The Gatecrasher (31 page)

“We’re nearly home,” said Fleur. “Thank God.” She looked at Lambert. “You could have killed us both. And Johnny.”

“I wish I had. One less poofter on the face of the earth.” There was a short silence.

“I won’t hit you,” said Fleur in a trembling voice, “because you’re driving and I don’t want to cause an accident. But if you ever say anything like that again . . .”

“You’ll beat me up? Well I’m terrified.”

“I won’t beat you up,” said Fleur. “Some of Johnny’s friends might.” They pulled into the drive of The Maples, and immediately Fleur opened the door. She looked at Lambert witheringly.

“You make me sick,” she said, and slammed it.

Lambert stared after her, feeling the blood pounding round his head and a slight confusion in his brain. Did he despise her or did he fancy her? She was bloody pissed off with him, at any rate.

He took out his hip flask and swigged some brandy. Sordid, was he? She should try having an overdraft of fucking three hundred thousand pounds. A familiar feeling of panic stole over him, and he took another swig of brandy. He had to do something about that overdraft. He had to get going now, before everyone started assembling for supper and wondering where he was. He looked at the front door,
slightly ajar. Fleur had probably run straight off to Richard, to complain about him. Just like a woman. Lambert grinned to himself. Let her complain; let her say what she liked. At least it would keep Richard out of the way for a while.

When they got back to the house, Richard paused.

“I think,” he said to Zara, “I’d like to have a moment alone with Antony. If you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” said Zara. “I think he’ll be in the garden. We were going to play badminton.” She looked up at Richard, face screwed up uncertainly. “You don’t mind that I told you about the eyepatch, do you?”

“No!” Richard swallowed. “Of course I don’t mind. You did just the right thing.”

He found Antony standing by the badminton post, patiently unwinding the net. For a moment he just stared at his son; his tall, kind, talented son. His perfect son.

“Come here,” he said, as Antony looked up. “Let me congratulate you properly.”

He pulled Antony towards him and hugged him tightly. “My boy,” he murmured against Antony’s hair, and suddenly found himself trying to fight back tears. “My boy.” He blinked a few times, then released Antony.

“I’m desperately proud of you,” he said.

“It’s quite cool,” said Antony, giving an unwilling grin. He looked down at the badminton net. “So you don’t . . . you don’t mind that I beat you, do you?”

“Mind?” Richard gazed at him. “Of course I don’t mind! It’s time for you to start beating me. You’re a man now!” A pink, embarrassed tinge spread slowly up Antony’s neck, and Richard smiled to himself.

“But, Antony, it’s not just your talent at golf that I’m proud of,” he continued. “I’m proud of all of you. Every single little bit of you.” He paused. “And I know that Mummy was proud of you too.”

Antony said nothing. His hands clenched tightly around the tangled strings of the badminton net.

“She may not always have shown it,” said Richard slowly. “It was . . . difficult for her sometimes. But she was very proud of you. And she loved you more than anything in the world.”

“Really?” said Antony in a shaky voice, without looking up.

“She loved you more than anything in the world,” repeated Richard. For a few minutes there was silence. Richard watched as Antony’s face slowly relaxed; as his hands loosened around the net. A small smile appeared on the boy’s face and suddenly he took a huge breath, almost as though to begin life again.

You believe me, thought Richard; you believe me without question. Thank God for your trusting soul.

Zara had elected to join Gillian in the kitchen, unstacking the dishwasher while Gillian tipped salad leaves out of their plastic packets into a huge wooden bowl. She listened patiently while Gillian chattered away about some trip she was planning, all the time wondering what Antony’s dad was saying to him.

“Such a coincidence!” Gillian was saying happily. “Eleanor’s always wanted to go to Egypt too. Apparently Geoffrey refuses to go on holiday anywhere that doesn’t have a golf course.”

“So, will you see the Pyramids?”

“Of course! And we’ll take a cruise up the Nile.”

“Then you’ll get murdered,” said Zara. “Like in Agatha Christie.” Gillian laughed.

“Do you know, that’s just what Eleanor said.”

“I guess it’s what everyone says.” Zara picked up a pan and looked at it. “What the hell’s this?”

“It’s an asparagus steamer,” said Gillian tartly. “And don’t swear.” Zara rolled her eyes.

“You’re as bad as Felix. He makes you put a pound in the swear box.”

“A jolly good idea. We had the same thing at school.”

“Yes well,” said Zara. “This is the nineties, or hadn’t you noticed?”

“I had noticed,” said Gillian. “But thank you for pointing it out.” She picked up two bottles of salad dressing. “Shall we have basil or garlic?”

“Both,” suggested Zara. “Just kind of mix them together.”

“All right,” said Gillian. “But if it goes wrong, I’m blaming you.”

They both looked up as Fleur came into the kitchen.

“Oh hi,” said Zara. “Did Johnny make his train all right?”

“Just about,” said Fleur. “Thank God we weren’t both killed. Lambert was drunk! He was swerving about all over the place!”

“Jesus!” said Zara. She glanced at Gillian. “I mean, goodness me!”

“Sit down,” said Gillian, hurrying over to Fleur. “You poor thing!” She frowned. “You know, it’s not the first time this has happened. That Lambert should be prosecuted!”

“Let’s call the cops,” said Zara eagerly.

“Put the kettle on, Zara,” said Gillian, “and make your mother a nice cup of tea.”

“No thanks,” said Fleur. “I think I’ll go upstairs and have a bath.”

“Try on a few hats,” said Zara. “That should cheer you up.”

“That’s enough, Zara,” said Gillian. She looked at Fleur. “Has Richard heard about this?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, he should.”

“Yes,” said Fleur. “He will.”

She went out into the hall and began to climb the stairs. As she did so, a voice rang out from below.

“Fleur! There you are! I’ve been trying to find you all day!”

Fleur looked round. Philippa was hurrying towards her, red-faced, panting slightly.

“Fleur, we need to have a talk,” she was saying. “I’ve got so much to tell you. About—” She swallowed, and wiped a tear from her eye. “About me and Lambert. You just won’t believe—”

“Philippa,” interrupted Fleur sharply, “not now, darling. I’m really not in the mood. And if you want to know why, you can ask your husband.” And before Philippa could reply, she hurried upstairs.

Philippa gazed after Fleur, feeling hurt, disbelieving tears coming to her eyes. Fleur didn’t want to talk to her. Fleur had abandoned her. She felt sick with misery and anger. Now she had no friends; no audience; no-one to tell her story to. And it was all because of Lambert. Lambert had somehow made Fleur angry. He spoiled everything. Philippa clenched her fists and felt her heart begin to beat
more quickly. Lambert had ruined her life, she thought furiously. He’d ruined her entire life, and no-one even knew about it. He deserved punishment. He deserved for everyone to know what he was really like. He deserved revenge.

Half an hour later, supper was ready.

“Where on earth is everybody?” said Gillian, looking up from the oven. “Where’s Philippa?”

“Haven’t seen her,” said Antony, opening a bottle of wine.

“And Lambert?”

“Who cares about him?” said Zara. “Let’s just start eating anyway.”

“Actually, I think I saw Philippa in the garden,” said Antony. “When we were playing badminton.”

“I’ll go and fetch her,” said Gillian. “And can you please tell everybody else that supper’s ready?”

“OK,” said Antony.

When Gillian had gone, he went to the door of the kitchen and called, “Supper’s ready!” Then he looked back at Zara and shrugged. “It’s not my fault if they can’t hear.” He poured himself a glass of wine and took a sip.

“Hey,” said Zara. “What about me? Don’t I get some?” Antony looked up in surprise.

“You never drink wine!”

“There’s always a first time,” said Zara, reaching for his glass. She took a cautious sip and wrinkled her nose. “I guess it’s an acquired taste. I think I’ll stick to Diet Coke.”

“There’s some in the larder,” said Antony. He looked at Zara and got to his feet.

“There’s some in the fridge too,” said Zara, giggling. But she got up and followed him into the larder. Antony closed the door behind them and put his arms around Zara. Their mouths met with accustomed ease; the door creaked slightly as they leaned against it.

“You’re bloody sexy,” said Antony in blurred tones as they separated.

“So are you,” murmured Zara. Encouraged, his hand began to trace a cautious route down her spine.

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance . . .”

“No,” said Zara cheerfully. “Absolutely none.”

Lambert heard Antony’s voice calling out downstairs and felt a spasm of panic rush through him. He had to hurry; had to get out of Richard’s office before everyone started to wonder where he was. Frowning, he started typing again, glancing every few seconds towards the door, trying frantically to formulate the right words in his mind.

He’d found a sheaf of Richard’s personal writing paper and an old typewriter. He had the details of Richard’s bank account in front of him, and the name of his lawyer and a copy of his signature. It should have been easy to knock off a quick all-purpose letter, proving that Richard was in the process of making his daughter—and therefore Lambert—seriously wealthy.

It should have been easy. But Lambert’s eyes kept blurring over; his mind felt slow and ponderous; his thoughts
were distracted every so often by a sudden memory of Fleur’s legs. He jabbed at the typewriter viciously, trying to hurry, cursing every time he made a mistake. He’d already ruined five sheets of paper; torn them out and thrown them on the floor. The whole thing was a nightmare.

He took a swig of brandy and tried to focus his mind. He just needed to concentrate; to hurry up and finish the bloody thing, then get downstairs; behave normally. And then he’d wait for First Bank to phone. “Oh, you want a guarantee, do you?” he’d say, in tones of surprise. “You should have said. How’s a letter of instruction to Mr. Favour’s lawyer?” That would stop them in their tracks. They weren’t going to question Richard fucking Favour, were they?

“Sum,” he said aloud, hitting each key very carefully, “of f-i-v-e million. Full stop.”

Five million. God, if it were true, thought Lambert hazily, if it were only true . . .

“Lambert?” A voice interrupted his thoughts, and Lambert’s heart stopped beating. Slowly he raised his head. Richard was standing at the door, gazing at him incredulously. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

Gillian’s mind was happily drifting through imagined pictures of Egypt as she wandered out into the garden. There was a lightness inside her; a lightness which gave energy to her feet, which caused her to smile to herself and hum ill-remembered snatches of popular songs. A holiday with Eleanor Forrester. With Eleanor Forrester of all people! Once upon a time she would have said “No” automatically; would have thought the scheme quite out of the question. But now she thought, why not? Why should she not at last
travel to an exotic, faraway land? Why should she not give Eleanor a chance as a travelling companion? She pictured herself wandering along dusty, sandy paths, gazing up with awe at the remains of a distant, fascinating civilization. Feeling the sun of a different continent beating down on her shoulders; listening to the babbling sounds of an unfamiliar language. Bartering for presents at a colourful street market.

Suddenly, a cracking sound underfoot brought her back to the real world. She looked down at the grass. A glass jar had been left out on the lawn.

“Dangerous!” said Gillian aloud, picking it up. She peered at it. It was an aspirin bottle and it was empty. Somebody must have left it outside without meaning to. There would be some commonsense explanation for its presence in the grass. Nevertheless, a twinge of alarm went through her and without meaning to, she increased her pace.

“Philippa!” she called. “Supper’s ready. Are you in the garden?”

There was a silence. Then suddenly Gillian heard a little groan.

“Philippa!” she called again, sharply. “Is that you?” She began to walk towards the sound; she found herself running.

Behind the rose bushes at the bottom of the garden, Philippa was lying on the grass, her arms thrown out and her chin stained with vomit. Pinned to her chest was a neatly written letter beginning “To Everyone I Know.” And beside her on the ground was a second empty aspirin bottle.