The Gatecrasher

by Madeleine Wickham

  “OK.” She shrugged. “Well, there must be somewhere, in all this forest.”

  “There’s a place down here.” He led the way off the road and into the wood. “People come here to—” How could this girl be only thirteen? She was two years younger than him. It was incredible. “You know,” he finished feebly.

  “Have sex.”

  “Well.” His face felt hot; his birthmark seemed to throb with embarrassment. “Yeah.” They had arrived at a little clearing. “Here we are.”

  “OK.” She crouched down on her haunches, took a little box from her pocket and efficiently began to roll a joint.

  As she lit it and inhaled, Antony waited for her to look up and say Wow this is great stuff, like Fifi Tilling always did. But Zara said nothing. She had none of the excited self-consciousness that surrounded the drugtakers of his experience, in fact she seemed barely aware that he was there. She inhaled silently again, then passed the joint to him.

  This afternoon, thought Antony, I was going to sit at home and watch a couple of crummy videos. And instead, here I am smoking dope with the most extraordinary thirteen-year-old girl I’ve ever met.

  “Is your family friendly?” she asked suddenly.

  “Well,” said Antony, feeling thrown again. Into his mind came the parties his parents had always held at Christmas. Decorations and mulled wine; everyone dressed up and having a jolly time. “Well, yes,” he said, “I think we’re pretty friendly. You know. We’ve got loads of friends and stuff.”

  His words rose into the silent forest air; Zara gave no indication that she’d heard him. Her face was covered in dappled shadows from the trees and it was difficult to make out an expression. After another pause she spoke again.

  “What do you all think of Fleur?”

  “She’s great!” said Antony with genuine enthusiasm. “She’s such a laugh. I never thought—”

  “Don’t tell me. You never thought your dad would date again,” said Zara, and inhaled again on the joint. Antony looked curiously at her.

  “No,” he said, “I didn’t. Well, you don’t, do you? Think of your parents dating.” Zara was silent.

  Suddenly there was a sound. Footsteps were coming towards them; indistinct voices were rising above the trees. In one swift movement Zara put out the joint and buried it in the earth. Antony leaned casually back on one elbow. A moment later, Xanthe Forrester and Mex Taylor arrived in the clearing. Xanthe was holding a bottle of vodka, her cheeks were flushed and her shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a pink gingham bra. When she saw Antony and Zara she stopped short.

  “Antony!” she said in nonplussed tones. “I didn’t know you—”

  “Hi, Xanthe. This is Zara,” said Antony. He looked at Zara. “This is Xanthe and Mex.”

  “Hello there,” said Mex, and winked at Antony.

  “Hi,” said Zara.

  “Actually, we’d better be going,” said Antony. He stood up and held out a hand to help Zara, but she ignored it, rising to her feet from her cross-legged position in one seamless action. Xanthe giggled and he felt his hand shoot defensively up to his birthmark.

  “Antony’s always such a gentleman, isn’t he?” said Xanthe, looking with bright, colluding eyes at Zara.

  “Is he?” Zara spoke politely, defusing the joke. Xanthe flushed slightly, then decided to giggle again.

  “I’m so pissed!” she said. She held out the bottle to Zara. “Have some.”

  “I don’t drink,” said Zara. “But thanks anyway.” She put her hands into her pockets and hunched her shoulders up again.

  “We’d better go,” said Antony. “Your mother might be back.”

  “Your mother?” said Xanthe at once. “Who’s your mother?” Zara looked away.

  “Fleur,” she said. She sounded suddenly weary. “My mother’s Fleur.”

  As they walked back to The Maples, the sun disappeared behind a cloud, casting the road into shadow. Zara stared stonily ahead, quelling the feeling of tearfulness inside her with a frown which grew more severe with every step. It was always like this at first; she’d be OK in a day or two. Homesickness, the people at school called it. But she couldn’t really be feeling homesick, because she didn’t have a home to be sick for. There was school, with its smell of polish and its hockey pitches and its lumpish, stupid girls, and there was Johnny and Felix’s flat, where there wasn’t really room for her, and then there was wherever Fleur was staying. And that was how it had always been, ever since she could remember.

  She’d been at boarding school since she was five. Before that, they must have had some kind of home, she guessed, but she couldn’t really remember, and Fleur claimed she couldn’t remember either. So her first home had really been the Court School in Bayswater, a cosy house full of diplomats’ children tucked into bed with expensive teddies. She’d loved it there, had loved all the teachers passionately, especially Mrs. Burton, the headmistress.

  And she’d loved Nat, her best friend, whom she’d met on her first day there. Nat’s parents were working in Moscow and, he’d confided to her over bedtime hot chocolate, didn’t love him at all, not one tiny bit.

  “My mother doesn’t love me either,” she’d said at once.

  “I think my mother loves me,” Nat had said, eyes huge over the rim of his white china mug, “but my father hates me.” Zara had thought for a moment.

  “I don’t know my father,” she’d confessed eventually, “but he’s American.” Nat had looked at her with respect.

  “Is he a cowboy?”

  “I think so,” Zara had replied. “He wears a great big hat.”

  The next day, Nat had drawn a picture of Zara’s father wearing his hat, and their friendship had been sealed. They had sat next to each other in all their lessons and played together at breaktime and been each other’s partners in the school crocodile and sometimes—which was strictly forbidden—even crept into each other’s bed at night and told each other stories.

  And then, when she was seven, Zara had arrived back at school after a half-term of sipping strawberry milk shakes in a Kensington hotel suite, to find Nat’s bed stripped and all his things gone from his cupboard. Mrs. Burton had begun to explain kindly to her that Nat’s parents had with no warning moved from Moscow to Washington and plucked him from the Court School to go and live with them—but before she could finish, Zara’s screeches of grief were echoing all over the school. Nat had left her. His parents did love him after all. And he had gone to America, where her father was a cowboy, and he hadn’t taken her.

  For a week she wept every day, refusing to eat, refusing to write to Nat, refusing at first to speak at all, then only in her notion of an American accent. Eventually Fleur had been summoned to the school and Zara had begged her, hysterically, to please take her to live in America.

  But instead, Fleur whipped her straight out of the Court School and sent her off to a nice healthy girls’ preparatory school in Dorset, where farmers’ daughters rode their own ponies and kept dogs and didn’t form unnatural attachments to each other. Zara had arrived, the oddity from London, prone to tears and still clinging to her American accent. She had been the oddity ever since.

  She was incredible, just like Fleur was incredible—but completely different. Antony walked silently beside Zara, his head buzzing with thoughts, his body filled with a faint excitement. The implications of Zara’s arrival were only now beginning to take shape in his mind. If she stayed at The Maples for a bit then he’d have someone to hang out with. Someone to impress the others with. Xanthe’s face had been something else when she saw Zara. Even Mex had looked impressed.

  He suddenly found himself fervently hoping that his dad didn’t do anything idiotic, like break up with Fleur. It was nice, having Fleur around. And it would be even nicer having Zara around the place. She wasn’t exactly the friendliest person in the world but that didn’t matter. And maybe she’d loosen up after a while. Surreptitiously, he glanced at Zara’s face. Her forehead was furrowed and her jaw was tense and
her eyes were glittering. Bolshy, thought Antony. She’s probably pissed off that we got interrupted before she’d finished smoking her joint. Druggy people were always a bit funny.

  Just then they turned a corner, and the evening sun fell on Zara’s face. Antony’s heart gave a little jolt. For in that brief glint of light her thin cheeks looked less harsh than wistful, and her eyes seemed to be glittering not with anger but with tears. And she suddenly seemed less like a druggy person and more like a lonely little girl.

  By the time they arrived back at The Maples, Zara had been allocated a bedroom, and everyone was waiting for her.

  “Darling!” said Fleur, as soon as she and Antony came in through the front door; before anyone else could speak. “Let’s go straight upstairs to your room, shall we?” She smiled at Richard. “You don’t mind if I have a few moments alone with my daughter?”

  “Absolutely not! Take your time!” Richard smiled encouragingly at Zara. “Just let me say how glad I am to welcome you, Zara. How glad we all are.”

  Zara was silent as they walked up the stairs and along the corridor to her room. Then, as the door shut, she turned on Fleur.

  “You didn’t tell me where you were.”

  “Didn’t I? I meant to, poppet.” Fleur went over to the window and pushed it open. “That’s better.” She turned round. “Don’t look so cross, sweetheart. I knew Johnny would tell you where I was.”

  “Johnny was away.” She spat each word out with a separate emphasis. “Term broke up a week ago. I had to check into a hotel.”

  “Oh yes?” said Fleur interestedly. “Which one?” Zara’s neck became rigid.

  “It doesn’t matter which one. You should have let me know where you were. You said you would.”

  “I really did mean to, poppet. Anyway, you got here. That’s the main thing.”

  Zara sat down on a green upholstered dressing-table stool and looked at Fleur’s reflection in the mirror.

  “What happened to Sakis?” she said. Fleur shrugged.

  “I moved on. These things happen.” She waved her hands vaguely in the air.

  “No money, huh?” said Zara. “He seemed loaded to me.” Fleur flushed in irritation.

  “Be quiet!” she said. “Someone might hear.” Zara shrugged. She pulled a piece of gum from her pocket and began to chew.

  “So, who’s this guy?” she said, gesturing around. “Is he rich?”

  “He’s very nice,” said Fleur.

  “Where’d you meet him? A funeral?”

  “A memorial service.”

  “Uh-huh.” Zara opened a drawer of the dressing table, looked at the lining paper for a moment, then closed it again. “How long are you planning to stay here?”

  “That all depends.”

  “Uh-huh.” Zara chewed some more. “Aren’t you going to tell me any more?”

  “You’re a child,” said Fleur. “You don’t need to know everything.”

  “I do!” retorted Zara. “Of course I do!” Fleur flinched.

  “Zara, keep your voice down!”

  “Listen, Fleur,” hissed Zara angrily. “I do need to know. I need to know what’s going on. You used to tell me. Remember? You used to tell me where we were going and who the people were and what to say. Now you just expect me to . . . to just find you. Like, you could be staying anywhere, but I have to find you, and then I have to say all the right stuff, and not make any mistakes . . .”

  “You don’t have to say anything.”

  “I’m not ten years old any more. People talk to me. They ask me questions. I can’t just keep saying I don’t know or I can’t remember.”

  “You’re an intelligent girl. You can think on your feet.”

  “Aren’t you afraid I’ll make a mistake?” Zara looked at Fleur with hostile, challenging eyes. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll ruin everything for you?”

  “No,” said Fleur, at once, “I’m not. Because you know that if you do, you’re in trouble as much as I am. School fees don’t come out of thin air, you know, and neither does that dreadful stuff you smoke.” Zara’s head jerked up. “Johnny told me,” Fleur said. “He was shocked.”

  “Johnny can go screw himself.” A corner of Fleur’s mouth twisted into a smile.

  “That’ll be a pound in Felix’s swear box,” she said. In spite of herself, Zara grinned down at her hands. She chewed some more and looked at the huge silver ring on her left hand, the one Johnny had given her during that awful week in between leaving the Court School and going to Heathland School for Girls. Whenever you’re feeling low, he’d told her, just polish your ring and you’ll see my reflection smiling back at you. And she’d believed him. She still half did.

  “Johnny wants you to call him, by the way,” she said. “It’s very urgent.” Fleur sighed.

  “What is it this time?” Zara shrugged.

  “I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me. Something important, I guess.”

  “A funeral?”

  “I don’t know.” Zara’s voice was patient. “He wouldn’t tell me. I already said that.”

  Fleur sighed again, and examined her nails.

  “Urgent. What does that mean? I expect he’s choosing new wallpaper.”

  “Or he’s having a party and he doesn’t know what to wear.”

  “Maybe he’s lost his dry-cleaning ticket again. Do you remember?” Fleur met Zara’s eyes and for the first time since meeting they smiled at each other. This always happens, thought Zara. We get on best when we’re talking about Johnny. The rest of the time, forget it.

  “Well, I’ll see you later,” said Fleur abruptly, standing up. “And since you’re so interested in fine details, perhaps I should tell you that Richard Favour’s late wife was called Emily and she was a friend of mine long ago. But we don’t talk about her very much.”

  “No,” said Zara, spitting her gum into the bin. “I’ll bet you don’t.”

  At eight o’clock, Gillian brought a jug of Pimm’s into the drawing room.

  “Where’s Daddy?” said Philippa, coming into the room and looking around. “I’ve hardly seen him today and we can’t stay too late.”

  “He’s still working,” said Lambert. “In his office.” He took the glass that Gillian offered and took several large swigs, feeling as though if he didn’t get some alcohol inside him, he would simmer over with frustration. Since arriving back, he’d sidled along to the office as often as he could, but each time the door had been slightly open and the desk lamp had been on and the back of Richard’s head had been just visible through the chink. The bastard hadn’t budged. So it looked as though he’d missed his chance. He was going to have to go back to London no closer to sorting out his overdraft problem. Not to mention the deal with Briggs and Co., a deal which should have been signed and sealed by six o’clock. A feeling of suppressed fury burned in Lambert’s chest. What a bloody disaster the day had turned out to be. And it was all the fault of that fucking woman, Fleur.

  “Lambert, have you met Zara?” And there she was again, wearing a tight red dress that made her look like a whore, smiling as if she owned the place, shepherding her bloody daughter into the room.

  “Hello, Zara,” he said, staring at the curve of Fleur’s breasts under her dress. Zara. What kind of bloody stupid name was that?

  “Hello!” Philippa came rushing over to Zara with bright-eyed enthusiasm. Whilst walking back to the house, another idea had occurred to her. She could become friendly with Fleur’s daughter. She would be an older sister figure. The two of them would talk about clothes and makeup and boyfriend troubles, and the younger girl would confide in her, and Philippa would issue kindly advice . . . “I’m Philippa,” she said, smiling warmly at Zara. “Antony’s older sister.”

  “Hi, Philippa.” Zara’s voice was flat and uninterested. There was a little silence.

  “Would you like some lemonade, dear?” said Gillian.

  “Water, thank you,” said Zara.

  “We can eat soon,” said Gillian, looking
at Philippa, “if you have to get off. As soon as your father comes downstairs. Why don’t you call him, and we’ll all sit down.”

  “OK,” said Philippa, loitering slightly. She looked again at Zara. She had never seen anyone, she thought, quite so thin. She could have been a model. Was she really only thirteen? She looked more like—

  “Philippa!” Gillian’s voice interrupted her thoughts.

  “Oh, sorry,” said Philippa. “Daydreaming again!” She tried to catch Zara’s eye in a giggle, but Zara gazed stonily past her. Immediately Philippa felt slighted. Just who did this girl think she was?

  Richard appeared at the door.

  “Sorry to have kept you,” he said. “There were a few things I had to think about.”

  Philippa was aware of Lambert glancing up sharply, then looking away again. She nudged him gently, meaning to catch his eye and roll her eyes expressively in the direction of Zara. But Lambert ignored her. She gave a hurt little sniff. Everyone was ignoring her tonight, even her own husband.

  “But now let’s have a toast,” continued Richard. He took the glass which Gillian was holding out to him, and held it up. “Welcome to Zara.”

  “Welcome to Zara,” chorused the others obediently.

  Philippa looked down into her drink. When was the last time anyone had toasted her? When was the last time anyone had welcomed her anywhere? Everyone ignored her, even her own family. She didn’t have any friends. Gillian didn’t care about her anymore. No-one cared about her anymore. Philippa blinked a few times, and squeezed hard on the few real emotions in her mind, until slowly a tear oozed out of her eye and onto her cheek. Now they’ve made me cry, she thought. I’m crying, and no-one’s even noticing. Another tear oozed onto her cheek, and she sniffed again.

  “Philippa!” Richard’s alarmed voice interrupted the conversation. “Are you all right, darling?”

  Philippa looked up, with a trembling face.

  “I’m OK,” she said. “I was just thinking . . . about Mummy. I-I don’t know why.”

  “Oh, my darling.” Richard hurried over.