The Gatecrasher

by Madeleine Wickham

  “Or not close enough,” said Richard, thinking, bleakly, of Antony.

  “Exactly,” said Fleur. “Not close enough to know what you’re really going through; not close enough to . . . to share the grief.” She took another sip of Buck’s Fizz, and looked at Richard. He suddenly looked desolate. Drat, she thought. Have I gone too far?

  “Richard?” Fleur looked up. The rubbery man was bearing down on them. “Derek Cowley’s just arrived. You remember—software director of Graylows.”

  “I saw him in the church,” said Richard. “Who on earth invited him?”

  “I did,” said Lambert. “He’s a useful contact.”

  “I see.” Richard’s face tightened.

  “I’ve had a chat with him,” Lambert continued obliviously, “but he wants to talk to you, too. Could you have a word? I haven’t mentioned the contract yet . . .” He broke off, as though noticing Fleur for the first time. I get it, thought Fleur, narrowing her eyes. Women don’t count.

  “Hello there,” he said. “Sorry, what was your name?”

  “Fleur,” said Fleur. “Fleur Daxeny.”

  “That’s right. And you’re—what? An old school friend of Emily’s?”

  “Oh no.” Fleur smiled prettily at him.

  “I thought you were a bit young for that,” said Lambert. “So how did you know Emily?”

  “Well, it’s interesting,” said Fleur, and took another thoughtful sip. It was surprising just how often a tricky question could be stalled by pausing to sip at a drink or eat a cocktail snack. More often than not, during the silence, someone passing by would see that conversation had temporarily come to a standstill and take the opportunity to join the group—and her answer would be conveniently forgotten.

  But today no-one interrupted them, and Lambert was still looking at her with blunt curiosity.

  “It’s interesting,” said Fleur again, directing her gaze at Richard. “I only met your wife twice. But each time, she had a great effect on me.”

  “Where did you meet?” said Lambert.

  “At a lunch,” said Fleur. “A big charity lunch. We were at the same table. I complained about the food, and Emily said she quite agreed but she wasn’t the sort to complain. And then we just started talking.”

  “What did you talk about?” Richard peered at Fleur.

  “Everything,” said Fleur. She looked back at Richard; noticed his yearning eyes. “I confided in her about all sorts of things,” she said slowly, lowering her voice so that Richard unconsciously leaned forward, “and she confided in me. We talked about our lives . . . and our families . . . and the choices we’d made . . .”

  “What did she say?” Richard’s question burst forth from him before he could stop it. Fleur shrugged.

  “It was a long time ago now. I’m not sure if I even remember exactly.” She smiled. “It was nothing, really. I expect Emily forgot all about me long ago. But I . . . I always remembered her. And when I saw the memorial announcement, I couldn’t resist coming along.” Fleur lowered her eyes. “It was rather presumptuous. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Of course I don’t mind,” said Richard. “Any friend of Emily’s is absolutely welcome.”

  “Funny she never mentioned you,” said Lambert, looking at her critically.

  “I would have been surprised if she had,” replied Fleur, smiling at him. “It was really nothing. A couple of long conversations, many years ago.”

  “I wish . . . I wish I knew what she’d told you.” Richard gave an embarrassed little laugh. “But if you don’t remember . . .”

  “I remember bits.” Fleur smiled tantalizingly at him. “Little snippets. Some of it was quite surprising. And some was quite . . . personal.” She paused, and glanced sidelong at Lambert.

  “Lambert, you go and talk to Derek Cowley,” said Richard at once. “I might have a word with him later on. But now I’d like . . . I’d like to talk a little further with Mrs. Daxeny.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Fleur emerged from the Lanesborough and got into a taxi. In her pocket was Richard Favour’s telephone number and in her diary was an appointment for lunch with him the next day.

  It had been so easy. The poor man was quite obviously desperate to hear what she had to say about his wife—but too well-mannered to interrupt her as she digressed, apparently unwittingly, on to other subjects. She’d fed him a few innocuous lines, then suddenly glanced at her watch and exclaimed that she must be shooting off. His face had fallen and for a few seconds he’d seemed resigned to the disappointment of ending the conversation there. But then, almost as Fleur was giving up on him, he’d pulled out his diary and, in a slightly shaking voice, asked Fleur if she might like to have lunch with him. Fleur suspected that making lunch appointments with strange women was not something Richard Favour had done very often. Which was fine by her.

  By the time the taxi pulled up in front of the Chelsea mansion block where Johnny and Felix lived, she had scribbled down on a piece of paper all the facts she could remember about Emily Favour. “Ill-health,” she underlined. “Golf,” she underlined twice. It was a pity she didn’t know what the woman looked like. A photograph would have been useful. But then, she didn’t intend to talk about Emily Favour for very long. Dead wives were, in her experience, best avoided.

  As she hopped out of her taxi, she saw Johnny on the pavement outside the front door of the mansion block, watching carefully as something was unloaded from a delivery van. He was a dapper man in his late fifties, with nut-brown hair and a permanent suntan. Fleur had known him for twenty years; he was the only person she had never lied to.

  “Darling!” she called. “Johnn-ee! Did you get my luggage all right?” He turned at the sound of his name, frowning petulantly at the interruption. But when he saw it was Fleur, the frown disappeared.

  “Sweetheart!” he cried. “Come and see this.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s our new epergne. Felix bid for it yesterday. Quite a snip, we thought. Careful!” he suddenly snapped. “Don’t knock it!”

  “Is Felix in?”

  “Yes he is. Go on up. I said careful, you moron!”

  As she mounted the stairs to the first floor, she could hear Wagner coming, loud and insistent, from Johnny’s flat; as she stepped inside, the volume seemed to double.

  “Felix!” she called. But he couldn’t hear her. She went into the drawing room to see him standing in front of the mirror, a portly middle-aged man, singing along with Brünnhilde in a shrieking falsetto.

  When Fleur had first heard Felix’s high, fluting voice, she had thought there must be something horrendously wrong with him. But she’d soon learned that he made his living from this strange sound, singing services in churches and cathedrals. Sometimes she and Johnny would go to hear Felix singing Evensong at St. Paul’s Cathedral or Westminster Abbey, and would see him solemnly processing and bowing in his white frills. More rarely, they would see him attired in tails, singing in a performance of Handel’s Messiah or Bach’s St. Matthew Passion.

  Fleur didn’t enjoy the sound of Felix’s voice, and found the St. Matthew Passion very boring indeed. But she always sat in the front row and applauded vigorously and joined Johnny in his cries of “Bravo!” Because Fleur owed Felix a great deal. Memorial services, she could find out about from the papers—but it was Felix who always knew about the funerals. If he wasn’t singing at them himself, he knew someone who was. And it was at the smaller, more intimate funerals that Fleur had always done best.

  When Felix saw her reflection he gave a little jump, and stopped singing.

  “Not really my range,” he shouted over the music. “A bit low for me. How was the memorial service?”

  “Fine!” shouted Fleur. She went over to the CD player and turned the volume down. “Fine,” she repeated. “Quite promising. I’m having lunch with Mr. Favour tomorrow.”

  “Oh well done!” said Felix. “I was going to tell you about a funeral we’re doing tomorrow. Rather nice; they’
ve asked for ‘Hear My Prayer.’ But if you’re fixed up . . .”

  “You’d better tell me anyway,” said Fleur. “I’m not entirely convinced about this Favour family. I’m not sure there’s any money.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Terrible hats.”

  “Hmm. Hats aren’t everything.”

  “No.”

  “What did Johnny say about them?”

  “What did Johnny say about what?” Johnny’s high voice came through the doorway. “Careful, you oaf! In there. Yes. On the table.”

  A man in overalls entered the room and placed on the table a large object, shrouded in brown paper.

  “Let me see!” exclaimed Johnny. He began to tear the paper off in strips.

  “A candelabra,” said Fleur. “How nice.”

  “It’s an epergne,” corrected Johnny. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  “Clever little me,” said Felix. “To find such a gorgeous thing.”

  “I bet it cost a fortune,” said Fleur sulkily. “You could have given that money to a good cause, you know.”

  “Like you? I don’t think so.” Johnny took out a handkerchief and began to polish the epergne. “If you want money so badly, why did you leave the lovely Sakis?”

  “He wasn’t lovely. He was an overbearing bully. He used to order me about, and shout at me . . .”

  “. . . and buy you suits from Givenchy.”

  “I know,” said Fleur regretfully. “But I couldn’t stand him for one more moment. And besides, he wouldn’t give me a Gold Card.” She shrugged. “So there was no point.”

  “Why any of these men ever give you a credit card is quite beyond me,” said Felix.

  “Yes,” said Fleur. “Well, it would be, wouldn’t it?”

  “Touché,” said Felix cheerfully.

  “But you did pretty well out of him, didn’t you?” said Johnny.

  “Little bits, here and there. Some cash. But not enough.” Fleur sighed, and lit a cigarette. “What a bloody waste of time.”

  “That’ll be a pound in the swear box, thank you,” said Felix at once. Fleur rolled her eyes and felt in her bag for her purse. She looked up.

  “Can you change a fifty-pound note?”

  “Probably,” said Felix. “Let me look in the box.”

  “You know, Fleur,” said Johnny, still polishing, “your little bits and pieces probably add up to what most people call a fortune.”

  “No they don’t,” said Fleur.

  “How much have you got stashed away now?”

  “Not enough.”

  “And how much is enough?”

  “Oh Johnny, stop quizzing me!” said Fleur irritably. “It’s all your fault. You told me Sakis would be a pushover.”

  “I told you nothing of the sort. I merely told you that according to my sources he was a multimillionaire and emotionally vulnerable. Which turned out to be absolutely true.”

  “He’ll be even more vulnerable tonight when he realizes you’ve scooted,” said Felix, depositing Fleur’s fifty-pound note in a large tin decorated with pink cherubs.

  “Don’t start feeling sorry for him,” exclaimed Fleur.

  “Oh I don’t! Any man who allows himself to be duped by you deserves everything he gets.” Fleur sighed.

  “I had a good time on his yacht, at any rate.” She blew out a plume of smoke. “It’s a pity, really.”

  “A great pity,” said Johnny, standing back to admire the epergne. “Now I suppose we’ve got to find you someone else.”

  “And you needn’t expect another rich Greek,” put in Felix. “I don’t often get asked to sing at Orthodox bashes.”

  “Did you go to the Emily Favour memorial service?”

  “Yes I did,” said Fleur, stubbing out her cigarette. “But I wasn’t impressed. Is there really any money there?”

  “Oh yes,” said Johnny, looking up. “At least, there should be. My chum at de Rouchets told me that Richard Favour has a personal fortune of millions. And then there’s the family company. There should be plenty of money.”

  “Oh well, I’m having lunch with him tomorrow. I’ll try and find out.” Fleur wandered over to the mantelpiece and began to leaf through the stiff, engraved invitations addressed to Johnny and Felix.

  “You know, perhaps you should lower your sights a little,” suggested Felix. “Settle for a plain old millionaire once in a while.”

  “Come on. A million goes nowhere these days,” said Fleur. “Nowhere! You know that as well as I do. And I need security.” Her eye fell on a silver-framed photograph of a little girl with fair, fluffy hair haloed in the sunlight. “Zara needs security,” she added.

  “Dear Zara,” said Johnny. “We haven’t heard from her for a while. How is she?”

  “Fine,” said Fleur vaguely. “At school.”

  “Which reminds me,” said Johnny. He glanced at Felix. “Have you told her?”

  “What? Oh that. No.”

  “What is it?” said Fleur suspiciously.

  “Someone telephoned us last week.”

  “Who?”

  “Hal Winters.” There was a short silence.

  “What did he want?” said Fleur eventually.

  “You. He wanted to get in touch with you.”

  “And you told him . . .”

  “Nothing. We said we didn’t know where you were.”

  “Good.” Fleur exhaled slowly. She met Johnny’s eye, and quickly looked away.

  “Fleur,” said Johnny seriously, “don’t you think you should call him?”

  “No,” said Fleur.

  “Well I do.”

  “Well I don’t! Johnny, I’ve told you before. I don’t talk about him.”

  “But . . .”

  “Do you understand?” exclaimed Fleur angrily. “I don’t talk about him!”

  And before he could say anything else, she picked up her bag, tossed back her hair and walked quickly out of the room.

  Chapter 3

  Lambert put the phone down and stared at it for a few seconds. Then he turned to Philippa.

  “Your father’s a fool,” he exclaimed. “A bloody fool!”

  “What’s he done?” asked Philippa nervously.

  “He’s got involved with some bloody woman, that’s all. I mean, at his age!”

  “And so soon after Mummy’s death,” put in Philippa.

  “Exactly,” said Lambert. “Exactly.” He looked at Philippa approvingly, and she felt a glow of pleasure spread over her neck. Lambert didn’t often look approvingly at her.

  “That was him phoning, to say he’s bringing this woman along to lunch today. He sounded . . .” Lambert contorted his face reflectively, and Philippa looked away quickly, before she could find herself articulating the thought that she was married to an extremely ugly man. “He sounded drunk,” Lambert concluded.

  “At this time in the morning?”

  “Not alcohol drunk,” said Lambert impatiently. “Drunk with . . .” He broke off, and for a few moments, he and Philippa looked at each other.

  “With happiness,” said Philippa eventually.

  “Well, yes,” said Lambert grudgingly. “I suppose that must be it.”

  Philippa leaned forward towards the mirror and began to apply liquid eyeliner shakily to her eyelid.

  “Who is she?” she asked. “What’s her name?”

  “Fleur.”

  “Fleur? The one from the memorial service? The one with the lovely hat?”

  “For God’s sake, Philippa! Do you think I asked him about her hat? Now, hurry up.” And without waiting for an answer, he left the room.

  Philippa gazed silently at her reflection; at her watery blue eyes and pale, mousy hair and slightly flushed cheeks. Through her mind rushed a torrent of imaginary words; words Lambert might have said if he had been a different person. He might have said, “Yes, darling, I expect that’s the one” . . . or he might have said, “Philippa, my love, I only had eyes for you at the memorial service” . . . or he m
ight have said, “The one with the lovely hat? You had the loveliest hat of all.” And then she would have said, in the confident, teasing tones she could never re-create in real life, “Come on, sweetheart. Even you must have noticed that hat!” And then he would have said, “Oh that hat!” And then they both would have laughed. And then . . . and then he would have kissed her on the forehead, and then . . .

  “Philippa!” Lambert’s voice came ringing sharply through the flat. “Philippa, are you ready?” Philippa jumped.

  “I’ll be five minutes!” she called back, hearing the wobble in her voice and despising it.

  “Well, get on with it!”

  Philippa began to search confusedly through her makeup bag for the right shade of lipstick. If Lambert had been a different person, perhaps he would have called back, “Take your time,” or “No hurry, dearest,” or maybe he would have come back into the room, and smiled at her, and fiddled with her hair, and she would have laughed, and said, “You’re holding me up!” and he would have said, “I can’t help it when you’re so gorgeous!” And then he would have kissed her fingertips . . . and then . . .

  In the corner of the room, the phone began to ring in a muted electronic burble. Lost in her own private dream-world, Philippa didn’t even hear it.

  In the study, Lambert picked up the phone.

  “Lambert Chester here.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Chester. It’s Erica Fortescue from First Bank here. I wonder if I might have a quick word?”

  “I’m about to go out. Is it important?”

  “It’s about your overdraft, Mr. Chester.”

  “Oh.” Lambert looked cautiously towards the door of the study—then, to make sure, kicked it shut. “What’s the problem?”

  “You seem to have exceeded your limit. Quite substantially.”

  “Rubbish.” Lambert leaned back, reached inside his mouth and began to pick his teeth.

  “The balance on that account is currently a debit of over three hundred thousand pounds. Whereas the agreed limit was two hundred and fifty.”

  “I think you’ll find,” said Lambert, “it was raised again last month. To three hundred and fifty thousand.”