“I’ve never tried it, but I’m sure I’d hate it too. Too far from the ground. What do you like doing? Want some more lemonade?”
“Thanks. Well, I like skiing.” He would, Debbie thought. “And rugby. Oh, and tennis. I love tennis.”
“I like tennis,” said Debbie, “but I never manage to play enough to get good. Only at uni, really.”
“Well, I play at school, of course. And rugby. I’m hoping to get in a team, but I’m a bit small.”
“And do you like school?”
“Yeah, I love it. It’s great.”
“You don’t get homesick at all?” she said.
“No way.” He looked quite surprised. “I’ve been away since I was nine, so I’m quite used to it. It’s fun, your friends around you all the time.”
How odd they were, these upper-class people, she thought, sending little boys of eight or nine away from home when they didn’t have to. What was the point of having them at all?
“This is really kind of Mrs. Fielding,” said Toby, “having Boy.”
“I think she wants to,” said Debbie. “She doesn’t like the stables being empty.”
“No, maybe not. Still, jolly nice of her. Tilly is just so happy about it. She was crying herself to sleep every night.”
“Poor Tilly,” said Debbie politely.
“So, if she can still get to see him in the holidays, that’s the answer,” Toby said. “She can’t take him to school with her, anyway.”
“I shouldn’t think she could,” said Debbie, laughing. “What school would take a pony?”
“Oh, some do,” said Toby earnestly. “I have one friend, he plays polo, and he takes his ponies to school. He’s at Millfield, they have a polo team, you know.”
“No,” said Debbie, “I didn’t know that actually. Pass me those tomatoes, would you, Toby, please.”
There was a lot of noise in the yard; and then everyone came back into the kitchen, talking and laughing.
“Let’s have lunch then,” said Flora. “Hope nobody minds the kitchen. Oh, Debbie dear, how sweet of you to do the salad. Now Tilly, would you like to help Emma lay the table and Simon, you give Elizabeth another sherry and have one yourself. And Richard, you could open that wine.”
Debbie had to admit by the end of lunch that she quite liked Simon Beaumont. He was incredibly relaxed and easy to talk to. He flirted with her just enough to please and not embarrass her, and made her feel much more interesting than she really was. He asked her about her work, said it must be very difficult to combine it with running a family, and she’d taken a huge breath and said she couldn’t possibly do it without Richard’s help—while smiling across the table at Richard, who was clearly pleased by this acknowledgment—and then Elizabeth Beaumont had said rather unexpectedly that she could never have done her job without Simon’s help when the children were young.
“He was marvellous, well ahead of his time; he could change a nappy when most men hardly knew which end of a baby it should go on, and he’d go to plays and concerts at school if I absolutely couldn’t get there.”
“Very ahead of his time,” Debbie said, grinning at Simon; and then Elizabeth started asking Debbie about her job, which she found almost embarrassing, given Elizabeth’s own awe-inspiring status, but she seemed genuinely interested and said her agency had considered having a PR wing, but she’d given up the idea because she’d never found anyone of sufficient calibre to run it. “Maybe you could do it for me in a few years’ time,” she said to Debbie, and Simon said from what he’d seen of Debbie, she’d be running her own agency by then; and it was all rather fun in the end. And then Emma, who was clearly completely captivated by Tilly, as small girls tend to be by their just-slightly elders, asked her if she would come and see Flora’s horses with her and Tilly was endlessly patient and led Emma up and down the yard on Becky, Flora’s gentle old mare, for about an hour, while they continued to talk; and it wasn’t until they had all gone and Flora had taken the children for a walk, that Debbie realised that Richard was looking very dark and brooding.
“What on earth’s the matter with you?” she said.
“Oh, nothing. You seemed to be enjoying yourself.”
“Well, I was. What’s wrong with that?”
“You don’t usually like those sorts of people.”
“I know, but I liked them. I thought they were interesting.”
He was silent; then he said, “I suppose that’s the sort of setup you’d like. Big smart house, with staff”—the existence of Josie had emerged—“rich successful husband, so you could pursue your own career…”
Debbie stared at him. “Richard,” she said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do. You’d like all that and you’ve got me. Not rich, not successful, and a rotten little house in the suburbs.”
“Richard. Honestly. You are so very silly. You are not a failure and it is not a rotten little house, it’s home and I love it. Except I wish you wouldn’t call it the suburbs, it’s West London. It’s as bad as your mother calling it Ealing. And I’ve got you—do you really think I’d be happy with that smoothie?”
“You seemed to be pretty happy at lunch.”
“OK, I was happy at lunch. But lunch isn’t a marriage. Is it? A marriage is what we’ve got and it’s working pretty well, specially lately. I think we’re doing pretty good.”
“Do you?” he said, and he put his arms round her waist, rested his head on her breast. “Do you really?”
“Yes,” she said, “I really do. And if you come upstairs with me now, I’ll show you.”
He looked up at her, clearly half shocked, half tempted.
“But Debbie, they might come back, then what would we do?”
“What we used to do, get dressed mega-fast and one of us dive into the loo. Come on, it’ll be fun. I really, really want to. Don’t you?”
“Well…yes. Yes, I do. But—”
“Richard,” she said, pulling him up from his chair, slithering her fingers into his fly, “Richard, I do really want to.” And it was true, she did, excitement rising into her for the first time in ages. “Come on, then, what are you waiting for?”
But he shook his head, drew away from her, said, “No, no, I wouldn’t enjoy it, I’d be worrying all the time. Sorry. Maybe later, tonight?”
But later her desire was stilled, disappointed, and although she let him make love to her, she was haunted by what might have been a few hours earlier and thought that it was not Richard’s failure in his work that troubled her but his failure to recognise what she really wanted.
Lucinda supposed a lot of people would have expected her to go back to Blue. This seemed to her absolutely unthinkable. She had entered into a relationship with him, let him fall in love with her, and then broken his heart. According to Lucinda’s code of conduct, it was simply unfair to then return to him because it suited her and expect him to be grateful. It would be monstrously selfish and indeed arrogant of her to say, “OK, Blue, bit of a to-do with Nigel, I’m free now, come on over.”
The only good thing about the whole mess was that at last she could wear the pink Chanel watch. All the time.
Her parents had been predictably horrified by her separation from Nigel. She had gone down bravely for the weekend following the dreadful Tuesday to tell them; at that point she was staying in a boardinghouse in Victoria. It had been even worse than she feared; her mother had burst into tears and her father had stalked out of the room without a word and shut himself in his study, slamming the door.
“You’re making the most terrible mistake,” her mother had said, wiping her eyes. “He’s such a dear, and so devoted to you. Men like that don’t grow on trees, Lucinda. What is it? What’s gone wrong?”
“I…don’t really know. It’s impossible to say. The marriage just isn’t working.”
“Marriages can be made to work,” said her mother, “with a bit of determination on both sides. Of course, I always thought you shou
ld have started a family sooner. Children cement a marriage. A career isn’t everything, you know.”
Her father stalked back into the room, glass of gin and tonic in hand, and glared at her.
“I really think you must have taken leave of your senses, Lucinda. You won’t find another husband as good as Nigel in a hurry.”
“No, I’m sure you’re right.”
“He hasn’t been playing around, I presume? Because if he has, I’ll speak to him myself.”
“No, Daddy, he hasn’t. And please, whatever you do, don’t speak to him. He’s terribly upset and—”
“I expect he is. Well, in that case, you just go back to him and tell him you want to work things out. I daresay you think it’ll be rather exciting, living in London on your own, a single girl again. Well it won’t. You’ll be lonely and miserable.”
“Truly,” she said, “truly, I don’t like the idea of being on my own.”
“Then why—”
“I told you. It just isn’t working anymore.”
“Well, I think it’s a pretty poor show,” said her father.
From her sister, Susannah, came much the same. “You’re quite mad, Lucinda. He’s such a sweetheart, and he adores you. So unless he’s actually knocking you about, I think you should go back to him PDQ. Work it out. Marriage isn’t always easy, I should know. But it’s better than not being married.”
Her brothers were slightly more sympathetic. John, the baby, just gave her a hug and said he was very sorry for her and Anthony, always her favourite sibling, said, “I did always think Nigel was a bit—well, you know, not terribly exciting. But such a nice chap, Lucinda, and he seemed absolutely devoted to you.”
“Yes, he was.”
“Don’t let the parents bully you into something you don’t want. I’m just afraid you’ll be lonely, that’s all. Wish I lived in London, then I could keep you company.” Anthony was in the army, currently based in Shrivenham, about to be posted to Northern Ireland.
“Well, thanks, Anthony. You’re the only person who’s even tried to see it my way.”
And so it went: on and on.
“Shall we leave this lot, go and have a quiet drink in the bar?”
Elizabeth had been planning on sneaking off herself, going up to bed. She smiled rather cautiously at John Martin, worldwide president of Hunter Pharmaceuticals. The sales conference had gone well; she had sat with Peter Hargreaves watching it, proud of the creative team. It was the big one: the annual Hunter sales conference. Held at Boyle Park, the huge country-house hotel on the Gloucestershire and Warwickshire border, that provided not only accommodation for the entire sales force and top management, and a magnificently equipped conference centre, but also a spa and swimming pool, a nine-hole golf course, and a boating lake.
John always came over from the States for the conference, and Peter and Elizabeth always made speeches. It took place over two days, with one afternoon set aside for the delights of Boyle Park. The advertising work had gone down well; the sales figures, despite the economic downturn, were good; and morale was high. Elizabeth looked around her; the evening had moved into chaos phase, the pre-dinner flirty drinks and the four-course meal over. The men stood in groups, still serious, looking suddenly more handsome in their dinner jackets, and the girls began to join them, smiling and self-conscious, emerging like so many butterflies from their sober suits and neat shirts into brightly coloured silk and chiffon, their legs and bosoms well on display, their sleek hair teased into chignons and ringlets, and everywhere a myriad of bracelets and necklaces and earrings, dangling and swinging and teasing in a cloud of over-heavy perfume. In another hour or two, Elizabeth thought, the hotel would be rocking on its foundations. What exactly was it about conferences that suspended normal moral judgement, that saw otherwise devoted and dutiful young husbands moving into beds and bodies where they had no business to be, and normally well-behaved and self-respecting young women encouraging them, luring them even, on their way? It wasn’t just the alcohol—in fact, it was hardly the alcohol at all—it was a kind of moral moratorium, a sense of reckless freedom and sexual greed, created not so much by an absence from hearth and home, as by a presence in a shared and oddly isolated country that offered, or rather almost demanded, as full an exploration as possible. And a return from which could be easily and safely accomplished, with the unspoken promise that no mention or even acknowledgment of it need ever be made.
Sitting at her table, watching girls weaving their way rather unsteadily towards the dancing, dreading that someone would feel duty-bound to invite her to dance, Elizabeth was surprised as well as relieved by John’s invitation. The previous year he had been a most vigorous member of the disco team; she reminded him of it now as they settled in the comparative quiet of the main bar.
“Oh, don’t,” he said. “I can’t bear to think what a complete moron I must have looked. My fourteen-year-old daughter explained to me in words of very few syllables how obscene it was for anyone over twenty to dance in public. What would you like? Brandy? Whiskey?”
“Oh, more champagne, I think. It ends the evening on such a high.”
“I hope it’s not over yet. But—fine. I’m a bourbon man myself. I never can quite see the point of wine. I like my stomach lined and warmed and then kept that way. But I expect your husband is a great wine buff?”
“Well, he likes it. And takes a bit of interest in it, I suppose. Not as much as he did,” she added, thinking of the fast-emptying cellar in London, the decimated one that had left Chadwick House.
“Oh really? Why is that?”
“It’s an expensive hobby.”
“So?”
“Oh well, you know. Inflation, children to educate, all that sort of thing,” she said quickly. She certainly wasn’t going to air their financial troubles with John Martin.
“Right. Well, how do you think it’s gone?”
“Very, very well. There’s a terrific spirit in the company. And this is a great venue—I really like it.”
“Me too. I almost brought my wife—but, you know, I don’t really believe in mixing business with pleasure.”
This was not what Elizabeth had heard; John took a great deal of pleasure along with his business. And he was actually very attractive; tall and heavily built with a shock of blond hair and startlingly dark-blue eyes beneath a thatch of thick blond eyebrows. And he dressed well too, in cutting-edge suits. He wasn’t old money, indeed he had come up the hard way, but he enjoyed what he could buy of the old-money life, a house on Long Island as well as an apartment in Manhattan, a yacht (motor variety, Simon had been deeply disapproving), and an impressive golf handicap. He was also on his third wife. “Classic, she is,” Peter Hargreaves had said, “blond, big blue eyes, Permatan, extremely deep cleavage…and quite young.”
“They seem to be having a great time at the disco,” John said now. “Good to see them all letting their hair down. Helps.”
“Helps what?”
“Oh, you know. With company loyalty, that sort of thing. They’ll all go back to their desks now, feeling good about us. Wouldn’t you say so?”
He obviously required her agreement. “Of course.”
The waiter arrived with the drinks.
“Cheers,” he said.
“Cheers, John. Thank you.”
“Your team’s presentation was very good,” he said. “I like the new corporate campaign. Not sure about fannying around with the logo, but—”
“I wouldn’t call it fannying around,” she said. “I’d call it a strong new branding statement.”
“Yes, I know, I was listening. Don’t look so indignant, everyone likes it except me, but it’ll happen. I do occasionally bow to pressure, you know.”
“I didn’t, no,” she said, smiling at him. “I’ve never seen you even dip your head, let alone bow.”
“Well, you haven’t known me long enough then,” he said. “I know enough about running companies to give the experts a say now and again. An
d I’d call your agency experts.”
“Well—thank you.”
“That’s all right. Tell me, Elizabeth,” he said suddenly, “are you happily married?”
“That’s an extremely impertinent question,” she said, trying both to keep her voice light and not to let herself consider it seriously. It was too dangerous, too destructive…
“No, it’s not. I find you interesting. I want to know.”
“Well, I don’t think you’re going to find out,” she said, smiling.
“OK.” He smiled back. “That means no, I would suggest.”
“It doesn’t actually,” she said coolly. “It means I don’t want to tell you, that I don’t think it’s relevant to the occasion.”
“Well, I think it is,” he said, and, “Why?” she said and was annoyed at the irritation in her voice; she should be keeping cool.
“Elizabeth, Elizabeth,” he shook his head at her, “there’s no need to be so edgy. You interest me, that’s all. What makes you tick, what drives you.”
“Do you know,” she said, suddenly less annoyed with him, feeling this was safer ground, “I often wonder that myself. I really have no idea. It’s just—there. I was born with it. It’s certainly not the money, or anything. In the beginning I worked for nothing. Well, I mean there wasn’t any profit, after paying the nanny and so on. I was an only child,” she added. “I often think that has something to do with it. My father was incredibly proud of me, urged me on, and I so wanted to please him. He desperately wanted a son, and my mother couldn’t have any more children.”
“I was an only child too. The centre of my parents’ world. Interesting, isn’t it? I’ve heard that theory before, as a matter of fact. About only children. We’re high achievers. Well, whatever does it for you, it makes you very attractive.”
“Oh,” she said, suddenly confused. “Oh—well, thank you.”
“No need to thank me. It’s a fact.”
She was suddenly aware that one of his legs was pressing against hers; she moved, as subtly as she could, just slightly away from him.
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