“Oh, can’t imagine,” said Annabel. “I mean, not shampooing, or gowning up, or sweeping up, or even blow-drying Carol’s hair if I’m really lucky. Nothing like that, obviously.”
“Darling! So bitter. Let me cheer you up. I’m doing a session for Seventh Day, the magazine for the Sunday News, and guess who’s going to come with me as my assistant?”
“Me?” said Annabel. Her voice came out sounding slightly squeaky.
“The very one. Merle’s got a stomach bug, poor darling, and I thought, well, why not? You’ve been a very good girl lately and—”
“Oh Florian! Oh, thank you so, so much!” They were in the staff room; Annabel hurled herself into Florian’s arms, kissed him rapturously.
“Sweetie! If I’d known it would have this effect on you I’d have done it sooner. So, Saville Studios, that’s in Whitechapel, at eight. Eight as in a.m.”
“I’ll be there,” she said.
She was actually there at seven thirty, so frightened was she of being late, complete with a vast bagful of rollers, dryers, brushes, pins, and tongs; at five to eight a girl arrived, pulled out a great bunch of keys from her pocket. She was so tall and thin that Annabel thought she must be the model, but, “Hi. I’m Elise, studio dogsbody. Come on in, you look frozen.”
“Thanks. I am a bit.”
“I’ll get you a coffee. You Florian’s assistant? We love working with him, he’s such fun and so brilliant. But God, this is going to be a long day. Six shots. Probably still be at it at midnight.”
At eight thirty Florian arrived. “This is going to be one hell of a day,” he said, throwing his coat over a leather sofa, taking the mug of coffee. “The combination of Effie and our Sandra—God help us.”
“I like Sandra, Florian,” said Elise. “I think she’s really nice, terribly professional.”
“Yes, but darling, all the more reason for her to get cross with Effie. You know how otherworldly she is, never knows what way she’s up…I blame the dope myself.”
“You’re a fine one to talk,” said Elise briskly.
“Now that is so unfair,” said Florian. “I never smoke on the job. Well, not this sort of job anyway. Do I, Bel, sweetie?”
“Um—no, of course not,” said Annabel.
Florian did a lot of drugs, it was one of the things that worried her about him. Not only did he smoke dope constantly (although not at work, that at least was true), he took Ecstasy which she could just about accept, after all everybody did, but also cocaine. He had tried to encourage her to try it; so far she had resisted (apart from the occasional spliff, obviously), but Florian’s powers of persuasion were scarily strong. If anything was going to end their rather odd relationship, it would be that.
They were going to be a good team, Simon thought: a bunch of really solid people, and he’d even liked Terence Cunningham, the Northern industrialist, belligerent bugger as he promised to be. They’d gone for a drink after the meeting. Cunningham, like Meyer, had seen his wife walk away with a new man.
“She started out all sweetness and light, swore she’d stand by me, but after a bit she couldn’t cope with the reality. Losing the golf-club membership, seeing her friends in new frocks while she had to wear the old ones, it was all too much.” He glared into his beer. “Frailty, thy name is woman, my dad used to say. Too bloody right.”
Simon was silent; he thought of Elizabeth, 101 percent behind him, resolutely keeping their ship afloat, and thought too of Neil Lawrence, who felt unable still even to tell his wife; and thought then how he’d betrayed Elizabeth, and felt desperately remorseful. Neil had called him the day before in an appalling state.
“I just can’t cope with this,” he said, “I can’t. I had lunch with my Members’ Agent yesterday and I sat up all night literally just staring at the wall, thinking: What have I done? How did I get into this?”
“How much this time?” said Simon.
“Over three hundred thousand at least. Simon, both my houses together aren’t going to meet that. I just feel violently sick, all the time. I can’t think about anything else. Can’t work, can’t sleep, it’s literally hell. I know how people feel now, when they say they wish they were dead. I view that as a very attractive option.”
“No, you don’t,” said Simon. “Er…what does your wife say?”
“I still haven’t told her,” said Neil.
They had all been excited by the meeting, they agreed, in spite of Ms. Broadhurst’s rather daunting prognostication, and indeed daunting presence. “I thought she was marvellous,” said Flora, “didn’t you, Simon?”
“She seemed very capable, yes,” he said, and then saw Flora looking at him with a certain humour in her dark eyes. Clearly she had observed his reaction to Fiona Broadhurst; no point trying to deceive her about anything.
“She’ll do, I reckon,” said Cunningham. “Let’s hope she thinks we will.”
Elise had been right; it was proving a long day. Annabel felt quite sick with tiredness: they had only done four of the six shots, and it was already half past five.
Sandra, the fashion editor, and Florian were having a mild tiff over the hair for the next shot, a dazzling summer ball gown, when a man walked into the studio. A distinctly attractive man, Annabel thought, studying him: bit old, probably over thirty, but still…He was quite tall, with close-cropped hair and brilliant dark eyes, and he was wearing a dinner jacket; she wondered if he was another model.
But, “Joel, oh my God, how frightful. Is it really that sort of time?” said Sandra. “I’m not nearly ready.”
“Don’t worry, you’ve got at least another hour. I had an appointment at the NatWest Tower, thought I’d come up here and collect you, rather than go back to the office. Find out what really happens at a photographic session. Looks like fun to me.”
“An hour won’t be enough,” said Sandra. “Come on, guys, for God’s sake! This is Joel Strickland, everyone, our City editor; we’ve got an awards thing this evening—we’re both up for a gong—and we’ve been summoned to cocktails with the proprietor first, so we absolutely have to leave at six thirty—”
“Darling, don’t fret,” said Paolo, the photographer. “If we haven’t finished by then, we’ll see it all through without you. You just tell us what you want, and you’ll get it.”
“Well, OK. Joel, there are lots of magazines over there, and probably some wine.”
“No, no, I’ll just have coffee, thanks,” said Joel Strickland. “It’s going to be a long night, better not start too early.”
“I’ll make you some coffee,” said Annabel, jumping up from the sofa. She had had nothing to do for the past hour, and was feeling distinctly spare; Jonty, Sandra’s assistant, seemed to have taken over her role as Florian’s assistant.
“That’s very kind of you,” said Joel. He had a very nice smile. “And who are you?”
“I’m Annabel, I mean Bel.”
“Aren’t you sure?”
She smiled back. “Well, my real name is Annabel. They call me Bel in the hairdressing salon where I work. I’m assisting him.” She gestured at Florian. “But I think Jonty’s doing a better job.”
“Well, I know who I’d rather have as my assistant,” he said, smiling at her again. “Come and sit with me and entertain me. How long have you been mixed up with all these terrible people?”
“Only since this morning,” she said, and then, realising what she had said: “Only they’re not terrible, they’re all very nice. But I’ve been training as a hairdresser for about—goodness, eight months now.”
“And—do you like it?”
“Yes, I absolutely love it.”
“Good. That’s what I like to hear, people enjoying what they do. More important than anything, really.”
“Do you enjoy what you do?”
“I certainly do. Best job in the world, journalism. You get to go anywhere you want, meet anyone you fancy—I mean, how else would I be sitting here, talking to you?”
“And you�
�re up for an award. How exciting.”
“I won’t get it, though. Much too much competition. Still, it’ll be a fun evening.”
“What was your story about?”
“Fraud,” he said. “Juicy little number, but not strong enough to win. Guy from The Times will probably win, he wrote about Afghanistan and the drug kings. More of a proper story.”
“And—Sorry, do you mind answering all these questions?” She was genuinely interested. And he really was rather sexy.
“Of course not. God, what are they doing in there?”
“I think,” said Annabel, “they’re making the hair a bit bigger.”
“My word. That does sound serious. Go on.”
“I was going to ask if journalists worked on one story at a time, or lots.”
“Well, it depends. Reporters usually work on one at a time, but sometimes more than one in a day. On the City pages there’s lots of short, everyday stuff and then there might be one big story which can go on for weeks. Or even months. And you need to be very patient, putting bits and pieces together. It’s fun. Now, do you think we could share a glass of that nice wine Sandra mentioned? I think I want to get into the party mood after all.”
“Well, I’d better not. But I’ll get you one.”
“This really is very nice,” said Joel, setting down his glass. “You’re missing quite a treat. Now you mustn’t let me bore you rigid. Tell me about you.”
“Oh, I’m not very interesting,” she said. “Left school last year. Doing this now. Still live at home with my parents.”
“Do you mind that?”
“Not really. It’s quite a big house. And my parents are very good, really. They mostly leave me alone. Don’t interfere. They’re not too keen on me doing hairdressing, but—”
“Why not?”
“Oh, they’re disappointed I didn’t go to university. It’s practically a religion for my father. He went to Oxford, and he was longing for me to go. But my brother will, I’m sure, and my little sister.”
“Well, I went and it didn’t do me an awful lot of good. My brother didn’t and he’s got a very successful little building company, makes about three times as much money as me…You could tell your father that. What does he do?”
“He works in the City. He’s on the board of a bank.”
“Which one?”
“Graburn and French.”
“Very good outfit. I sat next to the chairman at some PR dinner just before Christmas. Nice man. The bank’s doing rather well—not easy in this financial climate.”
“Is it? That’s good. Poor old Dad needs some luck at the moment. He’s just lost an awful lot of money at Lloyd’s.”
“Has he really?” said Joel Strickland.
In her pretty cottage in Hampshire, Gillian Thompson drank a cup of tea, very hot and strong, the way she liked it, and then picked up her beloved tabby cat, Mustapha, put him in his carrying basket and took him to her friend, May Williams, who lived just down the road. May was also very fond of Mustapha, and had once or twice looked after him when Gillian had gone on holiday.
“I’m sorry it’s such short notice, May, but I’ve been called away. Would you mind looking after him for a while? I so hate to think of him in that cattery.”
“Of course,” said May, scooping Mustapha out of his basket. “I always love to have him, you know that. He’ll never lack for a home while I’m around.”
“Good,” said Gillian. “That’s very comforting, May, thank you. I’m not quite sure when I’ll be back, is that all right?”
“Of course. Would you like a cup of tea?”
“No, thank you, I’ve just had one and I ought to be getting along. I’ll—Well, thank you, May. Goodbye then.”
And she was gone, her small feet in their nicely polished shoes tap-tapping down the brick path.
Gillian went back to her cottage, carefully closed all the windows and put a rolled-up blanket along the bottom of the living-room door; she took a couple of aspirin and switched on her gas fire. Then she lay down as close to it as she could and started to inhale very deeply and slowly.
Chapter 14
SPRING 1990
He looked awfully fierce. His eyes had that sort of hard, shiny look to them that she didn’t like, making them unreadable. And his mouth was narrower, tighter—he was obviously very cross. Oh God. Now what was she going to do?
“I’m sorry,” she said again. “Really sorry.”
“Yes, all right,” he said.
“I know I should have told you before.”
“Probably you should. Well—” And then he smiled suddenly, his face appearing to crack almost in two, his widest, most glorious grin. “Say it again. Go on. I want to hear it again.”
“I’m going to have a baby,” she said. Breathing more easily, feeling less frightened.
He shook his head quickly several times as if he thought his hearing might be affected. “You’re not having me on?”
“Well, no. I’m sorry if it’s a shock, but—”
“It is a bit,” he said. “Pretty shocking. I’m not sure why that should be. We’ve been doing all the right things. God in heaven, Lucinda, a baby. You and me. Yours and mine. Jesus. Are you quite, quite sure?”
“I’m terribly sure, yes,” she said. “I’ve missed my period—well, nearly two now…”
“You know, I did wonder,” he said, “then I thought, no, I never could count. Go on—”
“And I’ve had a test done. At the doctor—I don’t trust those things you buy.”
“God,” he said again. “This really is quite monumentally good news. Wouldn’t you say?”
“Well, I think so, yes. So you’re not cross?”
“Cross? No, Lucy, I’m not cross. Why should I be cross, for pity’s sake? Whatever made you think that?”
“Well…I don’t know really. We didn’t exactly plan it. And it’s my fault, entirely. I got behind with my pills. I left it too late to get another prescription, and then I—well, I thought supposing I was pregnant, I didn’t want to take the pill if I was, it might harm the baby in some way, you know, so I thought I’d better wait till the next time, and—”
“You haven’t got much common sense, have you, Lucinda?” he said.
“I suppose not,” she said humbly. “Not a lot.”
“Well, thank God for it,” he said. “I don’t know when I was so pleased about anything. Except when I saw that fucking watch on your wrist. A baby. My God. Here, come and give your old man a kiss.
“You know what we’ve got to do next, don’t you?” said Blue.
“Um…tell our mothers?”
They were lying in bed, Blue drinking champagne and Lucinda a mug of hot milk.
What they really had to do, must do, he told her, cradling her in his arms, was get the divorce going.
“I’m not having my son born out of wedlock,” he said, “and that’s that.”
“Oh, now Blue, that’s just silly.”
“Why?”
“Well, in the first place, we’ll never get it all over and done with and us married by November.”
“Is that when it is?” he said, sounding startled. “Blimey. You sure?”
“November, yes. It usually takes nine months, I believe. And in the second place, it might be a girl.”
There was a long silence, then: “No,” he said, “not possible. Out of the question.”
“OK. Well, anyway, I can try with Nigel. Try again. But I don’t hold out a lot of hope. He just acts as if I don’t exist.”
It had been a very exciting four months, she thought, lying awake staring happily into the darkness while Blue slept. Starting with Christmas, with telling her parents she couldn’t come after all. They’d been predictably sniffy; her mother said it would mess up all sorts of arrangements.
Blue had taken her to meet his family on New Year’s Day. “Now they are a bit much,” he said, “I warn you. Not too much like your folks, I’d say.”
“That’s good news,” she said.
She had fallen in love with them, the whole noisy, cheerful, over-the-top lot of them; she could see they found her very strange, and Blue’s choice of her even stranger. It had been hard at first, she had been trying to play down her background, and had been feeling very tense and shy, trying not to say anything that could be remotely interpreted as snooty; the day was made even odder by the fact that Blue was Gary at home; it was oddly disconcerting. She was beginning to feel slightly desperate, when Blue’s nine-year-old nephew, a bullet-headed replica of his uncle, had fixed her with beady dark eyes and said, “Gary says you’re well posh. We never met anyone posh before—what’s it like then? You met the Queen and that?”
“Jason,” said Margo, Blue’s mother, “that’s no way to talk to Lucinda.”
“Of course it is,” said Lucinda, relaxing suddenly, “and actually I’m really not very posh as you call it, Jason, not at all.”
“Oh no, I don’t think so, not actually,” whispered Holly, his ten-year-old sister, in a parody of Lucinda’s accent.
Her father gave her a smart clip round the ear. “I don’t want any of your cheek, Holly. You be polite to the lady. I’m sorry, Lucinda.”
“Honestly, please, please don’t be polite,” she said, “I’d much rather they weren’t. Anyway, Jason, no, I haven’t met the Queen. But I have been to Buckingham Palace.”
“And was Princess Diana there?” said Holly, curiosity getting the better of her.
“Very sadly, no. I was with my father, he was getting a—a sort of medal. I think Diana was in her own palace. She’s beautiful, don’t you think?”
“Yes. You look a bit like her,” said Holly consideringly. “Not as pretty, but a bit the same.”
“Well, thank you,” said Lucinda. “I call that a huge compliment.”
“And what a good mother, isn’t she?” said Margo. “Lovely they are, those boys. I think she’s wonderful, I really do. I don’t reckon Prince Charles appreciates her properly, you know.”
“No, I think that’s probably right,” said Lucinda.
“And her clothes. Really lovely. She makes the rest of them look pretty frumpy, doesn’t she?”
An Absolute Scandal Page 17