“Is she rich, then?” said Fleur casually.
“She will be,” said Richard. “When she turns thirty.” He took another swig of whisky. “The irony is, I only signed the papers this morning.”
For a moment, Fleur was very still, then she looked up and said lightly, “What papers?”
“This morning I signed a very large amount of money over into trust for Antony and Philippa.” He smiled at her. “Five million each, as a matter of fact.”
Fleur stared at Richard for a few seconds.
“Five million each,” she said slowly. “That makes ten million.” She paused, seeming to listen to the words.
“I know it seems like a lot of money,” said Richard. “But I wanted to give them financial independence. And I’ll still be more than comfortable.”
“You’ve just given all that money away,” said Fleur faintly. “To your children.”
“They don’t know about it yet,” said Richard. “But I know I can trust you to keep this to yourself.”
“Of course,” murmured Fleur. She drained her glass
and looked up. “Could you . . . do you think you could pour me another whisky, please?”
Richard rose, poured another measure of the amber liquid into Fleur’s glass and walked back over towards her. Suddenly he stopped.
“Fleur, what am I waiting for?” he exclaimed. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you for a long time. I know that tonight’s been very upsetting, but maybe . . . maybe that gives me even more reason to do what I’m about to do.”
Kneeling down on the carpet, still clutching her whisky glass, Richard looked up at Fleur.
“Fleur,” he said, in a trembling voice. “Fleur, my darling, will you marry me?”
Early the next morning, a white Jeep pulled up outside The Maples and hooted loudly, waking Richard. Rubbing his eyes, he padded over to the bedroom window and looked out.
“It’s Antony’s friends,” he said to Fleur. “They must be leaving early for Cornwall.”
Suddenly there was a knock at the door and Antony’s voice said, “Dad? We’re going!”
Richard opened the door and looked at Antony and Zara, standing on the landing. They were dressed identically, in jeans and baseball caps, and each was loaded down with a huge squashy bag.
“So,” he said. “Off to Cornwall. You will behave yourselves, won’t you?”
“Of course we will,” said Antony impatiently. “Anyway, Xanthe’s mum’s going to be there.”
“I know,” said Richard. “I spoke to her yesterday. And mentioned a few ground rules.”
“Dad! What did you say?”
“Nothing very much,” said Richard grinning. “Just that you were to have a cold bath every morning, followed by an hour of Shakespeare . . .”
“Dad!”
“I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time,” said Richard, relenting. “And we’ll see you back here on Friday.”
From outside, the Jeep hooted again.
“Right,” said Antony. He looked at Zara. “Well, we’d better go.”
“I hope Philippa’s OK,” said Zara.
“Yeah.” Antony looked up at Richard and bit his lip. “I hope she’s . . .”
“She’ll be fine,” said Richard reassuringly. “Don’t worry. Now, off you go, before Xanthe starts that infernal noise again.”
He watched as they shuffled down the stairs. Zara was almost bent double under the weight of her bag, and he wondered briefly what on earth she was carrying. Then, as he heard the front door slam, he turned back to Fleur.
“That was Antony and Zara,” he said unnecessarily. “Off to Cornwall.”
“Mmm.” Fleur turned over sleepily, rumpling the duvet around her body. Richard stared at her for a moment, then took a deep breath.
“I don’t know what time you want to leave,” he said. “I’ll take you to the station. Just tell me when.”
“All right,” said Fleur. She opened her eyes. “You don’t mind, do you, Richard? I just need to have some time to think.”
“Of course you do,” said Richard, forcing a cheerful
note into his voice. “I completely understand. I wouldn’t expect you to rush your decision.”
He sat down on the bed and looked at her. Her arms were lying on the pillow above her head; graceful arms, like a ballerina’s. Her eyes had drifted shut again, recapturing the sweet sleep of morning. Through his mind passed the possibility that she might refuse him. And with it came a stab of pain, so strong and sharp it almost frightened him.
Downstairs, Gillian was making a pot of tea. She looked up as Richard entered the kitchen.
“I saw them go,” she said. “That young man, Mex, was driving. I hope he’s responsible.”
“I’m sure he is,” said Richard. He sat down at the kitchen table and looked around.
“The house seems awfully quiet,” he said. “I miss the thumping music already.” Gillian smiled, and put a mug of tea in front of him.
“What’s going to happen about Philippa?” she said. “Will she come out of hospital today?”
“Yes,” said Richard. “Unless anything’s happened overnight. I’ll go and pick her up this morning.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Gillian. “If that’s all right.”
“Of course it’s all right,” said Richard. “I’m sure she’d love to see you.” He took a sip of tea, marshalling his thoughts, then looked up. “There’s something else I should tell you,” he said. “Fleur’s going to London for a few days.”
“I see,” said Gillian. She looked at Richard’s taut, pale face. “You’re not going too?” she said hesitantly.
“No,” said Richard. “Not this time. Fleur . . .” He rubbed his face. “Fleur needs a little time on her own. To . . . think about things.”
“I see,” said Gillian again.
“She’ll be back by Saturday,” said Richard.
“Oh well,” said Gillian cheerfully. “That’s hardly any time at all.” Richard smiled wanly and drained his mug. Gillian looked anxiously at him. “Would Fleur like some tea, do you think?” she asked. “I’m about to go upstairs.”
“She doesn’t want tea,” said Richard, suddenly remembering. “But she asked if I could bring her up
The Times
.”
“
The Times
,” said Gillian, looking about the kitchen. “Here it is. I’ll take it up to her if you like.” She picked up the crisp, folded newspaper and looked at it curiously. “Fleur doesn’t usually read the paper,” she said. “I wonder what she wants it for.”
“I don’t know,” said Richard, pouring himself another cup of tea. “I didn’t ask.”
By ten o’clock, Fleur was ready to leave.
“We’ll drop you at the station,” said Richard, carrying her suitcase down the stairs, “and then go on to the hospital.” He paused. “Philippa will be upset not to see you,” he added lightly.
“It’s a shame,” said Fleur. Her eyes met Richard’s. “But I really don’t feel I can . . .”
“No,” said Richard hastily. “Of course not. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“You’re a sweet man,” said Fleur, and ran her hand down Richard’s arm. “And I do hope Philippa comes through this.”
“She’ll be all right,” said Gillian, coming into the hall. “We’ll keep her at home for a bit; look after her properly. By the time you come back, she’ll probably be right as rain.” She looked at Fleur. “You look very smart,” she said, “all in black.”
“Such a useful colour to wear in London,” murmured Fleur. “It doesn’t show the dirt.”
“Will you be staying with your friend Johnny?” asked Gillian. “Could we reach you there if there was an emergency with Zara?”
“I probably won’t stay there, no,” said Fleur. “I’ll probably check into a hotel.” She frowned slightly. “I’ll call you when I’ve arrived and leave a number.”
“Good,” said Richard. He looked uncertainly at Gillian. “Well. I suppose we ought to get going.”
As they walked out into the drive, Fleur looked back at the house appraisingly.
“It’s a welcoming house, this, isn’t it?” she said suddenly. “A friendly house.”
“Yes,” said Richard eagerly. “Very friendly. It’s . . . well, I think it’s a lovely house to have as a home.” Fleur met his eye.
“Yes,” she said kindly, and opened the car door. “Yes, Richard, I’m sure it is.”
Philippa was sitting up in bed when Richard and Gillian arrived. She watched them walking through the ward, and automatically tried to give them a bright smile. But her mouth felt awkward and her cheeks stiff. She felt as though she might never smile again; as though the freezing shame sinking through her body had caused all her natural reactions to seize up.
She hadn’t thought it would be like this. She’d thought she was committing the ultimate romantic gesture; that she’d wake up to find everyone gathered round her bed, blinking back their tears and stroking her hand and promising to make her life better. Instead of which she’d
woken to a series of humiliating assaults on her body, administered by nurses with civil phrases on their lips and contempt in their eyes. When she’d glimpsed her father’s devastated face, something inside her had crumpled, and she’d felt like crying. Except that suddenly she couldn’t cry any more. The ready fountain of tears inside her had dried up; the backdrop of romantic fantasy had fallen, and what was left was cold and dry, like a stone.
She licked her lips as her father and Gillian drew near, took a breath and carefully said, “Hello.” Her voice sounded strange and tinny to her own ears.
“Hello darling!”
“Hello, Philippa.” Gillian smiled cheerfully at her. “How are you doing?”
“Much better,” said Philippa carefully. She felt as though she were speaking a foreign language.
“You can come home today,” said her father. “The discharge papers are ready.”
“That’s good,” said Philippa. From a long way away, a thought occurred to her. “Is Fleur at home?”
“No,” said her father. “Fleur’s gone to London for a few days.”
“I see,” said Philippa. A dulled flicker of disappointment ran through her and died almost immediately. “Is she coming back?” she asked politely.
“Yes,” said Gillian at once, before Richard could answer. “Yes, of course she’s coming back.”
In the car, very little was said. When they got home, Gillian brought bowls of chicken soup into the conservatory, and Richard sat down opposite Philippa.
“We need to talk about Lambert,” he said cautiously.
“Yes.” Philippa’s voice was toneless.
“Do you . . .”
“I never want to see him again.”
Richard looked at Philippa for a long time, then glanced at Gillian.
“Right,” he said. “Well, as long as you’re sure about that.”
“I want a divorce,” said Philippa. “Everything between Lambert and me is over.” She spooned chicken soup into her mouth. “This is good.”
“Real chicken stock,” said Gillian. “Don’t tell me they use that in those handy cardboard cartons.”
“And you’re sure you won’t change your mind?” persisted Richard.
“Yes,” said Philippa calmly. “I’m quite sure.” She felt liberated; as though she were shedding a pile of unwanted clutter. Her mind felt clean and fresh; her life was free; she could begin again.
Later that day Lambert arrived by taxi at The Maples, holding a bunch of pink carnations. Richard met him at the front door and led him into the drawing room.
“Philippa’s resting upstairs,” he said. “She doesn’t want to see you.”
“That’s a shame,” said Lambert. “I brought these for her.” He put the flowers on a side table, sat down on the sofa and began to polish the face of his watch with his sleeve. “I expect she’s still a bit upset,” he added.
“She is more than a bit upset,” said Richard, trying to keep his voice steady. “I should tell you straight away that she will be filing for divorce.”
“Divorce?” Without looking up, Lambert ran an unsteady hand through his hair. “You’re joking, aren’t you?”
“I’m not joking,” said Richard. “This is not a subject for jokes.”
Lambert raised his eyes and was taken aback at Richard’s tight mouth, the hostility in his gaze. Well, Lambert, he thought, you’ve fucked this one up, haven’t you? What are you going to do now? He thought for a moment, then abruptly stood up.
“Richard, I’d like to apologize,” he said, looking at Richard as sincerely as he could. “I don’t know what came over me yesterday. Too much to drink, probably.” He risked a little smile. “I never meant to abuse your trust, sir.”
“Lambert,” began Richard wearily.
“Philippa’s a very highly strung girl,” continued Lambert. “We’ve had rows before, but they’ve always blown over. And I’m sure this will too, if you give us a chance . . .”
“You had your chance!” spat Richard. “You had your chance, when you stood up in church and vowed to love and cherish my daughter!” His voice increased in volume. “Did you love her? Did you cherish her? Or did you always see her simply as a source of wealth?”
He broke off, breathing hard, and Lambert stared at him in slight panic, weighing up responses in his mind. Would Richard believe him if he declared undying love for Philippa?
“I’ll be honest with you, Richard,” he said at last. “I’m only human. And man cannot live on bread alone.”
“How dare you quote the Bible at me!” shouted Richard. “How dare you use my daughter!”