverley, and the problems she’s encountered have brought them as close as they’ve been in years; the idea of losing her is almost too much for him to bear. And yet, it is to this dark place that his mind strays. The notion of being left to look after Nelson and Elizabeth on his own is overwhelming. He would need to be strong, he knows that, but what kind of life could he possibly hope to give them without the support of the woman he loves? He’s never been a religious man, but he finds himself praying.
A young nurse wanders past, glancing in his direction. He knows what she’s doing. She’s passing by simply to get a look at him, to tell people that she saw that George Cleverley off the telly and he’s shorter in real life, or taller, or fatter, or thinner. Generally, he takes pleasure in his celebrity, but at moments like this, it’s too much. Even the ambulance drivers seemed impressed, and he was certain that one came close to asking for an autograph.
‘Whatever happens,’ he tells his children now, keeping his voice calm and strong in order to reassure them, ‘we are a family. We love each other, we will always love each other, and nothing, absolutely nothing, can ever come between us. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Daddy,’ they both say, and he pulls them in closer.
A door opens and a doctor steps out, pulling a mask from around her face. George stares at her, knowing that her expression will immediately tell him everything he needs to know.
The doctor is smiling.
‘She’s fine. She’s lost a lot of blood but she’s having a transfusion now and I don’t envisage any difficulties.’
‘And the baby?’
‘A little boy. Premature but healthy. We’ll have to keep him here for a few weeks, but I think he’s going to be okay.’
George starts to cry, and Nelson and Elizabeth stare at him in bewilderment. He holds them tightly. He loves his family. He’s in love with them all.
And at that precise moment, in a dorm room at Harvard University, a nineteen-year-old boy presses the return button on his computer keyboard and watches as the first post on something he’s called ‘The Facebook’ appears:
Mark Zuckerberg changed his profile picture
just now
Monday
THE MILLINER AND THE NOSE
George Cleverley had always prided himself on being a thoroughly modern man, a free thinker who held no truck with the historical bigotries of the previous generation, the societal prejudices of his own or the belligerent intolerances of the next.
After the birth of each of his children, at a time when childcare was still considered the primary domain of the mother, he had done his fair share of nappy-changing, often sitting up with his wife while she administered sleepy midnight feeds and reading aloud to her as she nursed their latest progeny at her breast. He went on marches, protesting against anything that seemed even vaguely objectionable, and wrote newspaper columns criticizing American presidents, African dictators and Russian despots alike. He named his eldest son Nelson, after Nelson Mandela, adding Fidel as the boy’s middle name. On his weekly chat show, one of the most popular programmes on British television, he made a point of ensuring that an even gender ratio was maintained among his guests and, when actresses featured in the line-up, never referred to their bodies or sex lives during the conversation, preferring to focus on their craft and philanthropic pursuits. He considered himself fiscally conservative but socially liberal, was a prominent opponent of blood sports, and had twice been a weekend guest of Charles and Camilla’s at Highgrove. Politically, he was held in high esteem by both the Left and the Right, who considered him a fair and balanced journalist. Although he never publicly discussed his political leanings, he always voted for the person, not the party, and so, over the years, had cast ballots for Tory, Labour and Liberal Democrat candidates alike. In the 2019 general election, exhausted by Brexit, he had even voted for a Green. He sponsored eighteen goats in Somalia and had attended seven Pride marches in the capital, waving the rainbow flag vigorously.
And yet, despite all his hard-earned Woke credentials, his first thought when Angela Gosebourne informed him that he was going to be a father again was: You planned this, didn’t you? To trap me.
At the time, George and Angela had not been conducting their affair for long, no more than five months, and he hadn’t really considered it a proper affair at all, more of a dalliance. He’d never been unfaithful to Beverley before and hated seeing himself turn into that sort of man, but his marriage had become strained in recent years, much of their communication taking place over WhatsApp rather than face to face, and Angela’s attraction to him had taken hold of his ego and given it a good shake.
Although he was fond of her, he had never imagined their relationship would have any long-term consequences. She had a tendency to pepper her speech with foreign phrases co-opted into the language, a too desperate sign of her erudition, and had a laugh that grated, forcing him to keep witty remarks to a minimum. Ultimately, he’d decided to end the liaison but, a few days after the break-up, she’d phoned, asking for one final roll in the hay and, being weak, he’d succumbed to her erotic invitation, which, in time, had led to today’s meeting in a Kensington wine bar, where she’d delivered the news by placing her hand over her glass when the waitress tried to pour, saying, ‘I can’t. Je suis enceinte.’
‘I don’t want anything from you,’ Angela insisted now, taking a compact from her handbag and dabbing at her face with a powder puff, another habit that aggravated him. ‘You can be a part of this baby’s life or not, exactly as you wish. If you’d prefer to have nothing to do with him, then naturally, I’ll understand. But there’s no changing things. It’s a fait accompli.’
‘Him?’ asked George, a small twinge of paternal pride asserting itself over the dismay. ‘It’s a boy, then? You’re sure?’
‘Well, not sure, no,’ she admitted. ‘But a mother can sense these things.’