An Absolute Scandal

by Penny Vincenzi

  There was a silence, then George said, “Could you ever imagine doing that?”

  “No, not in a million years. You’ve let them win then, haven’t you? Christ, I keep thinking, could I have done something for him, helped in some way…When’s it going to end, George?”

  “God knows,” said George, “and I actually doubt if He’s very interested.”

  “You know something?” Simon said suddenly. “I’m going to talk to that journalist I told you about. People need to know just how bad this fucking business really is.”

  Tim Allinson had decided: it was time to get out and move to the south of France. He’d almost decided that before, but he’d thought one more summer season, and then he’d sell up. There was plenty to sell; the flat in Pelham Crescent was worth a bit, and there were a few paintings, and some very nice furniture, and he had Lloyd’s, or to be precise the Westfield Bradley Group of Syndicates, to thank for all that. He’d always loved Nice: or perhaps Antibes, that was so beautiful, fish restaurants to die for and there was the Hotel du Cap, best Bellinis in the world, in his opinion. And he could afford to retire, pretty well. He had some investments, and you never knew, there were lots of rich widows down there. But—it was getting dodgy in England now. He hadn’t liked being told, very nicely of course, to stop working a house party, as his host had put it, the weekend before.

  “All very well, old chap,” his host had said, “singing the praises of Lloyd’s, but it just isn’t the safe bet it was. I wouldn’t touch it these days—few nasty stories coming out.”

  Tim had said, only mildly indignant, that Lloyd’s was as safe as the Bank of England and he’d only been talking about it to Mick Bridgeman, not trying to suggest he joined—which of course he wouldn’t have done, he always made the formal approach on his own patch, but just the same it had shaken him. He didn’t want to get caught with his very expensive trousers down. Best find something else to do. Like wooing widows.

  Michael Booker, one of the Members’ Agents at Jackson and Bond, was delighted to accept a lunch invitation from Simon Beaumont.

  “Just wanted to talk a few things through with you,” Simon said, “given the time of year and the approach of the results. And I’ve asked George Meyer along.”

  “Fine. Splendid.”

  Simon had booked a table at Simpson’s in the Strand. He was well-known there, they’d get good service and at worst a very good lunch; he and George were there before Booker, drinking neat tonic water with ice and lemon.

  “We need very clear heads,” Simon had said.

  Michael Booker walked in; he was tall and dark, just slightly overweight, and dressed in a superbly cut suit that almost but not quite concealed the fact. He came over to the table, smiling, hand held out.

  “Jolly nice to see you both.”

  God, these people are incredible, Simon thought. Skins like four-ply rhino hide.

  “And you, Michael. We’re on gin and tonic—suit you?”

  Booker said it would suit very well. He ate heartily—oysters, beef and ale pie, and a wonderfully Bunter-ish trifle. He talked on unabated, glimpses of his meal constantly on show as he chomped. Finally as he waved away the cheese trolley—“Supposed to be watching my weight”—he said, “And what about you chaps—everything all right with you? Any particular issues you wanted to discuss?”

  Simon, who had resisted more than one glass of a very fine Merlot with great difficulty, said there were a few. “And when do we get next year’s results?”

  “Ah,” said Booker, “yes. Well, good old Lloyd’s”—God, thought Simon, maybe he’s going to tell us it’s better, maybe we can all begin to breathe a bit more easily—“punctual as usual.”

  “And—what news might you have for us?”

  “For you? Well, not entirely good, I’m afraid. No. No, indeed.” His face, flushed with the Merlot, had become rather sweaty; it was not an attractive sight. “No. ’Fraid Westfield Bradley in particular have taken a bit of a pasting. This year.”

  “Not like last year,” said Simon drily.

  “What? Oh, yes. Yes, quite true. Bit of a bad patch altogether. Yes.”

  “Michael,” said George, “this is more than a bad patch. It’s gone on and on.”

  “Indeed. But—well, that’s why I was glad to come today, have a chat. I didn’t want you rushing off to sell your houses, do anything hasty.”

  “Unfortunately you’re a little late to prevent that,” said Simon. “We’ve both done some house-selling. I still have my main residence—”

  “Oh, good man. Want to hold on to that.”

  “Yes,” said Simon, “I do actually. But it looks a bit more difficult. I am actually wondering what to do.”

  “Well, you know, you can always speak to me.”

  “That’s very good to know, of course,” said Simon, “but to be perfectly honest, I don’t feel we can talk frankly without there being a risk of your coming up against a clash of interest or divided loyalties.”

  “There is no way that can happen, Simon. I don’t quite follow.”

  “Well, just for example, in a letter to me last November you showed how support for the Westfield Bradley Syndicate over the period 1986–87 dropped by about seventy percent—more than £300 million. But you only reduced my participation by about ten percent. Why didn’t you take me right out of them?”

  “Simon,” said Booker, a note of near-indignation in his voice, “we were seriously concerned that if everyone pulled out, the syndicates would go down the pan. It’s absolutely crucial that syndicates remain operative. For all our sakes.”

  They sat staring at him in silence for about twenty seconds; then Simon spoke.

  “Michael, I am speechless. I think you’ve just made my point.”

  Booker left quite shortly; when he had gone, Simon ordered another bottle of Merlot.

  “Well, what do you think?” he said. “Was that gun smoking or not?”

  “I’m not sure,” said George, pulling a notebook out of his pocket. “I take his point about keeping the syndicates going. But let’s write down every bloody word and pass it into Ms. Broadhurst’s tender keeping.”

  They had agreed to meet in the lounge of the Selfridge Hotel at teatime. It was ideal for their purpose, Lucinda said, having proposed it; it was very quiet, it was about halfway between both their offices.

  Four o’clock saw them walking up the stairs at the same time: recognising each other, smiling faintly and saying hello, and then being led to one of the low chintz-covered sofas and ordering tea.

  “And scones,” said Lucinda, smiling at the waiter, “scones, oh and Little Scarlet strawberry jam if you’ve got it. He loves scones, don’t you, Nigel?”

  He managed to nod.

  The pain was so awful he thought he might pass out from it. Sitting there, looking at her, so lovely, her fair hair scooped back in a ponytail, her large blue eyes fixed tenderly—if rather nervously—on him; it was like a form of particularly awful torture. Nothing showed, thank goodness; she was thinner, if anything. That helped—a bit. The alternative would have been unbearable.

  “You look…well,” he said. Simply speaking was an effort.

  “Thank you. So do you.”

  “Yes, well. I’ve been to Norfolk a lot at the weekends. Country air, you know.”

  “Good, I’m glad. Oh, and before I forget, I don’t suppose you’ll want to, but Simon Beaumont, you know that nice man from the Lloyd’s meeting, he wants you to ring him about something.”

  “Why have you been talking to Simon Beaumont?”

  “Oh, I bumped into him last week. In the City.”

  And he knew why she had been in the City: meeting HIM. He winced. “Well, I don’t want to talk to him,” he said. “That lawsuit against Lloyd’s, is the last thing I can be doing with at the moment.”

  “Of course, I understand. I’ll…I’ll call and tell him. Don’t give it another thought.”

  She smiled at him: her sweet perfect smile…
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  “Lucinda, we have to talk.”

  “Yes, Nigel, I know. You’re not eating your scone.”

  “I don’t want the bloody scone,” he said, and his voice sounded quite violent even to him.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Sorry, Nigel.”

  “It’s OK. Let’s just get on, shall we, with deciding what we’re going to do. How we’re going to play it. The thing is,” he said, “my solicitor says that we have to decide who’s going to petition whom.”

  “That means who’s going to divorce who. Is that right?”

  “Yes, that’s right…I presume you’ve talked to someone about it.”

  “No, I haven’t actually. Except, well, except my…my family.”

  She meant HIM: the person he couldn’t bear to think about. “Right. So—no one legal.”

  “Well, no. I thought you should tell me what you want first, and then I’ll just go along with it. I want to be helpful, Nigel, that’s the very least I can do for you.”

  “Indeed,” he said coldly.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “So sorry. You do know that, don’t you?”

  “So you keep saying.”

  “I know it’s awful. Awful for you.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.”

  “Well—good. Maybe not quite so awful then.”

  “It’s been totally fucking awful,” he choked out, “more awful than you could possibly imagine. Why did you do it, Lucinda? How could you do it? Why didn’t you stop, right at the beginning, before—before anything—Oh shit!” The tears had begun: he could feel one running down his nose, and the shame of that was intense. He was sitting here, supposedly cool and in control, sorting out the details of their divorce, and he was blubbering like a baby. He fumbled in his pocket for his handkerchief, blew his nose, wiped his eyes.

  “Sorry,” he said. “So sorry.”

  “Oh Nigel,” she said, and he looked up at her then, at the break in her own voice, and saw that she was crying too, tears spilling out of her eyes, trickling down her cheeks. “Nigel, don’t say you’re sorry. I feel so ashamed, so dreadfully ashamed, making you so unhappy, oh dear, dear Nigel,” and she moved nearer to him, put her arms round him, and he clung to her, useless as he knew it was, feeling just for a moment the briefest sensation of happiness as he felt her warmth again, smelled her, loved her still, so, so much.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again, pulling back quickly, wiping his eyes again. “No, really, I’m fine. I—I wonder if you can get a drink here, this time of day.”

  “Of course you can, of course, it’s a hotel, for heaven’s sake.” She waved at the waiter. “Could we have—what do you want, Nigel? Whiskey?”

  “No, I’ll have a brandy,” he said. “Make it a double, would you? What about you?”

  “No, I won’t. I’m not—I don’t want one, thank you,” and he thought she was going to say, “I’m not allowed to,” and he wrenched his mind with such effort from the reason that he felt quite dizzy.

  “I—Nigel, before we start talking about the divorce, what about the money? What about Lloyd’s? It’s been worrying me so much, now that it’s back in your court, so to speak…”

  “Me too,” he said, taking an enormous slug of the brandy. “And you know, what I discovered, I really think my solicitor should have told me: had I gone bankrupt two years after I made over that money to you, the transfer would have been null and void anyway. So it wasn’t so clever.”

  “Oh, that’s terrible. God, they’re awful, those people, aren’t they? Suppose I claimed all the money, and then gave it back to you. How would that be?”

  “Don’t be silly,” he said, “they’d work that out in a trice. Anyway, I don’t want to be offensive, Lucinda,” and for the first time that day he managed a real smile, “but I really don’t think you would be able to. You are the guilty party, after all.”

  “Yes, of course. I do know. Just joking. Well…” She was silent for a moment, thinking of Blue, of his words that morning. “There might be something. Lawyers are very, very clever, you know. They can do all sorts of things the rest of us might never think of.”

  “Mine isn’t,” said Nigel gloomily. “What about yours?”

  “I was going to use Daddy’s, but maybe I can find a really clever person and see if there isn’t a way round it all.”

  “Lucinda, there can’t be. I’ve made a frightful hash of it, and now I’ve just got to pay up. If I end up bankrupt, which I very well could, I’ll have to put up with it. Get a job in a shop or something. Go and live in a council flat.”

  “You wouldn’t lose the house, would you?”

  “I could, apparently. I could lose everything. Down to the last cuff link, that’s what they say to you at Lloyd’s when you become a Name. So even Grandpa Cowper’s gold-and-diamond ones would go.”

  “No, they won’t.” Those cuff links epitomised Nigel in a funny way: they were his heritage, the symbol of his family, his roots. She had put them on for him so many times before they went out; he loved them, was intensely proud of them. “You are not losing those cuff links, Nigel,” she said, suddenly fierce, “nor the house, nor the farm. We’ll work something out, I promise you. I have no idea how, but…”

  She went straight home after their meeting; she was tired. Blue was waiting for her there, drinking whiskey, white-faced.

  “You all right?” he said. “Feeling OK, no more throwing up, how was he, what did he say, he’d better not have been difficult—”

  “Oh Blue, do shut up,” said Lucinda wearily, “and—look, I was wrong this morning. I think I’d like to talk to a shit-hot lawyer. As soon as possible. Will you help me find one, please?”

  Chapter 18

  MAY 1990

  Richard had announced that he was going off on a teaching conference for three days. “It sounds very interesting, and I think it’s the sort of thing that would make my CV look a bit better. As you pointed out, it’s not great in some ways. Of course I realise it’s half term and it will make things difficult for you, but I’m sure other working mothers manage. They can’t all have teacher husbands.”

  He had smiled at her but there was an edge to his voice. There was no way she was going to ask him not to go, Debbie thought, no way he could claim her job put obstacles in his path.

  “Of course. No, it’s fine. There’s lots of people I can ask. I might even get one of our babysitters to do it.”

  “I don’t think I like that idea,” he said. “I can’t think some half-baked schoolgirl could possibly cope with them full-time, it’s a bit different from an evening, Debbie.”

  “Richard, I was thinking of one of the sixth formers, they’re not exactly half baked. Anyway, don’t worry about it.”

  “I’ll try not to,” he said, and turned to walk out of the room.

  But they were still happy; the extra day didn’t seem to be causing any problems and she’d even found a cleaner. She wasn’t much good, but it seemed to be the principle that counted.

  Flora offered to have the children for half term. “It must be so hard,” she said, “managing while you’re working, and of course with Richard doing this course…”

  “Well—yes.” Was there anything he didn’t tell his mother? God, it was annoying.

  “And what about the summer holidays?” Flora went on. “Even if you do go camping in France for some of the time—”

  “I didn’t know we were going camping in France,” said Debbie briskly.

  “Oh darling, I’m sorry. Richard just said it was a possibility—perhaps he wants to surprise you…Oh, how stupid of me.”

  “No, Flora, it’s fine. We may well do that. But yes, half term would be wonderful. Thank you. One of us will bring them down.”

  “Splendid. And hopefully stay a day or two. Tilly will be here too, and Emma adores her, doesn’t she, so we shall have a full house. Which will be very nice for me. Goodbye, Debbie. Let me know when they’ll be coming.”

  Debbie put the phone down, and in
stead of feeling relieved and happy, she felt cross and miserable. Courses, summer holidays—what else did he talk to his mother about? Their finances? Their sex life? Nothing would surprise her.

  “Goodness.” Lucinda had been looking for the address of a literary agent; a manuscript had come in, completely hopeless, like so many of them, and it had to be sent back with one of the charming and regretful notes that were her specialty. Other people sent printed cards; Lucinda, with her tender heart, felt that rejection of what represented at the very least a great deal of hard work should be softened. Only she couldn’t find the address. She couldn’t find a lot of things these days; her brain seemed to be shrinking as her uterus grew. But it didn’t seem to matter; she had never been so happy. Every time she thought about caring for their baby, hers and Blue’s—and Blue as well, of course—she felt as if she was looking at some wonderful, warm, sunlit meadow.

  The only darkness cast over the meadow was Nigel; Nigel and his dreadful, patent misery. And it was quite a big darkness, for it was her fault.

  Blue had said he really couldn’t quite see that Nigel needed any help, but that he was fixing for her to see a solicitor mate of his: “Not quite your idea of one, Lucy, went to the same shit-awful—”

  “Blue, don’t use that language, you’ve got to start thinking of the baby.”

  “Sorry. Same bloody-awful comp as I did, dragged hisself up from there, but my God, he’s got a brain and a half. Three-quarters, actually. OK?”

  “Yes, OK. But bloody isn’t much better than shit.”

  She was off to see him that afternoon, actually, which was probably why her brain was so feeble; she was very nervous. She finally found the agent’s address tucked into a pile of reviews, waiting for filing. Along with Simon Beaumont’s card.

  “Goodness,” she said again now, talking to herself, for Graham was out at lunch, “I promised to call him, completely forgot.” She’d better make amends—do it at once.