An Absolute Scandal

by Penny Vincenzi

  Nigel was sitting in the Casualty Department of Barts when Lucinda rushed in. “Where is he? Is there any news?”

  “I think he’s going to be all right,” said Nigel, “he’s gone for an X-ray. He’s concussed. And he lost a fair bit of blood—you know how heads bleed. But they don’t think it’s very serious. He’d come round even before the ambulance arrived.”

  “Thank goodness,” said Lucinda. “Will they let me see him?”

  “I should think so, when he comes back. They’re talking about keeping him in overnight, whatever the X-ray shows.”

  “What could it show?” said Lucinda fearfully.

  “Well, a clot or something. But he doesn’t seem too bad; apparently he was swearing like a trooper in the ambulance.”

  “He swears like a trooper wherever he is,” said Lucinda, “but I would say that’s a pretty good sign, yes. Oh Nigel, thank you for letting me know so quickly But how exactly did it happen? I don’t understand.”

  “I hit him,” said Nigel simply.

  Blue was brought back about thirty minutes later and wheeled into a cubicle; a doctor and a nurse went in after him and pulled the curtains closed.

  A nurse came over. “You’re with Mr. Horton, I believe,” she said to Nigel.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “And I’m his—his wife,” said Lucinda. “Is he all right? Can I see him?”

  “I can’t give you an answer to either question for a moment,” she said. “Doctor is looking at the X-rays now. He seems not too bad, if his conversation is anything to go by.”

  “Oh dear,” said Lucinda. “I suppose he’s swearing terribly?”

  “Just a little.”

  “I’m so sorry. How upsetting for you.”

  “Oh, I’ve heard worse,” said the nurse cheerfully. She looked at Lucinda, taking in her condition. “Er, you say you’re his wife? He told us he was unmarried.”

  “Well, I nearly am. Or nearly was, I should say,” she added with a sigh. “Sorry, I’m not making a lot of sense. I’ve just driven up from the country. Bit tired.”

  “Actually, she’s my wife,” Nigel said. The nurse looked at the two of them and visibly gave up.

  “When’s the baby due?” she asked Lucinda, reverting to safer territory.

  “Not for another four weeks…oh goodness, here’s the doctor. How is he, Doctor? Is he going to be all right? And can I see him?”

  “He’s going to be fine. He has a concussion but the bleeding was just from a surface wound. And yes, you can see him. But I’d like to keep him under observation.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Lucinda. “I understand. So can I go in?”

  “Well, if you really want to. I hope he’ll be more polite to you than he was to us,” he added.

  Lucinda put her head round the curtains. Blue was lying on his back with his eyes closed, a large bandage wound round his head.

  “Just piss off, would you?” he said. “I’m tired, I feel sick, and I’m trying to get some bloody sleep. What is it with you people?”

  Lucinda went over to him, picked up one of his hands, and looked down at him. “I’ll piss off in a minute,” she said gently. “I just wanted to make sure you were alive first.”

  He turned to look at her. “My God,” he said. “Lucinda.”

  “That’s me. Glad you recognised me.”

  “Of course I recognised you, you silly cow. Christ, my head hurts.” He closed his eyes again. “That husband of yours can pack a bloody punch. Couldn’t believe it.” There was a note in his voice she couldn’t at first analyse; then she realised what it was. Admiration.

  “He learned to box at Eton,” she said. “People are always surprised.” Blue opened his eyes and looked at her rather hazily; then he half smiled.

  “Don’t spoil it, Lucinda. I was just coming round to thinking he wasn’t quite the idiot I’d thought.”

  “Sorry. And—well, what were you thinking? I mean, do you…think about me? If anything?” she said, and she was so frightened she could literally hardly speak. And then the words came out in a rush, and she stood there, the tears running down her face. “Blue, I’m so sorry, I know Nigel’s tried to explain and I know how wrong of me it was not to tell you, but I do love you so, so much, I wouldn’t have hurt you for the world, you must believe that, I’m just stupid, stupid and—thoughtless, and—”

  “Just shut up, for Christ’s sake,” he said, “you silly cow.”

  “Yes, all right,” she said humbly, “but Blue, I really, really did—”

  “I said shut up.” And then he looked at her very seriously, and she was afraid he was going to tell her to go away again. But: “It’s all right, Lucinda,” he said quite gently, “I’ll get over it in time. In time for the boy to be born, I daresay. How is he, by the way?” And he reached out and moved his hand tenderly over her stomach.

  “He’s fine. Oh Blue, darling Blue, I’m so, so relieved and thankful and—”

  “I tell you something,” he said, and there was a new expression in his eyes as he looked at her, that she would have said came close to respect, “that scheme you dreamed up between you. Bloody clever. Wouldn’t have thought it of you, Lucinda. I’m well impressed.”

  “Impressed! Blue, I can’t take any credit for it, you know, any at all—”

  “Course you can,” he said. “You’re obviously not quite as featherbrained as I thought you were. Now give your old man a kiss.”

  She bent down to kiss him and he kissed her back, quite thoroughly; he couldn’t be too bad, she thought, if he could do that, his reflexes must be pretty all right…

  Catherine had come up to London to see her solicitor and to do some early Christmas shopping. Her children had been invited to stay with friends for the night; and she had twenty-four hours of glorious freedom. She phoned Lucinda to see if she could meet her at some point, only to be told that Blue was in hospital.

  “He got knocked out,” Lucinda said. “I’ll explain later. You couldn’t come over, Catherine, could you? I’m a bit tired, and I’d love to see you.”

  Catherine said she’d come straightaway.

  Lucinda was looking extremely tired; hardly surprising, Catherine thought, considering what she’d been through: her father’s stroke, some row with Blue—she didn’t expand on that—and a late-night spell in Casualty at Barts.

  “But Nigel was so sweet, he looked after me. And he’s been trying to clean up the carpet. He’ll actually be back in a minute—he’s just gone to return some machine he hired.”

  “Nigel!” said Catherine.

  “Yes. He and Blue had a fight and he knocked Blue out. Only don’t say anything when he comes back, will you?”

  “Of course not,” said Catherine. If Lucinda had told her Nigel had opened a gay strip joint she could scarcely have been more surprised.

  “But why? I don’t understand.”

  “Oh, Blue said something Nigel didn’t like about me and—Oh, here he is now. Nigel, darling. You remember Catherine, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do,” said Nigel. He smiled at Catherine. “In fact, we shared a very racy dining experience didn’t we?”

  “Yes, we did,” said Catherine. She was still trying to come to terms with the thought of gentle, vague Nigel knocking anybody out. Let alone Blue. He must be still very much in love with Lucinda, she thought, and felt a pang of sadness.

  “Oh, did you?” said Lucinda. “How lovely. Now let’s all have some coffee and then I’m going to collect Blue. I’m not sure I relish nursing him, but still…no choice, I’m afraid.”

  “So how’s country life?” asked Nigel as Lucinda disappeared into the kitchen.

  “Lovely,” said Catherine, and then, “Well, pretty awful, actually.”

  “I’m sorry. That’s a lovely part of the world.”

  “It is, yes. But the people a bit less so. Specially the ones I live with.”

  “Ah. Think I can imagine. Yes. Children like it?”

  “They absol
utely love it,” said Catherine.

  “Well, that’s the main thing. I mean, that’s why you went, after all. And children should live in the country, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose so,” said Catherine with a sigh.

  Lucinda came back with the coffeepot. “The carpet does look miles better, Nigel,” she said. “Well done.”

  “That’s all right. Least I could do.”

  Catherine suddenly felt as if she was going to cry. She stood up abruptly; knocked the coffee table, and the contents of the jug went all over the newly cleaned carpet. And although Lucinda and Nigel were both absolutely sweet about it, and Lucinda said she couldn’t mind less, and Nigel said that there was plenty of carpet shampoo left, so it couldn’t have been more convenient, as she drove away, she did start to cry and she was still very weepy as she joined the Westway, wondering what it must feel like to be Lucinda, who had two men in love with her and literally fighting over her, and trying not to mind too much that she was returning to her Jane Eyre existence. With not a single Mr. Rochester anywhere in sight.

  It would have been over now, Elizabeth thought, sitting toying with a piece of dry toast; she wouldn’t have been pregnant anymore, wouldn’t be feeling sick, she’d have been on her way to feeling better.

  All the good things that had resulted from her decision, Annabel’s relief and happiness, Tilly’s pink-faced delight, even her gynaecologist’s quiet, “I do think that’s wise,” were over now and she was facing the reality of having a baby as a widow, of coping with it all on her own, of having no one to share it with—well, of course she did have the children, and that was lovely. But there would be no Simon to share the weariness, the anxiety, the trauma of the tests—like the amniocentesis she had insisted on.

  She had taken Peter Hargreaves into her confidence; he had said how delighted he was for her, how wonderful that she would have this comfort. Comfort! But she managed to smile back and thank him.

  “So are you really all right to go on working?” he had said, and, “Yes,” she told him, “of course I’ll be fine.”

  “Well, you must let me know if you’re not. Immediately. I’ll do everything I can to help.”

  “Thank you, Peter, I appreciate that. But I won’t let you down.”

  She hadn’t told Toby yet; she was waiting till he came home next rather than inform him over the phone or in a letter. Which gave her time to rehearse it.

  She really, really didn’t want this baby: still. She didn’t sit staring dreamily at her stomach as she had with the others, thinking how miraculous it all was; she sat thinking with foreboding of how hard she would find it to cope with, to live with. She had changed her mind only because of the girls; because she could see that for them it would be dreadfully hurtful to think of their mother terminating a pregnancy, a pregnancy that would have resulted in a new sibling, the last legacy of their father. And it was going to take all her love for them to get her through it without resentment. But she could do it; and she would do it.

  She suddenly stood up, experiencing a rather unfamiliar sensation; a shot of energy.

  She mustn’t waste it; she would make a start on the sorting for the move; go through each room methodically, making lists, deciding what to take and what to sell.

  Two hours later, she was feeling very pleased with herself, having listed all the drawing-room furniture that must go, all the dining-room furniture, and the things in the front hall. And then she suddenly felt that yes, she would start—just start—on his dressing room. It had to be done, nobody else could do it—it couldn’t be so terribly bad, could it? And taking a deep breath, she walked up the stairs and into it.

  She started pulling down the suits, one by one: and of course it was terribly bad, for they exuded him, every one of them; she could see him in them, feel him in them, and she sank onto the ground weeping, clutching them, longing for him as she would never have thought possible, longing for him to hold her, to talk to her, to smile at her, to tell her how lovely she looked, how good she felt, how much he loved her.

  And the now-familiar anger came back, and she stood up, dragging the other suits off their hangers, raging at him for daring to die, for taking himself away from her, leaving her alone with this new, unwelcome burden; and as she reached and pulled and hurled them onto the ground, she suddenly realised there was a dull but unmistakable pain, stabbing deep within her, not constant but spasmodic: and realised at once also what it meant. She was having a miscarriage.

  Chapter 50

  NOVEMBER 1990

  She wasn’t bleeding—well, hardly. Just a few spots. But the pain was still there; quite insistent, tugging away.

  Dr. Rice, who had looked after the family for years, said he would come at once. “Just go to bed and stay there. Put the door on the latch first, so you don’t have to come downstairs to let me in. Any bleeding?”

  “Only a bit. A tiny bit.”

  “Good. I’ll be there in about half an hour.”

  She was actually in bed. Lying down, and staying there. And fearfully checking the bleeding, every few minutes. She felt rather near to tears and wished Annabel was there.

  This wasn’t fair. It really wasn’t. Oh God, here came another pain. But—was it a bit less strong? It certainly wasn’t any worse. And the doctor would be here soon and he’d give her a hormone injection which would hopefully stop the contractions. Which is what the pains were. And realised in that moment that she wanted to keep this baby, wanted to terribly badly.

  Richard didn’t come to Wales for the weekend. He phoned on Saturday morning and said it was essential he stayed at school. A parent wanted to consult him about his son’s chances in common entrance, another about some alleged bullying…There was no way he could suddenly disappear for two days, he told Debbie.

  “It would lay too big a burden on Morag. She’s absolutely exhausted, she needs my input and support…”

  A few months earlier, Debbie would have told him that she needed his input and support as much as Morag did. Things being what they were, she heaved a sigh of relief, said of course she understood, and then had to spend half an hour comforting the children, who all burst into tears. And if they cried because they weren’t going to see him for a weekend, what hope for—Stop it, Debbie, don’t. It’s too soon to think like that.

  Colin clearly found her explanation unsatisfactory.

  “Of course, you must do what you think best, Flora. But I imagined you had thought it all through a little more clearly.”

  “Well, I have tried, of course. But…well, I’m sorry, Colin. I’m afraid I must have wasted a lot of your time.”

  “Never mind about that,” he said. “These things happen. I do hope you won’t regret this, Flora. I mean, you’re going to lose your house anyway, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” she said, “yes. But, well, Colin, there are just some things that one can’t quite come to terms with. I’m sure it’s happened to you?”

  “Of course,” he said, and his voice was very cool. “Right, I’ll cancel the whole project then. If you’re sure.”

  “I am,” she said. “Quite sure.” And put the phone down, hoping he would forgive her. She would miss him if not.

  Chapter 51

  NOVEMBER 1990

  The Sunday papers were full of it: impending drama, tragedy even, of crises and conspiracies, of stalking horses and wrestles for power.

  Elizabeth, lying free from pain but still anxious, still bleeding a little, read of the unthinkable, the almost unimaginable eventuality of the departure of Margaret Thatcher from the leadership of the Conservative Party and, even more unimaginably, at the instigation of someone other than herself.

  Michael Heseltine was on every front page, looking more handsome. It was all wonderfully distracting.

  Joel, who had missed Debbie more than he would have believed possible, was quite relieved when Hugh Renwick phoned him halfway through the morning and asked him to do a piece for Monday’s paper on the financial impli
cations of Mrs. Thatcher’s possible departure.

  “A lot of it’s to do with finance, after all: Lawson’s resignation last year, John Major’s no great shakes, terrible state of the economy, everyone going bust, negative equity, all that crap—and you could drag Heseltine’s opposition to the Community Charge into it as well. About fifteen hundred words, OK? Sorry about your Sunday.”

  “It’s fine.” It would give him something to do, something else to think about.

  Until he had her back again.

  “Blimey,” said Blue, “I wonder if the old girl’s finally going?”

  “What old girl?” said Lucinda. “More coffee?”

  “Yes, please. Maggie. Could be on her way out. They seem to be out to get her. Heseltine and that mob. This country’s in a right old mess at the moment…”

  “Is it? Blue, I’ve been thinking. About Nigel.”

  “Oh yeah? Got some new way of giving him even more money?”

  “No. Something better than money.”

  “Not much that’s better than money, Lucy. What were you thinking of?”

  “Love. All that sort of thing. Catherine.”

  “Catherine! What—the plain one?”

  “She is not plain,” said Lucinda firmly, “and I think she and Nigel could be rather good together. They’re both lonely, both in need of someone. What do you think?”

  “You’ll have to give me a bit of time to digest that, Lucinda. Blimey, my head hurts.”

  “Shall I get you some more painkillers?”

  “No, thanks. I’ve got something better than painkillers in mind. Come over here, give your old man a kiss.”

  Lucinda was glad he felt better enough to contemplate sex; she only wished she did. Still, she had a lot of making up to him to do…

  “Mrs. Morgan?”

  “Yes?” Catherine could see that Phyllis was hanging about in the hall, pretending to be sorting through the post; she turned her back on her, spoke into the wall.