Rich Again

by Anna Maxted

  She’d asked for a few days off, and on Thursday had driven down to the coast with JR to the Old Vicarage. It was in a field in the middle of nowhere, and if you walked to the end of the field, the land stopped and you found yourself teetering on the edge of a cliff that looked down on to a stony beach and miles of blue sea. The sheep were like blobs of cotton wool dotted around, and the owners of the b. & b. had a broad-faced English tabby, who liked to jump in your car and go for a drive – JR had been assessed as no threat.

  Claudia had spent half of Friday wandering on the beach and the other half in the graveyard. She never tired of reading the names, imagining these people’s lives, what they’d looked like, and whom they were loved by. It had been so peaceful. It was just so heavenly to have quiet. The reception on her mobile was zero, but she’d turned it off just to be sure.

  Since their argument – and the mysterious letter – she and Martin had recovered. Without a word spoken, they had agreed to gloss over the cracks in their relationship. She had discovered nothing, nor had she slept with him. Little had changed. It appeared that despite their suspicions and frustrations, they so wanted to love each other. Yet on occasion, those silent undercurrents surfaced, knocking her off balance. She’d had to get away.

  By Saturday night, she was missing him dreadfully, and couldn’t resist checking her mobile. Oh my God! Twenty-seven messages. He really must love her, but a promise was a promise. Cornwall was a break from Martin, and so she would not listen to his mournful messages of love until she returned to London.

  But the next morning, she’d finished breakfast, showered, wandered back into the room and unfolded the paper, and then, as her hair dripped on to UK Sunday until the words ‘Pregnant at sixteen’ grew soggy, it had all become clear. Oh, Emily. The poor, poor thing. She must be feeling so frightened, helpless and lost. It was horrible. She’d call her to offer support. Poor Emily.

  LONDON, SUMMER 1998

  Emily

  ‘Fuck OFF you arseholes and leave me ALONE! I’m wearing headphones and I can’t even HEAR you!’

  If it was possible to be born without parents, Emily would have done it. What bastards. How dare they? Fine for them to tramp around the world, screwing around like a pair of cheap tarts, and yet when she had sex once – three times – with one person, whom she at least intended to marry, they freaked out!

  She was, like, over sixteen at the time – if you counted her age from her date of conception. And she’d refused to bitch about Tim to the press – she wasn’t going to blow her chances that way.

  He didn’t deserve her loyalty. What a scumbag.

  Now he didn’t write! No doubt he’d used up all his stupid monogrammed notepaper.

  He didn’t phone.

  No way was she calling him, and if he did ring – not that she cared, or picked up the receiver every five minutes just to make sure the phone was, like, even working – she was going to be out.

  And his father the Earl was a total wanker. It was so embarrassing. The whole country must be laughing at her. Telling Claudia’s crappy paper – implying it, which was worse – that she was a crack ho who’d slept with a million men! How dare he! But fine, if he wanted to get into a libel war, her mother was worth loads more than a pissy fifty-three million. Bring it on!

  Emily stamped into her closet. It was a cool closet with a leather floor and controlled thermostat, but none of her clothes fitted. That didn’t totally matter, as she rarely wore anything twice. She was going to enjoy being big. Not fat – people who called pregnant women ‘fat’ were morons and, Emily noted, always fat middle-aged men. She was going to have the time of her life, throwing her weight around, sucking up space. She felt special, and she felt superior, and everyone else who was not pregnant (including that stuck up two-faced bitch headmistress Mrs I’m Not Getting Any Priddy) could fuck off. As for her father … my God! He’d stormed back from Paris, where he was obsessed with that dumb hotel, Belle Époque – he was planning this opening-night party, except it wasn’t an opening-night party as the hotel was already open, it was an ostentatious, superfluous celebration, planned for this autumn, to trumpet the fact that the crooked old phoenix had risen from the ashes. Invitations had gone out to the rich and famous: Tom Cruise, Mel Gibson, Bruce Willis, Julia Roberts, the Duran boys, Prince, Puff Daddy, Elton John, Linda Evangelista, Cindy Crawford, Cindy Lauper, Naomi Campbell, Helena Christensen, Bono. Would all those egos fit in one building?

  It was an impressive list of old people, Emily thought, and she wondered if any of them would show up. She couldn’t imagine that this bunch wanted to be associated with her father. Then again, a free party, with Bvlgari gift bags …

  Dad had been furious at being dragged away from his pet project for something as trivial as his daughter getting knocked up at an age when she should still be playing with dolls, and he’d screamed at her, and sworn. It was horrible because she’d rarely heard him do either. Innocence had stood by, flicking her pink bouffant and checking her nail varnish for cracks, and smoking a fag – a fine grandma she was going to be. The point of all the screaming and swearing was that Emily was a stupid tart who should have kept her legs shut, or used ‘protection’. She liked the bit where she’d been accused of dragging ‘the family name’ through the mud.

  He’d really upset her. He made her feel small. Because of him, she was suddenly terrified. She’d get him for that.

  Emily sat in her closet, arranging her five hundred pairs of shoes. It was comforting; it made her feel in control.

  He’d been out of control. She wondered if he was on something, he was so wired. At one point – shortly before zooming off in his new red Ferrari Testarossa (mid-life crisis alert!) – he’d shouted, ‘You and your bloody sister, the pair of you are killing me, I am going to slit my throat because of you two!’

  ‘Pay no attention,’ Innocence had muttered, flicking ash.

  He’d turned on her, snarling, ‘You don’t know the half of it!’

  ‘I know everything,’ her mother had snapped. ‘Some old git’s asked Claudia to marry him and she’s said yes, and you’ve got the hump because he didn’t ask you for her hand!’ Innocence had burst out laughing.

  ‘You’re kidding me,’ Emily had said, forgetting her own misery. ‘Claudia’s engaged?’

  ‘Yes,’ her mother had replied. ‘Only we don’t care because he’s a nobody. She’s wasting herself, when she could have made an alliance.’

  ‘We’re not the Tudors, Mother,’ Emily had said.

  Innocence had glanced at her daughter’s stomach, and smiled.

  LONDON, SUMMER 1998

  Claudia

  ‘Emily? Hello, it’s Claudia. I hope you don’t mind my ringing. I know we haven’t spoken for a while but … I saw the paper and I wondered if you were OK.’

  ‘You saw your paper. I’ll give you an exclusive if you like.’

  Claudia hated it when Emily was sarcastic. Their relationship had been strained since they were children. Emily seemed to dislike her for a whole host of reasons.

  ‘I’m going to resign, Emily.’

  ‘Don’t be mad. I need you, seriously, to write a piece on me! You know, put across my side of the story. I’m going to charge UK Sunday two hundred Gs.’

  ‘Emily! Have they been posting envelopes through the door offering cash?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ignore it – all. You don’t need the money – and for that amount, they’ll write what they like. They’ll want to describe what Tim was like in bed, and they’ll want to say stuff like “He watched the cricket over my shoulder while pumping away and he got six innings before he was out. He could bat for England, he’s got a huge bat and big red balls!” And you won’t have a say. They don’t give copy approval. And they’ll make you pose in a thong. And even if I write the copy, they’ll rewrite it. You’ll come out of it looking awful.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’

  Claudia knew it was bad of her, but she felt pleased to be in a positi
on where she could give Emily advice. Emily was always so self-sufficient, so scornful of Claudia.

  ‘Em, would you like to come over? I’m staying at St Martin’s Lane. Make sure you’re not followed. Get Charlie to drive Nanny out of the gates in your favourite car – it helps if it’s got tinted windows – she’ll have to wear a blond wig and dark glasses. They’ll all take off after her, then you can sneak off here.’

  She felt Emily hesitate. ‘I’m not scared, Claudia.’

  ‘I know. But … it would be nice to talk. I have a problem too. By the way, I’m signed in under the name Freshwater.’

  ‘I’ll see you in an hour.’

  ‘Oh, and Em?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘A – a baby is always special.’

  Claudia put down the phone and fanned her face. She walked to the window, and looked out over Leicester Square. It was a beautiful sight. Nelson’s Column looked to be in arm’s reach. It was as if London and its landmarks had been squashed and squeezed to fit into her own private viewing gallery. New York was new and brash and modern, but she preferred London. London was truly beautiful, it was stately, it had a long and distinguished history. Perhaps, because she had no idea where she came from, who her blood parents were, the past – any past – was precious to her, and London had an awe-inspiring past. It was a kick, to be a tourist in your own city – a paying tourist, not a guest in one of Daddy’s hotels where you served at his pleasure. It was a joy to be anonymous.

  There was a bang on the door. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Me.’

  Emily breezed in and went straight for the mini-bar. ‘Ooh, jelly beans. Yum.’ She tore open the pack. ‘So,’ she said, cracking open a can of Coke. ‘You’re shacked up with some coffin-dodger.’

  Emily had a way of putting things. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘He’s not that old. Only—’ Claudia stopped.

  ‘What?’

  Oh damn. She was going to cry. ‘I think … I’m not sure … quite a few months ago I got this letter. And then, last week, another one … saying the same thing. I should end the relationship because it will only lead to “agony and misery”. I don’t know who’s sending them. It might be Dad – I think Martin might have crossed him in business. He’s trying to forbid it, but I just … I’m not speaking to Dad, he’s so insulting. Or it might be someone else. I either have a friend or an … enemy. I … I know Martin loves me but I think he’s deceiving me.’

  Emily burst out laughing. ‘Oh please! You’re deceiving yourself more like.’

  The tears dried up. ‘Thanks for your support,’ she said stiffly.

  ‘Oh, Claudia, what’s the big deal? Show him the letters, ask him if he’s hiding something. Then you’ll know. Christ, if you think you’ve got problems, look at me!’

  Claudia did look at Emily. She looked scared witless. ‘I’m sorry. How … are you feeling?’

  ‘I am enraged. You saw what that cunt said about me in that shit rag.’

  ‘Emily! Don’t … ! But, yes. I know it’s not true.’ She hoped it wasn’t true. She had no idea what her little sister got up to. Well, some idea.

  ‘Of course it isn’t true! Tim was my first shag! And my last!’

  ‘Oh, Em! I wish you had waited. Oh dear.’

  ‘I need to prove it. To the world. And to Tim. That prick. I’m going to get a paternity test.’

  ‘Oh! Are you sure? Don’t you have to wait till the baby’s born?’

  ‘No. You can do it any time. I just have to get a sample of Tim’s DNA.’

  ‘How will you do that?’

  ‘I’ll find a way. Quintin says there are about a zillion companies who do it for you in like a day. They’ll even collect the evidence from your house. Only thing is – and there’s a tiny, tiny risk for the baby, like, one per cent – I get a needle up the—’

  ‘Yes, OK. I get it. It seems rather drastic.’

  ‘What about my situation isn’t drastic?’

  ‘True. Oh, I have an idea! I know. You can do an interview with Hello! For free.’

  ‘Are you insane?’

  ‘Emily, Hello! will print exactly what you want, and if you ask them to donate your fee to a charity, they’ll say that, then you remain pure. If it’s for money, then people can say nasty things, even if it’s proven that Timmy is the father.’

  ‘He fucking is! Great, even you don’t believe me.’

  ‘I do, I do. Listen, Emily. I think it’s a great idea, the paternity test, but how will you get Tim to cooperate?’

  Emily smiled. ‘He just called. He’s flying in from New York. He wants to “talk”. We’re meeting tonight at his father’s club.’ She grinned. ‘Every fourth Tuesday they let in women and dogs. I’m going to start a fight in the Cigar Room and pull out some of his hair.’

  In spite of everything, Claudia wanted to giggle. ‘Isn’t there a kinder way?’

  Emily raised an eyebrow. ‘He’s not getting a chew, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘It really wasn’t.’ Claudia cleared her throat. ‘If you want,’ she said, ‘I’ll speak to Hello! for you. I’m sure Innocence would let you use her PR, but refuse. And I’m surprised that Max Clifford hasn’t called. But I think you should be very careful. Max is probably not the person for you. He’s great but if you have Max, it makes you seem so … media savvy. Em, are you listening?’

  Emily was picking the cashews out of the nut jar and wiping her hands on the white linen bedcover. ‘Mm.’

  ‘Emily,’ Claudia went on. ‘I wonder if you would do something for me?’

  Her sister looked up sharply. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Would you mind if Martin came up to this room, for a … drink?’

  ‘He’s from the paper, right? Oh my God. This is a set-up!’

  ‘Of course it isn’t!’ She paused. ‘I … just want you to meet him. I thought maybe … you might be able to sense if he …’

  ‘ … is a gay serial killer who’s already spoken for?’

  Claudia sighed. ‘It was just an idea. You should go. He’ll be here in a minute.’

  ‘God, Claudia. You are such a martyr! I’ll meet the guy! But if he dares write a word about me, then I swear—’

  ‘He won’t. I promise. Oh my! That must be him!’ She scurried to the door, checking her reflection en route. Emily was already sprawled on the bed, flicking through the cable channels.

  ‘Hi,’ Claudia said shyly, and allowed herself to be kissed. ‘Come and meet my sister. She’s … resting.’

  She led Martin by the hand into the room. ‘Emily, this is Martin. Martin … Emily? Oh my gosh, she’s choking on a nut! Martin!’

  They both rushed forward; Emily held up a hand. ‘Chill,’ she gasped. ‘I’m fine. It was a cashew.’

  ‘You don’t look fine, Emily. You look terribly pale. Let me get you a drink of water. Here. Don’t shock us! We should all have a drink. Martin? What will you have?’ She smiled awkwardly at Martin. He smiled back.

  ‘Whatever’s there.’

  ‘We could order some coffee?’ She glanced at Emily, who was staring – so rudely – at Martin.

  Martin grinned at Emily. ‘What? I’m not that old!’

  ‘No,’ said Emily, backing away. ‘How old are you exactly?’

  ‘Emily!’

  ‘It’s fine, Claudia. She’s just looking out for you, and I am an old git. I’m forty.’

  ‘That figures. Fuck. I have … morning sickness. Claudia … I might need you.’

  ‘I’ll order the coffee, love. You see to your sister.’

  Claudia hurried after Emily to the bathroom and shut the door. ‘Jesus, Emily!’ she hissed. ‘You were so rude!’ And she was still staring! Oh, God. It was true then. Emily could tell he was deceiving her. Or, worse, she must have seen him in a strip club or something. ‘You … you recognize him, don’t you?’

  To her surprise, Emily took her hand, so softly. ‘Claudia,’ she said. ‘I do recognize him. And I think you must too.’ Claudia saw with shock that he
r sister’s eyes were full of tears. ‘And I know now why Dad wants you to end the relationship. It’s not business. He knows. Oh, Claudia. This is sick. I just … wonder what evil spirit led you to this man. I think you’re right. I think you do have an enemy …’ Emily stopped.

  ‘What?’ whispered Claudia. She gripped Emily’s shoulders and shook her. ‘I don’t understand you. “Evil spirit”? You’re scaring me to death. What are you saying?’ She felt half hysterical with fear.

  Emily swallowed. ‘Claudia,’ she said. ‘It’s not just me and Tim. I think that you and Martin need to take a paternity test.’

  For a moment, a blessed moment, Claudia didn’t get it. ‘Why?’ she said in her stupid innocence. ‘I’m not pregnant!’

  Then, finally, she got it, and her world crashed around her.

  SCOTLAND, LATE SUMMER 1998

  Emily

  Emily didn’t like it like that, but he did, and she didn’t want the baby poked around, so she let him.

  ‘Pull my skirt back down when you’re finished,’ she murmured, but he seemed to be in a zone all of his own. Her face was digging into the cream leather upholstery of the Land-Rover. It smelt of animal – or maybe that was them. When her mother’s car no longer smelled of new leather, her mother bought a new car. No doubt this Land-Rover had been in Tim’s family for generations and hailed back to Cromwell’s time. God knows how many people had sat on this seat. Technically her face was in someone’s arse. Ugh, Emily. Think nice thoughts. Could the driver see through the screen? It gave her a thrill to think that he might. She liked to create desire – Emily was a tease and proud of it.

  ‘Oh my GOD,’ gasped her husband as he shuddered into her. She sighed, and passed him a tissue. This way, it did nothing for her. It was uncomfortable; it was a charitable act. Also, her olive-green maternity dress was Chloé – you had to dress smart for the in-laws – and any visible sign of bodily fluid would spoil the effect.