An Absolute Scandal

by Penny Vincenzi

  “Plenty of women over forty have babies these days,” he said, “and you seem pretty well to me. Statistically, you have a very good chance of having a completely healthy baby. And in any case, there are very good screening processes for abnormalities.”

  “Yes, I do know that,” said Elizabeth, fighting a desire to lean across the desk and slap him, “and the one for Down’s syndrome means a termination at twenty weeks if it’s positive. That’s hardly going to help me recover from my husband’s death.”

  “You wouldn’t have to have a termination,” he said. “Down’s children are very lovable; raising them can be a wonderfully rewarding experience. But—yes, all right, I am prepared to recommend a termination for you. I would urge you to reconsider, just the same. Depression almost invariably results from the process and I really don’t think you are in a fit state to make this decision. Do please take time out between now and Friday to make sure you know what you’re doing.”

  “Unfortunately I am unable to take time out,” said Elizabeth. “I told you, I have a living to earn.”

  And now she had Fiona Broadhurst coming to see her, wasting more of her time. She had agreed to see her to discuss something Fiona had said was important; she was regretting it now.

  “I really won’t keep you long, Mrs. Beaumont.” Fiona Broadhurst smiled her rather distant smile. “Now, I know you don’t want to proceed with the lawsuit, you wrote and told me that, but I wonder if you realise that the group George Meyer was leading, together with your husband, has at least a chance of succeeding. Or so our QC feels.”

  “Really? From everything I’ve heard and read, there is precious little chance of Lloyd’s ever giving up a brass farthing.”

  “Not quite true. Although it wasn’t at all the same thing, and it was a while ago, there is a precedent for Lloyd’s settling: over the Cameron Webb business—I expect you know about that?”

  Elizabeth shook her head.

  “Peter Cameron Webb and Peter Dixon, two very prominent brokers at Lloyd’s, were found guilty of fraud. Most particularly of diverting reinsurance premiums to themselves, thus leaving their Members without adequate cover. Writs were actually issued for their arrests, but they’re out of the country now, living somewhere like Miami. Anyway, Lloyd’s did make a substantial offer to the Members.” She paused. “The group Mr. Meyer has formed is now about a hundred strong. A large proportion of the Westfield Bradley Names—that’s your late husband’s main syndicate—have joined it. And we are not alone in this case. There is a vortex of them; at least four thousand Names, possibly many more, are at this precise moment forming action groups and preparing writs. But I actually think that you probably have more than enough stress to cope with. If I were you, I would feel exactly the same.

  “I shall write you a letter, absolving you from any further involvement in the matter, and of course return the money your husband deposited with us for preliminary work. Minus your husband’s share of any costs so far incurred.”

  “Thank you,” said Elizabeth.

  “Now, as you know, I had lunch with your husband, the day before he died.”

  “Indeed? And?” What was she going to say? That Simon had made a pass at her?

  “And he told me that he was still determined to go ahead. Although I had to tell him that some evidence he was rather excited about would not be admissible in court. He was disappointed about that.”

  That would have been Joel Strickland’s tapes, Elizabeth thought.

  “And that seemed possibly quite important to me,” said Fiona.

  “You mean as a gauge to his state of mind?”

  “Yes. It seemed clear to me that he was still feeling very positive. He certainly didn’t seem depressed. And of course I shall say that at the inquest. You know I’ve been called to make a statement?”

  “I do. It was my impression too. Thank you for telling me.”

  Not time wasted at all; Elizabeth felt much better suddenly.

  He had asked her to come to his flat. “I can’t talk about this in some cruddy bar.”

  She agreed. “But Joel, I can’t be long, I really can’t.”

  “Yes, all right.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  “I’ll wear my tightest knickers.”

  “OK.”

  He had sounded very serious, almost strained; perhaps he had decided it wasn’t worth all the agony of the waiting, the snatched meetings, the interrupted conversations. Perhaps he wanted to finish it. She shrank from the thought, while thinking that at least it would be over, resolved; she could start to recover, be living in the agony, rather than dreading it…

  “Hi.” He was wearing jeans and a white shirt, was barefoot, he had obviously just had a shower; his hair was spiky and still wet. It was all she could do to keep herself from attacking him, unbuttoning his shirt, unzipping his fly…She made do with a rather extended kiss, shutting the door behind her. He stood back and smiled at her.

  “Phew. Please sit down. Would you like a drink?”

  “No, thank you. I’ve got to drive and anyway, I kind of feel I need a clear head for this.”

  “You kind of feel right. Just hang on—I’ll make the coffee.”

  He was fussy about coffee, about everything that was food or drink; he could no more have eaten a McDonald’s meal than dog food. Good thing he didn’t have any kids, she thought; and absurdly felt a pang of jealousy that one day he would, and with someone other than her.

  “There. Enjoy.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Right,” he said, “are you sitting comfortably?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “I’m getting sick of all this,” he said. “Never knowing when we can meet, never having long enough for anything, never having a whole night together, sharing you with your family, trying not to think about sharing you with him. It’s just not…not good enough. I mean that in the most straightforward way. It’s not good enough for us. For what we’ve got, what we feel. It was all right at first, but now I can’t bear it. I love you too much, I want all of you. All the time. And all I’m getting is wretched little snatches of you. So…” She braced herself, closed her eyes, unable to look at him while he said it, while he said the awful, hideous ugly thing. “So I’ve decided. I want you to marry me. I want you to divorce your husband and marry me.”

  She was so shocked she felt as if he had hit her.

  “I just have to, you see. I’ve got to have you. I’ll never find anyone else, not who I love like I love you. And so I’m going to take you on. And your children, and all the complicated baggage you’ll bring with you. I don’t know what sort of husband I’ll make, but I’ll be sweating blood, I’ll try so hard.”

  “Oh,” she said. And she still felt rather shocked, but sweetly so, contentedly so; listening to this amazing thing, that Joel loved her so much he wanted to marry her, and marry her children; he wanted to be with her for the rest of his life, and the rest of hers, and wondering what on earth she did or indeed what she was that made him want that, when he could have had hundreds of girls, cool, beautiful, uncomplicated girls, and she sat there still not speaking, not moving, wanting him to go on, to say more and if there was no more, to say it all over again.

  “I can’t think of anything to say,” she said, rather helplessly. “Except of course what I want to say is yes, yes, yes and I’d love to marry you too.”

  “Well, that’s all right then, isn’t it?” He sounded rather uncertain.

  “No, Joel, it isn’t. Because I can’t. Because I’m already married. And I don’t have any reason not to be. Not really.”

  “Yes, you do. I love you. You love me—or so you say. Or am I wrong?”

  “No,” she said, “you’re not wrong. I do love you, I love you terribly.”

  “OK. So here we are, the two of us, loving each other. And I’m thirty-four years old now, and I have never wanted to get married. I’ve never wanted children. I�
�m ambitious and selfish and extravagant and, well—terrible husband material really. But for you I’ll do it. I will take on your children—and I would love, one day, for you to have my babies too.”

  “Oh Joel.” Her eyes filled with tears.

  “I can’t quite believe I’m saying all this, you know. I mean, I’m sure some of it will be complete hell, and the kids’ll resent me because I’m not their dad and all that stuff. And I really don’t think we’re all going to waltz off into the sunset together, but the thing is I’m ready for it, ready for the hell. Just because I love you. So what do you say, Debbie? There must be something.”

  “There is something,” she said, “of course there is. I love you like that too. But Joel…you’ve known about this for—I don’t know how long.”

  “Oh, hours,” he said, with a grin. “Possibly even days.”

  “Yes, well, exactly. You’ve got used to the idea. It’s a complete shock to me, and I think it’s so, so wonderful, and half of me wants to just stay here and never go back.”

  “And the other half?”

  “The other half is scared. Of all sorts of things. I need to think, terribly, terribly hard. It’s not me and it’s not you and it’s not even Richard I have to consider. It’s the children. They love him, they think he’s wonderful—I have to do the…the right thing.”

  “The right thing is to be with me.”

  “Well, I want to be, more than anything in the world; that’s all I have to say.”

  “Oh, all right,” he said, and then looked at his watch. “What time do you have to get back to your bloody responsibilities?”

  “I said ten.”

  “Ten! It’s already nine.”

  “I know. But,” she hesitated, “Jan said she could actually stay till twelve.”

  “Right.” He reached forward, put his hand inside her shirt, started to caress her breasts. “I like this Jan. She sounds like a good egg.”

  “She is a good egg.”

  She moved nearer him, unbuttoning his shirt, slithering her hand down his jeans. She felt incredible, suddenly wired, alive, every nerve on edge, on edge with wanting him.

  “Bedroom then? Or in here?”

  “I don’t think I can wait to get into the bedroom,” and then everything was confused, confused and amazing, and she could never remember feeling quite like this, even the first time with him; she seemed to feel everything at once, not knowing what she was doing, only what she wanted, and they were lying on the floor, and he was in her and it was over almost before it had begun, only wonderfully and brilliantly so, and she was sobbing and shouting and laughing with it; and then he said as she quietened, “Come on, let’s go to bed now, do it properly.”

  It was after twelve when she got home, exhausted, exhilarated, hardly knowing who she was or what she might do. She apologised to Jan, told her they had had a lot to talk about.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Jan said, looking at her smudged mascara, her flushed face, her crumpled clothes. “Lot of talking you’ve been doing. You lucky cow.”

  Steve Durham had been waiting in a state of increasing exasperation to hear from Lucinda. She knew how urgent the matter was, for God’s sake. He wouldn’t have biked the bloody document over to her if it hadn’t been.

  By the end of Monday, he had had enough; he had called her repeatedly during the day and left messages; the matter was too important to leave unsettled. Cowper’s solicitor had his own document ready and signed; having pushed this whole thing through at his own instigation, he now appeared and felt completely incompetent. He decided to call Blue Horton at his office. It was he who had introduced him to Lucinda in the first place.

  When he asked him if he knew what had happened to a document he had had delivered to the Horton household on Friday, and said that he was anxious to get it returned with Lucinda’s signature, Blue delivered a pithy epithet to the effect that Steve could put his document up his arse and set light to it for all he cared, and told him to call Lucinda at her parents’ house.

  “And you can go after her for any money owing to you, incidentally. And tell her I said so.”

  Elizabeth got home feeling completely exhausted. It had been, to put it mildly, a brute of a day. Culminating in Peter Hargreaves saying almost apologetically that he would be grateful if she could possibly do the Mercers’ new range presentation on Monday. Monday! She wouldn’t be at her best, to put it mildly.

  And the estate agent had phoned to say that the Americans had come back with an even better offer and he really thought they should proceed.

  “But I haven’t got anywhere to live.”

  “I can get you somewhere you can rent for a few weeks, until you find a property. I really think you should take the offer, Mrs. Beaumont. The market’s not exactly buoyant at the moment.”

  “I’ll get back to you in the morning,” she said.

  She walked into the drawing room, collapsed onto the sofa. And looked around the room and thought that among other things, the sheer hard work of moving would be incredible. They wouldn’t have room for half the furniture, there would be endless decisions to make, sales to organise. And she would have to deal with all Simon’s stuff; she’d put that off day after day, hadn’t even got rid of any of his clothes. She couldn’t face it, couldn’t face touching them, holding them, throwing—or giving—them away. It would seem so unbearably, unutterably final.

  “Shit,” she said aloud. “Shit!”

  She heard the front door open and then Annabel calling her name.

  “In the drawing room, darling.”

  Annabel walked in; she looked very pale and tense.

  “Are you all right, sweetheart? What’s the matter?”

  She saw her Annabel take a deep breath, then: “It’s not what’s the matter with me, Mummy. It’s what’s the matter with you. Are you…well, are you pregnant?”

  Chapter 48

  NOVEMBER 1990

  It had been such a good idea, to come down here. She felt really relaxed for the first time for—well, she couldn’t remember when. There would have to be decisions made and action taken, but not yet. For now, she wanted simply to enjoy a few easily perfect days. She could never remember being so happy.

  The weather had put in a last Herculean effort for them, and they had actually had a sort of picnic, a bit breezy to be sure, and they’d had to sit sheltering just in the lee of the big rocks at Mewslade, but still with the wonderful sense of being properly outdoors. She looked at the three of them, rosy again, eating for England—“Or Wales,” as she said to Flora.

  Flora was briskly brave about the house, full of plans. “I’m thinking of going to Scotland, Debbie,” she said. “The Highlands. It’s beautiful up there, even a bit like Gower, only more dramatic, and the weather won’t be as nice, of course. I can get a nice little place for almost nothing.” Debbie didn’t like to ask her about the horses; she couldn’t imagine Prince Hal travelling up to Scotland, but it might be possible, she supposed; and as for Boy…

  “This is the first time Tilly hasn’t been down for half term,” Flora said rather sadly, clearly recognising her train of thought. “She says she wants to stay close to her mother for a little longer, and she’s got a lot of friends at her new school, apparently. Such a relief that’s worked out so well.”

  “Why shouldn’t it?” said Debbie, feeling a stab of the old irritation.

  “Well, it’s a little different from what she’s used to.”

  “Doesn’t mean it’s worse. And children are very adaptable.”

  “Debbie, darling, really! Tilly is used to extreme privilege and a very narrow social spectrum. She’s unworldly to the point of absurdity; and to her new schoolmates, something of a joke, I would imagine. She could have been horribly teased, bullied even; I think it’s little short of miraculous that she’s adapted so well. And she does actually like it there; she wrote me such a sweet funny letter about how the boys tease her rotten and call her posho, and what she does every weekend with her
two best friends, Fallon and Madison. Extraordinary.”

  “But don’t you think it’s awfully good for her,” said Debbie, “seeing another side of life, mixing with real people? I mean, the sort of school she went to, it’s so ridiculously privileged.”

  “I think you and I are going to have to disagree on all this,” said Flora. “It is good for her, of course, seeing the other side, but she won’t get anything like as good an education. And she’ll learn a lot of unattractive things—sex, far too early, drugs…”

  “Flora, honestly,” said Debbie, and she was laughing now. “Do you really think there aren’t any drugs in independent schools?”

  Debbie didn’t even think about contacting Joel; it would have revived all the difficulties and the emotional discomfort; she just basked in her happiness. Richard had agreed to come down for the weekend. The thought of that was quite literally awful, she shrank from it. But Flora was very pleased. “The whole of my family together under this dear old roof,” she said, “possibly for the last time.” And then she turned to Debbie and said—and Debbie had never been so surprised by anything, apart from Joel asking her to marry him—“Debbie, I’d like your opinion on something. I’m desperate to discuss it, and there’s no one else I trust. Simon is, well, gone, and I can’t talk to Richard because it would affect him. It’s about the house.” She was trying to be clever, she went on, but, “I hope not too clever. I’m going to be completely honest with you, and rely on you to keep it to yourself.”

  “Yes, of course I will.” Debbie was so curious, she would have agreed in that moment to take up hunting to keep Flora talking.

  “It’s a way of saving myself, and doing Lloyd’s down. Anyway, I’ve gota…a friend in the property business. It was his idea. His rather brilliant idea. He buys my house—at its face value—with the land. Now the thing is, you can’t build on Gower. It’s all protected.”