In the space of a summer, Fleur had become so much part of all their lives that he found it difficult to remember how they’d existed before her. At the beginning she’d seemed a foreign, exotic creature, full of strange ideas, completely at odds with the life he led; with the life they all led. But now . . . Richard frowned. Now she seemed entirely normal. She was just Fleur. Whether she’d changed, or whether they’d changed, he wasn’t entirely sure.
And it wasn’t just within the family that the transformation had taken place, thought Richard, pouring himself a glass of wine. All those looks of disapproval in the clubhouse had, somewhere along the line, vanished. All the gossip had melted away. Now Fleur was as well respected at Greyworth as he was himself. His nomination as captain honoured her as much as it did him.
Richard bit his lip. It was time for him to honour her too. It was time for him to get his affairs in order; time for him to buy an engagement ring; time for him to ask Fleur—properly—to be his wife.
By lunchtime the next day, Fleur had not yet found a moment to call Philippa back.
“She phoned again,” said Gillian, slicing tomatoes for lunch in the kitchen. “While you were out having your fitness assessment. She sounded very upset that she’d missed you for the third time.”
“I’ve got very good stamina,” said Fleur, staring at the
sheet of paper in her hand. “But my lung capacity is terrible.” She looked up. “Why should that be, I wonder?”
“Too much smoking,” said Zara.
“I don’t smoke!”
“No, but you used to.”
“Only very briefly,” retorted Fleur. “And I lived in the Swiss Alps for six months. That should have repaired any lung damage, shouldn’t it?”
“You also had another phone call from your friend Johnny,” said Gillian, glancing at the pad of paper by the kitchen phone. “You know, that’s the fourth time he’s phoned this week.”
“Jesus!” said Zara. “Haven’t you two made it up yet?”
“He was quite adamant that he needed to speak to you,” added Gillian. “I did promise I’d try to persuade you to phone him.”
“I’m not in the mood for Johnny,” said Fleur, frowning. “I’ll call him later.”
“Call him now!” exclaimed Zara. “If he wants you to call, he must have a good reason. What if it’s urgent?”
“Nothing in Johnny’s life is urgent,” said Fleur scathingly. “He hasn’t a care in the world.”
“And I suppose you have?” shot back Zara.
“Zara,” interrupted Gillian diplomatically, “why don’t you go and pick me some strawberries from the garden?” There was a short silence. Zara glared at Fleur.
“OK,” she said at last, and got to her feet.
“And maybe I’ll find time to phone Johnny later,” said Fleur, examining her nails. “But only maybe.”
Lambert was nearing crisis point. He sat in his office, shredding paper between his fingers, staring out of the
window, unable to concentrate. Over the last few days he had received no fewer than three messages from Erica Fortescue at First Bank, exhorting him to contact her urgently. So far he’d managed to avoid speaking to her. But he couldn’t run away for ever. What if she came into his office? What if she called Richard?
His overdraft now stood at three hundred and thirty thousand pounds. Lambert felt a cold sweat steal over his forehead. How had it become so large? How had he spent so much? What did he have to show for it? He had a car, some clothes, some watches. He had some friends; chaps and their wives whom he’d bought with bottles of brandy at his club, tickets to the opera, boxes at the cricket. He’d always pretended he was doling out freebies; his friends had always believed him. If they’d ever thought he was paying for everything out of his own pocket they would have been embarrassed; would probably have laughed at him. Now Lambert’s cheeks flushed with an angry humiliation. Who were these friends? Mindless idiots whose names he could barely remember. And it was to show them a good time that he’d got himself into this trouble.
What had Emily been playing at, telling him he was going to be a rich man? What the fuck had she been playing at? A cold fury rose through Lambert and he cursed her for being dead, cursed her for having flitted out of the world leaving loose ends floating in the wind. What was the truth? Was Philippa going to be rich? Was that money going to be hers? Or had Richard changed his mind? Had the whole trust story been an invention of Emily’s? He wouldn’t have put it past her, the manipulative bitch. She’d encouraged him to think he was rich; encouraged him to start spending more than he had done before. And now he
was in debt and all her hints and promises had come to nothing.
Except—Lambert bit his lip—he couldn’t be sure that they would come to nothing. It was still tantalizingly possible that Richard would deliver. Maybe he was still going to put some of that money into trust for Philippa. Maybe when she turned thirty she would become a millionairess, just as Emily had promised. Or maybe Richard had now decided to wait a bit longer—until she was thirty-five, perhaps, or forty.
It was torturous, not knowing. And he had no way of finding out. Richard was a secretive bastard—he would never tell Lambert anything—and of course Philippa knew nothing. Philippa knew nothing about anything. A sudden memory came into Lambert’s mind of Philippa’s red, contorted face the night before. She’d been sobbing on the sofa when he’d stormed out of the house; he hadn’t seen her since then.
He’d overreacted to her feeble threat of leaving him; he realized that now. Of course, she hadn’t meant it; Philippa would never leave him. But at the time, she’d rattled him. He’d felt white-hot panic flashing through his body and a conviction that he must, at all costs, stop her. He had to remain married to Philippa; he had to keep things ticking over, at least until he knew where he stood. And so he’d lashed out. Maybe he’d overdone it a bit, maybe he’d upset her a bit too much. But at least that would keep her quiet for a while; give him time to sort himself out.
The phone rang, and he felt a spasm of fear zip through him. Perhaps this was Erica Fortescue from First Bank, he thought, ridiculously. She was down in reception; she was on the way up . . .
It rang again, and he snatched it up.
“Yes?” he barked, trying to conceal his nerves.
“Lambert?” It was his secretary, Lucy. “Just to say, I’ve rearranged that meeting for you.”
“Good,” said Lambert, and put the phone down. He couldn’t face any meetings at the moment; couldn’t face anyone. He had to have some time to think what to do.
Should he just go to Richard, explain the situation and ask for a bail-out? Would Richard willingly hand over that kind of money? The total sum sprang into his mind again, and he shuddered. The figure which had seemed so reasonable when viewed against the mountain of Philippa’s future fortune now seemed outlandish. He closed his eyes and imagined telling Richard; asking humbly for assistance; sitting silently while Richard lectured him. His life would be a misery. What a fucking nightmare.
This was all Larry Collins’s fault, Lambert thought suddenly. Larry, his chum at the bank. Larry, who had
invited
Lambert to take out an overdraft. He’d been impressed by Lambert’s assurances that soon Philippa would be coming into millions. He’d told Lambert he was a valued customer. He’d said the paperwork didn’t matter; he’d upped the limit without question. If he hadn’t been such an irresponsible moron; if his bosses hadn’t been so fucking
blind
—then Lambert would never have had such a big overdraft limit in the first place and the whole problem would never have arisen. But no-one had thought to check up, Lambert’s overdraft had risen like the sun—and only then had Larry been fired. Larry was safely out of the picture, thanks very much, and it was Lambert who’d been left to pick up the pieces.
What was he to do? If he kept to his original plan—took
fifty thousand from the ten million account and threw it at the bank to keep them happy—then he’d have to find a way of paying Richard back before the end of the year. He couldn’t just leave it; Richard would notice a deficit of fifty thousand. So he’d need another overdraft. But who would authorize another overdraft now that Larry was gone? Who would authorize another overdraft for him without any proof that Philippa’s trust fund was established? Lambert clenched his fists in frustration. If only he had proof. Some little corroborating piece of evidence. Something that would convince some fool somewhere to let him keep his overdraft. A document, or a letter. Something signed by Richard. Anything would do.
Two weeks later Richard sat in Oliver Sterndale’s office, signing his name repeatedly on different pieces of paper. After the last signature he replaced the cap on Oliver’s fountain pen, looked at his old friend and smiled.
“There,” he said. “All done.”
“All gone, more like,” said Oliver tetchily. “You do realize that you’re now practically a pauper?”
Richard laughed.
“Oliver, for someone who has just signed away ten million pounds, I have an indecently large amount of money left to call my own. As well you know.”
“I know nothing of the sort,” said Oliver. His eyes met Richard’s and suddenly twinkled. “However, since you have been so consistently wedded to this little scheme, may I offer my congratulations on its successful completion?”
“You may.”
“Well then, congratulations.”
They both looked at the contracts, lying in thick piles on the desk.
“They’re going to be two very rich young people,” said Oliver. “Have you decided when to tell them?”
“Not yet,” said Richard. “There’s still plenty of time.”
“There’s a fair amount of time,” said Oliver. “But you do need to give them some warning. Especially Philippa. You don’t want to find it’s the eve of her thirtieth birthday, and you’re suddenly trying to find the words to tell her she’s about to become a multimillionairess. These announcements have a nasty habit of backfiring.”
“Oh, I’m aware of that,” said Richard. “In fact, I thought I might bring both Philippa and Antony in here, say in a few weeks’ time, and we could both explain it to them. Since you’re the trustee of the fund.”
“Good idea,” said Oliver. “Splendid idea.”
“You know, I feel liberated,” said Richard suddenly. “This has been hanging over me more than I’d realized. Now I feel able to—” He broke off, and coloured slightly.
“To pursue your fresh start?”
“Exactly.”
Oliver cleared his throat delicately.
“Richard, is there anything which—as your lawyer—I should know?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“But you would let me know if there were . . . anything.”
“Naturally I would.” A small smile played about Richard’s lips, and Oliver gazed at him severely.
“And by that I don’t mean a fax from Las Vegas saying ‘Guess what, I’m hitched.’ ” Richard burst into laughter.
“Oliver, who do you think I am?”
“I think you’re a decent man and a good friend.” Oliver’s
eyes bored into Richard’s. “And I think you may need protection.”
“From whom, may I ask?”
“From yourself. From your own generosity.”
“Oliver, just what are you saying?”
“I’m saying nothing. Just promise me you won’t get married without telling me first. Please.”
“Honestly, Oliver, I wouldn’t dream of it. And anyway, who says I’m getting married?”
Oliver gave him a wry smile.
“Do you really want me to answer that? I can give you a list of names, if you like. Beginning with my own wife.”
“Perhaps you’d better not.” Richard chuckled. “You know, I really don’t care who says what about me anymore. Let them gossip all they like.”
“Did you used to care?”
Richard thought for a minute.
“I’m not sure I did. But Emily used to worry terribly. And so of course I always used to worry too, on her behalf.”
“Yes,” said Oliver. “I can imagine.” He grinned at Richard. “You’ve certainly changed, haven’t you?”
“Have I?” said Richard innocently.
“You know you have.” Oliver paused. “And quite seriously, I’m glad things are working out so well for you. You deserve it.”
“I’m not sure I do,” said Richard. “But thank you anyway, Oliver.” For a moment the two men’s eyes met; then Richard looked away. “And thanks for coming in on a Saturday morning,” he said lightly. “On Club Cup morning too!”
“It was no trouble.” Oliver leaned back comfortably in his chair. “I’m not teeing off until twelve. What about you?”
“Half-past. Just enough time to get in some putting practice. I certainly need it. You know, I’ve barely played this summer.”
“I know,” said Oliver. “That’s what I said. You’ve changed.”
By eleven o’clock, Philippa was finally ready to leave the flat. She peered at herself in the mirror and gave her hair one last tug.
“Come on,” said Lambert. “I tee off at one, remember.”
“There’s plenty of time,” said Philippa tonelessly. Without meeting his eye, she followed him down the stairs.
How had it happened? she wondered for the hundredth time, as they both got into the car. How had she let Lambert back into her life without a protest; without so much as a question mark? He had arrived back at the flat, three days after the row, holding a bottle of wine and some flowers.