The Gatecrasher (17 page)

“A funeral?”

“I don’t know.” Zara’s voice was patient. “He wouldn’t tell me. I already said that.”

Fleur sighed again, and examined her nails.

“Urgent. What does that mean? I expect he’s choosing new wallpaper.”

“Or he’s having a party and he doesn’t know what to wear.”

“Maybe he’s lost his dry-cleaning ticket again. Do you remember?” Fleur met Zara’s eyes and for the first time since meeting they smiled at each other. This always happens, thought Zara. We get on best when we’re talking about Johnny. The rest of the time, forget it.

“Well, I’ll see you later,” said Fleur abruptly, standing up. “And since you’re so interested in fine details, perhaps I should tell you that Richard Favour’s late wife was called Emily and she was a friend of mine long ago. But we don’t talk about her very much.”

“No,” said Zara, spitting her gum into the bin. “I’ll bet you don’t.”

At eight o’clock, Gillian brought a jug of Pimm’s into the drawing room.

“Where’s Daddy?” said Philippa, coming into the room and looking around. “I’ve hardly seen him today and we can’t stay too late.”

“He’s still working,” said Lambert. “In his office.” He took the glass that Gillian offered and took several large swigs, feeling as though if he didn’t get some alcohol inside him, he would simmer over with frustration. Since arriving back, he’d sidled along to the office as often as he could, but each time the door had been slightly open and the desk lamp had been on and the back of Richard’s head had been just visible through the chink. The bastard hadn’t budged. So it looked as though he’d missed his chance. He was going to have to go back to London no closer to sorting out his overdraft problem. Not to mention the deal with Briggs and Co., a deal which should have been signed and sealed by six o’clock. A feeling of suppressed fury burned in Lambert’s chest. What a bloody disaster the day had turned out to be. And it was all the fault of that fucking woman, Fleur.

“Lambert, have you met Zara?” And there she was again, wearing a tight red dress that made her look like a whore, smiling as if she owned the place, shepherding her bloody daughter into the room.

“Hello, Zara,” he said, staring at the curve of Fleur’s breasts under her dress. Zara. What kind of bloody stupid name was that?

“Hello!” Philippa came rushing over to Zara with bright-eyed enthusiasm. Whilst walking back to the house, another idea had occurred to her. She could become
friendly with Fleur’s daughter. She would be an older sister figure. The two of them would talk about clothes and makeup and boyfriend troubles, and the younger girl would confide in her, and Philippa would issue kindly advice . . . “I’m Philippa,” she said, smiling warmly at Zara. “Antony’s older sister.”

“Hi, Philippa.” Zara’s voice was flat and uninterested. There was a little silence.

“Would you like some lemonade, dear?” said Gillian.

“Water, thank you,” said Zara.

“We can eat soon,” said Gillian, looking at Philippa, “if you have to get off. As soon as your father comes downstairs. Why don’t you call him, and we’ll all sit down.”

“OK,” said Philippa, loitering slightly. She looked again at Zara. She had never seen anyone, she thought, quite so thin. She could have been a model. Was she really only thirteen? She looked more like—“Philippa!” Gillian’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Oh, sorry,” said Philippa. “Daydreaming again!” She tried to catch Zara’s eye in a giggle, but Zara gazed stonily past her. Immediately Philippa felt slighted. Just who did this girl think she was?

Richard appeared at the door.

“Sorry to have kept you,” he said. “There were a few things I had to think about.”

Philippa was aware of Lambert glancing up sharply, then looking away again. She nudged him gently, meaning to catch his eye and roll her eyes expressively in the direction of Zara. But Lambert ignored her. She gave a hurt little sniff. Everyone was ignoring her tonight, even her own husband.

“But now let’s have a toast,” continued Richard. He
took the glass which Gillian was holding out to him, and held it up. “Welcome to Zara.”

“Welcome to Zara,” chorused the others obediently.

Philippa looked down into her drink. When was the last time anyone had toasted her? When was the last time anyone had welcomed her anywhere? Everyone ignored her, even her own family. She didn’t have any friends. Gillian didn’t care about her anymore. No-one cared about her anymore. Philippa blinked a few times, and squeezed hard on the few real emotions in her mind, until slowly a tear oozed out of her eye and onto her cheek. Now they’ve made me cry, she thought. I’m crying, and no-one’s even noticing. Another tear oozed onto her cheek, and she sniffed again.

“Philippa!” Richard’s alarmed voice interrupted the conversation. “Are you all right, darling?”

Philippa looked up, with a trembling face.

“I’m OK,” she said. “I was just thinking . . . about Mummy. I-I don’t know why.”

“Oh, my darling.” Richard hurried over.

“Don’t worry,” said Philippa. “I’m fine, really.” She gave another sniff, and smiled at her father, and allowed him to put an arm round her shoulder and lead her out of the room. Everyone was silent; everyone was looking at her tear-stained face with concern. As she neared Zara, Philippa glanced up, ready to meet another sympathetic face, stare bravely ahead and then lower her eyes. But as soon as Zara’s dispassionate gaze met hers, Philippa felt a shiver go through her and her expression begin to slip. In front of this girl she felt foolish and transparent, as though Zara somehow knew exactly what she was thinking.

“I’m sorry for you,” said Zara quietly.

“What do you mean?” said Philippa, feeling rattled.

Zara’s expression didn’t flicker.

“Losing your mother.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Philippa exhaled sharply, and tried to reform her features into the brave stare. But she didn’t feel brave any more. Her tears had dried; no-one was looking at her; Lambert had started discussing cricket with Antony. The moment was gone and it was Zara who had spoiled it all for her.

Two weeks later, Richard looked up from his copy of
The Times
and chortled.

“Look at that!” he said, pointing to a tiny item on the business pages entitled “Accountant Suspended.” Fleur’s eyes ran down the few lines of text and a smile appeared on her face.

“I told you!” she said. “I knew those people were crooks.”

“What’s happened?” said Gillian, coming into the room. Richard looked up delightedly.

“The people we played golf with the other week. Briggs & Co. One of them’s been caught fiddling the books of another company. It’s in the paper.”

“Gracious,” said Gillian confusedly. “Is that a good thing?”

“No. The good thing is that we decided not to hire them. The good thing is that Fleur cottoned onto them.” Richard reached for Fleur’s hand and squeezed it affectionately. “Fleur’s the good thing around here,” he said. “As I think we all agree.” He glanced up at Gillian. “You look nice.”

“I’m off to my bridge lesson,” said Gillian. She looked at Fleur. “Are you sure you won’t come?”

“Darling, I got quite lost last week. I still can’t remember how many tricks in a suit. Or is it the other way round?” Fleur wrinkled her nose at Gillian, who laughed. “And Tricia was very keen to find a partner. So off you go. Have a lovely time.”

“Well . . .” Gillian paused, smoothing her jacket down over her hips. It was a new, pale-blue linen jacket, bought during a shopping trip with Fleur the week before. She was wearing with it a long, cream-coloured skirt, also new, and the blue scarf which Fleur had given her. “If you’re really sure.”

“I’m positive,” said Fleur. “And remember I’m doing the supper tonight. So no hurrying back.”

“All right, then.” A little smile came to Gillian’s face. “I am enjoying these lessons, you know. I never thought a card game could be so invigorating!”

“I always used to enjoy a game of bridge,” said Richard, “but Emily was never keen.”

“You have to concentrate quite hard,” said Gillian, “but that’s what I enjoy about it.”

“I’m glad,” said Richard, smiling at her. “It’s nice to see you taking up a hobby.” Gillian flushed slightly.

“It’s just a bit of fun,” she said. She looked at Fleur. “I’ll probably be back in time to get supper. There’s no need for you to do it.”

“I want to do it!” said Fleur. “Now go, or you’ll be late!”

“All right,” said Gillian. She hovered for a moment more, then hitched up her bag and walked as far as the door. There she stopped, and looked back.

“Everything should be in the fridge, I think,” she began. Richard started to laugh.

“Gillian, just go!”

When she had finally managed to leave, they relapsed into a companionable silence.

“I’m surprised Lambert hasn’t telephoned,” said Richard suddenly. “He must have seen the papers this morning.”

“He’s probably embarrassed,” said Fleur.

“He may well be,” said Richard, “but he also owes you an apology.” He sighed and put down his paper. “I’m afraid to confess that the better I know Lambert, the less I like him. I suppose Philippa must love him, but . . .” He tailed away and shrugged.

“Were you surprised when they got married?” said Fleur.

“Yes, I was,” said Richard. “I thought possibly they were hurrying into it. But they seemed very keen on the idea. And Emily was terribly pleased. She didn’t seem surprised at all.” He paused. “A mother’s intuition, I suppose.”

“What about a father’s intuition?”

“Temporarily out of order, I should think.” He grinned. “I mean, they seem very happy now. Don’t you think?”

“Oh yes,” said Fleur. “Very happy.” She paused, then added, “But I agree with you about Lambert. I was quite taken aback at the way he seemed so hostile towards me. Almost . . . distrustful.” She looked at Richard with a hurt expression. “I was only giving my opinion.”

“Of course you were!” said Richard hotly. “And your opinion was absolutely spot on! That Lambert’s got a lot to answer for. If it weren’t for you—” He broke off and gazed across the table at Fleur with more love in his face than she’d ever seen there before.

Fleur stared at him for an instant, thinking quickly. Then suddenly she exclaimed, “Oh no!” and clasped her hand to her mouth.

“What?”

“Nothing,” said Fleur. “It doesn’t matter.” She sighed. “It’s just my purse. You remember I lost it last week?”

“Did you?”

“Didn’t I tell you? Yes, I lost it out shopping. I reported it to some policeman or other but you know what they’re like . . .”

“I had no idea!” said Richard. “Did you cancel your cards?”

“Oh yes,” said Fleur. “In fact, that’s the problem. I haven’t got any replacements.”

“Do you need some money?” Richard began to feel in his pocket. “Darling, you should have said!”

“The trouble is, the replacements will take a while,” said Fleur. She frowned. “It’s all a bit complicated. You know I bank in the Cayman Islands. And Switzerland, of course.”

“I didn’t,” said Richard, “but nothing surprises me about you any more.”

“They’re very good generally,” said Fleur, “but they’re hopeless about issuing new cards.”

“You should try a normal bank, like the rest of us,” said Richard.

“I know,” said Fleur, “but my accountants recommended I go offshore for some reason . . .” She spread her hands vaguely.

“Here’s a hundred pounds,” said Richard, holding out some notes.

“I’ve got cash,” said Fleur distractedly. “It’s just that . . .
I’ve only just remembered it’s Zara’s birthday next week. I’d completely forgotten!”

“Zara’s birthday!” said Richard. “I had no idea.”

“I really want to buy her something nice.” She tapped her nails urgently on the arm of her chair. “What I really need is my replacement Gold Card. But quickly.”

“Let me give them a ring,” said Richard.

“I’m telling you,” said Fleur, “they’re hopeless.”

She tapped her nails on the chair a few more times. Then suddenly she looked up.

“Richard, you’ve got a Gold Card, haven’t you? Could you get me on it quickly? In the next couple of days? Then I could whiz over to Guildford and get Zara something nice—and by then my replacements might just have come through. If I’m lucky.” She looked seriously at him. “I know it’s a lot to ask you . . .”