“It does not. And I think this conversation has gone on a little too long.”
“Gillian Thompson was a nice old lady, Mr. Allinson, who gave piano lessons free and who baked you cakes when you went to see her about her investments. She killed herself in January—because there was nothing else for her to do. She was completely penniless, thanks to Lloyd’s. She’d sold everything she had and it still wasn’t nearly enough.”
“I told you, I’ve never heard of Gillian Thompson.”
“OK, so what about Neil Lawrence? Bankrupt, four children, attempted suicide. He was one of your imports too. Into the same syndicate, I understand. Obviously you have connections there. You don’t remember his name?”
“Of course not.”
“Well, he remembers yours. It’s all right, I’m going. Immediately. But just before you drift off to sleep tonight, after another excellent dinner, spare a thought for those two, would you? And possibly the hundreds more you’ve duped. Here’s some money—I think it will more than cover my lunch. Goodbye, Mr. Allinson. It’s been very interesting talking to you. I can’t say I’ve exactly enjoyed it, but I’ve certainly learned a lot.”
Safely in a taxi, he pulled out the tape recorder. It was nearly all there, albeit rather crackling and muffled, Tim Allinson’s complacent public-school tones providing the heart of his article. A devastating article. It had been worth all that money.
He went back to the Palace, showered, had a drink, and then ordered dinner in his room. He heard the trolley coming along the corridor before he had dressed; he was still naked under his bathrobe. That had been quick.
There was a knock on the door; he opened it. It was, indeed, room service, a nicely laid trolley, with a bottle of claret as he had requested. But the person pushing it was not one of the friendly waiters. It was Bibi.
“Hi,” she said, “I see you’re ready for me.” And she shut the door behind her and started pulling his robe off; she stood looking at him, smiling, studying his body. “I see you weren’t lying then,” she said, her hand reaching out for his cock which was already—well, already appreciating her. “No aphrodisiacs necessary.”
Chapter 35
AUGUST 1990
The first thing he’d said, after sitting her down and making her a cup of tea, and while she was bracing herself to hear that he wanted a divorce, was, “I’m sorry.” She was so surprised she knocked over her tea. By the time she had mopped the table, made another mugful, she had composed herself, felt able to cope with whatever he might say next.
“Start again.”
“Yes, OK. I…I said I’m sorry. I think I overreacted. My mother helped me to see that. She said she was absolutely sure there was nothing going on between the two of you. She said she thought you and Simon were very fond of each other, but it was no more than that.”
“I see. I did tell you that, Richard.”
“Yes, I know you did. And I apologise. It was very…very wrong of me.”
“I see,” she said again. Thinking how wildly, absurdly ironic all this was. Because had he not accused her of the affair, had he not gone rushing down to Wales with the children, she would never have gone out with Joel that night. And their affair would never have begun…
She sat silent, wondering what on earth she could say.
“I know I haven’t behaved entirely well,” said Richard. “It was very wrong of me, lying about the job in Scotland. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right,” she said. “I’ve never stopped feeling bad about how I behaved either. I didn’t want to go, but I knew how important to you it was, and I would have come. I really would.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Then perhaps there is a way forward.”
Panic hit her. “How?”
“Well, maybe we could still go. I want it so much, and I’m sure you’d love it. I know we’ve started badly with it, but…”
“I’m aware how much you want it,” she said. “But…but I’d just like a bit of time. You know.”
“What for?”
Could he mean that? Could he not realise how upset she’d been, how miserable. How he’d hit her below the belt again and again?
“I—” she said, but at the same time he spoke.
“Sorry. Of course I can see that you need time. I can wait, Debbie, try and make it up to you. And I was thinking maybe you could get a job up in Scotland. So you don’t have to devote all your time to the school and everything. I mean, that was a bit unrealistic of me. I can see that. I know how much it matters to you, your job. I really do.”
“Yes,” she said, feeling still worse. “Yes, it does. Well, thank you. Um—another cup of tea?”
“Actually, I think I’d like something a bit stronger,” he said. That was quite unlike him too.
“Debbie, my darling, it’s Simon. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, yes, thank you. It’s very nice to hear from you.”
“And can you talk?”
“Oh yes. Richard’s gone for a job.”
“Look, Flora told me about this absurd idea of your husband’s—that we were having an affair. Are things any better?”
“Yes,” she said after a pause. “He seems to have decided he’s wrong about it all. In fact, he’s apologised to me. For accusing me.”
“Oh, really? Good.”
“Yes. Flora seems to have been really fantastic. I can’t quite work out how to thank her. I mean, she could have said…well, you know. Couldn’t she?”
“She could. But she wouldn’t have. Too sneaky. She’s a class act, your mother-in-law.”
“Yes. I don’t quite know what to do though. It seems a bit odd to ring her up and say, ‘Thank you for not telling my husband you found me and Simon snogging late one night.’ But I’d like to say something.”
“Darling! Not quite snogging. Although of course I wish we had been.”
“You know what I mean,” she said firmly.
“Yes, I do. And I think you should say absolutely nothing. Flora would consider it rather—what shall I say—rather suburban, making a big thing about it.”
“Suburban?”
“Suburban.”
“Oh God, she’s such a snob,” said Debbie.
“She is. And something of a time warp. But you can’t help admiring her for it. I think she’s rather wonderful.”
“Yes, but she doesn’t think you’re common,” Debbie said emphatically, “or suburban.”
“Well, I should certainly hope not. I’m sure she doesn’t think you are, either. So, what happens next—in the Debbie Fielding soap opera?”
“Don’t call it that,” she said sharply.
“Sorry. But do you and Richard disappear into a Scottish sunset together?”
“I don’t know,” she said, and her voice sounded very sad. And then, “Simon, it’s lovely of you to call, but I’m terribly busy, I’m sorry.”
That hurt; that hurt a lot. He’d been going to offer her lunch, a drink, hear how things were, advise her. But his role of confidant for her, which he’d rather enjoyed, seemed to be over. She was terribly busy, and he wasn’t. Not at all.
“Of course,” he said. “Well, just call me if you want to chat. About anything. I’ll be very much around. As always. Maybe next week?”
“Yes, course, Simon. Thank you. I will.”
But he knew she wouldn’t. He couldn’t quite work out why; but something had changed. Everything seemed to have bloody changed.
“You what!”
The roar was so loud the entire editorial floor heard it.
“You bloody arrogant little shit. Who the fuck do you think you are, taking it upon yourself to decide what stories you’ll write! And against my explicit instructions. I told you, I don’t want any bloody stories about Lloyd’s. I told you several times.”
“Yeah, I know. Hugh—”
“You can get out, all right? Today. Now.”
“Yes, all right. But could you just rea
d the first two hundred words, would you?”
“No, I will fucking not. Why should I read two hundred words on a subject I know will send our readers straight to sleep?”
“Because it won’t. Because it really is hot stuff. Trust me.”
“Why should I bloody trust you?”
“Because I’m telling you to. Go on. Two suicides and a con man. And a supermodel. In the Bahamas.”
That was pushing it, but it might persuade him. Joel could see curiosity shifting his outrage—just a bit.
“Well, you can give it to me. But don’t think it’s going to change my mind.”
“Of course not. Here you are.”
He held out a page of copy. Renwick snatched it from him, stalked out, slamming the door behind him.
“Joel, it’s me. Debbie.”
“Oh—hi.”
“I just wondered how it had all gone. If you got your story.”
“Oh—yeah. Yeah, I did. It went really well. Got a lot on tape.”
“Great. Well done.”
“Thanks.”
He sounded extremely distant and cool; she felt sick. Could this really be the same Joel she had been in bed with, gloriously in bed, only—what?—seventy-two hours ago? Best just finish the conversation as soon as possible.
“Good, I’m pleased. So, has the editor bought it?”
“I don’t know yet. The early signs are that he hasn’t. If being fired is anything to go by.”
“Fired! You’ve been fired?”
“Yup. Supposed to be packing right now.”
“Oh Joel. I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks. Look—I don’t want to sound rude, Debbie, but I have got rather a lot on my plate at the moment. Maybe later, yeah?”
“Yes, of course. Sorry.”
“That’s OK. Bye for now.”
Debbie could never remember feeling so completely crushed. Or so stupid, Or so miserable. She put the phone down and, determined not to cry, addressed herself to a press release about a self-tanning lotion. It didn’t prove much of a distraction.
“Simon! Whoever would have thought I’d see you here! How are you? This is Edward Trafford Smythe. Great friend of my late husband’s. Edward—Simon Beaumont.”
“How do you do,” said Trafford Smythe. He was rather florid, and he was wearing a striped shirt with a white collar. Very naff, as Annabel would say.
“How do you do,” he said.
“Are you meeting someone, Simon?” asked Flora. “I suppose you are.”
“No, I’ve met them and they’ve gone. Market makers,” he said to Trafford Smythe, “busy afternoon ahead, playing with the Dow.”
“Ah yes.”
“Well, we’ve only just had our main course. Why don’t you join us?” said Flora. “You wouldn’t mind, would you, Edward?”
“No, of course not.”
“Well, that’s very kind. Let me at least pay my way, buy another bottle of wine. That one looks quite—tired. You look like a claret man to me,” he said to Trafford Smythe. “Am I right?”
Trafford Smythe said he was.
Flora turned the conversation to horses for a while; Trafford Smythe was a great racegoer and he owned a couple of horses himself. By the time the second bottle of claret had disappeared—three-quarters of it into him—he was relaxed, slurring his words, inviting Simon down to the yard where he kept his horses.
“I’d love that. Thanks.”
“And what do you do?”
“Me? Oh, I’m a banker. Yes. Work for Graburn and French.”
“Very nice. They surviving the recession?”
“More or less. It’s not easy of course, but—”
“Edward and my husband, William, were great friends,” interrupted Flora. “He used to take William racing, didn’t you, Edward? And he got me into Lloyd’s. Which I’m trying to forgive him for. No, seriously, I can’t possibly blame you.”
“Oh really? You a Working Name?” said Simon.
“Absolutely. You had anything to do with them?”
“No, no. Bit too cautious.”
“Ah well, things aren’t too good at the moment, of course. But they’ll pick up again. I told Flora she should be trading through, not pulling out. Increasing her underwriting, if anything.”
“I’ve told him that’s out of the question. Sadly. That I’ve got to sell the house.”
“You know,” said Trafford Smythe, “you shouldn’t have to sell your house, Flora. Lloyd’s don’t want people out on the street, so to speak. Any more than they want them bankrupt.”
“Is that so?” said Simon. “Well, Flora, maybe you’ll be all right after all.”
“Indeed,” said Trafford Smythe. “You’d do far better talking to the hardship committee. See what they can suggest.”
“I’ll certainly try. And Edward is being very patient with me, Simon, explaining things about Lloyd’s I still don’t understand. I was just asking him why my biggest syndicate, Westfield Bradley, and, I believe, some of the others, has two marine and two non-marine syndicates and not just one of each, like all the rest. What was it you called them, Edward?”
Right, thought Simon, here we go: please God. He reached into his breast pocket, pressed the record button on his tape recorder. He had been practising it for the last few days, and he did feel a bit like James Bond. Here it would come: how they had accomplished all this skulduggery and double-dealing, spelled out in this ghastly character’s plummy tones; really, Flora was a genius, she’d handled it so well. And then he could give it to Fiona and get lots of brownie points for it.
“Ah…” Trafford Smythe said, leaning back in his chair. “Baby syndicates, I imagine you mean. Such an interesting idea. Well, it’s very simple: they enable a successful underwriter to expand without diluting the profits of the main syndicate. By careful management of the best business.”
“Oh really? I’d understood they were a bit—suspect,” said Simon.
“No, not at all. They’re not corrupt and they’re not illegal. Otherwise I do assure you I wouldn’t have anything to do with it.”
“So how is it that you and I are in the same syndicate and you’re a millionaire and I’m going bankrupt?” said Flora. “That’s what I still don’t understand. I mean, how do you get to be in one of these profitable divisions?”
“Ah, now that comes down to where your Members’ Agent put you in the first place. Generally he would spread your risk, of course. And in a large syndicate group there are many subdivisions, as you might say. I’m afraid you have found yourself in one or two of the weaker ones. That, I must admit, may not have been reinsured adequately. And of course I did urge William to take out stop-loss. For some reason he didn’t do that.”
“Well, I’ve obviously had it all wrong,” said Simon. “I thought it was a case of the underwriters making sure their friends and relations were getting all the good business, sitting on a raft if you like, and everyone else sinking or swimming furiously about with the bad. Is that not right? Not ever the case?”
Go on, say, “Yes, that does happen sometimes, that does go on.” Give me a break, Mr. Trafford Smythe, please, for the love of God, that claret cost £27 a bottle.
But, “No,” said Trafford Smythe, meeting his eyes with a certain disdain. He seemed perfectly sober suddenly. “No, that’s a complete myth. Put about by all those people who can’t handle their losses. I don’t know who’s been telling you all this, Mr. Beaumont, but whoever it was, they were extremely wrongheaded. Or thinking very wishfully indeed. Now I must go. Thanks for the wine. Very good. And don’t forget, I’d be delighted to show you my yard. Anytime that suits you.”
They stared after him in silence, then Flora said, “I’m sorry, Simon.”
“Don’t apologise,” he said. “Don’t be silly, it wasn’t your fault. You were marvellous.”
“So were you. Damn. Dreadful little man. I really can’t believe he was related to William. So common. Did you see he was wearing a tiepin? A tiepin! R
eally.”
“No,” said Simon, and started to laugh. “Flora, you are the most terrible snob.”
“I prefer to think of it,” she said almost sternly, “as having standards.”
“I see. All right. Let’s have another drink, Flora. Here’s to standards. It’s not the end of the world. Serves us right for trying to be too clever. Bastards, aren’t they? The reason they don’t want people selling their houses is because it leads to bad publicity, and the reason they don’t like people going bankrupt is that there’s no more money for them. These hardship committees exist not to get you off the hook, as far as I can see, but to keep you on it, do deals with you to get regular payments from you out of future earnings. Oh God.”
They ordered coffee, sat chatting for a bit. And then she said rather quickly, clearly hating having to say it at all, “Simon, if—when I sell the house, then I’m afraid that Boy will have to go. Hal as well, although a friend will probably take him on. I’m so sorry.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” he said. “And of course I’ve thought of it.” He hadn’t, actually. The prospect of having to break that piece of news to Tilly was so awful that his eyes filled with tears. He blew his nose, forced a smile at Flora.
“We’ll think of something,” he said, “don’t worry.”
“Yes, I’m sure you will,” she said, and then, looking at him curiously: “Does anything ever get you down, Simon?”
“Not often. Which is just as well at the moment.”
They’d probably been as nice as they could be, Catherine thought, which wasn’t very nice at all. But at least they were trying. Lucinda had lent her her little Peugeot 204 to travel down in. It had been better than travelling by train, but it was a long drive to Somerset; the children were hot and fractious by the time they arrived. All they needed was to run around unfettered for a while; Phyllis Morgan clearly couldn’t see this.
“Come in and sit down quietly, children,” she said, “and you’d better have a drink. I’ve made some lemonade for you. Here you are. Catherine, will you have some?”
“Please!” said Catherine. But the lemonade wasn’t properly cold and very bitter; she could see Caroline struggling with it, and shot her a sympathetic glance.
An Absolute Scandal Page 39