“These are for you,” he’d said gracelessly at the door of the sitting room, and her head had jerked round from the television in shock. She’d thought she would never see Lambert again. At one point, she’d considered changing the locks of the flat; then she’d discovered how much it cost and decided to spend the money on a crate of Baileys instead. By the time Lambert arrived back, she was on the fourth bottle.
The alcohol must have dimmed her faculties, she thought. Because as she’d looked at him, standing in the doorway, not sneering or swaggering but not looking particularly penitent either, she’d found herself entirely devoid of
emotion. She’d tried as hard as she could to conjure up the anger and hatred which she knew should be burning inside her; tried to think of some appropriate insult to hiss at him. But nothing came to mind except “You bastard.” And when she said it, it was in such lacklustre tones that she might as well not have bothered.
He’d given her the flowers, and she’d found herself looking at them and thinking they were rather nice. Then he’d opened the wine and poured it into a glass for her, and although she was feeling slightly sick, she’d drunk it. And once she’d taken his flowers and drunk his wine, it had seemed to be tacitly agreed between them that he was back, that he was forgiven, that the rift between them was healed.
It was as though the whole thing had never happened. As though she’d never threatened to leave him; he’d never touched her. As though none of the shouting and sobbing had occurred. He never referred to it and neither did she. Whenever she opened her mouth to speak about it, she began to feel sick and her heart began to pound, and it seemed so much easier to say nothing. And the more days that passed, the more remote and shadowy the whole thing seemed, and the less convinced she felt of her ability to tackle him on the subject.
Yet she wanted to. Part of her wanted to shout at him again; to work herself up into a frenzy and scream at him until he crumpled in guilt. Part of her wanted to relive the entire confrontation, this time as the heroine, the victor. And part of her wanted to find the energy to let the world know what had happened.
Because no-one knew. Fleur didn’t know; her father didn’t know; none of her friends knew. She had been
through the worst crisis of her life, had come through it somehow, and no-one knew. Fleur still had not phoned her back. It had been over two weeks and she still hadn’t phoned back.
Philippa felt angry tears spring to her eyes, and she looked out of the car window. At first, she’d kept ringing The Maples, frantic to talk to Fleur; desperate for some help and advice. Then Lambert had arrived back, and the two of them had seemed to patch things up—and Philippa had found herself wanting to relay her story to Fleur not so much for help as for the shocked admiration that it would surely provoke. Every time the phone had rung, she’d jumped to answer, thinking it was Fleur, ready to tell in low tones what had been happening to her; ready to savour the reaction at the other end. But Fleur hadn’t called back and hadn’t called back, and eventually Philippa had given up expecting her to. Perhaps Fleur was just hopeless with phones, she’d rationalized to herself. Perhaps she hadn’t received any of Philippa’s messages. Perhaps she’d always tried ringing just when Philippa was on the line to someone else.
But today was different; today they didn’t need phones. She would have Fleur all to herself, and she would tell her the whole story. At the thought, Philippa felt an exhilarating anticipation begin to fizz inside her. She would tell Fleur every detail of what had happened. And Fleur would be astounded that Philippa had got through such a trauma on her own; astounded, and consumed with guilt.
“I had no-one,” Philippa heard herself saying to Fleur, in matter-of-fact tones. “When you didn’t call back . . .” She would give a little shrug. “I was desperate. Of course, I turned to the bottle.”
“Oh darling. You didn’t. I feel terrible!” Fleur would grasp her hands pleadingly; Philippa would simply give another little shrug.
“I got through it,” she would say carelessly. “Somehow I got through it. Jesus, it was hard, though.”
“What?” said Lambert suddenly. “Are you talking to me?”
“Oh!” said Philippa, and felt her cheeks turn red. “No, I’m not.”
“Muttering away to yourself,” said Lambert. “No wonder everyone thinks you’re mad.”
“They don’t think I’m mad,” said Philippa.
“Whatever,” said Lambert. Philippa looked crossly at him and tried to think of a clever retort. But her mind felt stultified in the real world; her words mismatched and fell apart in her mouth. Already she was flying happily back to Fleur, who would listen to her story, and gasp, and take Philippa’s hand, and vow never to let her down again.
“Cool,” said Zara, as she and Antony approached the clubhouse. “Look at all those flaggy things.”
“Bunting.”
“What?”
“Bunting. It’s what they’re called.” Zara gazed at him sceptically for a moment. “Well anyway, they always decorate the clubhouse on Club Cup day,” continued Antony. “And there’s a band in the garden. It’s quite fun. We’ll get a cream tea later on.”
“But we have to go round the golf course first?”
“That’s kind of the point.”
Zara gave a melodramatic sigh and collapsed onto the clubhouse steps.
“Look,” said Antony anxiously, sitting down beside her. “I’ll understand if you don’t want to caddy for me after all. I mean it’s a hot day, and everything.”
“Are you trying to fire me?”
“No! Of course not!”
“Well, OK then.” Zara squinted at Antony. “You nervous?”
“Not really.”
“Who’s going to do better? You, or your father?”
“Dad, I expect. He always does.”
“But he hasn’t been practising all week like you have.” Antony shrugged awkwardly.
“Still. He’s a bloody good golfer.” They sat in silence for a while.
“And you’re a bloody good kisser,” said Zara suddenly. Antony’s head jerked up in astonishment.
“What?”
“You heard.” She grinned. “Should I say it again?”
“No! Someone might hear!”
“So what? It’s the truth.” Antony flushed scarlet. A group of chattering women was coming up the clubhouse steps, and he turned his face away from them.
“And you’re . . .” he began. “I mean . . .”
“Don’t feel you have to compliment me in return,” said Zara. “I know I’m good. I was taught by an expert.”
“Who?” said Antony, feeling jealous.
“Cara.”
“Who the hell’s Cara?”
“This Italian girl. Didn’t I tell you about her? We were
living in her house last summer. She had a rich daddy too. In the Mafia, I think.”
“A girl?” Antony goggled at her.
“Sure. But much older. She was seventeen. She kissed, like, loads of people.”
“How did she teach you?”
“How do you think?” Zara grinned at him.
“Jesus.” Antony’s face grew even redder.
“She had a younger brother,” said Zara. “But he was only interested in his dumb computer. Want some gum?” She looked up at Antony’s face and laughed.
“You’re shocked, aren’t you?”
“Well, I mean . . . You were only twelve!” Zara shrugged.
“I guess they start early over there.” She unwrapped her gum and began to chew. Antony watched her silently for a few minutes.
“So what happened?” he asked eventually.
“What do you mean, what happened?”
“Why didn’t you stay living with them?”
Zara looked away.
“We just didn’t.”
“Did your mother and the Italian guy have a fight?”
“Not exactly,” said Zara. She looked around, and lowered her voice. “Fleur got tired of living in Italy. So one night we just scooted.”
“What, just left?”
“Yup. Packed our bags and left.”
Antony stared at her for a moment, thinking.
“You’re not . . .” He swallowed, and rubbed his shoe along the step. “You’re not going to scoot this time, are you?”
There was a long silence.
“I hope not,” said Zara eventually. “I really hope not.” She hunched her shoulders and looked away. “But with Fleur, you never know.”
Fleur was sitting in the clubhouse bar, watching as the competitors and their wives milled about, greeting one another, joshing each other on their form, breaking off mid-conversation to shriek to new arrivals. She felt at home here, she thought comfortably, leaning back and sipping her drink. The ambience here reminded her of her childhood; of the expatriate club in Dubai. These shrieking Surrey women could equally well have been the expat wives who had sat in clusters at the bar, drinking gin and admiring one another’s shoes and complaining in low voices about their husbands’ bosses. Those jovial chaps with their pints of beer could equally well have been the business acquaintances of her father: successful, tanned, obsessively competitive. In Dubai the golf courses had been sand-coloured, not green, but that was the only difference. That was the atmosphere in which she’d grown up; that was the atmosphere which felt, to her, most like home.
“Fleur!” A voice interrupted her thoughts, and she looked up to see Philippa. She was dressed in a white trouser suit and was gazing at Fleur with an intense, almost frightening expression.
“Philippa,” said Fleur lightly. “How nice to see you again. Is Lambert playing in the Club Cup?”
“Yes, he is.” Philippa began to fiddle with her bag, tugging awkwardly at the zip until it stuck. “And I wanted to talk to you.”
“Good,” said Fleur. “That will be nice. But first let me get you a drink.”
“Drink!” said Philippa obscurely. “My God, if you knew.” She sat down with a huge sigh. “If you only knew.”
“Yes,” said Fleur doubtfully. “Well, you just sit there, and I’ll be back in a second.”
At the bar she found Lambert pushing his way to the head of the queue.
“Oh, hello,” he said unenthusiastically.
“I’ve come to buy your wife a drink,” said Fleur. “Or perhaps you were planning to buy her one yourself?” Lambert sighed.
“What does she want?”
“I’ve no idea. A glass of white wine, I should think. Or a Manhattan.”
“She can have wine.”
“Good.” Fleur glanced back at Philippa, who was frantically searching through her handbag for something; a tissue, judging by the redness of her nose. Could the girl not invest in some decent face-powder? Fleur gave a little shudder and turned back to the bar. Suddenly it occurred to her that if she returned to Philippa’s table she would probably be stuck with her all afternoon.
“Right,” she said slowly. “Well, I think I’ll go and find Richard, to wish him good luck. Philippa’s over there by the window.”
She waited for Lambert to grunt in response, then swiftly moved off, threading her way through the throng, keeping her head firmly averted from Philippa’s until she was safely out of the bar.
On the steps of the clubhouse she found Richard, Antony and Zara.
“All set?” she said cheerfully. “Who tees off first?”
“Dad,” said Antony. “And I’m soon after.”
“
We’re
soon after,” corrected Zara. “I’m Antony’s caddy,” she informed Richard. “I tell him which club to use. The big one or the little one.”
“Yeah, right,” said Antony. “You don’t even know what the clubs are called.”
“Sure I do!”
Richard met Fleur’s eye and smiled.
“And tonight we have a nice celebration supper,” he said.
“There may not be anything to celebrate,” said Antony.
“Oh, I hope there will,” said Richard.
“So do I,” said Zara, looking at Antony. “I don’t want to hang around with a loser.” Fleur laughed.
“That’s my girl.”
“Right,” said Richard. “Well, I’d better start getting ready.”
“Who’s that?” said Antony, interrupting him. “That man. He’s waving at us!”
“Where?” said Fleur.
“He’s just come in through the gate. I’ve no idea who he is.”
“Is he a member?” said Richard, and they all turned to look, squinting in the sunshine.
The man was dapper and tanned and had nut-brown hair. He was dressed in immaculate pale linen and gazing with slight dismay at the pink culottes of the woman who was striding along in front of him. As they stared at him, he looked up and waved again. Fleur and Zara gasped in unison. Then Zara gave a huge whoop and began running towards him.
“Who on earth is it?” exclaimed Richard, watching as
the strange man caught Zara in a huge hug. “Is it a friend of yours?”
“I don’t believe it,” said Fleur in a faint voice. “It’s Johnny.”
“I should have called,” said Fleur. She stretched her legs down the grassy bank on which she and Johnny were sitting. In the distance was the fourteenth hole; a man in a red shirt was lining up to putt. “I’m sorry. I thought you were still cross with me.”
“I was. And I’m even crosser with you now!” exclaimed Johnny. “Do you know what an effort it’s been for me to come down here? You know I never leave London if I can help it.”