An Absolute Scandal

by Penny Vincenzi

  “So…”

  “Unless you have buildings. They can be in total rack and ruin—cottages, barns, stables—but as long as they’re not just sheds, you can sometimes get permission to convert them into houses.”

  “Ye-es.”

  “Right. Now Colin’s plan is that I go to Lloyd’s, show them the contract, say I’ve sold my house and I need some money and how much are they going to take? It’ll be most of it. I could maybe get a tiny flat somewhere.”

  “Yes?” said Debbie again.

  “But there’ll be a second contract between the developer and another company, guaranteeing it a substantial sum of money if planning is granted within three years. To build three houses there.”

  “And your friend can get the planning consent?”

  “Well, he’s pretty confident.”

  “And you’d have some link with this other company?”

  She grinned at Debbie. “Well, I just might. Not as a director or a shareholder, of course. Just behind it, a beneficiary. It would be an offshore company, and this would be a joint-venture agreement with the developer. My friend says it’s some sort of piggybacking agreement. Even if they investigated it, I wouldn’t be there. It would mean I’d still have some money, quite a lot actually, and so I could afford to buy somewhere quite nice.”

  “Well,” said Debbie, “that does sound very clever. Very clever indeed. And, you know this person quite well, do you? I mean, you trust him?”

  “Oh, absolutely, yes,” said Flora. “We go to concerts together.”

  As if that made it all right, Debbie thought, carefully not looking at her; as it would be if he had been at Eton or belonged to the right club.

  “So what do you think, Debbie? I’m not asking you what I should do, of course. I just wanted to…to talk about it.”

  “Well, your friend is clearly some sort of genius. And I like the thought of you being able to do Lloyd’s down. They deserve all they get. Or all they don’t get. And if it’s foolproof, I mean you don’t get caught or sent to prison or something—only joking, but you know what I mean—then yes. And presumably you could keep on riding, keep your horse and everything. So, why not?”

  Flora met her eyes very levelly; they sat there looking at each other for quite a long time. Then: “You don’t actually think that, do you? Come on, Debbie. I want to discuss it and I want an honest reaction.”

  “Well…” She looked at Flora and, for the first time in their difficult relationship, felt they were on a completely level footing. “Well, the thing is, Flora, I don’t think it suits you.”

  “Because it’s dishonest?”

  “No, of course not. No, it’s because I—well, it’s because I can’t see you agreeing to anything that would mean ruining your Meadow. And Broken Bay House, come to that. You’d never forgive yourself. At least, I don’t think you would. Sorry, Flora.”

  “Oh Debbie.” Flora looked at Debbie and then smiled at her, a very soft smile, and there were tears in her dark blue eyes. “Oh my dear, how very wise you are. Thank you for that. I’m very grateful.”

  There was a pause; then she said, and her tone was brusque, the familiar Flora again, “Now let’s not talk about it anymore. Probably should never have told you.”

  “Flora,” said Debbie, “I’m awfully glad you did.”

  Only two more days, and then she’d be feeling better. Well, she’d feel a bit worse, first, but then…

  The atmosphere in the house was horrible; Annabel wasn’t speaking to her. Tilly, clearly baffled for she had picked up on the hostility without having the faintest idea what it was about, was endeavouring earnestly to pour oil on the clearly troubled waters. Toby hadn’t come home for half term, but had gone to stay with his best friend Piers Wilson who lived in Herefordshire; she had actually been relieved when he asked her if he could go.

  “Do you mind, Mum? I know I should be there with you, but this should be great; Wilson’s father is going to organise a boys’ shoot.”

  Elizabeth understood; it was not heartlessness, it was a complete inability to face the trauma, not that his father was dead but of all that it entailed. She was comforted to hear from the chaplain at school that he had talked to him a little, and that he didn’t believe there was a real problem. “He just needs time. Let’s try and give it to him, leave him be.”

  But Annabel was facing the trauma, and a new one too, an incredibly hard one. If only Elizabeth could have kept it from her for just a few more days.

  She had guilt now, to add to her rage and misery, and of course her ill health. She had denied it at first that evening, but Annabel was sharp-eyed and sharp-eared too; she could hear the lie in her mother’s voice, see the slight avoidance in her eyes.

  “Mum! Come on. Grief and depression don’t make you throw up every morning regular as clockwork. And your boobs have got bigger. Come on, admit it.”

  “Well, all right. Yes, I am.”

  “How absolutely lovely!” Annabel had said, staring at her, shining-eyed. “You must be so pleased. I mean, I can see it’s horrible being sick, but it won’t last, will it, and then—”

  “Annabel,” said Elizabeth gently, “Annabel, I’m not going to have it.”

  “What?” Her eyes, her face, her voice were all shocked. “You mean you’re going to have an abortion?”

  “Yes. Yes, I am.”

  “But you can’t. It’s so, so wrong. And this is Daddy’s baby! What do you think he’d have said? Of course you can’t.”

  “I’m afraid I can. And I know it’s Daddy’s baby, but he isn’t here, and I have to look after all of us and I can’t have it, not possibly.”

  “Mummy, you’ve got to have it, you’ve simply got to. You can’t kill your baby. It’s the one good thing I’ve heard since—well, since Daddy died. It’s lovely.”

  “Sweetheart, I really can’t. Just think for a bit—”

  “I am thinking. Thinking of you ripping it out of you, killing it, what’s left of Daddy—”

  “Annabel, that’s hysterical talk.”

  “Why? Why is it?”

  “Listen,” said Elizabeth patiently, “I know it would be lovely, if everything else was the same. But Daddy’s died. I don’t have him anymore. I can’t bring up a baby without his help. Not emotionally, not physically, not financially. It’s impossible.”

  “It is not impossible. You’ve got us, we’ll help, we’ll support you. It’ll be wonderful.”

  “Annabel, listen to me. You’re all growing up. And I want you to be free to do what you want. To be with Jamie. Toby will be going to university and, anyway, can you imagine how he’d feel about it—the embarrassment for him, what would his friends think and say…And Tilly, well…”

  “Tilly would be fantastic. Especially now she’s at home all the time. Think what a lot she could do for you, and her friend Fallon too; she seems to know all about babies.”

  “Tilly is just beginning to grow up, Annabel. She doesn’t want to be held back by a mother with a baby. And I’m nearly forty-one. There are serious risks to having babies at my age—for the baby, that is. It could have all sorts of abnormalities. How would I cope with that? And risks to me. It’s a strain on any body, never mind a middle-aged one.”

  “Oh rubbish!” said Annabel. “You look like you’re about twenty-five.”

  “Not gynaecologically, I don’t. I’m sorry, and I would give anything to have spared you all this, but I really am not going to have this baby. I’ve got a termination booked for Friday and—”

  “Well, don’t expect me to look after you when you come home,” said Annabel. She stood up and glared at her mother. “I would never have believed this of you. And I’m sure Daddy wouldn’t either. I feel—I feel ashamed of you. Really ashamed.”

  Lucinda’s father was recovering.

  “I’m delighted with him,” the doctor told Mrs. Worthington when she arrived on Tuesday morning. “His speech is returning and though there’s some impairment of movement down his
right side, and the hand is decidedly a problem with stroke cases, it’s the first forty-eight hours that matter. If we get lightning, as we call it, then the auspices are good.”

  Lucinda received this piece of news rather listlessly; she had tried very hard, ever since Blue’s departure, to be a good daughter and put her parents’ problems first, but it was very difficult. She felt terribly unhappy and dreadfully anxious. Mercifully her mother, who had taken a sleeping pill the night before, hadn’t heard anything of the drama and her sister had gone home for the night.

  She had tried ringing him twice and he had simply put the phone down. Steve Durham, when he had finally found her, reported a similar problem, without actually spelling out Blue’s words. What was she supposed to do, how could she ever explain? He was hardly going to read a letter if she tried writing one, and certainly not believe what it said. It was so dreadful and entirely her own fault; the story was so extremely unlikely, and even Steve had urged her to tell Blue what she was planning in good time. She must have been mad, she thought.

  “Oh Gertie,” she said to the small black-and-tan Dachshund that was her mother’s rather unlikely choice of dog, “Gertie, what on earth am I going to do?” And then she heard the phone ringing, and her mother answering it, and then heard her name being called.

  “Lucinda, quickly, dear, come quickly.”

  She thought something terrible must have happened, Blue must have taken an overdose or something, but, “It’s Nigel,” her mother said, handing her the phone, smiling at her. “He wants to speak to you, as soon as possible. And he asked so nicely about your father, please thank him from me.”

  She clearly thought they were going to get together again, Lucinda thought, and that explained Blue’s absence. She took the phone and said, “Hello, Nigel,” and then, as her mother hovered on the stairs, clearly hoping to hear more of a reconciliation, “I’ll take this in Daddy’s study.”

  “No need for that,” said Mrs. Worthington, and went into the kitchen and slammed the door.

  “Lucinda, hello. Are you all right?”

  “Yes, Nigel, I’m fine. Thank you.”

  “Good. Only I gather there’s been a bit of a problem…”

  “With the divorce? Oh Nigel, it’s so totally awful, I should have listened to you, should have talked to Blue, told him what we were doing, but I kept putting it off, you know, and now he believes all that rubbish about me feeling insecure and wanting the house and everything; he thinks I meant it and he won’t listen to me, won’t speak to me, and I just don’t know what to do.”

  “Oh dear. Oh Lord,” said Nigel. “I think I’d better go and see him.”

  Blue was sitting down to a very large whiskey when there was a knock at the door. He ignored it at first; but at the third time, he got up swearing and went to open it.

  “Whatever you’re selling—” he said, and stopped short. Nigel Cowper stood there, looking very determined, holding a very battered leather document case. “Good God,” he said, “you’ve got a nerve. Just fuck off, will you.”

  “Absolutely not,” said Nigel. “I need to come in and talk to you.”

  “Well, you’ll have to go on needing. And if you want her back, you’re very welcome. You can tell her that with my compliments.”

  “Of course I don’t want her back,” said Nigel. “She doesn’t want to be with me. She wants to marry you.”

  “Yeah? So much that she feels—what was it? Oh yes, ‘unsure of our relationship.’ Wants to keep the house. Like fuck she wants to marry me.”

  “There really is no need to be so offensive,” said Nigel. “I’ve come to explain. Please let me in.”

  “Look, mate, I don’t want anyone here, least of all you. That is, with the possible exception of your wife. So just piss off to whatever gentlemanly place you spend your evenings, and leave me in peace.”

  “I’m not going to,” said Nigel. “Not until you understand. Look, it really isn’t how you think.”

  “No? How do you work that out then?”

  “I’ll tell you if you let me in,” said Nigel slightly desperately.

  Blue opened the door fully and gestured into the living room. “In there,” he said.

  Nigel looked around with great interest; he could see it had all cost a lot of money, but it looked pretty dreadful to him. Deep, deep carpets, flashy chrome furniture, an enormous television, a music centre that filled up half a wall, a large glass coffee table, a lot of very odd pictures—and not a book in sight. How did Lucinda stand it?

  “Very nice,” he said politely.

  “Just get on with it,” said Blue.

  “Yes. Well, the thing is, and I did tell Lucinda she should have told you this, the whole divorce thing is a…a sort of front. It’s something her lawyer dreamed up. You know I’m dreadfully in hock to Lloyd’s? Well…” Nigel tried to explain; about the charitable trust, how he would be one of the major trustees, how the house in Cadogan Square would be made over to Lucinda, mortgage free, and that she’d borrow against that to benefit the trust. “Could be quite a lot of money. Or she might buy a second property, where I could live, and—”

  “All right, all right. I get the drift. So Lloyd’s won’t be able to get hold of all this money of yours?”

  “That’s it in a nutshell.”

  “Well, I don’t know,” said Blue. “You could have done this anyway, couldn’t you—set up all these trusts and things—without involving a divorce.”

  “Well, no, not at all. The thing about a divorce is that it’s legally binding and the case had to at least appear…sound. Lucinda had to seem as if she really did need the money, that she had a right to it.”

  Blue sat staring at the blank television screen.

  “Right,” he said finally. “Right, I get it. Very clever.”

  “Oh good. So is that all right then? You’re quite clear? No more problem over Lucinda or…or anything.”

  “Oh, I don’t think I could say that,” said Blue. His almost black eyes were very hard in his white face. “I’d never have believed it of her, that’s the problem. The fact remains she was prepared to say all that and she never told me about it, just went on plotting and conniving behind my back, with you and that arsehole Durham. Why the fuck couldn’t she have talked to me about it?”

  “Well, I think she was scared to,” said Nigel. “Once it had got under way, you know? It was easier to leave it and think she’d tell you…later.”

  “Very good of her,” said Blue, “and how am I supposed ever to trust her now? She’s a deceitful, conniving little cow and—” He didn’t get any further.

  Nigel stood up and said, “I really don’t think you should talk about Lucinda like that.”

  “Oh really? Would you like to tell me why not, you public-school ponce?”

  “Could you take that back, please?” said Nigel. He could feel the blood beginning to pound in his head.

  “Take what back?”

  “What you said about Lucinda. And me, for that matter.”

  “I couldn’t, actually. No. It was all true. Sorry. Old chap,” he added.

  Something snapped in Nigel; he bent down, grabbed Blue by the tie and pulled him up to his feet.

  “I said, take it back.”

  “I can’t,” said Blue, “unfortunately. She is a deceitful, conniving little cow and—”

  He got no further; Nigel pulled back his fist and hit him very hard, an uppercut to the chin. Blue staggered backwards, hit his head against the coffee table and sank, neatly and rather theatrically, onto the ground, his eyes closed. A trickle of blood began to seep down onto the beige carpet.

  “Oh my God,” said Nigel, staring down at him. “Oh my God.”

  Chapter 49

  NOVEMBER 1990

  Tilly was weeping, as only she could. Tilly had always been a champion weeper; not only did she weep loudly but an enormous amount of wetness was generated. Annabel was with her, her arm round her.

  “What is it?” said Eli
zabeth. “Tilly, darling, whatever is the matter?”

  “It’s Fallon,” wailed Tilly. “She’s so upset! She cried all day; her mum’s lost her baby—she’s in hospital, she’s really poorly, Fallon’s there now…”

  “Oh dear,” said Elizabeth, as calmly as she could. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Yeah, right,” said Annabel, “you would be,” and walked out of the room.

  Elizabeth sighed, and then returned her attention to Tilly. “Darling, don’t cry. These things are usually for the best. It’s nature’s way of dealing with things. Most miscarriages are babies with something wrong with them.”

  “No, no, you don’t understand,” said Tilly, wiping her eyes. “Fallon’s dad hit her mum—punched her in the stomach, he was so angry about the new baby. Madison is so afraid she’s going to die. I just don’t know how anybody could do that, Mummy, hit someone like that, kill a little baby on purpose. It’s so, so wrong, don’t you think?”

  Half an hour later Elizabeth walked into Annabel’s bedroom. She looked at her daughter rather awkwardly.

  “I’ve decided to keep the baby,” she said. “To have it. But you’re bloody well going to have to help me, Annabel. I can’t do it on my own.”

  Annabel stared at her for a while, her face very serious. Then she got up and went over to her mother and put her arms round her.

  “You won’t have to,” she said, “I promise.”

  “Mummy, I’ve got to go to London.” Lucinda appeared in the kitchen looking wild-eyed. “Blue’s had a…an accident, he’s in hospital.”

  “What sort of accident?”

  “Um, I’m not sure, but he’s been hit on the head, been concussed. I’ll go there now.”

  “But, Lucinda—it’s eight o’clock at night. You can’t go driving off like that—”

  “I’ve only got to drive up the M4 and it’s practically still the rush hour,” said Lucinda. “Don’t be silly, Mummy, I’ll be fine. I’ll call you later.” And she was gone.