“Why do you have to ask me that, every day? We can’t tell her, she’s got enough to worry about. I’ll be all right.” He looked at the clock. “If we leave now, we can go the long way round. Come on.”
Caroline looked at him rather sorrowfully. “You really are ever so brave,” she said.
Debbie could never remember being so frightened. Or so shocked. She sat staring at Richard, as if willing the words back into his mouth, safely unsaid.
“So that’s what she said.” Richard was beaming. “And what do you have to say about it?”
“Well, I…well, obviously it’s amazing. Absolutely amazing. Yes.”
“Isn’t it? And if I hadn’t gone on that course, I’d never have found out about it. To think I nearly didn’t go. Of course, it’s not settled yet…”
“Oh, it’s not?” Don’t sound too hopeful, Debbie, just don’t.
“No. There has to be an interview, but it’s purely a matter of form, Miss Dunbar—Morag—assured me. She had to get the approval of the board of governors, and so on. But she’d want me there in Scotland for the autumn term, and she’s already advertised it, I can’t think how I missed it, and actually done some interviews, so she can tell the governors that she’s not just giving it to the first person who’s come along.”
“No. No, I see. But—it’s only deputy head? Isn’t that a bit of a backward step?”
“Oh no, not in this case. It’s a very famous school—Morag Dunbar has told me, confidentially, that she’s up for the top job at the senior school, and, well, she didn’t exactly promise anything, but she made it pretty clear that I’d be head designate.”
“Well, that is fantastic, Richard. Congratulations. I’m so proud of you.”
“Thanks.” He looked suddenly ten years younger, his eyes shining. “I’m pretty proud of me too. And of course, it being a boarding school, we’ll be incredibly involved with the boys. We get a house in the grounds—”
“A house in the grounds?”
“One of the best. It goes with the job, but a very pretty one, and quite big. I can show you a photograph.”
“You mean we won’t have our own house?”
“Well, no. Of course we can buy one anyway, either up there or nearby, as an investment, or we can keep this one and let it, but they’d want me on the spot. It’s very much part of the job. And you’d be very much part of the team, of course. It’s something we can do together, Debbie—you know how much I’ve always wanted that.”
“Me!”
“Well, yes. Deputy headmaster’s wife—pretty important, you know. Not just helping me with running the school but right in there with the boys and their lives. Don’t look so scared, darling, you’d be brilliant.”
Don’t mention your job, Debbie, just don’t. Don’t even think about it. It’s important not to panic. This is just conference chitchat. Keep calm.
“And what about the children?” she asked. “They’d have to move schools, would they?”
“Well, obviously. But Alex can go there, of course, to St. Andrews. It’d be the most marvellous opportunity for him, it’s such a brilliant place. And the girls—well, there’s a very good girls’ prep very nearby, apparently. Almost a sister school. The girls can both go there.”
The outrage was beginning to surface.
“You seem to have made an awful lot of decisions without me,” she said. “I might not think it was right for them.”
Just for a moment he looked taken aback: very slightly. “Well, of course you must go and see it,” he said. “Obviously, you’ve got to be happy about it. But you will be, I know. Morag Dunbar has invited us all up to stay for the weekend in a couple of weeks’ time. I know you’ll like her, Debbie, she’s very—very warm. She’s so looking forward to meeting you. She does see you as a very important part of the package, of course. I know you’ll be marvellous, take to it all like a duck to water. Come here, darling, and give me a hug. I know I’m always saying this, but I mean it: I could never have done this without you, your support.”
She resisted the hug.
“You know, Richard, I’m really not sure about it,” she said. “I mean, I’ve never done anything like that in my life.”
“Darling Debbie, you’ll be wonderful. Children always love you. And you’re so organised—”
“Richard, I am not organised.”
“Yes, you are. Look how well you’ve managed with your job and everything.”
“I know, but—”
“Of course, that would have to come to an end, but—well, this is so much better for everyone, isn’t it?”
She couldn’t help it then. It came out, in spite of herself, in spite of willing it back so hard it hurt physically.
“Everyone but me,” she said.
It was a very big mistake.
Flora hadn’t intended to come to London; she liked it less and less. But she had a few remaining stocks and shares and felt that a personal conversation with her stockbroker was essential; and there was a very good lunchtime concert at St. Martin-in-the-Fields that day which she could go to first. Flora, like Debbie, preferred her days crammed full. And then she found another concert at the Wigmore Hall in the evening, and decided to go to that too, and to stay with Richard and Debbie instead of going back to Wales as she had planned. And then Simon just mentioned casually on the phone, while thanking her for having Tilly, that Friday was his birthday and she felt that she could cram in a visit there as well. She changed the appointment with the stockbroker to half an hour later and arrived at Graburn and French just after three, with a copy of the new P. D. James book. He’d never read P. D. James; Flora had told him quite severely he should. “She combines superb plots with superb writing. Quite rare, in my opinion.”
She was sitting in the marble-floored atrium of Graburn and French, waiting for his secretary to come down and collect her, when a dazzlingly pretty girl walked up to the reception desk, holding a package. She looked vaguely familiar to Flora. “Hello,” she said, “I’ve got something here for Mr. Beaumont. Mr. Simon Beaumont.”
“Fine. If you’d like to just leave it with me, I’ll see he gets it.”
“Well, that’d be terribly kind, but he did say to tell you he wanted to come down and get it himself.”
“Oh, all right. I’ll give him a call. What name is it?”
“Cowper, Lucinda Cowper. Thank you.” She looked round the hall, saw Flora and smiled at her. “Hello! We’ve met, haven’t we? At that Lloyd’s meeting, wasn’t it? I remember your lovely blue jacket.”
“Oh, of course!” said Flora, standing up, holding out her hand. “Flora Fielding.”
“He’ll be right down,” said the man. “Popular today, Mr. Beaumont—two beautiful ladies waiting to see him.”
“Oh really?” Lucinda smiled at Flora again. “You too? Well, lucky him.”
The lift doors opened, and Catherine Morgan emerged; she came across to Flora.
“Mrs. Fielding? He says he’s on his way down, and—Oh, hello,” she said to Lucinda. “How lovely to see you.”
“Lovely to see you too,” said Lucinda. “Catherine, isn’t it? How are you? And you’re working for Simon, how nice.”
“Yes, he’s been terribly kind, gave me a job here.”
“Not just kind, I’m sure,” said Lucinda. “And how are your children?”
“Fine. Yes. How clever of you to remember.”
“Well, I do remember some things,” said Lucinda. “The others seem to drop through the rather wide mesh that my brain’s turned into.” She patted the small but unmistakable bump of her stomach. “This is what I blame. Anyway, I’ve come to see Simon too. I’ve brought him a book for his birthday. I work for a publisher.”
“I too,” said Flora, “have brought him a book. Not the same one, I trust. Mine is—Oh Simon, hello. Happy birthday.”
“And from me,” said Lucinda.
“Lucinda! How lovely to see you. How lovely to see both of you. I’m having a wonderfu
l day. And Catherine’s children have made me cards. I am very spoiled.”
“I so believe in spoiling,” said Lucinda. “Well, on birthdays anyway.”
“I’m glad you do. Well well well, what a pulchritudinous gathering. A birthday party, you might almost say. Why don’t you all come up to my office?”
“No, I must fly,” said Lucinda, “I’m so late already. But I hope you like the book.”
“I’m sure I will. Flora, some tea? Come on, just a quick one. Bye, Lucinda, thank you again.” And he ushered Flora into the lift, followed by Catherine.
“Such a sweetie,” said Lucinda absently, to nobody in particular.
Chapter 20
JUNE 1990
Debbie had thought things couldn’t get any worse. Not since she had made what she had mentally labelled the Killer Remark. But they had just got worse. And in front of Richard’s mother. Richard had hardly spoken to her, apart from essential conversations about arrangements, since…She could still hear herself saying it, still found it hard to believe she had been so stupid. And so cruel. He was obviously incredibly hurt, and rightly so; she knew it had been horrible of her. It had just—just come out. He had told her that all the pleasure and excitement of the job had been destroyed for him.
“I don’t even want to go now,” he said, glaring at her across the room that evening. “Can’t see the point.”
“Richard, of course there’s a point. Don’t be silly, I didn’t mean—”
“What you meant was it would be crucifixion for you. Well, I’m not going to be the one to hammer the nails in, Debbie, and be blamed for it for the rest of our lives. I suppose I could go on my own, that’s an option.”
“Of course it’s not. I’ll come. I was just—just a bit taken aback, that’s all. Surely you can see—”
“What I can see, Debbie, is that your life, your job, come first and mine an inconvenient second. Well, that’s not what I call a marriage.”
Debbie said, rather boldly, that a marriage was something where the two people involved tried to compromise and move along together.
“I totally agree. And for the last few months it’s been all about you, your job, your child-care arrangements, your future. Mine didn’t seem to be getting much of a look-in. I’m here, providing a very useful resource for you, and the fact that I’m doing a crappy soul-destroying job that doesn’t even supply me with adequate funds to do what I want for my family is neither here nor there to you. Well, you’d better do some very hard thinking, Debbie, because something’s got to give.”
He had gone down to Wales alone to get the children; he had said it would be nice to spend some time with them on his own. She had mooched about the house, hoping that when he returned, he might feel better. He didn’t.
And now Flora was here.
Only for the night; she had come in quite late, full of talk about the concerts and some impromptu birthday party Simon Beaumont had held in his office.
And then it happened.
They were having breakfast; Debbie had dutifully cooked mushrooms and scrambled eggs because that was what Flora liked best; the children had said how lovely to have a yummy breakfast, usually they just had rotten muesli; she had thought Richard might be pleased too, but he chomped gloomily through his meal, not speaking unless he had to.
And then Flora said, “Now, Richard, what was this exciting news you told us about, when you phoned from Scotland.”
“Oh, it was nothing.”
“Really?”
“It was,” Debbie said. “Richard’s been offered a new job, up in Scotland, as deputy head of a really good prep school.”
“Really?” Flora said. “How exciting! Why on earth didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I’m not going to take it,” Richard said, standing up, gulping down what was left of his orange juice.
“Not going to take it? Why ever not?” Flora said, and he replied, with a look at Debbie of such intense dislike that she winced, “Because Debbie and I have discussed it, and we don’t feel it would be in the family’s best interests.”
“What?” said Flora. “But—” and then stopped, because Debbie’s eyes filled with tears and she stood up, her chair scraping on the floor and said, “Excuse me, please,” and rushed out of the room. Flora looked at Richard rather hard and then said, “Well, that sounds like a pity. But I’m sure you know best. Now I must go. Richard, would you drive me to the station, please?”
And Debbie had come down and kissed Flora goodbye and tried to pretend everything was all right and that she wasn’t crying at all, and waved them off, and eventually Richard came back and said he was going into school as he had a lot to do and needed some peace and quiet.
And came home that afternoon clearly still hating her. And so it had gone on.
Later, she had tried again.
“Can we please, please talk about this. Properly, without all the emotional garbage. I really can’t say I’m sorry again—”
“You don’t have to. In any case, I don’t want you saying things that aren’t true.”
“It is true, for fuck’s sake!” She was shouting, desperate with frustration and anger.
“Don’t swear.”
“I’ll swear if I want to. Look, Richard—”
“Debbie, you said you didn’t want to go to Scotland, and as far as I’m concerned, that is that. Unfortunately.”
“I didn’t say that, it’s so unfair. I simply said it wasn’t ideal for me. I regret that very bitterly, I shouldn’t have said it. But I’ve said I’ll go, said I’ll give up my job. What more do you want—blood?”
“I want a wife who’s behind me,” he said, “properly, not grudgingly.”
“I am not grudging. Oh, this is hopeless. What have you done about the job anyway? I really think I have a right to know.”
“I’ve turned it down,” he said. “I’ve told Miss Dunbar that we can’t come, that you don’t want to, that it’s wrong for the family.”
She felt ice cold and then violently sick; her head swam, she felt she might faint.
“You’ve actually done that? Formally? Without discussing it any further?”
“Yes.”
“Richard,” said Debbie, “you had absolutely no right to do that. You’re mad.”
“Well, that’s great. I do what you want and then you tell me I’m mad.”
“It is not what I want,” she said, her voice very low now, shaking with emotion, “and you know that perfectly well, underneath all your wretched pride and self-importance. You’ve done it to hurt me, God knows why.”
“Perhaps you should look at your own behaviour,” he said, standing up, walking over to the door. “I really don’t think there’s any future in this discussion, Debbie.”
He shut the door very carefully and quietly after him; she sat staring at the chair where he had been sitting. Feeling really very frightened.
“So, that’s about it, really,” said Lucinda. “That’s what we’re going to do. Isn’t it clever? Aren’t you pleased?”
Nigel looked at her, sitting there on the big sofa—they had agreed to meet at the Selfridge Hotel again—looking so lovely, so sweet and earnest, smiling at him gently, her blue eyes shining, and felt a slight sense of unreality. Was she really saying all these things, making these suggestions, without any great difficulty, with apparent relish even? This was not the Lucinda, surely, that he had fallen in love with and married; she had changed, changed a lot, and it must be that man, brutalising her, distorting her sense of honour, of what was right and wrong. And trying, as far as he could see, to distort his.
“Of course, you’ll have to back it all up,” she said, “the story. Which is true, obviously.”
“Well…” He hesitated. “Well, Lucinda, is it?”
“What do you mean? Nigel, we’re not going to get very far with this if you’re going to be difficult. It’s all for your benefit, you’ve got to remember that. So—what isn’t true?”
“Well�
�well, I don’t really remember that stuff about the gallery.”
“Don’t you? Well, that just goes to show how very unselfish I was about it. Not making a fuss. I mean, surely you remember that I was working for the gallery when you met me?”
“Yes, of course.”
“But you don’t remember anything about them asking me to go to New York?”
“Not really, no, I can’t say I do.”
“Oh dear. Well, I’ll have to remind you. So that Grandfather Cowper’s cuff links stay safe. So try, please try to do your bit.”
“And remember things that didn’t happen?” He sounded bitter, even to himself.
Lucinda sighed. “Nigel, they did happen. I’m going to talk to Virgil Barrymore myself, and I’m sure he’ll be able to convince you. Honestly. They asked me to go to New York and I didn’t. It’s terribly simple.”
“And what about the other stuff? Leaving you with the money in the trust fund because I’m worried about you?”
“Well, aren’t you?”
“Of course I am.”
“Well then.”
“And how do you think your Mr. Horton will feel about that? And…and the other thing you said.”
“Oh, he won’t mind,” said Lucinda. “He’ll be fine. Now, about the house and how we’re going to deal with that…”
Nigel gave up and tried to concentrate on what she was saying. The plan was very clever. Very clever indeed. And it would certainly be an answer—of sorts. But one thing he was quite sure of, however confident and sharp Lucinda might be. Horton wouldn’t like it; he wouldn’t like it one bit.
Catherine had reached such an extreme of worry now about the money that it had, in a strange way, become unreal. She knew she could do nothing about it; therefore it seemed the only thing to do was to take no notice of it. It was like some extremely severe pain that somehow she had got used to living with; she took painkillers in the form of her work and her children and her very few friends, and they allowed her to get on with her life to a large extent. It was only at night, when the painkillers wore off, that she had to face it all: the letters—increasingly pressing—from her Members’ Agent, the gnawing indecision over whether she should sell the flat, the horror of having once more to remove Freddie from his school, where he was clearly now so happy, and the absolute terror of what might happen to a lone and penniless mother with huge debts she was completely unable to pay—the children taken into care, her begging in doorways. But in the office and at the school gates she seemed cheerful, competent, brave, and to a certain effect felt all those things; she surprised herself. Perhaps, she thought, she should have been an actress. She would surely have won an Oscar.
An Absolute Scandal Page 24