AN Outrageous Affair

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘Yes,’ said Chloe, interrupting her, ‘yes, Mummy, I did, but we had the most terrible accident here this evening. Dream Street had to be shot.’

  ‘My God, how ghastly,’ said Caroline. She was clearly very upset by this; she went white, sat down suddenly, drained her glass, looked round for another drink. ‘I’m so sorry, Chloe, how terrible for Piers.’

  ‘Yes, yes, it was,’ said Chloe, the irreverent and almost shocking thought entering her head that Caroline was more upset by the death of a horse than she would have been of Piers himself, and the thought made a nervous, hysterical giggle rise in her throat and she crushed it with a great effort. ‘It was terrible, but he’s all right. For the moment. Tomorrow, it’ll really hit him, I think.’

  ‘Chloe,’ said Joe, ‘Chloe, there’s –’

  ‘Oh God,’ said Chloe, ‘excuse me, both of you, Piers is signalling. I know what it is, there’s some problem with the red wine. I’d promised to see the wine waiter before, just as you arrived. I’ll be back.’

  By the time she had sorted out the problem of the red wine (which was actually impossible to sort, as it was too cold, but had to be poured anyway), listened to Maria Woolf telling a long story about how she had tripped on the red carpet when they had gone to the palace for Jack’s MBE, found Rosemary and told her to take Ned, who was crawling around under the tables, away to bed, heard Ludovic’s companion tell her that she was so thrilled to be there, and that she thought Piers’s Othello was just about the most marvellously exciting thing she had ever seen, led Joe over to Annunciata, who was full of excitement at seeing him again, and wanted to tell him all about her new part in Superstar, introduced her mother (at Caroline’s own request) to Robin Leveret (not sure which of them would hate the other more), listened to Sarah, Toby’s wife, tell her at what seemed like immense length about her difficulty in deciding what colour to paint the nursery, enthused over Damian Lutyens’s news that he and Liza Montague were to work together on an operetta which was also a children’s extravaganza, to be performed at the Coliseum at Christmas, exclaimed dutifully over Tabitha Levine’s announcement that she was going to make what she called a tremendously innovative silent film in black and white (while wondering how such a thing could possibly be innovative), kissed Ludovic swiftly, politely, socially, told him she would see him later, that of course she loved him, that of course she could see that Candida was no more than an adornment, a buttonhole, a pair of cufflinks, no sooner had she done all that, than the waiters came round with champagne, and Piers stood up to speak.

  ‘Not a long speech,’ he said, ‘just a few words.’

  There were some catcalls from the guests of ‘sure’ and ‘that’ll be the day’, some laughter, some slow handclapping; he held up his hand for silence, laughing himself.

  ‘I swear. I only wanted to say this has been the most wonderful day of my life, the crowning of it so to speak: to thank those of you who gave the lunch for me today, to thank all of you for coming tonight, to share it with us, and most important, to thank my lovely wife, Chloe, for being and staying with me through what must have sometimes seemed like a very long six years. Lady Windsor, Chloe, darling, stand up, take a bow.’

  Blushing, embarrassed, laughing rather feebly, Chloe stood up, and the whole room clapped, blew her kisses, called out her name. She looked round the room, at the candle-lit tables and the ropes of roses and the faces lifted to her, and knew she had to say something, but her mind was quite blank, she didn’t even dare let it think, but just held up her hand, and said simply, ‘Thank you all very much for coming. It’s been nothing really, I’ve enjoyed it. All of it.’ Everyone laughed and just as she was relievedly sinking back on to her chair, the head waiter appeared in the doorway with a great wedding cake on a trolley, only instead of just the bride and groom, there were three small figures on it with them, and a whole haze of candles, and the DJ put the Anniversary Waltz on and Piers came towards her and said, ‘May I have the honour?’ and quite suddenly that really was too much, she felt sick at the very sight of it, and of him; she wanted to get it over, make a public announcement, say aloud, there and then, ‘This man is a cheat and a liar, and he has had affairs with several men since our marriage,’ only of course she didn’t, she managed to smile and move into the waltz with him, while flinching from his touch rather as she did when he approached her in bed.

  ‘I love you,’ said Piers and bent and kissed her; and then she really couldn’t stand it any more; she drew back from him and mumbled that she must check on the children, and ran from the marquee.

  She went to the morning room; it was always her favourite. She sat down in the small chair by the fire and sat hugging herself, staring into the flames, thinking of the first time she had ever been to Stebbings, when all that she had known about Piers had been that she loved him, when their relationship had been innocent and peaceful, and wept, mostly at the dreadful change in herself, and her feelings for him, at love turned to distaste, innocence become darkly carnal knowledge, and suddenly she heard the door open and she turned expecting to see Piers, only it was Ludovic, his face concerned, tender, saying, ‘Chloe, darling darling Chloe, don’t cry.’ He sat down beside her on the floor and said, ‘This is insane, Chloe, you have to tell him, tonight, you must, you must.’

  She said, ‘Oh Ludovic, I don’t know what to do.’

  Ludovic stared at her; his face white, drawn. ‘Chloe, what do you mean, you don’t know what to do? You have to leave Piers, and you have to come to me. Of course you know what to do.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Chloe, ‘yes, of course I know.’ She hesitated then, looked at him, her eyes panicky, almost scared. ‘Only I don’t, really, Ludovic, I don’t at all.’

  ‘Chloe,’ said Ludovic, ‘what are you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying,’ said Chloe, ‘that I don’t know what to do. I’ve never known what to do, Ludovic, unless someone told me. I’ve never made up my own mind. I’m a hopeless, mindless creature. I’m not in control of my life at all.’

  ‘Chloe, darling, what are you talking about?’ He took her in his arms, started stroking her hair, soothing her. ‘Of course you’re in control of your life.’

  ‘No, Ludovic, I’m not. Everything that happens to me is because of something somebody else has done or decided. And that awful charade in there just summed it up. I’m only a bit player, Ludovic, a walk-on part. An extra.’

  ‘Darling, you’re just upset. Hysterical.’

  ‘No, Ludo, I’m not hysterical. I’m very calm. Actually. Just in despair.’ And she burst into tears.

  ‘Darling, darling Chloe, shush. Don’t cry, my darling, don’t. You’ve been so brave for such a long time. I – love you so much and I’m so proud of you. There, darling, there.’

  And as she lay there against him, in the engulfing warmth and strength and comfort of him, feeling just as panicky, more almost, wanting to stay, but also wanting, needing to go, she looked over his shoulder suddenly and there in the doorway, standing just in front of an embarrassed-looking Jean Potts, was a girl. A tall, extremely beautiful girl, with a cloud of dark hair, and very dark blue eyes. She looked at Chloe, at Ludovic, and then with more than just a suggestion of a smile, she said, ‘I presume you’re Chloe. I’m Fleur.’

  July 1972

  For the rest of her life Chloe, remembering that moment, had thought of all the things she might have said and done: what appropriate, clever, authoritative, sophisticated remark or gesture she might have made; and sometimes laughed, sometimes smiled, sometimes squirmed, according to her mood, at what she actually did and said, which was to stand up, and smile graciously, and offer Fleur a cup of tea.

  It wasn’t quite like that, of course, quite that bad, quite that (in Fleur’s eyes she felt sure) hopelessly predictable. ‘You must be very tired,’ was what she actually said. ‘It’s such a horrible night, can I get you anything, a drink, something to ea
t, maybe even a cup of tea?’

  And Fleur had looked at her, taken her in; she could feel her eyes examining her, exploring her, cool, amused (although not hostile) dark blue eyes, and she put up her hand to smooth the hair Ludovic had been stroking, to brush the tears from her still-wet face, looked down quickly to make sure her dress, just slightly perilously low-cut, was still as respectable as it was able to be, and then Fleur said, ‘Sure, tea’d be good, thank you.’

  ‘Come this way, then,’ she said, leading her across the hall towards the kitchen, adding, over her shoulder to Ludovic who was looking as near to nonplussed as she had ever seen him, ‘Ludo, could you go and find Joe, please, and maybe my mother.’ She went into the kitchen where various people were sitting about, relaxing now that the food had been served, picking at the dishes themselves, pouring themselves drinks, and said, ‘I wonder, could one of you make us a pot of tea please? I’m so sorry to bring you into the kitchen,’ she added, feeling even more facile, more absurdly the sort of person she knew Fleur thought her to be, ‘but we have a big party going on, it’s chaos, we’ll find somewhere quiet in a minute.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ said Fleur and then, looking around her, ‘quite a place you have here.’

  Chloe started to take in her voice, slightly husky, quite low, that voice, and with quite a strong accent, and then she turned, and saw someone else in the doorway, a very tall, immensely thin young man, with an ugly, bony, hawklike face covered in freckles, wearing jeans and a denim jacket, with a long knitted blue and pink scarf hung around his neck; she looked at him, just stood and stared and had a very strange, strong and plainly absurd feeling that she had known him all her life.

  ‘Oh, my God, I forgot all about you,’ said Fleur. ‘I’m so sorry. Chloe, this is Reuben Blake, he’s a friend of mine. Reuben, this is Chloe. My sister.’

  ‘Hi,’ said Reuben, walking forward, holding out his bony hand to Chloe, and she braced herself for it to crush her, and to her great surprise it was gentle, that hand, and very warm; she smiled up at him, noticing that his eyes were the most extraordinary colour, a sort of yellowish brown, flecked with brown, freckled eyes, she thought, how extraordinary, and then the door opened and Caroline came in.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ she said, to Fleur, ‘what an appalling thing to do. Chloe, surely you can find somewhere more suitable to talk than this, it’s absolute bedlam in here.’

  They both, her two daughters, looked at her, in silence, equally, albeit briefly, at a loss.

  Chloe, to her surprise, recovered first. ‘It’s absolute bedlam everywhere, Mummy,’ she said, ‘and Fleur wanted a cup of tea.’

  ‘Well, let’s take the tea and move. Maybe Piers’s study would be quiet.’

  ‘Yes, all right,’ said Chloe, adding, ‘Mummy, this is Reuben Blake, a friend of Fleur’s. This is my mother, Caroline Hunterton,’ she said to Reuben, who bowed slightly at Caroline and said, ‘Hi,’ again; she nodded at him graciously, indicated to them to follow her and they all obediently filed out into the hall, where Joe was standing, looking impotently, wretchedly miserable, down the corridor, Joe too, and into Piers’s study.

  Fleur looked around her with a kind of detached interest and sat down on the large, leather-topped desk; Reuben leant, extraordinarily relaxed, Chloe thought, admiring him, liking him for it, against the fireplace, Caroline sat in the swivel chair, Joe in the other chair, by the window. Chloe, mistress of the house, hostess of the evening, stood, feeling awkward, in the middle of the room.

  ‘This is an appalling thing to do,’ Caroline said again to Fleur. ‘Surely it could have waited. Until tomorrow at least.’

  ‘I specialize in appalling things,’ said Fleur, looking at her with an extraordinarily hostile expression in her eyes. ‘Maybe it’s in my genes.’

  ‘Fleur!’ said Reuben. He said it very quietly, very gently; but it seemed to have an effect; she looked down at her hands, was silent.

  ‘Well,’ said Chloe, more awkward still, ‘we obviously have a lot to talk about. The trouble is, Fleur, I have two hundred and fifty people here. We’re – well, we’re celebrating something. It’s a bit – difficult to talk just now.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about me,’ said Fleur, ‘that’s fine. We’ll just stay here till the two hundred and fifty have gone. Won’t we, Reuben? I’m sure you all have much more important things than me to worry about.’ ‘As always’ hung in the air; her face, her eyes were hostile.

  ‘Fleur,’ said Joe, ‘you surely must see it’s not easy for Chloe. Just at the moment.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Fleur, ‘I can see that.’ She looked at Chloe, her eyes amused, contemptuous. ‘In all sorts of ways.’

  Chloe flushed, looked down. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘I’m terribly sorry. It must seem so rude. But if you could bear with me – us – for just a little while I’ll get you both some food, find you rooms even, if you’re tired. And when everyone’s gone.’ She paused; Piers’s voice came down the corridor, calling her.

  Well, it had to come, had to happen; he had to know, meet Fleur, find out who she was, what was going on. She took a deep breath, opened the door, called him.

  ‘Piers! We’re in here.’

  And he walked in, swiftly, impatiently, clearly angry, looked round at them all, and then as he took them in, focused on Fleur, sitting there on his desk, her long legs crossed – long, gorgeous, perfect legs, thought Chloe, irrelevantly envious – her arms folded, her eyes on him coolly interested, his own eyes widened, darkened, into shock, and then, unbelievably, into recognition, and he took a sharp, sudden breath and said, ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

  Caroline took command with formidable ease; dispatched Joe for drinks, told Chloe to go and see to her guests, ordered Reuben to follow her out to the kitchen, to get some food for himself and Fleur, told Jean Potts, who was clearly in an appalling state, to find the housekeeper and tell her to get two small bedrooms ready. Leaving Piers and Fleur in the study, staring at one another, she with an expression just short of a smile on her face, her long legs swinging, he frozen-faced, ashen, standing almost to attention, his fists clenched at his sides.

  Ludovic took over then, took Piers’s place, acted as host; in any case the party, sensing somehow, in a corporate way, that things were wrong, out of kilter, was already beginning to break up, people were rising, leaving, shouting farewells at people at other tables, looking round for Piers, for Chloe, kissing her, thanking her, and she was standing there, at the doorway now, with Ludovic at her side, saying goodbye, and she was sorry about Piers, he had had to lie down, he wasn’t feeling well suddenly, the strain of the day had been so intense; Maria Woolf offered to go and see him, but Ludovic, smiling, easy, said he really thought Piers was better left to rest, and saw her off; they all went, expressing sympathy, regret, gratitude for a lovely party, the fleet of cars driving endlessly down the drive; it was a clear night now, starry, sweet-smelling after the rain. Horribly different, thought Chloe, looking out into the tranquil darkness of the garden and the meadows beyond, from the seething storm raging inside.

  Almost everyone had gone now; Ludovic said to her, ‘I’ll stay, darling, you need some support, I can send Candida home with someone else,’ and she said, desperate to be rid of at least one complication in her life, no, no, she would be fine, Caroline was there, Joe was there, best they were on their own, just the family; he held her for a long time, before kissing her tenderly and then collecting a sulky Candida and driving off very slowly down the drive.

  Chloe took a deep breath and went back inside.

  They were all in the drawing room now; silently awkward, looking at one another. She went in, asked Joe for a drink.

  ‘I think,’ she said, ‘perhaps Fleur should tell us why she’s here.’

  Fleur looked at her, and there was a strange expression in the blue eyes, cautious, wary, but not altogether
unfriendly.

  ‘Sure,’ she said, ‘and I’m sorry it’s so inconvenient. I – well, maybe I should have waited. But I was upset. And scared.’

  ‘Scared?’ said Chloe. ‘Whatever about?’ She found it hard to imagine Fleur being scared of anything; she seemed totally invulnerable.

  ‘This book,’ said Fleur.

  ‘Oh,’ said Chloe, ‘the book.’

  ‘Yeah. Did you know – well, I guess you did – that Magnus has been burgled, that the publisher’s offices have been burgled, burnt down, and now that Magnus has been knocked off his bike, all that stuff?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Chloe. ‘Of course we did. I hope you’re not implying that’s anything to do with us? Mr Phillips is not exactly our favourite person, but we don’t have criminal tendencies.’

  Fleur looked at her again. ‘No, I don’t suppose you do. Although you do have very strong reasons for suppressing this book.’

  ‘Possibly,’ said Chloe.

  ‘But you might, probably do have theories about who it is doing all this. And why. I wanted to see Magnus, talk to him, but his publisher wouldn’t tell me where he is. So – I came to you.’

  ‘I don’t quite understand,’ said Chloe, ‘why you should be so scared. Nobody’s going to knock you off your bike or anything.’

  ‘They might,’ said Fleur.

  ‘But why? I don’t see what it’s got to do with you.’

  ‘Well,’ said Fleur, ‘I’m in the book. And my dad’s in the book.’

  ‘Your father?’ said Chloe. ‘But why? I don’t understand. And anyway, how do you know?’

  ‘I know because Magnus Phillips told me.’

  ‘You know Magnus Phillips?’ said Caroline. Her face was white suddenly, her eyes very watchful.