“You’re always so bloody rude to me!” she exclaimed.
“What?” Lambert’s head moved round slowly until he was looking at her in what seemed genuine astonishment.
“I’m sick of it!” Philippa advanced into the room, realized she was still holding two carrier bags, and put them down. “I’m sick of the way you treat me. Like a skivvy! Like an imbecile! I want some respect!” She stamped her foot triumphantly and wished she had a bit more of an audience. Phrases were springing plentifully to her lips; scenes of confrontation from a thousand novels were filling her mind. She felt like a romantic, feisty heroine. “I married you for love, Lambert,” she continued, lowering her voice to a tremble. “I wanted to share your life. Your hopes, your dreams. And yet you cut me out; you ignore me . . .”
“I don’t ignore you!” said Lambert. “What are you talking about?”
“You treat me like shit,” said Philippa, tossing her hair back. “Well, I’ve just about had enough. I want out.”
“You what?” Lambert’s voice rose in an astonished squawk. “Philippa, what the fuck’s wrong with you?”
“Ask yourself the same question,” said Philippa. “I’m going to leave you, Lambert.” She lifted her chin high, picked up her carrier bags and headed for the door. “I’m going to leave you, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
Fleur arrived back from London to find Geoffrey Forrester, captain of Greyworth Golf Club, shaking hands with Richard in the hall.
“Aha!” said Geoffrey, as he saw Fleur. “You’re just in time to hear the good news. Shall I tell Fleur, Richard, or do you want to?”
“What is it?” said Fleur.
“Geoffrey’s just informed me that, if I’m willing, I’m to be nominated as captain of the club,” said Richard. Fleur looked at him. He was obviously trying to keep his face sober but his mouth had twisted into a smile, and his eyes were shining with delight.
“As I told Richard, the committee voted unanimously in favour of him,” said Geoffrey. “Which doesn’t always happen, I can tell you.”
“Well done, darling!” said Fleur. “I’m so pleased.”
“Anyway, I’d better shoot off,” said Geoffrey, looking at his watch. “So, Richard, you’ll let me know your decision in the morning?”
“Absolutely,” said Richard. “Good night, Geoffrey.”
“And I hope we’ll be seeing the two of you up at the Club Cup?” said Geoffrey. “No excuses now, Richard!” He gave Fleur a jovial grin. “Tell you what, Fleur, isn’t it about time you took up the game yourself?”
“I’m not sure I’m really a golfer,” said Fleur, smiling back at him.
“It’s never too late to start!” Geoffrey chuckled. “We’ll get you yet, Fleur! Won’t we, Richard?”
“I hope so,” said Richard. He reached for Fleur’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “I certainly hope so.”
They watched as his car roared out of the drive, then walked back inside the house.
“What decision was he talking about?” said Fleur.
“I told Geoffrey that I couldn’t agree to being nominated until I’d consulted you first,” said Richard.
“What?” Fleur stared at him. “But why? You want to be captain, don’t you?” Richard sighed.
“Of course I want to—on one level. But it’s not as simple as that. Being captain is, as well as being a huge honour, a huge commitment.” He lifted a strand of Fleur’s hair and brushed it against his lips. “If I take it on, I’ll have to spend far more time at the club than I have been doing recently. I’ll have to play more, get my game up to form again, attend meetings . . .” He spread his hands. “There’s a lot to it. And all of that will mean I have less time to spend with you.”
“But you’ll be captain! Isn’t that worth it?” Fleur narrowed her eyes. “Isn’t being captain of Greyworth what you’ve always wanted?”
“It’s funny,” said Richard. “I’ve thought for years that it was exactly what I wanted. Being captain of Greyworth was—well, it was my goal. And now I’ve got my goal
within my grasp, I can’t quite remember what I wanted it for. The goal posts have shifted.” His nose began to twitch. “Or should I perhaps say, the eighteenth flag has shifted.” He gave a little snuffle of laughter, but Fleur was frowning distractedly.
“You can’t just abandon your goal,” she said suddenly. “If it’s something you’ve been aiming for all your life.”
“I don’t see why not. The question is, why was I aiming for it?” said Richard. “And what happens if I don’t particularly value what it has to offer anymore?” He shrugged. “What if I’d prefer to spend my time with you, rather than going round the course with some bore from a neighbouring golf club?”
“Richard, you can’t just cop out!” exclaimed Fleur. “You can’t just settle for . . . a nice quiet life! You’ve always wanted to be captain of Greyworth and now here’s your chance. People should grasp the opportunities they’re given in life. Even if it means—” She broke off, breathing hard.
“Even if it means they’re unhappy?” Richard laughed.
“Maybe, yes! Better to take the opportunity and be unhappy than pass it up and always regret it.”
“Fleur.” He took both her hands and kissed them. “You’re extraordinary; absolutely extraordinary! I can’t imagine a more encouraging, supportive wife . . .”
There was a sharp silence.
“Except I’m not your wife,” said Fleur slowly. Richard looked down. He took a deep breath, then looked up, straight at her.
“Fleur,” he began.
“Richard, I have to go and shower,” said Fleur, before he could continue. “I’m absolutely filthy from London.”
She disentangled herself from his grasp and headed quickly for the stairs.
“Of course,” said Richard quietly. Then he smiled up at her. “You must be exhausted. And I haven’t even asked you how the memorial service went.”
“I didn’t go in the end,” said Fleur. “I was too busy having fun with Philippa.”
“Oh good! I’m very glad you two are making friends.”
“And thank you for the champagne!” added Fleur, from halfway up the stairs. “We were so surprised.”
“Yes,” said Richard. “I hoped you would be.”
Fleur headed straight for the bathroom, turned both bath taps on and locked the door. Her mind felt fuddled; she needed to think. Sighing, she sat down on the bathroom seat—a hideous upholstered affair—and stared at her reflection in the mirror.
What was her own goal in life? The answer came immediately, without her even thinking. Her goal was to acquire a large amount of money. What was a large amount of money? Ten million pounds was a large amount of money. If she married Richard, she would have a large amount of money.
“But not on my own terms,” said Fleur aloud to her reflection. She sighed, and pushed her shoes off. Her feet were aching very slightly from the London streets, despite the soft, expensive leather of her shoes; despite the many taxis.
Could she stand to become Richard’s wife? Mrs. Richard Favour, of Greyworth. Fleur shuddered slightly; the very thought stifled her. Men changed after marriage.
Richard would buy her tartan trousers and expect her to take up golf. He would give her an allowance. He would be there every morning when she woke up, smiling at her with that eager, innocent smile. If she planned a trip abroad, he would come too.
But at the same time . . . Fleur bit her lip. At the same time, he had a lot of money. He was an opportunity that might not come her way again. She tore off her jacket and tossed it over the towel rail. The sight of the black silk suddenly reminded her of the memorial service she’d missed that afternoon. A chance passed up. Who might have been at that service? What fortunate meeting might have occurred if she’d gone?
“Make up your mind,” said Fleur to her reflection, stepping out of her skirt, undoing her bra. “Either you take what’s going, or you leave.”
She ripped her stockings off, padded over to the bath and swung her feet over the side. As she lowered them into the hot, foamy water she felt her whole body start to relax and her mind blank out.
A knock at the door made her jump.
“It’s me!” came Richard’s voice. “I’ve brought you up a glass of wine.”
“Thanks, darling!” called back Fleur. “I’ll get it in a second.”
“And Philippa’s on the phone. She wants to speak to you.” Fleur rolled her eyes. She’d had enough of Philippa for one day.
“Tell her I’ll call her back.”
“Right you are. I’m leaving the glass here,” came Richard’s voice again. “Just outside the door.”
She imagined him stooping down, carefully placing
the glass on the carpet outside the bathroom door; looking at it, wondering whether she might not knock it over by mistake, then bending down again and moving it a few inches further back before tiptoeing away. A careful prudent man. Would he let her spend all his money? Quite possibly not. And then she would have married him for nothing.
Philippa put the telephone receiver down and bit her lip. A fresh flood of tears poured down her red, raw face; she felt as though her insides were being wrenched apart. There was no-one else she could phone. No-one else she could confide in. She had to talk to Fleur, and Fleur was in the bath.
“Oh God,” she said aloud. “Oh God help me.”
She sank off the sofa onto the floor and began to weep frenziedly, clutching her stomach, rocking back and forwards. Her pink suit was crumpled and tear-stained but she didn’t care what she looked like; there was no-one to see her. No-one to hear her.
Lambert had slammed the door half an hour before, leaving her sitting in numb, silent mortification. For a while she’d crouched on the sofa, unable to move without a pain hitting her in the stomach and tears springing to her eyes. Then, as her breathing calmed, she’d somehow managed to get to the phone and dial the number of The Maples and ask for Fleur in a voice that sounded normal. Fleur, she’d thought desperately. Fleur. If only I can talk to Fleur.
But Fleur was in the bath and couldn’t talk to her. And as she’d said good-bye to her father, the tears had once more started to pour down her face, and she’d sunk to the
floor, and wondered why a day that had started off so perfectly should have ended up in a mess of humiliation.
He’d laughed at her. To begin with, Lambert had laughed at her. A nasty, mocking laugh which had made her throw her shoulders back and look him in the eyes and say, in an even more feisty voice than before, “I’m leaving you!” A zingy adrenaline had begun to pump round her body, a smile had come to her lips, and it had occurred to her that she should have done this ages ago. “I expect I’ll go to my father’s house,” she’d added in a businesslike way. “Until I get settled in my own place.” And Lambert had looked up and said,
“Philippa, shut up, will you?”
“Lambert, don’t you understand? I’m leaving you!”
“No you’re not.”
“Yes I am!”
“No you’re bloody not.”
“I am! You don’t love me, so what’s the point in carrying on together?”
“The point is, we’re fucking married. All right?”
“Well maybe I don’t want to be fucking married any more!” she’d cried.
“Well maybe I do!”
And Lambert had got to his feet, come over and taken her wrist. “You’re not leaving me, Philippa,” he’d said, in a voice she hardly recognized; a voice which almost frightened her. He was bright red and trembling; he looked as though he was possessed. “You’re not fucking leaving me, all right?”
And she’d felt flattered. She’d gazed up at his desperate face and thought, that’s love. He really does love me. She was about to succumb, to caress his chin and call him darling.
When he moved towards her, she’d felt a smile creep across her face and prepared herself for a passionate, reuniting embrace. But suddenly his hands were grasping her roughly about the throat.
“You won’t leave me!” he hissed. “You won’t ever leave me!” And his hands had tightened around her neck until she was hardly able to breathe, until she felt she would retch against the pressure on her throat.
“Tell me you won’t leave me! Say it!”
“I won’t leave you,” Philippa had managed in a hoarse voice.
“That’s more like it.”
Suddenly he’d let her go, dropping her down onto the sofa like a child dropping an unwanted toy. She hadn’t looked up as he’d left; hadn’t asked him where he was going. Her entire body was riveted to the spot in misery. When she’d heard the door slamming, she’d felt tears of relief pouring down her face. Eventually she’d made her way shakily to the phone, jabbed in the number of The Maples and asked for the only person she could possibly tell about this. Somehow she’d managed to talk to her father in the semblance of a normal voice, giving away nothing. Somehow she’d managed to say that of course it didn’t matter, cheerio Daddy, see you soon. But as soon as she’d put the phone down, she’d collapsed onto the carpet, a soggy mess of misery. Because Fleur was unavailable, and there was no-one else she could turn to.
Richard put down the receiver and gazed affectionately at it. He found it rather pleasing that Philippa had phoned wanting to speak to Fleur rather than him. It just showed, he thought, that Fleur was becoming more and more a
member of the family: attached not simply to himself, but to all of them. Gillian was certainly very fond of Fleur. Antony seemed to enjoy her company well enough, and—Richard grinned to himself—he certainly liked young Zara.