An Absolute Scandal

by Penny Vincenzi

“She obviously likes the idea of her new name. Go on, Blue, say you like it. I love it.”

  “It’ll do,” he said, taking the baby, stroking her small head. “It’ll certainly do.”

  “And if you like, we can make Rose her second name. Molly Rose Horton. How do you like that?”

  “Fine,” he said. “Absolutely fine.” He smiled down at his daughter. “Hello, Molly Rose.”

  The baby farted loudly again.

  “There—you see? It’s the only way she can show her approval at the moment. And now you’d better get going on moving all her stuff. We haven’t got long.”

  “How do I get a key?” he said.

  “I’ve still got one,” she said, fishing the key Nigel had given her the day before out of her bag. “Here you are. And I’ll make a list, to help you.”

  When he had gone, she looked down at the baby. “Well, that wasn’t too difficult, was it?” she said. “And how lucky, Uncle Nigel having the key with him yesterday. And I tell you something else, Molly Rose, there is no way I’m going to go and live in Chislehurst. But we won’t have to. Silly lot, they are, men. When you’re older I’ll tell you exactly how to deal with them. Now, do you want to come back into the milking parlour, or…?”

  But Molly Rose was already fast asleep.

  “Flora? This is Colin.”

  “Oh, Colin. How nice.”

  “Yes. Well, I hope so. I’m…I’m sorry if I overreacted the other day. I was—”

  “Colin, you didn’t. You underreacted: lots of people would have beaten me up.”

  “I hope not.” His tone was quite shocked. “Anyway, I admire you, Flora. Admire your integrity. And feel a little ashamed of my own lack of it.”

  “Colin!” Flora suddenly saw things very clearly, that he had actually had to bend his own principles to help her, that it went against his own rather honest grain. She felt a lump in her throat. “Colin, I shall never, ever cease to be grateful to you, for what you were willing to do for me. I do thank you from the bottom of my heart. And I feel very bad indeed for wasting so much of your extremely valuable time. Why don’t you come to supper tonight and I’ll cook one of your favourites. How about some nice Welsh Black beef?”

  “That—that would be very nice,” he said, “and there’s something…something I was going to ask you a while back.”

  “Yes?”

  “I wondered—well, I mean, I wondered how you’d feel about us—that is…”

  “Colin, whatever is it you’re trying to say?”

  “Well, I wondered how you’d feel about us going to Salzburg together this summer. For the festival.”

  “Colin, I’d absolutely love it. You know I would. Why should I feel anything but pleasure?”

  “Well, you know,” he said. “I mean, some people might think—well…”

  “What might they think?” said Flora. She felt absurdly near to tears. “They’d think what a very, very kind man you were and how lucky I was not only to be going, but going with you.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s marvellous.” She could hear his pleasure, even hear his smile. “In that case I’ll book it all up then, the whole thing—flights, hotels, everything. Er, separate rooms, of course,” he added quickly.

  “Of course,” said Flora, even more quickly.

  Suddenly, even losing the house seemed less dreadful.

  There was something wrong: Debbie could feel it. Joel wasn’t properly—there. Distracted and distant, even as he made love to her: silent afterwards.

  “What is it?” she said. “What’s the matter?”

  “Oh, nothing,” he said, and his voice was cool. “I mean, it’s just great, you know, what’s happening to me at the moment.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, I’m so much in love with you I’ve asked you and not only you, your three bloody kids, to marry me, and all I get is being told to wait. While you think. My whole life on hold, while Debbie Fielding thinks. Can’t work properly, can’t make any plans, everything based on the next time you might be able to see me, and all the time fucking terrified in case you say no and go off to bloody Scotland. What do you think’s the bloody matter, Debbie?”

  She was silent; her heart thudding so loudly she felt he must be able to hear it. She sat up in the bed, started pulling on her shirt.

  “What am I to make of it, your behaviour, your inability to decide what to do? How am I supposed to believe you love me, when you throw this pile of shit at me. I’m fucking fed up with it, you know that? Even with fucking, as a matter of fact. It’s all so bloody—futile. You arrive, you say you love me, we have sex, you say you haven’t decided yet, you go again. I can’t stand it much longer, you know.”

  “You won’t have to,” she said, very low. “In two weeks, term ends, and—”

  “Well, that’s very good news, isn’t it?” he said, and he was up and pacing round the room now, staring at her, his face dark. “Term ends. Your husband comes home. That’ll be the end of it, of us. Unless—unless you deign to say yes, you will marry me, and leave him; unless these protestations of love of yours actually turn out to mean something, instead of just being rather pretty words. Why don’t you go home now, Debbie, right now, and don’t come back until you’ve made your mind up.” And confronted by the reality of it, of losing him, of saying goodbye to him, Debbie started to cry.

  “Something’s happened, hasn’t it?” said Debbie. “Something’s changed. You’re not just fed up, it’s something else—something you haven’t told me.”

  “Well, yes, there is. I…I didn’t want to tell you until you’d made up your mind. I felt it wasn’t fair. But, well, I suppose you know me too well for that.”

  “I suppose I do.”

  As she did; and as he knew her, every tiny piece of her, not just her body, not even just her senses and how perfectly and exquisitely to arouse them, but her brain, how it worked, what it did, where it went. It was almost frightening: that they should be so close after so short a time, when Richard, who she had been married to for ten years, whose children she had borne, was still in some ways an unknown quantity, Richard to whom Morag was a beacon of perfection, Richard who could deceive her, lie to her even…

  She came back to Joel with an effort. “So—what is it?”

  “I’ve been offered a job. In New York.”

  “New York.” It didn’t mean anything to her at first; anything at all. Just as, at first, a cut—even a burn—doesn’t hurt: and then the pain comes.

  “Yes. Running our New York office. It would be fun, and it would be a huge step up for me.”

  “God. How amazing. How…how absolutely amazing. I’m so, so happy for you, Joel, so proud of you, I—I—” She realised she was crying again. She had no idea why, really, except that the pain had started.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “I was so determined not to tell you. It’s too much to put on you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that of course you can’t come to New York. If we’re together. It would be out of the question.”

  “Yes,” she said very quietly. “Yes, of course I couldn’t.”

  “So you’d be making your decision on the wrong basis.”

  “Would I?” She felt dizzy; her brain didn’t seem to be functioning.

  “Well, yes. I think so. You’d know you were changing my career. Stopping me from doing what I wanted to do.” He smiled, rather awkwardly. “It suddenly struck me that this must seem rather déjà vu to you. I mean, it’s a bit the same, isn’t it, as Richard going to Scotland.”

  “No,” she said, thinking about it. “No, it isn’t. You’ve made me your prime consideration. You’ve put me before the decision. He dragged me along after it.” She went into his arms, clung to him. “Oh Joel, I love you, so much, I don’t know how to bear it. I’m so, so sorry that I’m so useless and selfish.”

  “You’re not,” he said, “not useless, anyway. Come here.” He sat down on the bed, held out his arms. “
Come and be useful. I love you so much too. Do you think I want to go away to New York without you? Do you think I want to leave you here, far away from me? I dread it already—if it has to happen. I’m just hoping and praying to a God I have no time for, as you know, that it won’t.”

  He bent his head, started to kiss her breasts, very gently. And: “Joel,” she said, still awed at her realisation of the extraordinary difference in the way she was to him and the way she was to Richard, reaching out to touch his face, “I want to be with you, I want to marry you, if you’ll still have me.”

  “What?”

  “I said, I wanted to be with you. Please. I’m sorry I’ve been so long making the decision.”

  “Oh God,” he said, “oh, thank God.” And she felt something splash onto her hand, and realised he was weeping.

  Chapter 56

  DECEMBER 1990

  Elizabeth had received a list of names from the coroner’s office of the people who would be giving evidence at the inquest. It was alarmingly lengthy, and some of the names slightly unexpected.

  There was, at least, no need for the people from France to come over; the coroner’s officer would read out the medical reports from France, the results of the postmortem, the pathology, the official reason for Simon’s death.

  There would also be a statement from his doctor in London and there would be a summary, apparently of his recent history and his financial position. John Fraser, their solicitor, would be attending. His boss at Graburn and French would also be called. Good, thought Elizabeth. I hope he can’t sleep, thinking about it all.

  And then came a long list of the people who had seen him, or spoken to him, the day before: “Not a lot of men, are there, Simon?” said Elizabeth aloud. “Nothing new there.” Catherine Morgan, Lucinda Cowper, Flora Fielding, Fiona Broadhurst—it sounded like the roll call at a girls’ school—followed by Joel Strickland. Why would he be involved, she wondered, and then remembered the article. David Green would be called, of course; and then there would be a technical report on the yacht, and another from an expert on life belts.

  And then there was a name she simply didn’t know. Maurice Crane, an executive at Jenkins and Jenkins, insurance brokers. That worried her: quite a lot. Of course, she had spoken to several people there, and they had all been most helpful, over the life policy and so on, but who was Maurice Crane, and why had he got to make a statement? The whole thing loomed over her life, casting a huge, heavy shadow. A shadow she had to walk through.

  Catherine was dreading Christmas. Phyllis and Dudley had told her they always had Christmas dinner at the Golf Club, and that she and the children would be very welcome; she almost felt that warming up some cooked turkey on her gas ring would be preferable. She was still pushing the whole thing as far back in her mind as she could when the Jane-Annes asked her if they would all like to go there.

  “Jane-Anne would love it,” Kate Price said, “and so would the boys. We’ve got masses of family coming—you’d be so welcome. And Patrick always comes round in the evening—loves his charades. You and he have become rather friendly, I believe,” she added, winking at Catherine. Which they had; but friendship was clearly all he had in mind. It was a relief. He was sweet and kind and rather amusing in his bluff way; but he was the opposite of sexy. And anyway, she was in love with Nigel.

  Dear, bumbling, perfectly natured Nigel, with his sweet smile and his rather desperate honesty. Nigel was good: good through and through. And she loved him through and through. The only problem was, he didn’t seem to be in love with her…He was still in love with Lucinda.

  Oh well. Enough of that, Catherine. The invitation touched her immensely; she also savoured the uncharitable thought of how much it would annoy Phyllis and Dudley, to think of her spending Christmas with the Honourable Prices.

  A sort of peace had descended on Debbie. Even the suggestion that they might all spend Christmas with Flora couldn’t shatter it. She still had moments of complete panic, but released now from the anguish of indecision, she felt she could at least look forward, although the view was not pleasant.

  She had to tell Richard. She had to tell the children. She had to tell Flora, or at least let Richard tell Flora. At the very thought of that, she literally shook. Finally, Richard had to tell Morag. It seemed to her not impossible that Morag would decide to find someone else to run the school, another family man, with a more amenable wife.

  The house still had to be sold; or she supposed it would. Richard was hardly going to let her live in it on her own. They had to decide where the children would go to school, whether they went up to Scotland with him, or stayed in West London with her. In which case she’d need the house.

  Decisions had to be taken about decisions. Who would decide on where the children lived and when? And would the children have a say in where they spent the term time—always supposing their father stayed in Scotland? It was all very ugly.

  The children and Richard and Flora, however, had no idea about the ugliness; they were safely encased in a shiny rainbow-coloured bubble.

  Debbie stood outside that bubble, and knew she had to burst it, had to tell them all these horrible things and contemplated what it would do to them. Her husband would be hurt almost beyond endurance, his fragile self-esteem further diminished. Her children would be grieving and shocked, the absolute security within which they had grown up shattered forever. Their loyalty would be strained. They would quite possibly think they hated her and would certainly tell her so. They would certainly hate Joel.

  And the joyful, intense way that she and Joel loved each other would be dragged through the dirt of real life.

  All these things she knew must happen; all these things she was afraid of. And all these things were worth her being with Joel for the rest of their lives. She had decided, after discussing it with Joel very carefully, that they shouldn’t be told until after Christmas. It would be too horrible for them to bear, Christmas made dreadfully unhappy. What child deserved that? She couldn’t do it; they couldn’t do it.

  And Joel, happily patient, agreed. He had turned down the New York job for “personal reasons,” had suggested various other people to Hugh, who told him he was a fool. Joel agreed that he very probably was.

  And with only two days left until Richard came home, the two of them seized and savoured whatever time they could find.

  Flora had just got back from taking Tilly to Swansea Station to catch the London train when the phone call came.

  They had had a perfect three days together: the four of them—Tilly and Boy and she and Hal. Flora had found a buyer for Hal and invited Tilly down to spend a last weekend with Boy, hoping it would give her some outstandingly happy memories. The weather had been wonderful, brilliant and frosty, and they had ridden every corner of Gower; along the beaches, over Rhossili Down, along Cefn Bryn, through the woods at Parkmill to Three Cliffs Bay and up to the storybook ruins of Pennard Castle high above the sea. Mostly they walked slowly and chatted, long rambling conversations.

  Flora spoke of the horses she had owned, from the small Shetland she could scarcely get her legs across, to her beloved Prince Hal, a present from William for her fortieth birthday. She told Tilly that she had lost lots of babies, after she had had Richard, and that riding out across the hills was the most healing thing she could do, and that after William had died she could lose her grief entirely for a few hours with long fierce gallops along the beach.

  “If only Mummy could ride,” Tilly had said, “but you know, I think work does the same for her, it heals her somehow; everyone keeps saying she should take time out, specially with the baby, but it would be disastrous for her.”

  There was an underlying sadness to her, as she talked; and on the last night she started to cry. “It’s not just Boy, Flora, it’s because he’s so much part of Daddy to me—that sounds so stupid but you know what I mean. Daddy wanted me to have him and he was so proud of me and my riding, which is pretty pathetic really as you know, and I feel I’ll
be saying goodbye to both of them when Boy goes, and I can’t bear it, I just can’t.” She cried for a long time in Flora’s arms, and in the morning, pale and subdued, she dressed for her return to London and went out to the stables on her own. Flora watched her, as she put her thin arms round Boy’s neck and rested her head against his neck; and then she ran her fingers through his mane and kissed his nose, and a very short time later she came in again, her small face white and set and said, “Can we go now, quickly?” And she had got into the car, her face turned determinedly away from the stables, breathing rather fast; and as they turned onto the road, she said, “Right. Well, that was all lovely, Flora, thank you,” and smiled at her—a quick, brilliant smile—and then cried all the way to Swansea as if her heart would break.

  The phone was ringing as Flora opened the front door, and she almost didn’t answer it. It was that awful estate agent, no doubt, to say he had more people wanting to view the house; the advertisement, published the previous Saturday, had had a poor response so far. For which she was profoundly, if foolishly, grateful.

  “Mrs. Fielding? Mrs. William Fielding?” The voice was not Welsh, it was rather grand English.

  “Yes.”

  “Good morning, Mrs. Fielding, this is Bernard Edmund-Jones from Harris and Harris, solicitors. Of Cardiff.”

  Who on earth were Harris and Harris? Not her solicitors, not the one she and William had used; she’d never heard of them.

  “Yes?”

  “May I speak with Mr. Fielding, please?”

  “I’m very sorry,” said Flora, “but I’m afraid you can’t. He died seven years ago.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Very sorry. Well, then I shall have to discuss the matter with you.”

  “Which matter, Mr. Edmund-Jones?”

  “I have just seen the advertisement for Broken Bay House.”

  “Oh yes?” Obviously he wanted to buy it; and he did sound a much more appropriate inhabitant than Mr. and Mrs. Davies from Llandeilo.

  “Mrs. Fielding, I’m sorry, but you can’t sell that house. It doesn’t belong to you; it’s not yours to sell.”