The Gatecrasher

by Madeleine Wickham

  “I know,” said Fleur. “Ever since her father passed away, anything to do with death upsets her.” She looked sad. “I try not to press the point.”

  “Of course,” said Gillian. “It’s perfectly understandable.”

  “Poor little thing,” said Richard. His eyes twinkled slightly. “And who’s Johnny? A special friend of Zara’s?”

  “A friend of us both,” said Fleur. Her face closed up slightly. “I’ve known him for years.”

  “You should ask him to stay,” suggested Richard. “I’d like to meet some of your friends.”

  “Maybe,” said Fleur, and changed the subject.

  Zara had disappeared into the tiny room off the hall that contained nothing but a telephone, a chair and a little table for messages. As she came out, Antony was waiting for her. He stared at her: her eyes were sparkling; she looked suddenly cheerful again.

  “So, who’s Johnny?” he said, before he could stop himself. “Your boyfriend?”

  “Don’t be dumb!” said Zara. “I haven’t got a boyfriend. Johnny’s just a friend. A really good friend.”

  “Oh yeah?” said Antony, trying to sound lighthearted and teasing. “I’ve heard that one before.”

  “Antony, Johnny’s fifty-six!”

  “Oh,” said Antony, feeling foolish.

  “And he’s gay!” added Zara.

  “Gay?” He stared at her.

  “Yes, gay!” She giggled. “Satisfied now?” She started to head into the garden.

  “Where are you going?” called Antony, running after her.

  “I have a message for Fleur from Johnny.”

  They arrived on the lawn together, panting.

  “OK, Johnny says he hopes you’ve changed your mind and will you give him a call if you have,” announced Zara.

  “About what?” said Fleur.

  “He said you knew what he was talking about. And . . . he also said he might take me to New York! As a special fourteenth birthday treat!” She darted a triumphant glance at Fleur.

  “New York!” exclaimed Antony. “Fantastic!”

  “How nice,” said Fleur acidly.

  “Anyway, that’s the message.” Zara took a piece of gum from her pocket and happily began to chew. “So, are you gonna call him?”

  “No,” said Fleur, snapping the wallpaper book shut. “I’m not.”

  Chapter 13

  On Friday morning, Richard left early for his meeting, and Fleur breathed a sigh of relief. She was finding his continual presence a little oppressive. As the weather reached summer perfection, he was taking great swaths of time off work—days of long-owed holiday, he’d explained—and spending them all at home. The first time he’d used the word “holiday,” Fleur had smiled prettily, and wondered whether she could persuade him to take her to Barbados. But Richard didn’t want to go away. Like a love-struck adolescent, all he wanted was to be with her. He was in her bed all night; he was at her side all day; she couldn’t escape him. The day before, she’d actually found herself suggesting that the two of them play golf together. Anything, to break up the monotony. We’ll have to be careful, she found herself thinking as she drank the last of her breakfast coffee, or we’ll fall into a rut.

  Then, abruptly, she pulled herself up. She wasn’t going to fall into a rut with Richard because she wasn’t going to stay with Richard. By three o’clock that afternoon, she would be at the memorial service of Hattie Fairbrother, wife of the retired business magnate Edward Fairbrother; by the time the reception was over she might have new plans entirely.

  She stood up, checking her black suit for creases, and went upstairs. As she passed the office door, she lingered. She still hadn’t had a chance to explore Richard’s affairs. Now that she was officially decorating the office, it should have been easy. She could wander in whenever she chose, poke around, open drawers and close them again, find out everything she wanted to about Richard’s business affairs, and no-one would suspect anything. And yet with Richard in constant adoration at her side, it was harder than she had imagined to find a moment when she could be alone in there. Besides which, she was almost sure that he was not quite in the league she had hoped. Johnny had got it wrong. Richard Favour was no more than a moderately well-off man, whose Gold Card would net her perhaps fifteen, perhaps twenty thousand pounds. It was almost not worth bothering to look through his dull little books.

  But force of habit drew her towards the office door. Her taxi would be arriving in a few minutes, to take her to the station, but there was time to have a quick glance through his most recent correspondence. And she was, after all, supposed to be decorating the place. She let herself into the office with the duplicate key he’d given her, looked around at the bleak walls and shuddered. Her eye fell on the large window behind the desk; in her mind she saw it curtained in a large, dramatic swag of deep green. She would match the curtains with a dark green carpet. And on the walls, a set of antique golfing prints. She would pick some up for him at auction, perhaps.

  Except of course she wouldn’t do anything of the sort. Biting her lip, Fleur sat down on Richard’s chair and swivelled round idly. Out of the window she could just see the garden: the lawn, the pear tree, the badminton net which Antony and Zara had left up the night before. They were familiar sights. Too familiar. It would be surprisingly difficult to leave them. And, if she were honest with herself, it would be surprisingly difficult to leave Richard.

  But then, life was surprisingly difficult. Fleur’s chin tightened and she tapped her fingernails on the polished wood of the desk, impatient with herself. She hadn’t yet achieved her goal. She wasn’t yet a rich woman. Therefore she would have to move on; she had no choice. And there was no point hanging around here endlessly for the last dribs and drabs. Richard wasn’t the sort who would suddenly splash out on a last-minute couture dress or diamond bracelet. As soon as she had worked out how much he could afford to lose, she would bounce his Gold Card up to the limit, take the cash and go. If she got the amount just right—as she would—then he would quietly pay it off, say nothing, lick his wounds in private and put the whole affair down to experience. They always did. And by that time, she would be in another family, another home, perhaps even another country.

  Sighing, she pulled Richard’s in-tray towards her and began to flip through his most recent correspondence. Her fingers felt slow and reluctant; her mind was only half-concentrating. What she was looking for she hardly knew. The thrill of pursuit seemed to have evaporated inside her; her drive had lost its edge. Once she would have scanned each letter urgently, searching for clues; seeking opportunities for financial gain. Now her eyes fell dully on each page, taking in a few words here, a few words there, then moving on. There was a short letter about the lease on Richard’s London flat. There was a request for donations from a children’s charity. There was a bank statement.

  As she pulled it from its envelope, Fleur felt a small quickening inside her. At least this should prove interesting. She unfolded the single sheet and her gaze flicked automatically to the final balance, already estimating in her mind what sort of figure she might expect to see. And then, as her eyes focused, and she realized what she was looking at, she felt a shock jolt round her body. Her fingers felt suddenly clammy; her throat was dry; she couldn’t breathe.

  No, she thought, trying to keep control of herself. That couldn’t be right. It simply couldn’t be right. Could it? She felt dizzy with astonishment. Was she reading the figures correctly? She closed her eyes, swallowed, took a deep breath and opened them again. The same number sat, ludicrously, in the credit column. She gazed at it, devouring it with her mind. Could it possibly be correct? Was she really looking at—

  “Fleur!” called Gillian from downstairs. Fleur jumped; her eyes darted towards the door. “Your taxi’s here!”

  “Thank you!” called back Fleur. Her voice felt high and unnatural; suddenly she realized that her hand was shaking. She looked at the figure again, feeling slightly faint. What the hell was goi
ng on? No-one, but no-one kept a sum like that just sitting in a bank account. Not unless they were very stupid—which Richard wasn’t—or unless they were very, very rich indeed . . .

  “Fleur! You’ll miss your train!”

  “I’m coming!” Quickly, before Gillian decided to come and fetch her, Fleur put the bank statement back where she had found it. She had to think about this. She had to think very carefully indeed.

  Philippa had bought an entirely new outfit for her day out with Fleur. She stood by the ticket barrier at Waterloo station, feeling conspicuous in her pale pink suit, and wondering whether she should have gone for something more casual. But as soon as she saw Fleur, her heart gave a relieved bounce. Fleur looked even more dressed up than she did. She was wearing the same black suit she’d been wearing when Philippa had first seen her at the memorial service, topped with a glorious black hat, covered in tiny purple flowers. People were staring as she made her way along the concourse, and Philippa felt a glow of pride. This groomed, elegant beauty was her friend. Her friend!

  “Darling!” Fleur’s kiss was more showy than warm, but Philippa didn’t mind. She imagined, with a rush of exhilaration, the picture the two of them made standing in their suits—one pink, one black. Two glamorous women, meeting for lunch. If, yesterday, she’d seen such a sight, she would have been filled with wistful envy; today she was the sight. She was one of those glamorous women.

  “Where shall we go first?” asked Fleur. “I’ve booked a table at Harvey Nichols for twelve-thirty, but we could begin somewhere else. Where would you like to shop?”

  “I don’t know!” exclaimed Philippa excitedly. “Let’s look on the map. I’ve got a tube pass . . .”

  “I was thinking more of a taxi,” interrupted Fleur kindly. “I never travel by tube if I can help it.” Philippa looked up, and felt an embarrassed crimson staining her cheeks. For a horrible moment she felt as though the day might have been spoiled already. But suddenly Fleur laughed, and put her arm through Philippa’s.

  “I shouldn’t be so fussy,” she said. “I expect you travel on the tube all the time, don’t you, Philippa?”

  “Every day,” said Philippa. She forced herself to flash a smile at Fleur. “But I’m willing to break the habit.”

  Fleur laughed. “That’s my girl.” They began to walk towards the taxi rank, and Philippa allowed her arm to stay in Fleur’s. She felt almost dizzy with excitement, as though she were embarking on some sort of love affair.

  In the taxi, Philippa turned to Fleur expectantly, waiting for the start of some hilarious, intimate gossip. She could feel a laugh bubbling up at the back of her throat; even had an affectionate gesture prepared. “Oh Fleur!” she would exclaim, at an appropriate moment, “You’re just too much!” And she would squeeze Fleur’s arm, just like an old established friend. The taxi driver would look at them in the mirror and think they were lifelong chums. Or maybe even sisters.

  But Fleur was gazing silently out of the window at the traffic. Her forehead was creased in a slight frown and she was biting her lip and she looked, thought Philippa uneasily, as though she didn’t want to be disturbed. As if she were thinking about something; as if she didn’t really want to be there at all.

  Then, suddenly, she turned towards Philippa.

  “Tell me, are you and Lambert happy together?” she said. Philippa gave a startled jump. She didn’t want to think about Lambert today. But Fleur was waiting for an answer.

  “Oh yes,” she said, and gave Fleur a bright smile. “We have a very happy marriage.”

  “A happy marriage,” echoed Fleur. “What exactly makes a happy marriage?”

  “Well,” said Philippa doubtfully. “You know.”

  “Do I?” said Fleur. “I’m not sure I do.”

  “But you were married, weren’t you?” said Philippa. “To Zara’s father.”

  “Oh yes,” said Fleur vaguely. “Of course I was. But not happily.”

  “Really? I didn’t know that,” said Philippa. She looked at Fleur uneasily, wondering if she wanted to talk about her unhappy marriage. But Fleur gave an impatient wave of the hand.

  “What I really mean is, why does one get married in the first place?” She gazed at Philippa. “What made you decide to get married to Lambert?”

  A tremor of alarm went through Philippa, as though she were being questioned on the wrong special subject. Swift, positive images of herself and Lambert passed through her mind: the two of them on their wedding day; their honeymoon in the Maldives; Lambert tanned and affectionate; afternoons of sex underneath a mosquito net.

  “Well, I love Lambert,” she found herself saying. “He’s strong, and he looks after me . . .” She glanced at Fleur.

  “And?” said Fleur.

  “And we have fun together,” said Philippa hesitantly.

  “But how did you know he was the right man for you?” persisted Fleur. “How did you know it was the right time to stop looking and . . . and settle down for good?”

  Philippa felt a flush come to her cheeks.

  “I just knew,” she said, in a voice which was too high and defensive.

  And suddenly into her mind flashed a memory of her mother; a memory she thought she’d quashed for ever. Her mother, sitting up in bed, fixing Philippa with her ice-blue stare, saying, “You say yes to Lambert, Philippa, and be grateful. What other man is going to want a girl like you?”

  “Jim wanted me,” Philippa had quavered.

  “Jim?” her mother had snapped. “Your father despises Jim! He’d never let you marry Jim. You’d better accept Lambert.”

  “But . . .”

  “But nothing. This is your only chance. Look at you! You’re not pretty, you’re not charming, you’re not even a virgin. What other man will want you?”

  As she’d listened, Philippa had felt sick, as though she were physically being torn apart. Now suddenly, she felt sick again.

  “You ‘just knew.’ ” Fleur sounded dissatisfied. “But I just knew this was the hat for me.” She gestured at her head. “And then, when I’d bought it, I saw an even better one.”

  “It’s a lovely hat,” said Philippa feebly.

  “The thing is,” said Fleur, “you can have more than one hat. You can have twenty hats. But you can’t have twenty husbands. Don’t you ever worry that you chose too soon?”

  “No!” said Philippa at once. “I don’t. Lambert’s perfect for me.”

  “Well, good,” said Fleur. She smiled at Philippa. “I’m glad for you.”

  Philippa stared at Fleur, and felt her bright happy smile start to fade away, and suddenly wished, for the first time in her life, that she’d been more honest. She could have confided in Fleur; she could have shared her worries and asked for advice. But her foremost instinct had been to paint a rosy, romantic picture of herself; a picture that Fleur would appreciate and, quite possibly, envy. And now her chance to tell the truth was gone.

  Lambert arrived at The Maples shortly after Gillian had left for her bridge class. He parked the car, let himself into the house and stood in the hall, listening for voices. But the house was silent, as he’d expected it to be. The night before he’d rung up and casually mentioned to Gillian that he might drop by between meetings.

  “But no-one will be here,” she’d said. “Richard’s going to Newcastle, I’ll be playing bridge and Antony will probably be out with Zara, practising for the Club Cup.”

  “I’ll pop in anyway,” Lambert had replied casually, “since I’m passing.”

  Now, without hesitating, he headed for Richard’s office. It would be a simple matter to find the information he needed, then, when he got back home, transfer an appropriate sum of money into his own account. He would be able to have a cheque ready for the bank within a week, which would buy him a few months. And then, by Christmas, Philippa would be twenty-nine and the trust money would be even nearer and his inconvenient financial problems would be over for ever.

  As he entered the office he found himself, lu
dicrously, bending down to check under the desk. As if he didn’t know that Fleur was in London, with his own wife. Attending another memorial service. Didn’t the woman have anything better to do with her time than go to bloody memorial services? He frowned at the dusty carpet, then stood up and strode over to the filing cabinet and pulled open the third drawer; the drawer which he hadn’t reached last time. And there, like a reward, were files and files of Richard’s bank statements.

  “Bingo,” he muttered softly under his breath. He knelt down and, at random, pulled out a file marked “Household.” The statements were neatly clipped together; as he fanned through them, he began to feel a sense of anticipation. Here was Richard’s financial life, laid out for him to see. The wealth that, one day, would be his and Philippa’s. Except that in this account, there was little evidence of wealth. The balance never seemed to rise above three thousand pounds. What bloody good was that?

  Impatiently he replaced it, and pulled out another, rather tattered, marked “Children.” Pocket money, thought Lambert contemptuously, and threw it down on the floor, where it fell open. His hand was outstretched towards another file as he glanced casually down at it. What he saw made him freeze in shock. The top statement was dated the previous month, and the balance was approaching ten million pounds.

  “How many courses shall we have?” said Philippa, squinting at the menu. “Three?”

  “Ten million,” said Fleur absently.

  “What?” Philippa looked up.

  “Oh, nothing.” Fleur smiled. “Sorry, I was miles away.” She began to take off her hat and shake back her red-gold hair. In the corner of the restaurant, a young waiter watched admiringly.

  “Ten million miles away,” said Philippa, and laughed heartily. The day had, so far, more than lived up to her expectations. She and Fleur had sauntered from shop to shop, trying on clothes, squirting scent on each other and laughing merrily, attracting attention like two birds of paradise. The magazines were wrong, thought Philippa. They all said that the Way to Get your Man was to go around with someone uglier than yourself. But it wasn’t true. Fleur was much prettier than she, even if she was much older—but today, instead of feeling inadequate, Philippa had felt elevated to Fleur’s status. And people had treated her differently. They had smiled at her, and men had opened the door for her, and young office girls rushing past had looked at her with envy in their eyes. And Philippa had relished every moment.