It was a fact which Lambert rarely admitted to himself that the happiest and most successful years of his life had, so far, been those spent at school. He had attended Creighton—a minor public school in the Midlands—and had soon found himself one of the brightest, strongest and most powerful boys in the school. A natural bully, he had soon established around himself a sycophantic entourage, mildly terrorizing younger boys and sneering in packs at the local lads in the town. The boys at Creighton were for the most part third-rate plodders who would never again in their lives achieve the superior status which was accorded to them in this little town; therefore they made the most of it, striding around the streets in their distinctive greatcoats and flamboyant ties, braying loudly and picking fights with what were known as the townies. Lambert had rarely actually fought himself but had become known as the author of a great number of disparaging remarks about the “plebs” which had eventually given him the reputation of a wit. The masters—themselves insular, bored and discouraged with life—had not reprimanded him but tacitly encouraged him in this role; had fed his pompous, superior manner with winks and chortles and snobbish asides. Lambert’s timid mother had delighted in her tall, confident son with his loud voice and forthright views, which by the time he reached the sixth form, were dismissive of almost everyone at Creighton and almost everyone outside of Creighton too.
The exception was his father. Lambert had always idolized his father—a tall, swaggering man with an overbearing manner which Lambert still unconsciously emulated. His father’s moods had been violent and unpredictable, and Lambert had grown up desperate for his approval. When his father made fun of the young Lambert’s rubbery-looking face or clipped him too vigorously round the head, Lambert would force himself to grin back and laugh; when he spent whole evenings bellowing at Lambert’s mother, Lambert would creep upstairs to his bedroom, telling himself furiously that his father was right; his father was always right.
It had been Lambert’s father who insisted he attend Creighton School, as he had done. Who taught him to mock the other boys in the village; who took him to Cambridge for the day and proudly pointed out his old college. It was his father, Lambert believed, who knew about the world; who cared about his future; who would guide him in life.
And then, when Lambert was fifteen, his father announced that he had a mistress, that he loved her and that he was leaving. He said he’d come back and visit Lambert; he never did. Later they heard that he’d only lasted six months with the mistress; that he’d gone abroad; that no-one knew where he was.
Filled with a desperate, adolescent grief, Lambert had taken his anger out on his mother. It was her fault his father had left. It was her fault that there was now no money for holidays; that letters had to be written to the headmaster of Creighton, pleading for a reduction in the fees. As their situation grew more and more wretched, Lambert’s swagger grew more pronounced; his contempt for the town plebs grew fiercer—and his idolatry for his absent father grew even stronger.
Against the advice of his masters, he tried for Cambridge—for his father’s old college. He was granted an interview but on the strength of his interview he was turned down. The sense of failure was almost more than he could bear. Abruptly he announced that he was not going to waste his time with university. The masters remonstrated with him, but only mildly; he was on the way out of their lives and therefore of waning interest. Their attention was now focusing on the boys lower down the school; the boys Lambert had used to beat for burning his toast. What Lambert did with his life, they didn’t really care. His mother, who did care, was roundly ignored.
And so Lambert had gone straight to London, straight into a job in computing. The pompous manner which might have been rubbed off by Cambridge remained, as did his feeling of innate superiority. When others of inferior schooling were promoted above him, he retaliated by wearing his OC tie to work. When his flat mates organized weekend gatherings without him, he retaliated by driving back up to Creighton and displaying his latest car to anyone who would look. It was unthinkable to Lambert that those around him should not admire him and defer to him. Those who didn’t, he dismissed as being too ignorant to bother with. Those who did, he secretly despised. He was unable to make friends; unable even to understand any relationship based on equality. Those who would tolerate his company for even a couple of hours had been few and were becoming fewer when he moved to Richard’s company. And at that point his life had been transformed. He had married the boss’s daughter and moved on to a new level and his status had become, in his own mind, assured for good.
Richard, he was certain, appreciated his superior attributes—his intellect, his breeding, his ability to make decisions—although not as fully as Emily had appreciated them. Philippa was a little fool who thought flowers looked nicer on a tie than Old Creightonian stripes. But Fleur . . . Lambert scowled, and wiped a drip of sweat from his brow. Fleur didn’t obey the rules. She seemed heedless of his rank as Richard’s son-in-law and almost oblivious of social convention. She was too slippery; he couldn’t place her. What was her age exactly? What was her accent exactly? Where did she fit into his scheme of things?
“Lambert!” Philippa’s voice interrupted his thoughts. She was coming towards the eighteenth green, merrily waving her bag at him.
“Philippa!” His head jerked up; in his state of frustration he felt almost glad to see his wife’s familiar face, slightly flushed. Tea with Tricia had clearly metamorphosed into G and T with Tricia.
“I thought I’d catch you playing the eighteenth! But you’ve finished already! That was pretty quick!”
Lambert said nothing. When Philippa was in full voluble flight she would scoop everything up from a subject that could possibly be mentioned, leaving no crumbs for an answer.
“Good game?” Lambert shot a glance behind him. Richard and the two men from Briggs & Co. were some way behind, walking slowly, all listening to something Fleur was saying.
“Bloody awful game.” He stepped off the course and without waiting for the others began to stride towards the trolley shed, his spikes clattering noisily on the path.
“What happened?”
“That bloody woman. All she did was ask questions. Every fucking five minutes. ‘Richard, could you explain that again to a very stupid lay-woman?’ ‘Richard, when you say cashflow, what exactly do you mean?’ And I’m trying to impress these guys. Christ, what an afternoon.”
“Maybe she’s just interested,” said Philippa.
“Of course she isn’t interested. Why would she be interested? She’s just a stupid tart who likes having all the attention.”
“Well, she certainly looks very good,” said Philippa wistfully, turning to survey Fleur.
“She looks terrible,” said Lambert. “Far too sexy for a golf course.” Philippa giggled.
“Lambert! You’re awful!” She paused, then added in needlessly hushed tones, “We were talking about her this afternoon, actually. Tricia and I.” She lowered her voice further. “Apparently she’s really rich! Tricia told me. She’s got a chauffeur and everything! Tricia said she thought Fleur was super.” Philippa darted a bright-eyed glance at Lambert. “Tricia thinks . . .”
“Tricia is a moron.” Lambert wiped the sweat off his brow again and wondered why the hell he was talking about Fleur to his wife. He turned and looked at Fleur sauntering along in her white dress, looking at him with her mocking green eyes. The arousal which he had fought all afternoon began to stir in him again.
“Christ what a fiasco,” he said coarsely, turning back, running a frustrated hand over Philippa’s inferior buttocks. “I need a bloody drink.”
Unfortunately the chaps from Briggs and Co. didn’t have time for a drink. Regretfully they shook hands and, with one last admiring glance at Fleur, got back into their Saab and drove off. The others stood politely in the car park, watching them manoeuvre the car past rows of glossy BMWs, the occasional Rolls-Royce, a sprinkling of pristine Range Rovers.
Phi
lippa felt a twinge of disappointment as their car disappeared through the gates. She had looked forward to meeting them, chatting to them, perhaps flirting a little, perhaps even organizing a dinner party for them and their wives. Since marrying Lambert two years before, she had only given one dinner party, for her parents and Antony. And yet at home she had an elegant dining room with a table big enough for ten, and a kitchen full of expensive saucepans, and a “Dinner Party” book full of recipes and time-saving tips, laboriously copied out of magazines.
She had always thought that being married to Lambert would mean she spent the evenings entertaining Lambert’s friends: cooking elaborate dishes for them, perhaps striking up jolly acquaintanceships with their wives. But now it appeared that Lambert didn’t have any friends. And neither, if she was honest, did she—only people at Greyworth who had been her mother’s friends, and people from work, who were always leaving to go to other jobs and never seemed to be free in the evenings anyway. Her contemporaries from university had long since dispersed about the country; none of them lived in London.
Suddenly Fleur laughed at something Richard had said, and Philippa’s head jerked up. If only Fleur could be her friend, she thought wistfully. Her best friend. They could go out to lunch, and have little private jokes which only they understood, and Fleur would introduce her to all her friends, and then Philippa would offer to host a dinner party for her in London . . . In her mind, Philippa’s dining room became filled with amusing, delightful people. Candles burning, flowers everywhere, all her wedding china out of its wrappers. She would pop into the kitchen to check on the seafood brochettes with civilized laughter in her ears. Lambert would come in after her ostensibly to replenish glasses, but really to tell her how proud he was of her. He would put the glasses down, then draw her towards him in a slow embrace . . .
“Is that Gillian?” Fleur’s voice, raised in astonishment, woke Philippa from her reverie. “What’s she doing here?”
Everyone looked up, and Philippa tried to catch Fleur’s eye; to start the seeds of friendship between them. But Fleur didn’t see her. Fleur was looking up at Richard as though no one else in the world existed.
Watching Gillian approach across the car park, Richard gradually pulled Fleur closer and closer to him until they were practically hip to hip.
“I’m so glad you came along,” he murmured in her ear. “I’d forgotten how interminable these games can be. Especially when Lambert’s involved.”
“I enjoyed it,” said Fleur, smiling demurely at him. “And I certainly learned a lot.”
“Would you like some golf lessons?” said Richard immediately. “I should have suggested it before. We can easily fix some up for you.”
“Maybe,” said Fleur. “Or maybe you could teach me yourself.” She glanced up at Richard’s face, still flushed from the sun, still exhilarated from his victory. He looked as relaxed and happy as she’d ever seen him.
“Hello Gillian,” said Richard, as she came within earshot. “What good timing. We’re just about to have a drink.”
“I see,” said Gillian distractedly. “Are the people from Briggs and Co. still around?”
“No, they had to shoot off,” said Richard. “But we’re going to have a celebratory drink on our own.”
“Celebrate?” said Lambert. “What’s there to celebrate?”
“The preferential rate which Briggs and Co. have offered us,” said Richard, his mouth twisting into a smile. “Which Fleur charmed them into offering us.”
“A preferential rate?” said Philippa, ignoring Lambert’s disbelieving scowl. “That’s marvellous!” She smiled warmly at Fleur.
“It would be marvellous,” said Fleur, “if they weren’t a pair of utter crooks.”
“What?” They all stared at her.
“Didn’t you think so?” she said.
“Well . . .” said Richard doubtfully.
“Of course I didn’t think so!” said Lambert. “These chaps are chums of mine.”
“Oh,” said Fleur. She shrugged. “Well I don’t want to offend anyone. But I thought they were crooks, and if I were you I wouldn’t do business with them.”
Philippa glanced at Lambert. He was breathing heavily and his face was an even brighter scarlet than before.
“They cheat a little on the golf course, maybe,” said Richard uncomfortably. “But . . .”
“Not just on the golf course,” said Fleur. “Trust me.”
“Trust you?” exclaimed Lambert, as though unable to keep quiet any more. “What the hell do you know about anything?”
“Lambert!” said Richard sharply. He looked fondly down at Fleur. “Tell you what, darling, I’ll think about it. Nothing’s signed yet.”
“Good,” said Fleur.
“Fleur,” said Gillian quietly. “You’ve got—”
“What do you mean, you’ll think about it?” Lambert’s scandalized voice exploded across hers. “Richard, you’re not taking this rubbish of Fleur’s seriously?”
“All I’ve said, Lambert,” said Richard tightly, “is that I’ll think about it.”
“For Christ’s sake, Richard! The deal’s all set up!”
“It can be un-set up.”
“I don’t believe I’m hearing this!”
“Fleur,” said Gillian more urgently. “You’ve got a visitor back at the house.”
“Since when was Fleur consulted on company decisions?” Lambert’s face was almost purple. “Whose advice are you going to ask next? The milkman’s?”
“I’m just giving an opinion,” said Fleur, shrugging. “You can ignore it if you like.”
“Fleur!” Gillian’s voice rose harshly into the air. Everyone turned to look at her. “Your daughter’s here.”
There was silence.
“Oh, is she?” said Fleur casually. “Yes, I suppose it must be the end of term. How did she get here?”
“Your daughter?” said Richard, giving a little, uncertain laugh.
“I told you about my daughter,” said Fleur. “Didn’t I?”
“Did you?”
“Perhaps I didn’t.” Fleur sounded unconcerned.
“The woman is a nutter!” muttered Lambert to Philippa.
“She just arrived out of the blue,” said Gillian, in tones of stupefaction. “Is her name Sarah? I couldn’t quite make it out.”
“Zara,” said Fleur. “Zara Rose. Where is she now?” she added, almost as an afterthought.
“She’s gone out for a walk,” said Gillian, as though this surprised her the most of all, “with Antony.”
Antony looked again at Zara and tried to think of something to say. They’d been walking for ten minutes now in complete silence. Zara’s hands were in her pockets and her shoulders were hunched up, and she was staring straight ahead as though she didn’t want to catch anyone’s eye. They were very thin shoulders, thought Antony, glancing at her again. In fact Zara was one of the thinnest people he’d ever seen. Her arms were long and bony; her ribs were practically visible through her T-shirt. No tits to speak of, even though she was . . . how old was she?
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Thirteen.” Her voice was American and raspy and not very friendly. She shook back her long white-blond hair and hunched her shoulders again. Her hair was bleached, thought Antony knowledgeably, pleased with himself for having noticed.
“And . . . where do you go to school?” This was more like it. Small talk.
“Heathland School for Girls.”
“Is it nice?”
“It’s a boarding school.” She spoke as though that were answer enough.
“Did you . . . When did you move here from the States?”
“I didn’t.” Oh ha-ha, thought Antony.
“Canada, then,” he said.
“I’ve lived in Britain all my life,” she said. She sounded bored. Antony stared at her, perplexed.
“But your accent . . .”
“I have an American accent. So what? It’s my choice
.” For the first time she turned towards him. Her eyes were extraordinary, he thought—green like Fleur’s but deep-set and fierce-looking.
“You just decided to speak with an American accent?”
“Yup.”
“Why?”
“Just did.”
“How old were you?”
“Seven.”
They walked for a while in silence. Antony tried to remember himself at seven. Could he have made a decision like that? And stuck with it? He thought not.
“I guess your dad’s rich, right?” Her voice rasped through the air and Antony felt himself blushing.
“Quite rich, I suppose,” he said. “I mean, not that rich. But you know. Well off. Relatively speaking.” He knew he was sounding awkward and pompous, but there was nothing he could do about it. “Why do you want to know?” he said, retaliating.
“No reason.” She took her hands out of her pockets and began to examine them. Antony followed her gaze. They were thin hands, tanned pale brown, with a single, huge silver ring on each. Why? thought Antony in sudden fascination. Why are you staring at your hands? Why are you frowning? What are you looking for?
Abruptly she seemed to get bored with her hands and thrust them back into her pockets. She turned to Antony.
“You mind if I smoke a joint?”
Antony’s heart missed a beat. This girl was only thirteen. How could she be smoking joints?
“No . . . I don’t mind.” He could hear his voice slipping higher and higher, into a register of slight panic.
“Where do you go to smoke? Or don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Antony, too quickly. “But mostly at school.”
The Gatecrasher Page 11