The Namedropper Page 11

  Alyce asserted that it was she who suggested they divorce, so little time did they spend together. During that discussion she made it clear she wanted the return of her one million dollars. Appleton argued against divorce but suggested a trial separation of six months, to which she agreed. Towards the end of that six months Appleton further suggested that he return to live in East Hampton and commute during the week. She agreed but regarded it as a continuation of a trial, particularly after his confession of affairs with Sharon Borowski and Leanne Jefferies. Appleton was adamant that both had been totally unimportant and that he was making the confession to restore their marriage. His confession supported her belief that there had been many other sexual liaisons. There was renewed discussion about their having children and they resumed conjugal relations. He once more refused any fertility tests but Alyce decided to undergo a second series of fertility examinations, prior to taking gynaecological advice about further IVF.

  The bombshell came when Jordan turned to page five of Alyce’s account. On the second of her resumed examinations Alyce received the results of tests taken at the first. There was incontestable evidence that she was suffering from chlamydia, a venereal infection that can render a woman sufferer infertile or result in severe eye conditions in any child she bears. Alyce declared that she had been a virgin at the time of her marriage to Alfred Appleton and had been involved with no other sexual partner during her marriage, not even during their period of separation. It was the discovery of her venereal infection that brought about her refusal to sleep with Appleton and the reason for her beginning the divorce proceedings which she finally instituted on her vacation in France, which she described as ‘getting away from the awfulness of the deceit with which I have lived for so long’.

  During that vacation she had an affair with an Englishman, Harvey Jordan. It was a casual, entirely consensual relationship that was not premeditated and ended upon her return to the United States with neither of them intending any future contact or association. She deeply regretted the affair, to which she had succumbed from loneliness and self-satisfying spite at the total betrayal of which she believed herself the victim.

  Jordan’s sank back into his seat as the fury churned through him, his mind dominated by only one question. How good a venerealogist was the money-grabbing Dr James Preston?

  Twelve

  ‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me yesterday about Alyce’s infection?’ demanded Jordan, still as angry as he had been when he’d finished reading her statement the previous night. He’d been on the phone as nine o’clock struck, insisting upon an immediate meeting, but had to wait until noon.

  ‘Because I wanted you to read everything through for yourself,’ responded Beckwith, calmly. ‘This way we can take it forward, not spend hours talking back and forth because you didn’t have everything in context.’

  ‘What context! She’s got a venereal disease and I slept with her!’

  ‘Your choice not to ask. Her choice not to tell you,’ reminded the lawyer, still calm. ‘And you’ve got a medical report that says you haven’t got an infection.’

  ‘Is that why you had me undergo that examination in England: that you already knew she had it?’

  ‘No,’ denied Beckwith. ‘It’s regular practice with such damages claims in North Carolina. I didn’t know about Alyce until I got her exchange yesterday. It surprised me as much as I guess it surprised you.’

  ‘Surprise doesn’t cover it! And I don’t think you can feel the same way about it as I do,’ refused Jordan. ‘What about her medical report?’

  ‘Not part of the first exchange. And if it helps I understand chlamydia responds to antibiotics. The effect is worse in woman and their babies than it is in a man.’

  ‘That assurance doesn’t help a damn, either,’ refused Jordan, again. ‘She says she didn’t have any other sexual partner except Appleton, before me.’

  ‘I’ve read what she says.’

  ‘And she knew she had it before we slept together?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘So if he gave it to her and she knowingly passed it on to me I’ve got a claim against both of them, haven’t I?’

  ‘Your report says you’re clear.’

  ‘I think the doctor who examined me was a robbing asshole. Maybe incompetent, too. I want another test … a second opinion.’

  ‘I do, too,’ said the man, offering a paper across the desk just as Lesley Corbin had done in England. ‘Dr Abrahams is the venerealogist we use regularly. Suzie’s got you an appointment for this afternoon – I guessed you’d want it as soon as possible. We’ve copied the English medical report. Abrahams wants to see it.’

  People making decisions for him again, thought Jordan. ‘What about me counterclaiming?’

  ‘Sure, if you are infected. You slept with anyone else since Alyce?’

  ‘No,’ denied Jordan. ‘What about what Alyce says, that Appleton slept around – admits himself to have done so with two different women – but refused to have any examinations? Could a court order him to have one?’

  Beckwith pursed his lips, making an uncertain expression. ‘There could be a technical argument against it, claiming assault.’

  ‘That’s what Lesley told me you wanted my medical examination for: that if a sexual infection is knowingly transmitted there’s a criminal case to be made. It’s been established in law with AIDS, hasn’t it?’

  ‘We’re sure as hell getting an interesting case here.’

  With more and more potential for publicity, thought Jordan, worriedly. ‘You had any contact yet with Alyce’s lawyer?’

  ‘Speaking with him later today.’

  ‘I want to be at any meeting,’ insisted Jordan.

  ‘I hadn’t forgotten.’

  ‘I think I’ve got more right now than before.’

  ‘Not if you’re going to issue suit against her, you haven’t! We sue her you don’t get within a million miles of her lawyer until we go into court.’

  Jordan was getting that straitjacketed feeling again. ‘How long’ll it take Abrahams to make his reports?’

  Beckwith shrugged, not knowing. ‘Tell him you’re in a hurry.’

  ‘Which I am.’

  ‘Why don’t I talk things through generally with Bob, down there in Raleigh?’ suggested Beckwith. ‘Get a feel of where he’s coming from; he’s seeking a meeting with us, after all. We’re in the driving seat.’

  ‘Do whatever you’ve got to do to push things along: to get me off this fucking great hook from which I don’t believe I should be hanging in the first place,’ said Jordan, impatiently.

  ‘You’re losing your temper,’ accused Beckwith.

  ‘You’re damned right I’m losing my fucking temper! And we’re in Lexington Avenue, Manhattan, not in some half-assed court in Raleigh, North Carolina.’

  ‘That half-assed court in Raleigh, North Carolina, has the legal power, upon each and every one of Appleton’s claims, to award against you a maximum of fifteen million dollars.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me that, either!’ accused Jordan.

  ‘It didn’t arise in the conversation until now. And now it has.’

  ‘I couldn’t come anywhere near a figure like that!’ protested Jordan.

  ‘I’d increase my fees if I thought you could,’ said Beckwith. ‘For the moment you’ve got to remember the difference between where you are, when you have to.’

  ‘I will.’ This was a juvenile, who-punches-whom first argument, Jordan acknowledged. ‘Let’s stop this shit, shall we?’

  ‘Probably a good idea,’ said the already smiling Beckwith. ‘If I were you, I’d be pissed, too.’

  ‘Is this the way these things go? Upon so little?’

  ‘This case is getting features all of its own,’ admitted the lawyer.

  ‘Can I call you again, after you’ve talked to Alyce’s lawyer? And I’ve seen the venerealogist?’

  ‘I think you should. Some things might be clearer then.’

 
‘I hope so,’ said Jordan, meaning it.

  The difference was dramatic, in each and every way. George Abrahams’ surgery on West 58th street was a space-age comparison of chrome-gleaming, germ-forbidden sterility against the sagged-cushioned, frayed-carpeted Harley Street townhouse conversion of James Preston. George Abrahams was a close-cropped, rarely smiling man in a white jacket-and-trouser clinical uniform so starched that Jordan expected it audibly to crack when the man moved. Abrahams looked too young to have gained all the qualifications, the framed testimonials, which lined the walls, and Jordan was confident even before the man looked up from the English venerealogist’s report that if he’d contracted something from a three-thousand-year-old Egyptian burial pyramid, Abrahams could have diagnosed and cured it.

  ‘Why do you want these findings confirmed?’ asked the American, when he did finally look up. Abrahams’ tone was as sterile as his surroundings.

  ‘We didn’t know when that examination was carried out that the woman in whose divorce I am being cited had a sexual infection.’

  Abrahams went back to the first report. ‘Which sexual infection, precisely? The report here refers to HIV.’

  ‘Chlamydia.’

  Abrahams said, ‘That’s not signed off.’

  ‘Which is why I am here.’

  ‘How long was your relationship with her?’

  Jordan sighed, without intending to, at the familiarity of the questioning. ‘Just short of a month. We met on holiday, in France.’

  ‘She tell you she had an infection?’

  ‘Of course not! I wouldn’t have slept with her if she had, would I?’

  ‘Probably not,’ agreed the other man, as flat-voiced as Beckwith had been earlier. ‘What symptoms have you got?’

  Jordan felt hot with a mixture of embarrassment and frustration at the conversation: it was as if his penis was under permanent microscopic examination. ‘I don’t have any symptoms! The examination I had in London was because my lawyer asked for it; apparently it’s a recognized need in the sort of case in which I am involved. Since I had the examination we’ve learned what she was suffering from.’

  Now it was the American who sighed. ‘This doctor in London? When you talked did he say he was examining you for non-specific urethritis, caused by something other than gonorrhoea?’

  ‘No. He did not mention that.’

  ‘Have you had any penile discharge?’

  ‘He asked me that.’

  ‘Now I’m carrying out the examination,’ reminded the specialist, the irritation sounding in his voice. ‘What’s the answer?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Lower abdominal pain or discomfort?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Irritation?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Genital inflammation? Rash?’

  ‘No.’

  Abrahams smiled up from the notes he was making. ‘So far, so good. Now I want blood, urine and sperm samples.’

  ‘Sperm?’ queried Jordan.

  ‘Try to remember when we were kids and we all did it, like a lot still do. I’ve got photographs and movies if it will help.’

  It took Jordan almost an hour to fulfil every test, after Abrahams’ physical pubic examination; at one stage Jordan even considered Abrahams’ pornographic offer. Back in the venerealogist’s office Jordan said, ‘I’d like the results as soon as possible, sent direct to my lawyer.’

  ‘That’s what they will be, returned as soon as possible.’

  ‘No,’ said Jordan. I really mean like tomorrow, whatever it costs. Couriered direct from wherever they’re being analysed. Can you arrange that?’

  ‘Chlamydia is not a difficult disease to treat and cure. There’s no cause to panic.’

  The exasperated burn came again. Jordan said, ‘Tomorrow, OK? Whatever it costs.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ agreed the doctor. ‘If you’re positive we’ll arrange more appointments, get it cleared up. If you do need treatment you’ll either have to use a condom or abstain during any treatment.’

  ‘At this precise moment I feel like staying celibate for the rest of my life!’ said Jordan.

  ‘Friday,’ Beckwith told Jordan, on the telephone.

  ‘What’s he want to talk about?’

  ‘A combined strategy, as I thought. We didn’t go into detail on the phone.’

  ‘Did you talk to him about my being with you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You know why not. We don’t know yet whether we’re going to sue Alyce. If we do then Friday’s meeting between Bob and me will obviously be cancelled.’

  ‘Abrahams has promised to have his results by tomorrow. They’re going to be couriered direct to you.’

  ‘What did Abrahams say?’

  ‘That if I’ve contracted anything he’ll treat it. That chlamydia responds well to treatment. Did you talk to Reid about it?’

  ‘I told you we didn’t go into the details of anything on the telephone. He did say Alyce is sorry you’ve got dragged into this.’

  ‘Not as sorry as I am!’

  ‘If Abrahams keeps his promised schedule, we’ll know by tomorrow if we are going to sue her,’ Beckwith pointed out.

  ‘I’ve already worked that out. If the results are OK I could come down to Raleigh with you.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘What’s to see? If I’m with you we can decide on the spot whether it’s going to be a joint strategy or not. Get things moving.’

  ‘Harv! Let’s see what tomorrow’s report says. We’re not in a race here.’

  ‘I am! I’m in a hurry – in a race – to get this whole bloody nonsense over and done with. And if you can’t help me I’ll find someone who can!’ As well as being in a hurry to start the retribution I intend, Jordan thought. There wasn’t any time limit on his returning to England. The only essential consideration was continuing the rental of Hans Crescent and there was still weeks to go before he needed to do that.

  ‘I’ll call you the moment I hear from Abrahams,’ promised the lawyer. Stiffly he added, ‘You get any thoughts about changing your legal representation in the meantime, I’ll do all I can to find you the best lawyer with North Carolina Bar exam qualifications to take your case over. It’ll probably mean your going down to Raleigh for consultation, of course.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ said Jordan, refusing to be bullied.

  Frustration remained Jordan’s most persistent feeling. That and having his penis and his bodily fluids so persistently and literally under a microscope, like a rare specimen of humanity displayed on a slab. Should he call Beckwith’s bluff and change lawyers? He was strongly tempted; after the first few minutes from putting down the telephone on the lawyer he’d reached out to call Beckwith back to tell him he did want to change. He had literally held back, his hand hovering over the receiver, fighting the anger which he now realized, belatedly and with a fresh blip of frustration, was what Beckwith was constantly urging him to do. He really didn’t want to change. Despite Beckwith’s Wild West affectation – strangely incongruous for a man born and raised on the eastern seaboard state – and the irritating Christian name abbreviation, Jordan liked the man. And believed he was a good lawyer, despite there being no criteria upon which to judge. He had to be, surely, swimming among the legal sharks of Manhattan in preference to the calmer waters of North Carolina? He’d let it go this time, Jordan decided, and at once contradicted himself. He’d let it ride, see how things developed. If he were subsequently dissatisfied, Beckwith’s offer to withdraw remained on the table between them.

  Jordan’s telephone rang just before ten the following morning. Beckwith said, ‘You haven’t got a problem. There’s not a trace of any venereal infection. And I’ve spoken to Bob. He’s happy for you to come along. Suzie’s already bought the tickets.’

  The furnished service apartment Jordan had isolated on West 72nd on his second day in Manhattan was still available and by just after 1 p.m. Jordan had secured a thre
e-month lease in the name of Alfred Jerome Appleton with a full cash deposit covering both rental and charges. He also paid cash for a telephone connection, with an unlisted number. He gave the name and address of the First National Bank on Wall Street for a reference. He was at that bank, the first of those he had chosen, an hour later. He opened the account in Appleton’s name with an initial cash deposit of $3,500 and Appleton’s genuine Social Security number so conveniently available from the exchanged court documents. The bank official made a particular note that Jordan would predominantly use electronic banking, although he did need bank, credit card and chequebook facilities and gave Appleton’s mother’s maiden name for the security reference. Jordan authorized all charges to be directly debited from his account and warned the man to expect a realtor’s bank reference request for West 72nd Street. The bank official hoped they’d have a mutually satisfacatory relationship and Jordan said he was sure they would.

  Thirteen

  Jordan wasn’t at all surprised that Daniel Beckwith’s vehicle was a personalized number-plated 4×4 with extra-wide wheels and special trim, along with dark-tinted windows. And coloured red. When he got inside Jordan saw it was equipped with satellite navigation, which didn’t surprise him either. He hadn’t expected to be able to see so clearly beyond the smoked glass, though.

  ‘You all set?’ greeted Beckwith. Today’s outfit was faded denim workshirt and jeans, with tooled cowboy boots and the regulation big buckle belt. The bison motif reminded Jordan of the shoulder-hunched photograph of Alfred Appleton.

  ‘You’re in charge: you tell me.’ And then I’ll tell you, Jordan thought, a decision already formulating.

  Beckwith snatched a glance across the car as he began the manoeuvre to get to the Triboro bridge and the Van Wyke expressway for the airport. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I’m where I don’t want to be, facing – by your calculations – a potential financial judgement against me of millions, is what’s the matter.’