“Well, I think Kathleen feels a little torn. She loves her job, and she’s really good at it, but I guess for a girl the whole point of getting married is to make a family.”
“I think it’s much more to be with the person you love,” said Annabel, “and to enjoy life together. You’re a mother for a long time. That’s what my mother says anyway.”
“Your mother sounds amazing,” said Jamie, “doing that job and raising a family at the same time.”
“Yes, she is, although my dad did a lot. I don’t mean he changed nappies and stuff, we had nannies, but if my mum couldn’t get to a school thing, for instance, then he would come along.”
“He seems to be a pretty special guy altogether,” said Jamie. “I really like him.”
“I like him too,” said Annabel. He was actually a bit like her father, Annabel thought: charming, easy to be with. She felt happy with him, really happy. When he took her home that night in a cab (having paid for dinner), he kissed her nearly all the way. It was extremely nice.
“You are really, really special,” he said to her, as she finally and reluctantly got out of the cab, driven by the cabbie’s rather determined throat-clearing and coughing, “and I can’t wait to see you again. Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow—yes, please.”
There was still over a week to go. It was absolutely brilliant.
“Hello! Isn’t it Mrs. Cowper?”
Of course it was: looking more beautiful than ever, and dressed a lot more sexily, in an above-the-knee skirt—more of those incredible legs on display, that was good—and quite a sharp little jacket in brilliant pink. She looked puzzled for a moment.
“We met at the Lloyd’s do, that legal-ish meeting.”
“Oh—of course. Yes.” She smiled at him, that wonderful half shy, half flirtatious smile. “And you’re Mr. Beaumont.”
“Simon, please. How are you?”
“I’m fine. And I’m Lucinda.” Lucinda. He remembered now. What an absurdly perfect name for her. “It’s lovely to see you. Whatever are you doing in this part of town?”
“It’s nice to see you too. I was…um…well, having lunch with someone.”
“Right. Good lunch?”
“Yes, it was lovely, thank you. I’m haring back to work now, bit late.”
“I’ve been trying to get hold of your husband. To discuss something. But he hasn’t returned my calls. I wonder if you could jog him? It’s quite important—to do with Lloyd’s, actually.”
“Well…well, the thing is…we’re—we’re not together anymore…”
“Oh. Oh, I’m sorry. How sad.”
“Yes. Yes, it is.”
Not for her, obviously; it explained a good deal. And not too surprising, really.
“But I will be seeing him, quite soon, so I’ll try and get him to call you. But—but he might not. I…well, I don’t have much influence over him, I’m afraid.”
“No, of course not. But that would be very kind. Tell me, where’s work?”
“Oh, Bloomsbury. I work for a publisher, Peter Harrison.”
“Oh really? Didn’t you publish that biography of Soros? I’ve put it on my birthday list. Look—let me give you my card. I did give it to your husband, but he might have lost it. Would that be all right?”
“Yes, of course. Well, it was really nice to see you again. Bye now.” And she was gone, with another dazzling smile. He stood looking after her, drinking her in as she disappeared into the throng of people.
Catherine Morgan, who had been hurrying out of the Graburn and French building, saw him chatting to Lucinda and felt a pang of jealousy. Only a very mild one; and obviously she couldn’t possibly compete with Lucinda’s starry glamour, but after four months of working for Simon Beaumont, she was definitely slightly in love with him. Not enough in love to make her unhappy, or to cause him a moment’s unease; just enough to make going to work pleasantly exciting. She didn’t see him every day; but when she did, he always smiled at her, asked her how she was, and if there was time, like before a meeting where she was taking the minutes, or in the lift, how the children were, how they were getting on, particularly Freddie; and when he smiled at her, that extraordinarily easy, charming smile, she felt like skipping or singing. She knew it was silly, a grown-up version of a schoolgirl crush, but it still made life more fun. And her life had been pretty short on fun the last few years.
In fact, everything seemed better; Freddie was terribly pleased to be back at Lynton House, and Caroline seemed not to mind in the very least that she was still at St. Joseph’s Fulham. She managed to meet Caroline only occasionally a little late, and they usually got to Lynton House just before the boys all came out; apart from the mercifully rare nightmare days when one or other of them was ill it worked brilliantly. And for the holidays, she had found a very nice woman, Mrs. Lennox, who lived a few doors away and who was happy to look after them.
Her life, Catherine thought as she walked through Leadenhall Market, really had improved dramatically. And it was all down to Simon, to charming, handsome, kind Simon Beaumont, who was, she saw, gazing at Lucinda as she got into a taxi, patently wishing he was going off in it with her…
The more Joel Strickland heard from the players in this Lloyd’s drama, the more he thought it would make a brilliant article. But God, it was hard getting it together. That phone call from that poor terrified bloke—what did he think was going to happen to him, for God’s sake, that he’d be put in the Tower?—had put quite a bit more of the jigsaw in place. And although he was very sorry for the old lady, a death always brought a story alive. Gave it a heart. His editor had been very lukewarm, had said what everyone said: that nobody was going to care very much about a whole lot of rich spoiled people crying because they were going to be a bit less rich. Initially Joel had agreed with him, but a little homework had revealed something rather different.
Gillian Thompson, for instance, hadn’t been rich or spoiled. And from what the bloke had said, a fairly recent recruit to Lloyd’s. Poor old soul. Who had done that to her? Who had suggested she became a Name? And how had it been allowed to happen, when the minimum capital requirement was £75,000, and that was supposed to exclude your main residence? And according to that young man, she’d been put in the wrong sort of high-risk syndicate, along with a lot of other people. Joel decided to go and visit May Williams, the unfortunate woman who had discovered her body.
Chapter 16
APRIL 1990
“Darling, whatever is it? Look, you know we don’t allow tears here. Far too self-indulgent. And you’ll turn that blond solution brown if you’re not careful and then all the clients will sue. Come on, sweetie, nothing’s that bad. How about I take you out for a really glamorous cup of cocoa after work, no expense spared…here, wipe your eyes on this—no, not that, you silly bitch, not my foils…”
In spite of herself, Annabel half smiled, rubbed her fist across her eyes. “Sorry.”
“I should just think so, and you should see yourself now—you look like something out of the Black and White Minstrel…”
“Well, thanks!”
“That’s all right. Oh God, here comes the Virgin Queen. Miki, darling, just leave us for two minutes, that’s all I ask, just a tiny little upset here, and then I’m all yours—if you’ll only have me.”
“Florian,” said Miki, “in two minutes, Mrs. Alexander will have left the salon for good. She’s furious. Get upstairs and start calming her down right now. And Bel, if you have to cry, please do it in your own time. You’ve got two clients waiting to be shampooed. I will not have this sort of nonsense in the salon, it is so absolutely unprofessional. Now wash your face and get back to work at once, please.”
Annabel really hadn’t expected to feel this bad. She’d only known Jamie for two weeks, and here she was acting like they’d been together for years. Maybe that proved how important it was. And at least she’d passed the biggest test of all: meeting his parents.
They’d had a totally perfect
weekend, a lovely afternoon and evening in London—lots of cocktails at the Criterion in Piccadilly (fun), then dinner at Daphne’s (divine), and then—then champagne and endless wonderful snogging in Jamie’s room at the Carlton Tower. His parents were away for the night, he’d said, so he felt very relaxed. She couldn’t quite get over a man of twenty-four feeling inhibited by his parents’ presence several rooms along the corridor in a hotel, but still…
He told her he didn’t want to have sex yet; he said it was too soon. She was half disappointed, half pleased by this; having grown up in a culture where sex had moved so far up the dating agenda that it was regarded by many as the norm on the second date at the latest, such modest behaviour seemed rather odd. But it made her feel quite special. She wondered if it was shyness on his part, or even fear, but as they lay on his bed, watching the dawn come up, he said he had had two quite serious relationships before, and that he simply thought that you should be very sure of yourself and your feelings before you asked someone to go to bed with you.
“It’s a huge commitment, as far as I’m concerned. I don’t think it should be like—well, like just kissing.”
She fell asleep contentedly in his arms, still half dressed; she was sure the waiter who brought them breakfast in bed would never have believed the innocence of the night they had spent.
And then, on the way back from Bath, from another perfect day together, driving through the endless golden midsummer evening, he suddenly said, “Stop the car, I want to tell you something.”
Half frightened, she had pulled onto the hard shoulder and sat, heart thumping, waiting for some kind of harsh judgement or final farewell.
“I want you to know I’m in love with you,” he said. “I know it’s all been fast, but I’m totally sure. And I need to know how you feel about me.”
“I feel the same,” she said, “darling Jamie. Just the same. So that’s really good, isn’t it?”
“Really good. And so I thought, we could go back to the hotel and—well, prove it to each other. Now that we’re both sure.”
They drove the rest of the way with his hand tucked companionably between her thighs; by the time they got back to the hotel, Annabel was in such a state of acute sexual excitement she could hardly sit still, and her pants were uncomfortably damp: so damp indeed that she feared her fine voile skirt might reveal the fact.
And then, as they hurried into the foyer, hand in hand, giggling like guilty children, and went over to the desk to get his room key, they heard a voice. A low, drawling, slightly hard-edged voice: “Jamie, darling, there you are. We wondered. Good weekend? Are you going to join us for dinner?”
It was his mother.
She was all right, Annabel supposed, shaking Mrs. Cartwright’s hand, keeping her back to the reception counter, smiling dutifully, wishing she’d at least had time to comb her hair, still extremely ruffled by some heavy-duty snogging in a cornfield just outside Bath, and for all she knew, containing lots of ears of corn. Mrs. Cartwright was polite and gracious if a little chilly; she was certainly beautiful, in a blond Grace Kelly sort of way, perfectly dressed and pressed and coiffed, and although she obviously wasn’t very pleased to find her son in the company of this strange girl, and one moreover he was clearly very taken with, she made a good attempt at disguising it, urging Annabel to join them for dinner. Which of course she accepted; she could hardly claim a prior engagement when she and Jamie had been so unmistakably going up to his room together and as good as neon signs on their heads saying Orgasms Imminent.
And it had been agony in a way, trying to calm down, pretending everything was really cool, not being able to get him to tell her over and over again that he loved her, not being able to tell him the same thing, not being able to have sex, for God’s sake. But precisely because she did love him so much and she wanted to please him, and wanted his parents to like her, she managed it, listened politely to details of a night in Stratford, and a visit to Shakespeare’s birthplace and inevitably (they being Americans) to criticism of their hotel and comparisons with ones they had stayed at in the States, like the Bel-Air in Los Angeles.
When Mr. Cartwright joined them, it was better; he was just an older version of Jamie, and she had a lot of fun comparing them; he was also quite flirtatious in a very upper-class way, and she liked that. And when finally the endless evening was over, she knew that she would have to go home, on her own, and there would be no sex that night, or even for many, many nights, as the Cartwrights were leaving the next evening. But it was all worth it, because Jamie suddenly appeared in the salon at lunchtime next day, and she somehow persuaded Tania to let her out just for ten minutes; and there, standing out in the street, he told her he loved her, and that he would see her soon; somehow, he’d be back, and if not she had to come over and stay with them in Boston, “Because my parents both loved you, my mother particularly. She said you were absolutely delightful, and I don’t remember her ever saying that before about any of my girlfriends.”
And then he gave her a kiss, a quick, light, lingering kiss, and he was gone. Leaving Annabel not sure whether to laugh or cry. Within the space of the next twenty-four hours, she had done a great deal of both.
Chapter 17
MAY 1990
Lucinda hadn’t been sick at all during her pregnancy until the day she and Nigel were to meet to discuss the divorce. She woke up feeling absolutely dreadful, sobbing, her nightdress drenched with sweat, to find Blue shaking her; she clung to him, refusing to speak and then, suddenly overcome with nausea, had to rush to the bathroom where she threw up repeatedly.
“Sweet, what is it? For God’s sake, you got to tell me. Get back to bed, I’ll call the doctor.” He had come in after her, was standing looking down on her as she knelt by the lavatory, a ghastly colour himself. She blew her nose, managed to stand up, even to smile at him.
“It’s OK, I’m OK, I’ve only been sick, for heaven’s sake, there’s nothing wrong. I just had some bad dreams, and you know it’s today, with Nigel and—”
“Course I know it’s today. I didn’t expect you to be in this sort of state though. I think I’d better come with you.”
“No,” said Lucinda wearily, “no, Blue. It’s going to be bad enough for Nigel without you being there.”
“Well, thanks for that. I don’t like it, Lucy, not one bit. I just don’t like you going off on your own, facing him and all, and now if you’re ill…”
He had been totally horrified by the suggestion when it came from Nigel; it had taken days to persuade him.
“I’m not having it and that’s that,” he kept saying. “You’re not seeing him, not without me.”
Lucinda had been rather shocked by this; in fact, it led to one of their rare but colourful rows.
“It’s not a question of you having or not having anything,” she had said. “It’s my decision, and I’ve made it. And I’m going. There’s nothing more to discuss.”
In the end, he had agreed; but with extreme reluctance.
“I just don’t like it,” he said now. “I think it’s wrong. He might do anything to you.”
“Blue, of course he won’t do anything to me. I simply feel awful about it all. You must see that.”
“You have to get rid of some of this guilt, Lucy,” said Blue, “otherwise you’re going to drive yourself mad. There’s a long tough road ahead of you—”
“I don’t see why it has to be long or tough. I’m not going to argue about anything. I want to do everything for him that I can.”
“You know,” said Blue, “this is not the way to approach divorce, Lucinda. His solicitor’s going to take you to the cleaners if you’re not careful.”
“But he’s welcome to. He can take me to all the cleaners he can find. I don’t want anything from Nigel, anything at all. I want to help him. Anyway, I’ve got nothing to give him, that’s half the trouble, why I feel so bad.” She started to cry again.
“I really think I’d better come with you,” Blue said. “Luci
nda, you ever had any dealings with lawyers?”
“No. Except when we bought our flat. Oh, and when Nigel made over all that money to me; we had to go and sign some stuff about the more complicated things.”
“Thought not. They’re fucking villains. Every minute you spend with them, that’s money in their pockets. So the more minutes the better. You can see them watching the clock, adding it up. So just you be careful. And I wish you’d let me find you someone, someone shit hot, not this dickhead who looks after your dad.”
“He’s not a dickhead,” said Lucinda, “and don’t talk like that. I keep telling you—Oh God, I think I’m going to be sick again.”
It was truly shocking news. Elizabeth phoned after an early meeting, her voice sober: Neil Lawrence had taken an overdose, was in intensive care. Simon stood in the hall, feeling shaky and oddly frightened.
“Is there anything we should do?” he said.
“I don’t know, Simon. His wife’s with him. It’s touch and go, apparently. She found him, poor girl. Someone called the agency, he was coming in later today.”
“Oh, Christ. Look, I’ll speak to you later. Keep me posted.”
He walked back into the kitchen, still feeling sick, sat down at the table. Annabel was there, drinking orange juice.
“You look awfully pale, Daddy.” She put her arm round his shoulders. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, nothing that need trouble you.”
How could he tell her, tell this beloved child, or indeed the other beloved children, that a man faced with the same problems as his own, the loss of everything he had, had attempted suicide, had been so deranged with terror and shame that he had not even properly considered the effect of that on his wife and children…
Later, when she had gone, he called George Meyer.
“A friend—no, an acquaintance tried to kill himself last night. Took an overdose—He’s up to his neck, half a million’s worth of debt, no hope of paying it, had kept it from his wife, obviously finally cracked. Nice chap, I really liked him.”
An Absolute Scandal Page 20