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 first-class 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 favour 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 ex-wives, 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 afterwards. 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 grey. 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 Fionas 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 punch-drunk 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 jewellery 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. Mrs Abbott rose from her place and returned the judge’s smile. She then proceeded to do battle for every jot and tittle in Bob’s possession, even arguing over who should end up with his college cufflinks, saying that it had been agreed that all Mr Radford’s assets should be divided equally, so that if he had one cufflink, her client must be entitled to the other.