“Sorry about that.” Yes, she was.
“No problem.” He tried to sound casual. Amused, even. “Maybe another time.”
“Oh. Yeah. Sure.” Fifi sounded vague. She wasn’t even listening to him.
“Well, bye then,” said Antony.
“Bye Antony. See you around.”
Antony put the phone down and felt a wave of humiliation rise through him. They would have found room for him if they’d wanted to. He looked down at his hands and saw that they were shaking. He felt hot with embarrassment, even though he was alone in the room.
It was all his bloody dad’s fault—if he’d arrived on
time, that phone call wouldn’t have happened. Antony leaned back in his chair. He found that thought gratifying. Yeah, it was his dad’s fault. An invigorating resentment began to wash through him. And it was Gillian’s fault too. What was her bloody problem? Why hadn’t she just given his dad some grief and told him to come right home?
For a few minutes he sat, fiddling with a napkin, thinking how pissed off he was with them both, and looking at the table which he’d laid. What an effort for nothing. Well, it could all just stay there. He wasn’t about to put everything away again.
Then it occurred to him that Gillian might call down and suggest that he did exactly that, so before she could he got up and wandered into the kitchen. The lamb was still roasting away in the oven, and sitting majestically on the table was the pavlova, smothered in whipped cream and decorated with kiwi fruit. Antony looked at it. If they weren’t going to do supper properly, then there was no harm in him having a bit, was there? He pulled out a chair, picked up the remote control and zapped it several times at the screen of the television. Then, as the kitchen filled with the glitzy sound of a game show, he picked up a spoon, dug it into the shiny meringue, and began to munch.
Breakfast had been laid in the conservatory.
“What a lovely room,” said Fleur politely, looking at Gillian’s face, searching for eye contact. But Gillian was looking down at her plate. She had not once met Fleur’s eye since she and Richard had arrived the night before.
“We like it,” said Richard cheerfully. “Especially in the spring. In the summer, it sometimes gets too hot.”
There was another silence. Antony put down his teacup and everyone seemed to listen intently to the little tinkle.
“We built the conservatory about . . . ten years ago,” continued Richard. “Is that right, Gillian?”
“I expect so,” said Gillian. “More tea, anyone?”
“Yes please,” said Fleur.
“Right. Well I’ll make another pot, then,” said Gillian, and she disappeared into the kitchen.
Fleur took a bite of toast. Things were going rather well, she thought, despite the uneaten roast lamb and pavlova. It had been the boy, Antony, who had confronted them the night before, almost as soon as they had got inside the door, and informed them that Gillian had spent all day cooking.
Richard had looked horror-struck, and Fleur had put on a most convincing show of dismay. Fortunately, no-one seemed to blame her. Equally fortunately, it was obvious this morning that no-one was going to mention the matter again.
“Here you are.” Gillian had returned with the teapot.
“Wonderful,” said Fleur, smiling into Gillian’s unreceptive face. It was going to be easy, she thought, if all she would have to deal with were awkward silences and a few resentful glares. Glares didn’t bother her at all; neither did raised eyebrows; neither did sidelong comments. That was the blessedness of preying on the reserved British middle classes, she thought, sipping at her tea. They never seemed to talk to one another; they never wanted to rock the boat; they seemed almost more willing to lose all their money than to undergo the embarrassment of a direct confrontation. Which meant that for someone like her, the way was clear.
She looked curiously at Gillian. For someone who presumably had access to funds, Gillian was wearing particularly hideous clothes. Dark green trousers—slacks, Fleur supposed they would be called—and a blue embroidered cotton shirt with short, workmanlike sleeves. As she leaned over with the teapot, Fleur glimpsed Gillian’s upper arms—solid slabs of white, opaque, almost dead-looking skin.
Antony’s clothes were a bit better. Fairly standard jeans and a rather nice red shirt. It was a shame about his birthmark. Had they not been able to treat it? Possibly not, because it stretched right across his eye. If he’d been a girl, of course, he’d have been able to wear makeup . . . Other than that, thought Fleur, he was a handsome boy. He took after his father.
Fleur’s gaze flitted idly over to Richard. He was leaning back in his chair, looking out of the conservatory into the garden, with an apparent look of contentment on his face, as though he were beginning a holiday. As he felt her eyes on him, he glanced up and smiled. Fleur smiled back. It was easy to smile at Richard, she thought. He was a good man, kind and considerate, and not nearly as dull as she had first feared. These last few weeks had been fun.
But it was money she needed, not fun. She hadn’t persevered so hard in order to end up with a limited income and holidays in Majorca. Fleur gave an inward sigh, and took another sip of tea. Sometimes the effort of pursuing money quite exhausted her; sometimes she began to think that Majorca would not be so bad after all. But that was weakness. She hadn’t come so far simply to give up. She would achieve her goal. She
had
to achieve it. Apart from anything else, it was the only goal she had.
She looked up at Richard and smiled.
“Is this the largest house on the Greyworth estate?”
“I don’t think so,” said Richard. “One of the largest, I suppose.”
“The Tillings have got eight bedrooms,” volunteered Antony. “And a snooker room.”
“There you are.” Richard grinned. “Trust Antony to be on the ball.”
Antony said nothing. He found the sight of Fleur across the table from him unsettling. Was this woman really going out with his dad? She was gorgeous. Gorgeous! And she made his dad look different. When the two of them had arrived the night before, all smart and glamorous looking, they’d looked as if they came from someone else’s family. His dad didn’t look like his dad. And Fleur certainly
didn’t look like anyone’s mum. But she wasn’t a floosie, either, thought Antony. She wasn’t a dolly-bird. She was just . . . beautiful.
Reaching for his cup, Richard saw Antony staring at Fleur with undisguised admiration. And in spite of himself, he felt a little dart of pride. That’s right, my boy, he felt like saying. Life’s not over for me yet. At the back of his mind ran guilty thoughts like a train: remembered images of Emily sitting just where Fleur now sat; memories of family breakfasts with Emily’s tinkling laugh rising above the conversation. But he stamped on them every time they surfaced; refused to allow his sentimentality to get the better of him. Life was for living; happiness was for taking; Fleur was a wonderful woman. Sitting in the bright sunshine, there seemed nothing more to it than that.
After breakfast, Richard disappeared to get ready for golf. As he had explained to Fleur, today was the Banting Cup. Any other Saturday, he would have forgone golf to show her around the place. But the Banting Cup . . .
“Don’t worry,” Fleur had said at once. “I’ll be fine.”
“We can meet up for a drink afterwards,” Richard had added. “Gillian will bring you down to the clubhouse.” He’d paused, and his brow had wrinkled. “Do you mind?”
“Of course not,” Fleur had said, laughing. “I’ll have a lovely morning on my own.”
“You won’t be on your own!” Richard had said. “Gillian will look after you.”
Now Fleur eyed Gillian thoughtfully. She was taking clean plates from the dishwasher and stacking them in a pile. Every time she bent down she gave a little sigh; every
time she stood up she looked as though the effort might kill her.
“Lovely plates,” said Fleur, getting up. “Simply beautiful. Did you choose them?”
“What, these?” said Gillian. She looked at the plate in her hand as though she hated it. “Oh no. Emily chose them. Richard’s wife.” She paused, and her voice became harsher. “She was my sister.”
“I see,” said Fleur.
Well, it hadn’t taken long to get on to that subject, she thought. The dead, blameless wife. Perhaps she had underestimated this Gillian. Perhaps the attack would begin now. The pursed lips, the hissed threats.
You’re not welcome in my kitchen
. She stood, watching Gillian and waiting. But Gillian’s face remained impassive; pale and pouchy like an undercooked scone.
“Do you play golf?” said Fleur eventually.
“A little.”
“I don’t play at all, I’m afraid. I must try to learn.”
Gillian didn’t reply. She had begun to put the plates back on the dresser. They were hand-painted pottery plates, each decorated with a different farmyard animal. If they were going to be displayed, thought Fleur, they should at least go the right way up. But Gillian didn’t seem to notice. Each plate went back on the dresser with a crash, until the top shelf and half the second shelf were filled with animals at assorted angles. Then all of a sudden the animals came to an end and she began to fill the rest of the shelves with blue and white patterned china. No! Fleur wanted to exclaim. Can’t you see how ugly that looks? It would take two minutes to make it look nice.
“Lovely,” she said, as Gillian finished. “I adore farmhouse kitchens.”
“It’s difficult to keep clean,” said Gillian glumly. “All these tiles. You chop vegetables and all the bits go in between.”
Fleur looked around vaguely, wondering what she could find to say on the subject of chopped vegetables. The room reminded her uncomfortably of a kitchen in Scotland in which she’d shivered for an entire shooting season, only to discover at the end that her titled host was not only heavily in debt, but had been two-timing her all along. Bloody upper classes, she thought savagely. Waste-of-time losers.
“Excuse me,” said Gillian. “I’ve got to get to that cupboard.” She reached down, past Fleur, and emerged with a grater.
“Let me help,” said Fleur. “I’m sure there’s something I can do.”
“It’s easier if I do it myself.” Gillian’s shoulders were hunched and her eyes refused to meet Fleur’s. Fleur gave an inward shrug.
“OK,” she said. “Well, I might pop upstairs and do some bits and pieces. What time are we going to the clubhouse?”
“Twelve,” said Gillian, without looking up.
Plenty of time, thought Fleur, as she made her way up the stairs. With Richard and Antony both out and Gillian grating away in the kitchen, now was the perfect opportunity to find out what she needed. She walked slowly down the corridor, mentally valuing as she went. The wallpaper was dull but expensive; the pictures were dull and cheap. All the good paintings had obviously been crammed into
the drawing room downstairs, where visitors could see them. Emily Favour, she thought, had probably been the sort of woman to wear expensive dresses and cheap underclothes.
She walked straight past the door to her bedroom and turned down a tiny flight of stairs. The beauty of being new to a house was that one could always claim to be lost. Especially since the guided tour the night before had been so vague. “Down there’s my office,” Richard had said, gesturing towards the stairs. And Fleur had not so much as flickered, but had given a tiny yawn and said, “All that wine’s making me feel snoozy!”
Now she descended the flight of stairs with determination. At last she was starting on the real business in hand. Behind that door she would discover the true extent of Richard’s potential—whether he was worth bothering with, and how much she could take him for. She would quickly work out whether it was worth waiting for a particular time in the year; if there were any unusual factors she should take into account. She suspected not. Most men’s financial affairs were remarkably similar. It was the men themselves who differed.
The thought of a new project filled her with a slight exhilaration, and she felt her heart beat more quickly as she reached for the door handle and pushed. But the door didn’t budge. She tried again—but it was no good. The door to the office was locked.
For a few seconds she stared at the glossy white panels in outrage. What kind of man locked the door to the office in his own house? She tried the handle one more time. Definitely locked. She felt like giving it a little kick. Then
self-discipline took over. There was no point lingering there and risking being seen. Quickly she turned and retreated up the steps, down the corridor and into her room. She sat down on her bed and gazed crossly at her reflection in the mirror. What was she going to do now? That door stood between her and all the details she needed. How could she proceed without the right information?
“Damn and blast,” she said aloud. “Blast and damn. Damn and blast.” Eventually the sound of her own voice cheered her. It wasn’t so bad. She would work something out. Richard couldn’t keep the office locked all the time—and if he did, she would just have to find the key. Meanwhile . . . Fleur ran an idle hand through her hair. Meanwhile, she could always have a nice long bath and wash her hair.
At half-past eleven Gillian came trudging up the stairs. Fleur thought for a moment, then, still wearing her dressing gown, she came out onto the landing. Gillian would prove a distraction, if nothing else.
“Gillian, what shall I wear to the clubhouse?” she asked. She tried to meet Gillian’s eye. “Tell me what to wear.” Gillian gave a little shrug.