The Gatecrasher (22 page)

She looked at him with luminous eyes, and suddenly Richard felt as though he were trespassing on very private ground. What right did he have to quiz her on matters of money, when he hadn’t yet proposed marriage to her? What could she think of him?

“Forgive my curiosity,” he said hastily. “It’s none of my business.”

“Look!” Fleur beamed back at him. “I think I’ve found the zoom!”

Antony and Zara arrived back from swimming to find Fleur and Richard still sitting in the hall, poring over the instructions.

“Excellent,” Antony said immediately. “We’ve got one of these at school. Shall I have a go?” He picked the video up, took a few steps back and pointed it at the others. “Now smile. Smile, Dad! Smile, Zara!”

“I don’t feel like smiling,” she said, and stumped up the stairs.

“I think she’s a bit upset,” Antony said apologetically to Fleur, “about her dad.”

“I see,” said Fleur. “Maybe I’d better go up and have a little talk with her.”

“OK,” said Antony, already peering through the view-finder again. “Dad, you’ve got to look
natural
.”

Zara was in her room, sitting on the bed, with her arms clasped round her knees.

“So my father’s dead, is he?” she said as Fleur entered the room. “Fleur, you’re a bitch.”

“Don’t talk to me like that!”

“Or what?”

Fleur stared at her for a moment. Then, unexpectedly, she gave Zara a sympathetic smile.

“I know things are difficult for you at the moment, darling. It’s perfectly normal to be a little moody at your age.”

“I’m not moody! And it’s not my fucking birthday on Wednesday, either.”

“Surely you’re not going to complain about that! Extra presents, a party . . . It’s not even as if it’s the first time.” Fleur peered at her reflection in the mirror and smoothed an eyebrow with her thumb. “You didn’t complain when you were ten twice.”

“That’s because I was ten,” said Zara. “I was young. I was dumb. I didn’t think it mattered.”

“It doesn’t.”

“It does! I just want a regular birthday like everyone else.”

“Yes, well, we all want things we can’t have, I’m afraid.”

“And what do you want?” Zara’s voice was dry and hostile. She met Fleur’s eyes in the mirror. “What do you want, Fleur? A big house? A big car?”

“Darling . . .”

“Because what I want is for us to stay here. With Richard
and Gillian and Antony. I want to stay.” Her voice cracked slightly. “Why can’t we stay?”

“It’s all very complex, poppet.” Fleur took out a lipstick and began to apply it carefully.

“No it’s not! We could stay here if you wanted to! Richard loves you. I know he does. You two could get married.”

“You’re such a child still.” Fleur put down the lipstick and smiled at Zara affectionately. “I know you’ve always wanted to be a bridesmaid. When was it that we bought that sweet pink dress for you?”

“It was when I was nine! Jesus!” Zara sprang to her feet in frustration.

“Darling, keep your voice down.”

“Don’t you understand?” Suddenly two fat tears sprang onto Zara’s cheeks, and she brushed them away impatiently. “Now I just want . . . I just want a house where I live. You know, like when people say ‘Where do you live?’ And I always have to say ‘Sometimes in London and sometimes in other places.’ ”

“What’s wrong with that? It sounds very glamorous!”

“No-one else lives in ‘other places.’ They all have a home!”

“Poppet, I know it’s hard for you.”

“It’s hard for me because you make it hard!” cried Zara. “If you wanted to, we could just stay somewhere. We could have a home.”

“One day we will, darling. I promise. When we’re really comfortably off, we’ll set up home somewhere, just the two of us.”

“No we won’t,” said Zara bitterly. “You told me we’d be settled by the time I was ten. And look, now I’m thirteen—oops,
sorry, fourteen. And we still live with whoever you happen to be fucking.”

“That’s enough!” hissed Fleur angrily. “Now you just listen to me! Quite apart from your atrocious language, which we’ll ignore for now, might I point out that you are still a very young girl who doesn’t know what’s best for her? That I am your mother? That life hasn’t been easy for me, either? And that as far as I’m concerned, you’ve had a wonderful life, full of opportunities and excitements which most girls your age would kill for?”

“Fuck your opportunities!” cried Zara. More tears began to stream down her face. “I want to stay here. And I don’t want you telling people my father’s dead!”

“That was unfortunate,” said Fleur, frowning slightly. “I am sorry about that.”

“But not about the rest,” shuddered Zara. “You’re not sorry about the rest.”

“Darling.” Fleur came over and tenderly wiped away Zara’s tears. “Come on, little one! How about you and I have lunch tomorrow? And have manicures? Just the two of us. We’ll have fun.”

Zara gave a silent, shaking shrug. Tears were now coursing down her face onto her neck, dripping in spots onto her T-shirt.

“I can’t believe you’re really a teenager,” said Fleur fondly. “Sometimes you only look about ten years old.” She pulled Zara close and kissed the top of her head. “Don’t you worry, poppet. It’ll all come right in the end. We’ll sort our lives out.” A fresh stream of tears ran down Zara’s face; she was struggling to speak.

“You’re tired,” said Fleur. “You’ve probably been overdoing it. I think the best thing is if I leave you to get some
rest. Have a nice hot bath, and I’ll see you downstairs later.” Affectionately she took one of Zara’s long blond tresses in her fingers, held it up to the light and let it drop again. Then, without giving Zara another glance, she picked up her lipstick, glanced at her reflection and left the room.

Philippa was becoming worried about Lambert. Over the last few weeks he had seemed permanently in a sullen mood; permanently irritated with her. And now his mood was descending from surliness to a snappish anger. Nothing she said was right; nothing she did could please him.

It had all begun with the Briggs & Co. fiasco. The day of the golf game had been bad enough. Then his friend had been exposed in the press as a crook, and Lambert had exploded with a savage anger which seemed primarily directed at Fleur. Philippa suspected that her father had probably had a few words with Lambert at work, which couldn’t have helped matters. And now he greeted every morning with a miserable gloom, arrived home from work each evening frowning and snarled at her if she tried to cheer him up.

To begin with, she hadn’t minded. She’d almost welcomed the challenge of Helping her Husband Through a Difficult Time. “For better for worse, for richer for poorer,” she’d muttered to herself several times a day. “To love and to cherish.” Except that Lambert didn’t particularly seem
to want her love or her cherishing. He didn’t seem to want her around at all.

She’d consulted magazine articles on the subject of relationships, and leafed through books at the library, then tried to implement some of the suggestions. She’d tried new recipes for dinner, she’d tried suggesting that the two of them took up a new hobby together, she’d tried asking him seriously if he’d like to discuss things, she’d tried instigating sex. And to each of her attempts she’d received the same frown of displeasure.

There was no-one she could talk to about it. The girls at work talked freely enough about their husbands and boyfriends, but Philippa had always refrained from joining in. For one thing, she had a natural modesty which stopped her from confiding bedroom secrets over the coffee machine. For another—and if she were honest, this was the real reason—Lambert seemed so different from everyone else’s husband that she felt embarrassed to tell the others the truth. They all seemed to be married to cheery chaps who liked football, the pub and sex; who appeared at office parties and, even if complete strangers to one another, immediately found a common, joky blokes’ footing. But Lambert wasn’t like that. He didn’t follow football, nor did he go to the pub. Sometimes he liked sex; sometimes it almost seemed to disgust him. And at office functions he always sat apart from everyone else, smoking a cigar, looking bored. Afterwards, in the car, he would mock the accents of everyone she worked with, and Philippa would find herself sadly abandoning her scheme of inviting a few nice couples home for dinner.

They hadn’t been back to The Maples since the day of the golf débâcle. Every time she suggested it, Lambert
scowled and said he hadn’t got time. And although she could have gone home on her own, she didn’t want to. She didn’t want anyone guessing anything was wrong. And so she sat in with Lambert, night after night, watching the television and reading novels. At the weekends, when every other couple seemed to have plans, she and Lambert had none. They got up, and Lambert went to his study and read the paper, and then it was lunchtime, and then sometimes Philippa went out and wandered round the shops. And every day she felt more lonely.

Then, with no warning whatsoever, Fleur rang Philippa up.

“Philippa, it’s Fleur. I’m up in London on Friday for a memorial service. How about a spot of lunch?”

“Lunch? Gosh!” Philippa felt herself blushing and her heart beginning to thud, as though she were being asked on a date. “I’d love to!”

“I know you’ll be at work,” Fleur said, “otherwise I’d suggest meeting earlier and doing some shopping.”

“I’ll take the day off,” Philippa found herself saying. “I’ve loads of spare holiday.”

“Lucky you! Well, why don’t you meet my train? I’ll let you know which one. And we can take it from there.”

As Philippa rang off, she was filled with elated lightness. Fleur wanted to be her friend. Immediately a picture came into her mind of the two of them, giggling together as they ordered a meal in an expensive restaurant; daring each other to try on outlandish outfits. Arranging another meeting. Philippa hugged herself with excitement. Fleur was her friend!

“I’m having lunch with Fleur on Friday,” she called to Lambert, trying to sound casual. “She’s up in London.”

“Bully for her.”

“She’s going to a memorial service,” said Philippa, unable to stop a flow of happy words from spilling out of her. “I wonder whose? Someone from her family, I expect. Or a friend maybe. She’ll probably look quite smart. I wonder what I should wear? Shall I buy something new?”

As Philippa’s voice babbled on, Lambert’s mind was elsewhere. In front of him was another tightly worded letter from the bank, requiring solid assurance that he was going to be able to pay off his substantial, unapproved overdraft. He had to lay his hands on some money and soon. Which meant going down to The Maples again and getting into Richard’s office. But it was risky. Particularly since he wasn’t in Richard’s good books at the moment. Lambert scowled. The old fool had called him into his office at work and ticked him off for insulting Fleur. Ticked him off! Never mind that Fleur had completely fucked up their game; that she had no idea how to behave on a golf course. But of course there was no point talking sense to Richard at the moment. He’d fallen under the spell of Fleur and there was nothing to be done about it except wait for it to pass and, preferably, avoid The Maples until Richard had snapped out of it.

“What I really need is some shorts,” Philippa was saying, next door, as though she thought he was still listening. “For the weekends. Kind of tailored, but not too smart . . .”

The problem was that he couldn’t wait until Richard had snapped out of it. He needed money quickly. Lambert took a sip of beer from the heavy silver tankard on his desk and stared at the letter again. Fifty thousand
would keep the bank quiet. He was sure it would. And it was waiting for him at The Maples. If he could be certain that he wouldn’t cock things up; that he wouldn’t be discovered . . . A sudden unwanted memory came to him of Fleur’s voice behind him, startling him as he leafed through Richard’s files, and he felt again a prickling of cold sweat on the back of his neck. Of course she hadn’t suspected anything, why should she? But if that had been Richard . . .

Suddenly Philippa’s voice pierced his consciousness.

“Apparently Daddy’ll be away at a meeting that day,” she was saying, “and Gillian’s got her bridge lesson.” Lambert’s head twitched up. “Otherwise Fleur would have suggested they came along too. But I think it’s quite nice, don’t you? Just the two of us? Like a kind of, you know, bonding thing?”

Lambert stood up and stalked into the next room.

“What did you say? Your father’s got a meeting on Friday?”

“Yes. He’s got to go to Newcastle, apparently.”

“First I’ve heard of it.”

“Oh dear. Hasn’t he asked you to go too?” Philippa bit her lip. “You could come to lunch with Fleur and me,” she said doubtfully. “If you want to.”

“Don’t be stupid. Me have lunch with a pair of gigglers like you?”

Philippa tittered, pleased by the notion of herself and Fleur as a pair of gigglers. Feeling suddenly generous, Lambert grinned back at her.

“You two ladies have your lunch together,” he said. “I’ve more important things to do that day.”