An Absolute Scandal

by Penny Vincenzi

  “We’re going down the market, Mummy,” she would say, in her still-perfect accent or, “We’re going up west, to Topshop and that.”

  Tilly had become extremely fond of Fallon, the black girl; she was very sweet, Elizabeth liked her. She had nice manners and was clearly inordinately grateful to Tilly for her help with her schoolwork; she lived with her mum and her five brothers and sisters in a two-bedroom flat in Pimlico.

  “She has to share with the other girls, three of them in one room, can you imagine, Mummy, and the TV’s always on. She’s doing much better with me helping her, and being able to do her homework here; she’s really pleased. The only thing is that Madison’s getting a bit jealous now so it’s rather difficult.”

  “It must be,” said Elizabeth carefully. This unlikely scenario of Tilly being idyllically happy at the comprehensive could all go very pear-shaped indeed if she started falling out with people. “Why don’t you ask Madison over on Sunday, just on her own, so you can spend some time with her?”

  “I can’t. She sees her mum Sundays.”

  “Her mum? Who looks after her then?”

  “Her dad and his girlfriend. His girlfriend is really nice, Madison says, always giving her clothes and stuff, only of course Madison can’t get into them. She gets so upset about her size, I don’t know how to help. She doesn’t eat much, she says, she’s just got funny hormones.”

  “Oh really? So what does she have for lunch?”

  “Chips,” said Tilly with a sublime lack of irony, “but that’s all she eats all day till she gets home. And then she has to get her own tea, because Lara, that’s her dad’s girlfriend, doesn’t get home till late, and she says she doesn’t have much then, either. I feel so sorry for her, it’s so unfair.”

  “It is indeed,” said Elizabeth, with a flash of insight into the unfortunate Madison’s loveless, uncared-for life. “Well, maybe she could come over on Sunday evening, when she leaves her mum.”

  She thought of Tilly’s friends at St. Mary’s, open-faced little girls, with loving, caring parents, beautifully dressed, carefully fed, with no greater worries than whether their ponies might be missing them during the term or whether they’d manage to pass common entrance, and felt a pang of sudden rage—rage seemed to rise in her rather easily these days—at the basic unfairness of the human condition.

  “That’s a good idea, we could watch a video. Thanks, Mum.” She gave her mother a kiss and danced off; she was much happier these days, at last beginning to come to terms with her father’s death. She certainly didn’t need the trauma of a new and demanding sibling and having to confront the reality of its conception.

  God, she was going to be sick…She reached the cloakroom just in time, deposited the small amount of breakfast she had eaten down the lavatory, and was coming out, wiping her streaming eyes, when she bumped into Annabel.

  “Oh, hello, darling. I thought you’d gone.”

  “No, not quite. You OK, Mum? Still being sick?”

  “Yes. ’Fraid so. It’s quite normal, the doctor says, when you’re depressed. Your body gets into a state of turmoil, doesn’t know what it’s doing.”

  “Is it? Poor you. It can’t help. Let me get you a cup of tea.”

  “No, thank you,” said Elizabeth, repressing a shudder. “I’ll just have some water.”

  “OK, I’ll get you that. Sit down in the kitchen for a bit. Come on.” She got a bottle of mineral water out of the fridge, handed her mother a glass. “There you are. I need to talk to you tonight, about Jamie, actually. Are you in?”

  “Yes, I am. Might be a bit late…”

  “Oh, that’s all right. Florian and I are going for a drink with some friends of his. See you around eight thirty, OK?”

  “OK. Bye, darling.”

  And she was gone. Just as well she was so wrapped up in her own life, thought Elizabeth wearily, otherwise she might start to notice—or even suspect—something.

  “Lucinda, it’s Mummy.” She sounded odd, strained. “Your…your father’s had a stroke.”

  “Oh God. How…how bad is it?”

  “We don’t know yet. It could go either way. The great danger, apparently, is of a second stroke. Anyway, I wanted you to know.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. Oh Mummy, how dreadful. How do you feel?”

  “Oh, all right. A bit…shocked, you know.”

  “You must do. I’ll come down. Straightaway.”

  “Lucinda, I don’t know that that’s a very good idea. The baby’s due any minute.”

  “Not for another four weeks. Of course I want to come, see Daddy. I’ll be there at lunchtime, OK?”

  Lucinda felt very upset; her father might have been frightful over Blue, might not even have been a particularly involved father, but he was still her father, and she still loved him. She packed a bag, rang Blue, and set off for Gloucestershire.

  Half an hour later, a bike arrived, bearing an envelope addressed to Lucinda, and marked STRICTLY PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL and URGENT.

  When he found she wasn’t there, as he had been assured she would be, the messenger cursed her, and then decided to push the letter through the door. It was marked urgent after all.

  Half term would be a sort of rehearsal, Debbie thought. She would try and think of it like that. For the time when she would be going up to Scotland for good. Having said goodbye to Joel.

  The thought of that was so frightful that it sometimes actually made her cry. The thought of a life and a world without him, for the rest of her life. If you could call it life, that is…Oh Debbie, stop being so melodramatic! Hearts mend, life goes on, the sun still rises and sets…

  The children were terribly excited. They had packed their bags days ago, and were counting the hours.

  Richard was tremendously excited too. “I can’t wait to show you everything. I know you’re going to love it here. I’ve done my best with the house, and Morag has been fantastic, given us lots of things like cast-off curtains—that sort of thing—keep us going till you can get it all to your liking.”

  God save me from Morag’s cast-offs, Debbie thought; and then felt very ashamed of herself. Morag would certainly never commit adultery. Having to take a whole week off work annoyed her terribly; she was frantically trying to build up her accounts, so that Anna was more likely to let her handle at least one from Scotland, and it was difficult enough finding time for Joel without losing five whole days. But then, on the Friday afternoon, she came back to find Emma lying on the sofa, face ashen, with a bowl at her side, being sick at roughly ten-minute intervals.

  “I’m so sorry,” Jenny said apologetically. “It started just as we left school. And actually, I don’t like the look of Rachel either. She—”

  The door opened and Rachel appeared, equally ashen. She had hardly said, “Mu-um,” when the inevitable happened.

  “You can’t take them up to Scotland like this,” said Jenny, rushing for a bowl. Somehow, even when all three children were vomiting in unison, Debbie felt wildly and absurdly happy.

  It was a very nasty bug, going round all the schools in the area, the GP surgery confirmed.

  “Both ends too,” said Debbie to Richard next morning. “And, in fact, Emma’s so bad I got the doctor in. I’m so sorry, Richard, I thought I’d see how they were on Monday. Then maybe we can rethink.”

  “I hope so. I was looking forward to seeing you all so much and, of course, Morag will be so disappointed.”

  “Sorry,” said Debbie humbly. He clearly felt it was her fault this had happened. She put the phone down and called Joel. “I had to let you know. Only don’t you dare come round.”

  “I will.”

  “You’ll have to clear up sick if you do.”

  “Maybe I won’t,” he said hastily. He was, she had discovered, intensely squeamish.

  Blue got in very late that night. He had taken advantage of Lucinda’s absence to entertain some clients. As he walked in the door, he stepped on a letter, lying on the mat. Strictly private
and confidential, it said, and urgent. It was addressed to Lucinda. He turned it over, saw that it was from Stephen Durham, Solicitor, Regent Street W1 and decided he should open it. Obviously the lazy sod had finally pulled his finger out with the divorce proceedings. He was still hoping to persuade Lucinda to at least have a civil ceremony before the baby was born; no way did Blue Horton want his son and heir born illegitimate.

  An hour later, having had a cold shower, and drunk a large jug of coffee, he was in the Ferrari, headed westwards out of the city, and not sure whether rage or grief was his dominant emotion.

  Elizabeth woke early that Saturday morning; she felt very sad. The conversation with Annabel the night before had been about Jamie: Jamie and the wretched engagement party that Frances Cartwright so wanted.

  “She’s suggesting early December, Mummy. I don’t know how you’d feel about that. I know it’s still a bit soon, but—well, it would be lovely for me. Especially as we probably can’t have one here, or not for a while anyway. And I can see this party might seem a bit heartless. But—”

  “But life must go on,” said Elizabeth firmly, “of course.”

  “Anyway, it did seem quite a nice idea. To go over for the party. And then we could maybe do something here after Christmas.”

  “Fine. Lovely idea.” Christmas! How was she going to endure Christmas? Don’t think about it, Elizabeth; one day at a time…

  “Well, the main question after that is whether you’d like to come. Feel up to it, that is.”

  “No,” said Elizabeth fiercely, “absolutely I won’t. I’m sorry, Annabel, but to see a lot of people I don’t know, stay in a strange house—no, it’s out of the question. Look, I’m sorry, darling, but I really do feel so tired, I think I might get an early night.”

  “Shall I bring you some supper up? An omelet or something like that, all soft and runny the way you like it.”

  The very thought of a runny omelet turned Elizabeth’s stomach over. “No, thanks,” she said, standing up. “Honestly, I don’t want anything. Something has gone terribly wrong with my appetite. Maybe just a cup of tea.” She could throw that away without Annabel knowing.

  “Fine. I’ll make you one. Thank you so much, Mummy.”

  “What for?”

  “For being so understanding. You’re a star and I love you.”

  “I love you too,” said Elizabeth.

  But the next morning, thinking of how Annabel’s engagement party ought to be: proud smiling parents, a roomful of friends from both generations, she could hardly breathe she felt so unhappy. Or so sick. When Annabel looked in on her, before she went to work, she saw her rushing white-faced into her bathroom, holding a towel to her mouth.

  “Right,” said Blue. “Sit down.” He had woken her, banging on the door just after six, stalked into the hall, his face distorted with rage.

  “Blue—”

  “I said sit down. And tell me what the fuck this is about!”

  “Blue—Mummy will hear.”

  “I don’t care what Mummy will hear. Or Daddy, or your fucking toffee-nosed brothers and sisters. Is he here as well? Your—your husband? I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Of course he’s not here. What are you talking about, what is all this about?”

  “This,” he said, getting the letter out of his pocket, waving it at her. “This letter.”

  “Oh,” she said. “That.” She went very white and sat down abruptly.

  “Yes, this. This—document. Sent by your solicitor. I must have been insane, sending you to him. But at least it’s cleared a few things up. Why you wouldn’t agree to buying a house, why Nigel kept ringing you up. Jesus, you’re disgusting. I cannot believe you’d have done this, Lucinda, while you’re pregnant with my child. If it is my child—I’m beginning to doubt that as well. Is it Nigel’s? Have you been seeing him all this time?”

  “Of course I haven’t. Don’t be ridiculous. Of course it’s your child. How could you even think such a thing?”

  “Quite easily,” he said, “having read what’s written down here. How you don’t feel totally confident about your new relationship, how you’re living somewhere totally unsuitable, how you can’t work because you’re pregnant—nice one, Lucinda—how the thought of the house being held in trust for you is very reassuring for you under the circumstances. And I hadn’t realised that you gave up your career to marry Nigel. What was that job at the publishers then? Charity work? And Jesus, what is this fantasy about the money you gave up to marry Nigel? The hundred thousand pounds?”

  “It’s not fantasy,” said Lucinda staunchly. “If I’d gone to New York with Virgil I could easily have earned that in commission—his paintings go for millions.”

  “Ah, Virgil. The poof. Nice little bit of fraud you’ve cooked up with him. I take my hat off to you, Lucinda, I must say. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  She was silent.

  “And where does Nigel come into all this? I had no idea he’d—what does it say here—oh yes, put a brake on your career, severely limited your social life. So what were all those house parties and weddings and christenings you were going to practically all the bloody time when I first met you? And that his being so much older than you put an inevitable strain on your marriage and affected your personal life. Your personal life, God help me. Does that mean sex, Lucinda?”

  “It was just something else that Steve suggested. He said it would help.”

  “I see. Help who?”

  “Help me get a good settlement.”

  “Oh yes. And what is this settlement he’s helping you to get?”

  “Well, the house for a start.”

  “The house! What do you need the house for? I’m buying you a house!”

  “Yes, I know. But—oh, you don’t understand.”

  “I most certainly don’t. You’re hoping for some money as well, I suppose?”

  “Well, yes. But—Look, please, please let me explain.”

  “I don’t think I want you to explain, Lucinda. I don’t think I want to hear anything from you ever again. I feel completely sickened by you. You can tear that nice little document up, you won’t be needing it. A rather different one will be coming from me, in a very few days. And don’t even think about coming to the house to get your stuff. Nigel will no doubt buy you anything you need. You still seem to have him wrapped very nicely round your finger.”

  And he was gone.

  Tilly’s new friend Fallon stayed at the house on Saturday night. The girls played music very loudly in Tilly’s room and watched videos. It was rather nice, Annabel thought, to hear the house brought alive again; it had been terribly quiet lately. She walked into the kitchen in the morning and found them making eggy bread, a delight Fallon hadn’t savoured before, apparently.

  “Oh hi,” said Tilly. “You’ve met Fallon, haven’t you?”

  “Of course. Hello, Fallon.”

  “Hi,” said Fallon. She was rather beautiful, Annabel thought. She could be a model; and then hoped no one would suggest it to her, or not for at least three or four more years. “This is a fab house,” she added.

  “We won’t have it much longer,” said Annabel. “It’s on the market and we’re supposed to be looking for somewhere else, I expect Tilly’s told you, but…well, our mother doesn’t feel up to it. Last thing she needs at the moment.”

  “Yeah, course,” said Fallon.

  “Poor Mummy,” said Tilly, “she was being sick this morning again. It must be so horrible, she’s got enough to cope with without that.”

  “My mum’s sick every morning at the moment an’ all,” said Fallon.

  “Oh really?”

  “Yeah. She’s in the club again, and not too pleased about it, I can tell you.”

  “What club?” said Tilly.

  “Tilly!” said Annabel. “You really are hopeless. It means she’s pregnant.”

  “Oh really?” said Tilly. “How exciting. Well, Mummy certainly isn’t that. You want grated cheese on t
his, Fallon? It’s ever so nice.”

  She wasn’t looking at Annabel; if she had been, she would have seen her sister freeze in her tea-making and turn extremely pink…

  Chapter 47

  OCTOBER TO NOVEMBER 1990

  By Monday morning, the girls had begun to recover, and were sitting up drinking lemon-barley water and eating dry toast. Alex, however, was still vomiting. She rang Richard again. “We can’t come, Richard, I’m sorry. Maybe you could come down. The children would so love to see you.”

  “Debbie, I can’t. I’m as disappointed as you all are, but there are children still at school here. I’m really sorry. I hope you’ll understand.”

  “Of course I do. What a shame. Bye, Richard.” She put the phone down, smiling. God, she was a bitch.

  By the evening the children were beginning to look more themselves, but they were still not well enough to make the long journey to Scotland.

  “It’s such a shame,” Debbie said to Flora that evening. “They were so excited and now they look dreadful; they need some good fresh air.”

  “You could bring them down here,” said Flora thoughtfully. “It’s not nearly so far, and the weather’s lovely. Better make the best of it, Debbie, the old place will soon be up for sale.”

  “Oh Flora, no. How horrible for you.”

  “Yes, it is rather. But Lloyd’s are getting very heavy.”

  “But where will you go?” She found it hard to imagine Flora living anywhere else.

  “I have no idea. Anyway—want to come? I really would like it.” Suddenly it seemed like a lovely idea; to be somewhere safe, away from the whole painful difficult thing, a break for a few days at least, with nothing more emotionally challenging to cope with than stopping the children from squabbling too much and trying not to mind when Flora acted as if they were hers.

  “We’d love to come, Flora,” she said. “Thank you.”

  Elizabeth hadn’t liked Dr. Young, the psychiatrist, at all. He had been brusque and rather dismissive of her; he had asked her exactly why she felt she couldn’t have the baby, and she had told him she would have thought any fool could see that: her husband had just died, she had three children to take care of, a full-time and demanding job. She was also over forty, her health was suffering already through the pregnancy, and she was deeply worried about foetal abnormalities.