An Absolute Scandal

by Penny Vincenzi

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “No, no, it was my fault. The sun’s so dazzling coming out of that tunnel—Simon! Hello!” He was looking pretty dazzling too, Lucinda thought; he really was amazingly good-looking. Well worth bumping into.

  “It certainly is,” he said. “Wonderful day, isn’t it? And you look gorgeous, if I may say so. That’s a lovely hat.”

  “You certainly may. Thank you. Isn’t it beautiful here today?”

  “It is. Can’t beat it when the sun shines.” He stood back, smiling at her. “So, where’s your—your…”

  “My fiancé? He’s in a box with lots of his cronies. None of them were very interested in the horses, which seemed a bit of a shame, so I came down. It’s my favourite part of Ascot, visiting the paddock.”

  “Mine too. I had a similar experience with my guests. If you like, we could take a turn together.”

  “That would be nice.”

  They walked in silence, easily companionable, watching the horses beginning to form into a line for the next race, dancing and skitting about, eyeing one another up, like so many models backstage, preparing to walk down the catwalk.

  “So are you up with the corporate lot then?” he said.

  “Yes. It’s a new experience actually. Blue—that is, my…my fiancé—he works for McArthur’s. He’s a market maker.”

  “I see. Amazing creatures, aren’t they?” he said, breaking off, studying the horses. “Those beauties, I mean, not market makers. Much smaller than you’d expect, somehow.”

  “Yes, I always think that. Do you like horses?”

  “Oh, they’re all right. My younger daughter would like to be one. Or marry one.”

  Lucinda laughed. “How old is she?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “And she has a pony?”

  “She does. We can’t house him anymore, thanks to Lloyd’s; he lives farther away than Tilly would like now, but at least she still has him. He’s down in Wales with Flora Fielding—can’t remember if you met her or not—another Lloyd’s victim.”

  “Yes, I did. She was rather lovely, I thought. So are you up there with the corporates as well?”

  “I am indeed. Another bank—merchant variety. I should be getting back to them really. But if you want to look in at my box later, it’s number 502, and bring your fiancé, we’d love to see you both. Catherine is here.”

  “Catherine! How nice.”

  “Yes, she’s working rather hard up there. So she’d particularly love to see you—have an excuse to stop for a moment.”

  “Then we’ll most definitely come. And I’m sure Blue would love to meet you. Thank you.”

  He was on his way to the press tent when he saw Simon Beaumont waving at him. Simon was clearly in an extremely cheerful state of mind, and had undoubtedly had more than one glass of champagne.

  “Just won three hundred quid. Won’t solve all my problems, of course, but—how’s the story going?”

  “Oh, slowly. But thanks a lot for all your help. And your friend Neil Lawrence called me, said he’d be happy to talk.”

  “Good. And did you have a nice chat with Debbie after I’d gone?”

  “Oh—yes, thanks,” said Joel. “Yes, she’s—great fun.” He had actually felt Debbie was more than great fun; he had been what he called “bothered” by her for several days; she had stuck in his head, and he wasn’t sure why. She wasn’t particularly pretty—although she had those amazing brown eyes, and actually, yes, a completely sexy mouth—and her figure wasn’t exactly sensational, she was small and rather skinny. But she was very attractive, no doubt about that, and amusing in a rather quirky way; had she not been married he would probably have asked her out.

  “Anyway,” said Simon, “come up for a drink a bit later. Girl in my box, works for me, horribly affected by it all, she’d probably like to talk to you. And my wife’ll be there by then, she wanted to meet you too, not sure why. Or was that my daughter? Can’t remember.”

  “Is your daughter here?” asked Joel. He still remembered Annabel in all her engaging beauty: much too young for him, of course, but…

  “No, no, she’s working. Big day for hairdressers, I’m told. Anyway, you come up around four thirty or five, when things are winding down a bit, box number 502, have a drink, meet Catherine.”

  “Simon, hello. This is my fiancé, Blue Horton. Is this really all right, Simon?”

  “Absolutely! How do you do, Blue, very nice to meet you.” So this was the Adonis who had persuaded Lucinda away from her dull husband: interesting. It wasn’t his looks, that was for sure. He looked a bit of a thug, with close-cropped hair and a rather thick neck. A working-class thug, moreover. Extraordinary.

  Blue held out a hand to Simon. “Pleased to meet you at last. Lucinda never stops talking about you.”

  “Oh really? I find that a little hard to believe. Glass of champagne?”

  “Won’t say no, although Lucinda tells me I’ve had quite enough. I personally don’t think you can ever have enough champagne, but there you go. Had a good day?”

  “Pretty good, yes. Won a bit.”

  “Lucky you. I’ve lost a lot.” He smiled at Simon; and suddenly Simon could see it. What this man had was charm: in lorryloads. He was easy, and at the same time possessed of huge energy; he almost crackled, standing there, his dark eyes roaming the box, following Lucinda as she embraced Catherine, smiling fondly at her, then coming back to Simon.

  “Your wife here?”

  “Oh no. She’s entertaining on her own account.”

  “Oh yeah?” He looked genuinely interested, wasn’t merely being polite. “She got her own business, has she?”

  “Well, almost. She’s MD of an advertising agency.”

  “Blimey. I’ve heard of these superwomen. Never met one in the flesh, though.”

  “Well, you can,” said Simon, “if you hang on a bit. She’s promised to come up at about five.”

  “Well, we could do that, yeah. Thanks very much.”

  “Blue, this is Catherine,” said Lucinda, leading a rather weary-looking girl over. “I told you about her, remember?”

  “Lucinda, if I remembered everything you told me, my head would burst,” said Blue.

  Catherine was beginning to feel very tired. It had been a long day and a huge strain. She hadn’t been able to eat anything; whenever her hand stretched out to take a smoked-salmon sandwich or mini-quiche, someone would put a glass of champagne or a plate of petit fours into it, to take to somebody else. She would have given anything just to have been able to take in the scene properly for five minutes, to actually see a race. She could have been anywhere at all, she thought wearily.

  The mood in the box was jovial; everyone seemed to have won something, or were eager to relate what a lot they had lost; indeed, that seemed to be almost more enjoyable.

  “Yes, damn near a grand altogether,” said a red-faced man, and: “You’re doing well,” said another. “I did the fatal thing, you know, got the winner in the first race and then spent most of the day losing it twice over. Not a word to the wife, though.”

  And had they any idea at all how lucky they were, Catherine thought, to be able to regard the loss of what would have paid Freddie’s school fees for more than a term with such absurd equanimity?

  “Here, why don’t I hold that plate for you for a minute so you can eat some of it yourself. I’ve been watching you—you look very hungry.”

  Catherine turned and saw a young, rather dashing-looking man, with very dark hair and eyes, grinning at her. “Joel Strickland,” he added, holding out his hand for the plate.

  “How very kind,” said Catherine gratefully, seizing a couple of fondants and (she was afraid) literally shovelling them into her mouth. “It is very nice to meet you, Joel. And how do you know Simon?”

  “I’m a journalist. I interviewed him not so long ago.”

  “What paper are you on?”

  “The News. I’m the City editor.”

  “G
osh. I don’t think I’ve ever met a journalist. Not a real one. I did some work experience once for the local paper, but I wasn’t much good at it,” she added.

  “I can’t believe that. So what’s your role here?”

  “Oh, general dogsbody. Making sure everyone had enough to eat and wasn’t being neglected, that sort of thing.”

  “I can see you’ve been pretty effective. Nobody is close to starving—apart from you, that is. Why don’t you sit down for a bit, enjoy that food.”

  “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly,” said Catherine. “I’m not here to sit down. Let me get you a drink.” She signalled to the waitress.

  “OK. Well, tell me, how have you found Ascot?”

  “Oh, wonderful,” she said brightly—and then meeting his sharp, amused eyes, blushed and said, “It wasn’t quite how I expected.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I thought it would be much more about the racing—the horses, you know.”

  “’Fraid not,” he said. “Most of the people who come for the racing aren’t up here. This lot just want to drink, show off their hats, and tell everyone how much they’ve lost. And—”

  “Catherine, how lovely to see you.” It was Lucinda. “Simon said you’d be here.”

  At which point, someone jogged Catherine’s arm, and the glass of champagne she was taking from the tray went all over Joel’s shirt and tie.

  “Oh dear, let me—”

  “It’s all right. Please don’t worry. Occupational hazard, I’d say.”

  “Catherine, stop fussing,” said Lucinda. “He’s right, you expect to get showered with champagne here, don’t you?” she added to Joel. “Can I find you some tissues or something? Or replace that drink?”

  Simon, who had been watching this scene out of the corner of his eye, thought what a treasure Lucinda was, and hoped her charming fiancé realised it. Simon was pleased with the day. People had appreciated it, seemed happy, a great many male egos had been stroked and female ones flattered, the atmosphere was easily relaxed; the sun had been warm, the champagne cold, the food delicious, and the view of the course—for those who had wished to admire it—breathtaking. And many business relationships had been strengthened by the sharing of the day’s pleasures—which was, after all, the whole idea…

  “Simon! Hello, darling. I’ve come for a quick visit, as promised. How’s everything?” It was Elizabeth: looking stunning. God, he was proud of her. He kissed her.

  “I’m fine. Except I’m even poorer.”

  “Me too. Lost lots.”

  “Mrs. Beaumont? Blue Horton. You’re the superwoman, I understand.”

  “On a good day, perhaps.”

  “Well, I wish our managing director looked like you. Can I ask you a question about your business?”

  “Of course.”

  “What I can never understand, some of those ads, those really good ones—take the Cinzano one for instance, with Joan Collins and that Rossiter chap—everyone knows the ads, says how bl—how marvellous they are, then you ask them what the product is and they say Martini. Or Campari, or something like that. So what’s the point? Seems like that’s a bit of a wank—”

  Lucinda had come over, tucked her arm through his. “Blue,” she said warningly.

  “Sorry, bit of self-indulgence anyway on the part of your industry. I mean, the whole point of an ad surely is to sell the product?”

  “Well, yes. You’re right. And it’s very clever of you to make that point. But you know, the real trick is to register the brand and what it has to offer in a distinctive and memorable way. And—”

  And the argument might have gone on for some time, had not Catherine slowly and very gracefully slithered to the floor of the box in a dead faint.

  “She looks to me as if she doesn’t have enough to eat,” said Elizabeth severely to Simon, as if it was his fault. Various people helped Catherine to a chair, fetched water, pushed her head between her knees.

  “Quite possibly,” he said. “I worry about her a lot.”

  “Look, I’ll take her home,” said Lucinda. “I’m actually very tired—no, really Simon, I am, ask Blue. Didn’t I just say I was tired, Blue?”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “And Blue’s got to stay and take his clients out to dinner,” said Lucinda. “But I was never going to do that anyway, being…well, you know.”

  “She’s in the family way,” said Blue, and the infinite pride with which he spoke was hugely touching; Elizabeth felt like hugging him.

  “Yes, and I’m not supposed to get too tired. So why don’t I take the car and drop Catherine off? Blue, you can go up to town with someone else, can’t you?”

  “Oh no,” said Catherine, who was so embarrassed she felt she might faint again. “There’s no need, honestly.”

  “It’s quite all right,” said Lucinda, “it’s a big car. You can lie down in the back, if you like. Blue, darling, I’ll see you later. Try not to get too drunk. Come on, Catherine. Now are you sure you’re all right to walk to the car park?”

  “I think I’ll come with you,” said Blue. “Make sure you’re OK. Everything’s breaking up now, anyway, and we’re having dinner in the West End, at Langan’s. I’ll meet up with everyone there.”

  “Well, if you’re really sure, it’s terribly kind.”

  “We’re really sure,” said Lucinda.

  “Lovely, isn’t she?” said Blue to the room in general, watching Lucinda as she helped Catherine into her jacket. “Heart of gold too. Can’t believe she’s mine.”

  Even from a man with at least two bottles of champagne inside him, it was a very touching tribute.

  The box emptied quite quickly after that. Joel went first, and the others followed. It had been, they all agreed, a wonderfully successful day.

  But when Catherine, Lucinda, and Blue reached Fulham, they found Mrs. Lennox and Caroline both white-faced and fighting down hysteria. Freddie had disappeared.

  Chapter 23

  JUNE 1990

  It was when the policeman asked Catherine whether Freddie was a trusting sort of child that she became visibly frightened. Until then, she had forced back the tears and remained calm, for Caroline’s sake as much as anything: Caroline, who had sat wide-eyed and white-faced, utterly silent while Mary Lennox choked out her story; while the school was rung, neighbours contacted; while Blue knocked on door after door in the area, asking if anyone had seen him, if they could look around their gardens, their garages, their houses, in the absolutely unlikely event of Freddie hiding there.

  But at that question, with its sinister, scarcely hidden agenda, Catherine cracked and began to sob, quite loudly, cradling Caroline in her arms, and the sturdily kind policewoman who had been standing until then, simply observing the scene, ordered the young constable, who looked hardly old enough to have left school himself, to go and make a nice big pot of tea.

  “It’s all right,” said Catherine, wiping her eyes. “I’m sorry, of course you must go on. It doesn’t matter about me, what matters is finding Freddie.”

  They had been fantastic, the police, from the moment Blue had rung them. “We’re just wasting valuable time now,” he had said. “Let’s get the professionals in.”

  The officers had arrived in ten minutes, four of them, calm and capable. Two were dispatched to do a proper, systematic search of all the houses in the area, while the questioning went on and on. How long had Catherine known Mary Lennox, who else did she know in the area…It was all nicely done, very straightforward with no hint of reproach, but it inevitably made her feel irresponsible. They asked for a photograph; she gave them the one she carried in her bag, a school photograph of a smiling, pretty little boy; both Mary and Caroline confirmed that he had been wearing his school uniform when they had last seen him, that he hadn’t changed into his jeans when he got home. That was when the police asked if he was trusting.

  “Perhaps we could talk to you again, Mrs. Lennox,” the officer in charge said. “Will you tell us once more
exactly what happened this afternoon, after you fetched Freddie from school.”

  And she went through it again: how they had come into the flat, how she had given the children some milk and biscuits, and how after they had done their homework she had settled them down in front of the TV while she went to cook their tea. When it was ready, she had gone to fetch them and Caroline had been sitting there on her own, and had looked faintly surprised when Mary asked her where Freddie was.

  “He went to the toilet and then he said he was going to find you.” Mrs. Lennox had telephoned Lynton House, while knowing it was very unlikely that Freddie would have gone back there, and a friend of Catherine’s whose number she had been given to use in “a real emergency.” “And then, I was just wondering if I should call the police, when Mrs. Morgan arrived home with her friends here.”

  Blue and Lucinda were now sitting drinking tea, determined not to leave until they felt that the situation had somehow been resolved. Catherine was questioned repeatedly. Was Freddie happy at home and at school? Did he have much freedom? What did he like doing—what were his hobbies? Might he suddenly decide to go to the cinema?

  “No, I don’t think so. We never go to the cinema, he’s not a cinema sort of child…”

  “And would he have had any money on him?”

  “Well, I did give him a bit for today, just in case something happened, as an emergency, you know. Just a couple of pounds.”

  “But he hadn’t spent it? As far as you know, at any rate, Mrs. Lennox, seeing as you picked him up from school.”

  “No, no, he had no reason to, no opportunity,” said Mary Lennox. She seemed to have aged twenty years.

  “That could be important,” said the policeman. “If he’s got a couple of quid, he could go on a bus or something,” and then everyone looked at Caroline as a sound escaped her that was a mixture of a whisper and a squeak.

  “What, darling?” Catherine said sharply. “What is it?”

  “Some boys took it,” she said. “They took his money.”

  “What boys?”