AN Outrageous Affair

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘Yes,’ said Fleur, ‘yes, I thought it might. It is a little – odd.’

  ‘This is altogether a most outrageous affair,’ said Caroline suddenly. Her eyes were almost amused as she looked at Fleur. ‘In the very best – what shall we say – family tradition. Anyway, we had better not get on to the subject of Magnus Phillips. But Fleur, you have to be very sure of one thing. Piers is dead because he wanted to be dead. He obviously couldn’t cope any longer. Being confronted by his affair with you might not have helped him feel better, but it couldn’t possibly have driven him to suicide had he been a stable, well-adjusted person. Or even if he hadn’t been stable or well adjusted. There is very seldom one reason for suicide, as I understand it. The person sees everything in a distorted way, and simply can’t cope.’

  Fleur stared at her. ‘I thought you said you knew nothing about psychiatry.’

  ‘I don’t. I have a certain amount of common sense. Not enough, I would say, looking back on my life, but quite a lot. And I had a depressive mother. Your grandmother.’ She looked at Fleur. ‘I don’t know what she’d have made of you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Fleur.

  ‘But my father would have liked you. Very much.’

  ‘Oh, really? Well –’ She stood up. ‘I think I might go for a walk now.’

  ‘All right,’ said Caroline with a sigh.

  ‘And Caroline –’

  ‘Yes, Fleur?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  Fleur went out into the garden, and stood breathing in the warm summer air, feeling soothed, calmed. For the first time in her entire life, she felt she might know how it felt to have a mother.

  Bannerman arrived in less than two hours; Chloe received him in the bedroom, dead-eyed.

  ‘Chloe, I’m so sorry,’ he said, ‘so terribly sorry.’

  ‘Roger, I feel so bad. It was my fault, you know, my fault.’

  ‘Chloe, it was not your fault.’

  ‘It was, it was, I said some terrible things to him, we’d had a ghastly family row, all of us –’

  ‘What about? Or can’t you tell me?’

  ‘Oh, Roger, I couldn’t begin. It’s so complex. But there had been something – well, quite bad he’d done. Not terrible, no worse than some other things. But I found out last night and I was horrible to him. He was trying and trying to apologize, to get me to understand, to forgive him, and I wouldn’t. I was so awful. You just don’t know, Roger – oh God, I wish, I wish I was dead too, I think I might –’ Her voice rose in a wail; her face was swollen and ugly, her eyes almost closed with crying.

  ‘Chloe,’ said Bannerman, ‘Chloe, listen to me. Stop crying and listen to me.’

  ‘Look,’ said Chloe, ‘don’t, Roger, don’t start telling me he was unstable and he’d have done it anyway, I don’t believe it, and besides, I should have been more careful, kinder, should have remembered. I killed him, and I’m wicked and I deserve to die too.’

  ‘Chloe,’ said Bannerman, and he sounded angry suddenly, his voice rough. ‘Chloe, stop it. At once. Now listen. And think. Now what about his illness. Don’t you think that might have been a factor? A BIG FACTOR?’

  Chloe stared at him. ‘What illness? I don’t understand.’

  ‘Didn’t he tell you?’

  ‘Tell me what?’ She was silent, now, holding her breath, afraid almost to move.

  Bannerman stared at her in silence; then he stood up and walked over to the window, looking out. Then he said, without turning round, ‘Chloe, Piers had cancer. Lung cancer. He was very ill. That’s why he was seeing Faraday.’ He came back, sat down beside her again, smiled at her gently. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, and put out her hand, reached for his. ‘Oh God. I had no idea. No idea at all. Tell me about it, Roger. How long had he known, how long had he got?’ She could hear the fear in her voice; she felt very weak.

  ‘There isn’t much to tell. Farady did some further tests, and they revealed he had cancer. It was – well, inoperable. You’d have to talk to him. There had been discussion about radiotherapy. At best, at very best, it was months of very painful unpleasant treatment. And then he would almost certainly have died in a short while. I can’t believe he didn’t tell you. He insisted on knowing, Faraday said.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Chloe again. She stared at him for a long time, and then she said, with a heavy, pain-racked sigh, ‘I’m sorry, Roger, but that doesn’t make me feel any better. Worse if anything. All that, knowing that, and he didn’t tell me, kept it to himself. He must have been so frightened, so wretched. I can’t have been much of a wife. We might have fought it together, tried other things – oh God.’ She dropped her head into her hands. ‘I failed him. He needed me and I failed him. God, Roger, how am I going to bear this, what am I going to do?’

  Joe was sitting in the drawing room when Bannerman came downstairs.

  ‘She’s very upset,’ he said, ‘as you know. I told her Piers was very ill, that he had lung cancer, that it was inoperable. Did you know?’

  ‘No,’ said Joe. He swallowed; he felt very sick.

  ‘He must have kept it to himself. I suppose he wanted to wait until after the investiture.’ He looked at Joe, slightly awkwardly. ‘I don’t think there’s any need for anyone to know this, but I did tell Faraday how desperate Piers was for this knighthood. I happen to know he put in a good word for him. Given that there was very little hope of him living to see the next honours.’

  ‘Good God,’ said Joe. ‘Do you mean –’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mean anything really,’ said Bannerman. ‘Except that I told him. Very influential chap, Faraday. Now, I’ve tried to calm Chloe, stressed that suicides very rarely do it for one single reason. That they are damaged personalities. Which I have to say Piers undoubtedly was.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ said Joe. ‘Unstable maybe, I’d have thought, a bit over-emotional, but damaged?’

  ‘Oh, undoubtedly,’ said Bannerman. ‘I’ve been trying to get him to see someone for years. I don’t mean he was actually crazy, of course, but he was, as you say, extremely unstable. I only hope I can bring Chloe round to that view in time. And I have no doubt that other reasons will evolve, other than some ridiculous row they may have had.’

  ‘What sort of other reasons?’ said Joe, intrigued.

  ‘Oh – this and that,’ said Bannerman vaguely. ‘They usually do. I think he had money worries. Chloe denied it when I asked her, but Piers was very secretive, he would have kept that from her. It would help Chloe in a funny way if we could establish that.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Joe. He found it hard to believe that Piers had money worries, the way he threw the stuff around, and the kind of profits the Dream had made. ‘I have to say if she has to worry about money as well, it’s hardly going to help her.’

  ‘You’d be surprised,’ said Bannerman, ‘what helps on these occasions. Anyway, I’ve promised not to start doping Chloe, but equally, she’s promised to take a couple of pills tonight. Would you be kind enough to see she does that, Joe?’

  ‘Yes, yes of course,’ said Joe.

  ‘Meanwhile, I think the best thing she can do is start planning the funeral. It will give her something to do, and channel some of her guilt and whatever. I should encourage her to make it as lavish as possible if I were you.’ His lips twitched slightly and his eyes met Joe’s in total duplicity. ‘It will absorb far more of her energies, and Piers would have liked something pretty spectacular, I think, don’t you? You could tell Chloe that, even.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Joe.

  There was, mercifully, a great deal to be done. The company at Stratford had to be notified, and Piers’s agent, his press officer briefed, the endless calls taken. All the newspapers phoned, several reporters arrived at the house, and so towards evening
did a television crew. They all wanted to speak to Chloe, ‘just a short statement’ and nothing would deter them, neither Jean Potts’s polite requests that they should go away, nor Joe’s slightly less polite instruction that they should fuck off.

  In the end Chloe came out, and said she would give them a statement; she was startlingly composed, although her voice was shaky. She said that Piers had taken an overdose but that she could not give them any more information until after the inquest.

  ‘Did you find your husband, Lady Windsor?’

  ‘No, no, I didn’t. One of the grooms did.’

  ‘Did he leave a note, Lady Windsor?’

  ‘Yes, he did.’

  ‘Did it give any information as to why he should have done such a thing?’

  ‘I can’t answer that, I’m sorry.’

  ‘This is a terrible shock after yesterday, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, of course it is.’

  ‘Where was he, Lady Windsor? Is it true he was in the stables?’

  ‘Yes, that is correct.’

  ‘How are your children?’

  ‘My children are naturally very upset.’

  ‘How are you feeling yourself, Lady Windsor?’

  ‘She’s naturally feeling great,’ said Joe, sickened, deeply ashamed of his profession, stepping forward, his arm round Chloe’s shoulders. ‘Now would you please go away, all of you.’

  ‘Joe, don’t,’ said Chloe. ‘It’s all right. I’m feeling pretty horrendous,’ she added to the crowd at the door. ‘I’d really appreciate some peace and quiet.’

  Greatly to Joe’s surprise, most of them moved off.

  Chloe was sitting in the drawing room, having a drink, when Reuben came in. He looked at her and smiled awkwardly. She smiled back. He had an extraordinary soothing, sweet smile. It made her feel better.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, ‘how are you doing?’

  ‘Oh – I’m all right, Reuben. Thank you.’

  ‘Not good, huh?’ he said.

  ‘No,’ said Chloe, ‘not good.’

  He sat there, looking at her, smiling gently; there was a long silence. She was surprised to find it was not in the least embarrassing or awkward, just rather restful.

  ‘I’m sorry you have to stay here,’ she said, ‘but I understand you can go tomorrow.’

  ‘Yeah. Well, it’s OK. I like it here.’

  Chloe laughed for the first time that day. ‘You couldn’t like it.’

  ‘I do. It’s beautiful.’

  Another silence. ‘Would you like a drink?’ said Chloe.

  ‘That’d be good.’

  She waved in the direction of the drinks tray; he poured himself a whisky, sat down, smiled at her again.

  ‘Er – is – that is, where is Fleur?’

  ‘Upstairs,’ he said and nodded, smiling. Then he added, ‘She’s very upset.’

  ‘Oh really?’ said Chloe. She heard her voice sounding bitter, angry.

  ‘Yeah really. She blames herself. I said she shouldn’t. Nor should you,’ he added.

  ‘Reuben, I’m sorry, but I must ask you not to talk about this. It’s terribly complex and personal and you really don’t know anything about it.’

  ‘OK,’ he said reasonably.

  Chloe looked at him. He was the most extraordinary person she had ever seen, or had anything to do with, so ugly, yet so extraordinarily attractive, so abrupt, yet so extremely engaging, so silent, yet so oddly congenial.

  He looked at her, and smiled his sweet smile again.

  ‘I’ll go if you want me to,’ he said. ‘Just say.’

  ‘No, don’t go,’ said Chloe, realizing that was the last thing she wanted.

  ‘I think you’re being wonderful,’ he said, picked up a magazine and became instantly engrossed in it.

  Ludovic rang her several times. He was sweet, concerned, anxious to help. Should he come down? Could he make phone calls for her? Did she want to be alone? How were the children?

  Chloe was pleased to hear from him, talked to him for a while, pouring out her litany of guilt, of despair. He said what everyone had said, that it wasn’t her fault, she mustn’t blame herself, Piers was clearly under immense strain: in the end, hearing her own voice becoming hysterical, she said goodbye abruptly and put the phone down. She didn’t tell him about the cancer. She didn’t want to tell anyone about it. It seemed to make everything worse.

  She started to think about the funeral; that seemed to make her feel better. There had to be some delay in view of the autopsy, but the police had told her that ten days or so ahead would be all right. She decided it should be in London, rather than the country, and took Joe’s advice that it should be a large affair, so that everyone could come. ‘You’re right, he would have liked that, and it’s the last thing I can do for him.’

  She phoned the rector of the actors’ church, St Paul’s in Covent Garden, and started discussing music, readings, hymns, and drawing up a list of people to invite. It was very long. Suddenly she looked up at Joe. ‘All I really have to do is duplicate the party list,’ she said, and giggled slightly guiltily.

  Joe grinned back at her. ‘Sure,’ he said.

  ‘I thought we might ask Ivor Branwen to do a reading, maybe that lovely thing by Henry Scott Holland, you know, “Death is Nothing”. It was one of Piers’s favourites. And maybe Tabitha could read something. And then David Montague has already offered to do a tribute.’

  ‘Fine. I’m sure he’ll do it brilliantly.’

  ‘Now for the music. I think some Bach, he so loved Bach, and the Mendelssohn Dream music, that would be appropriate, don’t you think? Or do you think that would be too frivolous?’

  ‘No, not at all,’ said Joe. He was beginning to feel very tired.

  ‘Or maybe, Joe, this is all wrong, and we should have just a tiny family service, and then a big memorial in a few weeks’ time. What do you think about that?’

  ‘No, I think you should have a big funeral,’ said Joe, hastily.

  Her eyes were fever bright; she was flushed. Well, at least she was no longer crying. Bannerman had been right about this. There was something just slightly strange about this reaction now; she seemed almost excited. Shock probably; he supposed she could hardly be expected to be behaving entirely rationally.

  ‘And what about the children? Are they too little, do you think? To come?’

  ‘Too little for what? Come to what?’ It was Pandora, standing in the doorway, her small face white and oddly misshapen from crying.

  Chloe took a deep breath. ‘To Daddy’s funeral, darling. Well, I think the others are really too little. But I expect you’d want to be there, wouldn’t you? To say goodbye to him? Or would you rather stay with the others and Rosemary?’

  Pandora gave her a look and there was immense scorn in it, beneath the grief. ‘Of course I want to come. Of course I have to be there. Can you go to the nursery? Kitty’s crying, she wants you.’

  ‘Oh, all right, darling. I’ll go up. Do you want to come with me, or stay and talk to Joe for a bit?’

  Joe didn’t often pray but he prayed now. Please, God, he said silently, please let Pandora go up with her mother.

  God, as He had done so often in the past, ignored his request.

  ‘I’d like to stay and talk to Joe,’ said Pandora.

  He sat on the sofa with her, and cuddled her. She was oddly composed now, although her small body felt delicate and fragile, literally shaky.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘so sorry about your daddy. He was –’ he made the supreme effort – ‘he was a very wonderful man.’

  ‘Yes, he was. I loved him so much. And he loved me so much back, you know. Best in the world, he said. Better than anyone. That was our secret.’

  ‘Oh really?’


  ‘I’m trying to be brave,’ she said, almost chattily, ‘trying not to cry. Daddy said the most important thing in the world was to be brave. He was very brave, you know.’

  ‘Oh, I know,’ said Joe, raking his brain for examples of Piers’s courage.

  ‘Sometimes, you know, he felt really ill lately. He had a sore chest. But he always went on. He didn’t let people down. And when he broke his ankle, it hurt so much and he didn’t complain about it at all.’

  ‘I know,’ said Joe again.

  ‘And when we were on holiday together, he was quite scared to do the waterskiing, but he did. We dared each other.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Yes. And even if he had to do things he really didn’t want to do, like see his money men, he did it.’

  ‘My goodness, he told you a lot,’ said Joe, his mind sharpening at the mention of Piers’s money men.

  ‘Yes, he did. We were best friends,’ she said simply, and then started to cry, and he watched, deeply touched, as she struggled to control herself and stop again.

  ‘When Granny died,’ she went on, ‘he was so sad. But he still went and smiled at her funeral, he said, and said lovely things about her, so everyone could remember her happily. Afterwards he was ill, he was so upset.’

  ‘Was he?’

  ‘Yes, but then he was very brave again. I thought I might like to say something lovely at his funeral, so people could remember him happily. What do you think?’

  ‘Well,’ said Joe, and the lump in his throat was so large he could hardly speak, ‘well I think you should ask Mummy about that. She has to decide.’

  ‘But do you think it’s a nice idea?’