“There aren’t really any rules. Fairly smart, I suppose.”
“Too vague! You’ll have to come and help me decide. Come on!” Fleur went back into her room and after a moment’s hesitation, Gillian followed.
“My smartest clothes are all black,” said Fleur. “Does anyone at the golf club wear black?”
“Not really,” said Gillian.
“I didn’t think so.” Fleur gave a dramatic little sigh. “And I so wanted to blend in. Can I see what you’re wearing?”
“I’m not wearing anything special,” said Gillian in a rough, almost angry voice. “Just a blue dress.”
“Blue! I tell you what . . .” Fleur rummaged around in one of her bags. “Do you want to borrow this?” She produced a long blue silk scarf and draped it over Gillian’s shoulder. “Some fool gave it to me. Do I look the sort of woman who can wear blue?” She rolled her eyes at Gillian and lowered her voice. “He also seemed to think I was size eight and liked wearing red underwear.” She shrugged. “What can you do?”
Gillian stared back at Fleur, feeling her colour rise. Something unfamiliar was happening at the back of her throat. It felt a bit like laughter.
“But it should suit you perfectly,” said Fleur. “It’s exactly the same colour as your eyes. I wish I had blue eyes!” She scrutinized Gillian’s eyes and Gillian began to feel hot.
“Thank you,” she said abruptly. She looked down at the blue silk. “I’ll try it. But I’m not sure it’ll suit the dress.”
“Shall I come and help you? I know how to tie these things.”
“No!” Gillian almost shouted. Fleur was overwhelming her. She had to get away. “I’ll just go now and change. And I’ll see.” She hurried out of the room.
In the safety of her own bedroom Gillian stopped. She picked up the end of the scarf and rubbed the smooth fabric across her face. It smelt sweet. Like Fleur. Sweet and soft and bright.
Gillian sat down at her dressing table. Fleur’s voice rang in her ears. A bubble of laughter was still at the back of her throat. She felt enlivened; out of breath; almost overcome. That’s charm, she suddenly thought. Real charm wasn’t the gushing and kisses of the frosted women at the golf club.
Emily had been called a charming woman, but her eyes had held splinters of ice and her tinkling laugh had been saccharine and humourless. Fleur’s eyes were warm and all-inclusive and when she laughed she made everyone else want to laugh too. That was real charm. Of course Fleur didn’t really mean any of it. She didn’t really want blue eyes; she didn’t really need Gillian’s advice. Nor—Gillian was sure—did she want to blend in with the others at the golf club. But, just for a few seconds, she’d made Gillian feel warm and wanted and in on the joke. Never before had Gillian been in on the joke.
The clubhouse at Greyworth had been built in an American colonial style, with a large wooden veranda overlooking the eighteenth green.
“Is this the bar?” asked Fleur as they arrived. She looked around at the tables and chairs; the gins; the flushed, jolly faces.
“The bar’s in there. But in the summer everyone sits outside. It’s terribly hard to get a table.” Gillian looked around, eyes screwed up. “I think they’re all taken.” She sighed. “What would you like to drink?”
“A Manhattan,” said Fleur. Gillian looked at her dubiously.
“What’s that?”
“They’ll know.”
“Well . . . all right then.”
“Wait a moment,” said Fleur. She reached towards Gillian and tugged at the ends of the blue scarf. “You need to drape it more. Like this. Don’t let it get wrinkled up. OK?” Gillian gave a tiny shrug.
“It’s all such a fuss.”
“The fuss is what makes it fun,” said Fleur. “Like having seams on your stockings. You have to check them every five minutes.”
Gillian’s expression became gloomier still.
“Well, I’ll get the drinks,” she said. “I expect there’ll be an awful queue.”
“Do you want some help?” Fleur asked.
“No, you’d better stay out here and wait for a table.”
She began to walk towards the glass doors leading to the bar. As she reached them she slowed very slightly, almost imperceptibly reached for the ends of the scarf, and pulled them into place. Fleur gave a tiny smile. Then, moving unhurriedly, she turned and looked around the veranda. She was aware that she had begun to attract a few interested glances. Red-faced golfing men were leaning across to their chums; sharp-eyed golfing women were nudging one another.
Quickly Fleur assessed the tables on the veranda. Some overlooked the golf course, some didn’t. Some had parasols, others didn’t. The best one was in the corner, she decided. It was large and round, and there were only two men sitting at it. Without hesitating, Fleur walked over and smiled at the plumper of the two men. He was dressed in a bright yellow jersey and halfway down a silver tankard of beer.
“Hello,” she said. “Are you two alone?” The plump man became a degree pinker and cleared his throat.
“Our wives will be joining us.”
“Oh dear.” Fleur began to count the chairs. “Might there still be room for my friend and me? She’s just getting our drinks.”
The men glanced at each other.
“The thing is,” continued Fleur, “I’d so like to look at the golf course.” She began to edge towards the table. “It’s very beautiful, isn’t it?”
“One of the best in Surrey,” said the thinner man gruffly.
“Just look at those trees!” said Fleur, gesturing. Both men followed her gaze. By the time they turned back, she was sitting down on one of the spare chairs. “Have you been playing today?” she said.
“Now look here,” said one of the men awkwardly. “I don’t mean to . . .”
“Did you play in the Banting Cup? What exactly
is
the Banting Cup?”
“Are you a new member? Because if you are . . .”
“I’m not a member at all,” said Fleur.
“You’re not a member? Do you have a guest pass?”
“I’m not sure,” said Fleur vaguely.
“This is bloody typical,” said the thinner man to the yellow-jerseyed man. “Absolutely no bloody security.” He turned to Fleur. “Now look, young woman, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you . . .”
“Young woman?” said Fleur, sparkling at him. “You are kind.”
He stood up angrily.
“Are you aware that this is a private club and that trespassers will be prosecuted? Now I think the best thing is for you and your friend . . .”
“Oh, here comes Gillian,” interrupted Fleur. “Hello, Gillian. These nice men are letting us sit at their table.”
“Hello, George,” said Gillian. “Is anything wrong?”
There was a tiny silence, during which Fleur turned unconcernedly away. A confused, embarrassed conversation
broke out behind her. The men hadn’t realized that Fleur’s friend was Gillian! They’d had no idea. They’d thought . . . No, of course they hadn’t thought. Well, anyway . . . a small world, wasn’t it? What a small world. And there were the drinks.
“Mine’s the Manhattan,” said Fleur, turning round. “How do you do? My name is Fleur Daxeny.”
“Alistair Lennox.”
“George Tilling.”
“I’ve found my guest pass,” said Fleur. “Do you want to see it?” Both the men began to harrumph awkwardly.
“Any friend of Gillian’s . . .” began one.
“Actually, I’m more a friend of Richard’s,” said Fleur.
“An old friend?”
“No, a new friend.”
There was a pause, during which a flash of comprehension passed through George Tilling’s eyes. Now you remember, thought Fleur. I’m that piece of gossip your wife was trying to tell you while you were reading the newspaper. Now you wish you’d listened a bit harder, don’t you? And she gave him a tiny smile.
“You realize you’re the subject of a lot of gossip?” said Alec, as they reached the seventeenth green. Richard gave a little smile, and took out his putter.
“So I gather.” He looked up at his old friend; kindly and concerned. “What you don’t realize is that being the subject of gossip is actually quite fun.”
“It’s no joke,” said Alec. His Scottish accent was becoming more pronounced, as it always did when he was anxious. “They’re saying . . .” He broke off.
“What are they saying?” Richard held up a hand. “Let me putt first.”
With no hesitation he sank the ball from ten feet.
“Good shot,” said Alec automatically. “You’re playing well today.”
“What are they saying? Come on, Alec. You might as well get it off your chest.” Alec paused. A look of pain passed across his face.
“They’re saying that if you persist with this woman, you might not be nominated for captain after all.” Richard’s mouth tightened.
“I see,” he said. “And have any of them actually met ‘this woman,’ as you so charmingly put it?”
“I think Eleanor’s been saying . . .”
“Eleanor met Fleur once, briefly, in a London restaurant. She has absolutely no right . . .”
“Rights and wrongs don’t come into it. You know that. If the club takes against Fleur . . .”
“Why should they?”
“Well . . . She’s quite different from Emily, isn’t she?”
Richard had known Alec since the age of seven and had never before in his life felt like hitting him. But now he felt a surge of violent anger against Alec; against them all. He watched in silence as Alec muffed his putt, feeling his fists clench and his jaw tighten. As the ball eventually plopped into the hole, Alec looked up and met his tense stare.
“Look,” he said apologetically. “You may not care what the club thinks. But . . . well, it’s not just the club. I’m worried for you. You have to admit that Fleur seems to have taken over your entire life.” He replaced the flag and they began to walk slowly towards the eighteenth tee.
“You’re worried for me,” repeated Richard. “And what exactly are you worried about? That I might be enjoying myself too much? That I might be happier now than I’ve ever been in my life before?”
“Richard . . .”
“Well what, then?”
“I’m just worried you’ll be hurt, I suppose.” Alec looked away awkwardly.
“My word,” said Richard. “We are becoming frank with each other.”
“You know what I mean.”
“All I know is that I’m happy, Fleur’s happy, and the rest of you should mind your own business.”
“But you’ve just plunged in . . .”
“Yes, I’ve plunged in. And do you know what? I’ve discovered that plunging in is the best way to live.”
They had reached the tee. Richard took out his ball and looked straight at Alec.
“Have you ever plunged into anything in your life?” Alec was silent. “I didn’t think so. Well, you know, maybe you should try it.”
Richard placed his ball on the tee and, with a set jaw, took a few practice swings. The eighteenth was long and tricky, looping round a little lake to the right. Richard and Alec had always agreed that it was safer to play round the lake than to risk losing a ball in the water. But today, without looking at Alec, Richard hit the ball boldly to the right, directly towards the lake. They both watched in silence as the little ball soared over the surface of the water and landed safely on the fairway.
“I think . . . you made it,” said Alec faintly.
“Yes,” said Richard. He didn’t sound surprised. “I made it. You probably would too.”
“I don’t think I’d try.”
“Yes, well,” said Richard. “Maybe that’s the difference between us.”
To Fleur’s astonishment, it was four weeks later. The July sun streamed into the conservatory every morning, Antony was home from school for the holidays, Richard’s lower arms were turning brown. Talk at the clubhouse was of nothing but flights, villas and house sitters.
Fleur was now a familiar figure at the clubhouse. Most mornings, when Richard had gone off to the office, she and Gillian had taken to strolling down to the Greyworth health club—for which Richard had bought Fleur a season’s membership. They would swim a little, sit in the Jacuzzi a little, drink a glass of fresh passion fruit juice and stroll back again. It was a pleasant, gentle routine, which even Gillian now appeared to enjoy—despite her initial resistance. Persuading her to come along the first time had been almost impossible and Fleur had only succeeded by appealing to Gillian’s sense of duty as a hostess. Most of Gillian’s life, it seemed, was governed by a sense of duty—a concept completely alien to Fleur.
She took a sip of coffee and shut her eyes, feeling the sun on her face. Breakfast was over; the conservatory was
now empty apart from her. Richard had gone off for a meeting with his lawyer; he’d be coming back later for a round of golf with Lambert and some business contact or other. Antony was off somewhere doing, she supposed, teenage things. Gillian was upstairs, supervising the cleaner. Supervision—another concept completely alien to Fleur. One either did a task oneself, she thought, or one left it to other people and didn’t bother about it. But then, she’d always been lazy. And she was becoming lazier. Too lazy.
A pang of self-reproach darted through her. She’d been living in Richard Favour’s house for four weeks. Four weeks! And what had she accomplished in that time? Nothing. After the initial attempt on his office she’d let the subject of money slip comfortably from her mind; let herself slide into an easy sunlit existence in which one day melted into another and suddenly she was four weeks older. Four weeks older and not a penny richer. She hadn’t even gone near his office again. For all she knew, it was unlocked and stashed full of gold bullion.