Rich Again

by Anna Maxted

  One of the girls her age – why her, why not you – was gazing up at a guy who had to be an actor (surrounded as he was by four stooges looking moody in shades) and she was resting her weight on one leg, her other knee bent as if she were modelling a swimsuit. The pose drew attention to her slender ankles and her sexy black-patent peep-toe shoes. He felt a surge of hatred. In a town where the kids would sell body and soul for a break yet couldn’t be seen to be trying too hard, where all the wannabes pranced around in Juicy Couture tracksuits with yoga mats under their arms, people grabbed at any excuse to dress up and show off.

  His daughter’s funeral was no more than a fashion show. A pick-up joint.

  He raised a hand – the sign for ‘stay’ was the same in bodyguard as it was in dog language – strode to the bathroom and locked himself in a stall. He shut the toilet lid with his foot – bloody Innocence, her fear of germs – and sat down, his head in his hands. Oh God, oh God, he couldn’t go on, it was too much. He was half muttering to himself, half in his own head, and so he wasn’t immediately aware that someone had entered the room. He froze and held his breath. It was a silly fear that hung over from childhood: he hated hearing footsteps when he was sitting on the loo, it could be a predator. It was the classic scene of male vulnerability in any film: caught with your pants down. It was one reason he hadn’t used a public toilet for thirty years.

  The person was washing his hands, and whistling. Now humming, now singing in a soft lullaby, ‘Oh, how does it feel, to lose everyone you love? And I haven’t finished with you yet.’

  And then he felt the gust of a breeze, as the door to the bathroom closed. His shock-numbed brain took a while to react. He leaped up, ripped open the lock, skinning his knuckles, burst out of the bathroom, gasping, panting, looking wildly around. The voice was unfamiliar – foreign? He knew it – this was his nemesis.

  He was sobbing now, with fear, panic, excitement. This was the architect of all his grief – this was the source of the evil that had dogged him for so long. None of it was imagined. He knew without a doubt that this was the man who had killed his wife, had reigned over his world with a curse, and now he was gloating over Emily’s death – gloating. How was he even here? How had he evaded security? It was as if he possessed some mystic power. He was unstoppable – but no, terror was turning him into a superstitious old woman. Get a grip. There had to be logic to it. Here was the enemy to fight – at last his fear had a focus. Here was a chance to end what had been started, if only he could work it out. Jack, think.

  Jack gripped his head. It felt as if his brain were being pulled apart like an overcooked cauliflower. The migraines he’d suffered since the coma were unlike any headache he had ever experienced.

  He leaned against a wall, screwing his eyes tight shut against the light that pierced his eyeballs like meat skewers, and slowly slid down until he was hunched on the floor in a flaming ball of pulsing pain. He pressed his hands to his temples as if to keep his head from cracking open. Find him, kill him … You can do it … Get up … Protect the children … said the voice inside. But instantly another: Pathetic loser … He’s won … he’s invincible … They’re doomed … You all are … It’s over.

  BOOK FIVE

  LOS ANGELES, A YEAR LATER, 2006

  Claudia

  It was odd to be draped in twenty million pounds’ worth of diamonds when your normal accessories were silver stud earrings and a pink Casio watch. Claudia adjusted the tiara and touched the necklace that sparkled at her throat and gazed at her reflection.

  This time tomorrow it would be for real.

  ‘I am the bride.’

  Instinctively, she thought of Alfie, how he felt about tomorrow. The news of his divorce had hit her like a sledgehammer. Funny, the way things worked out.

  She wondered if her fiance would be looking in the mirror and considering why he’d chosen this particular option.

  She wasn’t saying that she could have done better with her choice of husband, but she could have done different.

  Did you ever really know the whole person? Did that matter? He didn’t know every single thing about her – for instance, that she was having these silly thoughts. But that was why they called it pre-wedding nerves. You would be mad to enter into a lifelong commitment without having some doubts. Look. No one was perfect. And she wasn’t saying he wasn’t perfect. He was utterly gorgeous, an incredibly kind human being.

  He thought about her.

  She had resisted him at first. But he was gently persistent. He wore her down. She talked to him about her childhood and, surprisingly for a man like him, he listened and he understood. She’d told him about the attack on Spyglass Island, when she was little, and he’d expressed how she felt better than she could! It … wowed her.

  ‘It turns the human body into something disgusting,’ he’d said. Yes, yes, precisely. ‘For sex, you need to get out of yourself.’ Exactly, and she couldn’t. She couldn’t. If ever the opportunity arose, she was trapped in her disgusting body, doing disgusting things, with another disgusting body … no wonder her horizontal history was so short and awful.

  He had talked her into bed. His body was not disgusting – it was God showing off. And his personality had just the right amount of wicked to turn her on. Add that to the fact that he understood her heart and soul absolutely and yet still loved her, when the normal consequence of full disclosure was to make any sensible man loathe and pity her: no wonder the sex was ridiculous.

  She loved him for all these things, but mostly she loved him because if it weren’t for him, the children might still be in care. He knew what he was doing; Jack and Innocence were all mouth and no trousers. His attorneys had guided her with wisdom and caution. While her parents seemed to think that the law of the playground applied, he understood the importance of working with the bureaucrats rather than antagonizing them. As a result, she was now the legal guardian of her niece and nephew.

  Emily could rest in peace.

  People surprised you in a crisis. They rarely acted how you thought they would. Money or misery brought out their true characters.

  It had been a shock to watch Innocence crumble.

  Claudia had expected her to be strong, unstoppable, but every time there had been a setback, she’d freaked out. One day, after the judge had rejected their initial appeal, Claudia had been sitting in the poolside cabana in the Hills, staring into space, when she’d heard a faint crashing sound.

  It had taken her a full three minutes of running around before she located the source – Quintin, cringing, had pointed her in the right direction. Finally she had discovered Innocence in the ground-floor lounge, smashing china ornaments. Her pink hair was wild around her head like a fiery halo, and she was standing knee high in a litter of broken porcelain fauns, puppies, kittens, angels and fairies, about to hurl a large china blue tit out of its china nest to certain death.

  ‘Stop this, now!’ Claudia had shouted, surprising herself.

  Innocence, also surprised, had stopped.

  Claudia had snatched the blue tit. ‘This isn’t helping.’

  ‘It’s helping me,’ Innocence had screamed. ‘And why are you so calm?’

  ‘Being angry doesn’t achieve anything. And you were told not to speak to CNN. The case is under review. The DCFS is not going to be won over by that sort of behaviour and we need them to be on our side, to see that we are responsible. We’re not supposed to talk to the press.’

  ‘You are the press!’

  ‘Innocence, you have been advised that it is in our best interests not to comment. So if you go ahead and ignore that advice, why are you surprised when it works against us?’

  ‘I can’t help it! I’m so upset! I’m UPSET! I have all this … influence … and I can’t do one fucking thing to help my grandchildren – it’s unbearable, it’s unbearable, I can’t stand it!’

  Suddenly, without warning, Claudia was hugging Innocence, and her stepmother clung to her. The embrace lasted for under a mi
nute, but in those few moments Claudia felt the tiniest green shoots of forgiveness emerge, like snowdrops breaking through a hard winter frost.

  Afterwards she said gently, ‘It’s horrible not to have them with us, but we are working on it. You behaving like a lunatic won’t help, though. All we need is this sort of thing leaked to the Enquirer, and—’

  ‘You said they were supposed to be impartial, and disregard anything written in the press!’

  Innocence had been impossible, like a spoilt brat. She was a spoilt brat. She was used to throwing money at every problem, and it was a shock that, in this instance, money solved nothing. Money could not bring Emily back from the dead, and money could not release her children from care. Innocence was stupid with grief. She was so distraught she could barely function. This was OK, because her staff did everything for her. But they couldn’t stop her from throwing tantrums on television, which people found at once compelling and repellent. In the months since Emily had died, Élite Retreats shares had lost a third of their value.

  Jack had been more successful, perhaps because he had managed to keep his emotions out of it. Well. He had no emotions! That was the key. He had been no comfort to his family whatsoever. At the funeral, Claudia had seen Innocence comfort him. He never did anything for anybody. He had squeezed Claudia on the shoulder and pursed his lips in regret. That was the sum of his fatherly compassion – his reaction to her losing her only sister. He couldn’t comfort her, and she believed that he should. She supposed it was fear. He feared loss. He was scared that if he dipped a toe in the waters of grief, he would fall in and drown. Bloody hell – everyone feared loss! But his fear ruled – ruined – his life and his relationships. It was a weirdness that had its roots, as most weirdnesses do, in childhood. His own father had just left, when he was seven, and Ruth had told him, ‘Your father is gone. Good riddance. I don’t want to talk about it.’

  Ruth had suddenly volunteered this information when Claudia was eight years old, playing the piano at the Primrose Hill house, JR crunching Rich Tea biscuits on the Persian rug. Ruth had also repeated her mother’s wisdom: ‘Only a hunchback will marry you if you’re not a virgin.’ The same conversation had also contained the invaluable advice: ‘Never eat tulip bulbs, they give you terrible diarrhoea.’ Now that Claudia thought about it, Ruth’s doctor had possibly been experimenting with her medication.

  Claudia was glad that Ruth hadn’t lived to see the mess that her son had made of his life, but at the same time, she was a little bit annoyed – at Ruth, at Felicia – at these strong women who had loved her and left her. It was their fault, in a way. You died and now look.

  If they had lived, a lot of bad things might not have happened.

  She had to try and look forward, instead of back. She knew she shouldn’t look back and regret, because there was nothing you could do about the past except make yourself miserable over it. And yet it was irresistible. You were drawn to it, in the way that people had to slow when they drove past a car crash.

  ‘Auntie Claudia? Are you OK? What are you looking at?’

  Claudia jumped, and smiled. ‘Darling, I’m fine. I’m just thinking about the wedding. I suppose it’s a bit like having a birthday party when you invite all your friends. You want everyone to enjoy themselves. I’m hoping that it will be fun. I’m sure it will be. Are you looking forward to it, George?’

  She smiled, hopefully. All the adults were desperate to pretend that it was all OK for George. He made a good show of things, so as not to upset them. But she saw his terrible anxiety. He watched her so closely, he noticed the slightest mood change, and if she displayed irritation, he picked up on it, sucking up the negative energy and then erupting in a violent and uncontrollable rage. It was terrifying, and often over the slightest thing – if he was having trouble putting on a sock, or if he made a mistake drawing a picture. He missed his mother, he wanted his mother, he was sad and angry because his mother was dead and, worse, he had been punished – sent away to live with strangers. He had a right to be angry, but it was so hard to tolerate. It was unbearable to watch a child you loved display anger. Your reflex thought was: This reflects badly on me as a parent or a guardian. It was all new to her. All she could do for George was to be constant, patient, and loving, but God, it was tough.

  He was nervous; he was clingy. His behaviour at school was impeccable. His behaviour at home was erratic, volatile and mostly dreadful. When he ran at Claudia, punching, kicking and biting, she was astonished and frightened. Already, aged seven, he was a match for her in strength. He was better behaved when her fiance was around – did George respect him more?

  Her therapist – she felt it more useful that she had the therapist rather than George, he didn’t need the extra shit – her therapist had suggested that maybe George felt more secure with Claudia, more able to test her. It was a nice interpretation. So, however hard he pushed, Claudia vowed to herself that she would never reject him, ever. When she felt the impulse to shake the teeth out of his head, she had an emergency plan: switch on the Cartoon Network, leave the room, return in ten minutes. George would run to her for a hug, for reassurance that he was forgiven, still loved. By then, the anger she felt would have diminished, and she could return the hug with gusto.

  ‘I’m not looking forward to you going away, but I suppose it will be fun with La-La. She said she’s going to take me and Molly to Florida for a few days and we’ll go swimming with dolphins. But I don’t think she’s actually going to get in the water. I don’t think she really likes dolphins. I think they might wee in the water. Granddad said he might come too.’

  ‘George, it will be great fun, and I’ll be back in five days. And I’ll speak to you on the phone, every day.’

  ‘Thank you, Auntie Claudia.’

  She paused, and let out a sigh carefully, quietly, bit by bit so he didn’t hear.

  Between George and Molly, and work, and organizing a wedding, she was frazzled to a crisp. Molly was two now, and had ‘separation anxiety’. Claudia’s back was sore from hauling Molly around. She couldn’t bear to be put down. As you reached to place her on the floor, she clung to you like a koala, so, reluctantly, you hauled her up from the floor back to her permanent position on your hip. Her physiotherapist went nuts about it. She had, at least, managed to find Nanny and re-employ her. Innocence was paying for this.

  She had said at the time – Claudia couldn’t really bear to think about it – ‘You’ll get everything now. You did more for Emily – you deserve it. So when I pay for Nanny, you’re paying – it’s your money.’ She’d said it in a blunt, terse way, which made it difficult for Claudia to respond.

  In fact, when your stepmother announced that she planned to leave you her fortune – an estimated five hundred and fifty million pounds – it was hard to show gratitude in a way proportionate to the favour, so you ended up being awkwardly offhand about it, muttering, ‘Oh, OK, thanks.’

  It was too surreal.

  It would be good for the children – that was the main thing – to secure their future. And there was a great peace in knowing that she would never have to worry about not having money, but it wouldn’t change her actual life. She enjoyed her work, she needed purpose, and she needed her own bit. Writing was her self-expression, her creation. It was her achievement; it hadn’t been handed down. Also, she had her flat in London, her condo on Woodrow Wilson, and there wasn’t anything she didn’t have that she madly wanted. Emily had once said, ‘How can you be happy living such a small life?’

  But she was. Because of Jack and Innocence, all the stuff was available to her if she felt the urge: to swim in an infinity pool in the Hollywood Hills, to fly to Vegas by private jet, to stay at a castle in the mountains of Mexico, to holiday in a beach villa by the Malaysian rainforest, to sunbathe on a luxury yacht off Cap Ferrat. Maybe that was the difference, that no one was saying, ‘You can’t have this.’

  Also – though she hated to think like this – she was marrying a rich man. Before Inn
ocence had coolly informed her that she would inherit everything, she had been quite embarrassed about the difference in their levels of wealth.

  She’d even asked her fiance if he wanted a pre-nup. ‘Absolutely not,’ he’d replied. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Then he’d grinned and added, ‘I’m far too conceited to think you’d marry me for my money. I’m just so lovable!’

  So now that she was the wealthier of the two, she couldn’t possibly ask him to sign one – it would have seemed so churlish.

  Of course, Jack had brought it up. ‘I’m leaving everything to you, so a pre-nup is in my interest,’ he’d said gruffly.

  ‘Jack,’ she’d said, because it was really too much now – for God’s sake, how much money did a person need? – ‘why don’t you just put it in a trust for George and Molly? Please. I’d prefer that. Wouldn’t it be more tax efficient?’

  The carrot dangled in front of the donkey’s nose.

  He’d hesitated. ‘I’ll speak to my lawyers,’ he’d said. Then he’d added, ‘You’re a good girl, Claudia. I’m proud of you.’

  She’d nodded and turned away, so he couldn’t see the tears in her eyes. It was too painful. When he was kind, it was too confusing.

  She smiled now, at George. ‘Well. It’s nearly time for me to drop you and Molly at La-La’s, so I can prepare.’

  She winced inwardly at George’s expression.

  ‘But Auntie Claudia, there’s nothing for you to do! You told me that every single thing is being done for you!’

  ‘Well, George, you’re right.’ He was right. She felt like an observer, rather than the centrepiece. In a way, it was like marrying into the aristocracy. She compared it (in her head, of course) to Lady Diana marrying Prince Charles. Diana had had no idea what she was getting into, and Claudia was just beginning to realize what sort of life she had agreed to. There were precise expectations of how the wedding would be. Her only role was to sit and nod as the most prestigious wedding consultants in Los Angeles ran her through a neverending list of options, firmly steering her in the appropriate direction. She would have liked a chocolate wedding cake with white chocolate icing; somehow she got carrot cake – dairy-free because a lot of the guests would have allergies. Secretly, she supposed that those same guests would also have calorie allergies, so why worry about them, but she didn’t want to cause trouble. The invitations, the guests, the gifts, the seating, the settings, the stills, the venue, the vows, the video, the ceremony, the car, the music, the menu, the drinks, the decor, the flowers, the bouquet, the rings – even the dress was not her decision. Roberto Cavalli had asked if he might be permitted: she couldn’t complain.