“Was that confirmed in writing?”
“Larry Collins fixed it up for me.”
“Larry Collins has left the bank.” Erica Fortescue’s voice came smoothly down the line.
Fuck, thought Lambert. Larry’s been sacked. Stupid bugger.
“Well, he confirmed it in writing before he left,” he said quickly. He could easily knock up some letter.
“There’s nothing in our files.”
“Well I expect he forgot.” Lambert paused, and his face twisted into a complacent sneer. “Maybe he also forgot to tell you that in two years’ time I’ll be coming into more money than either of you has ever seen.” That’ll sort you, he thought, you stupid officious bitch.
“Your wife’s trust fund? Yes, he did tell me about it. Has that been confirmed?”
“Of course it has. It’s all set up.”
“I see.”
“And you’re still worried about my pathetic little overdraft?”
“Yes, Mr. Chester, I am. We don’t generally accept spouses’ assets as collateral on sole accounts.” Lambert stared at the phone in anger. Who did this tart think she was? “Another thing . . .”
“What?” He was beginning to feel rattled.
“I was interested to see that there’s no mention of the trust fund in your wife’s file here. Only in your own file. Is there a reason for that?”
“Yes there is,” snapped Lambert, his guard down. “It’s not mentioned in my wife’s file because she doesn’t know about it.”
The files were empty. All empty. Fleur stared at them in disbelief, flicking a few of them open, checking for stray documents, bank statements, anything. Then, hearing a noise, she quickly pushed the drawers of the metal cabinet shut and hurried over to the window. When Richard came into the room, she was leaning out, breathing in the London fumes rapturously.
“Such a wonderful view,” she exclaimed. “I adore Regent’s Park. Do you often visit the Zoo?”
“Never,” said Richard, laughing. “Not since Antony was little.”
“We must go,” said Fleur. “While you’re still in London.”
“This afternoon, perhaps?”
“This afternoon we’re going to Hyde Park,” said Fleur firmly. “It’s all arranged.”
“If you say so.” Richard grinned. “But now we’d better get going if we’re not going to be late for Philippa and Lambert.”
“OK.” Fleur smiled charmingly at Richard and allowed herself to be led from the room. At the door she glanced fleetingly around, wondering if she’d missed something. But the only businesslike piece of furniture she could see was the filing cabinet. No desk; no bureau. His paperwork must all be somewhere else. At the office. Or at the house in Surrey.
On the way to the restaurant, she allowed her hand to fall easily into Richard’s, and as their fingers linked she saw a tiny flush spread across his neck. He was such a buttoned-up English gentleman, she thought, trying not to laugh. After four weeks, he had progressed no further than kissing her, with dry, diffident, out-of-practice lips. Not like brutish Sakis, who had dragged her off to a hotel room after their very first lunch date. Fleur winced at the memory of Sakis’s thick, hairy thighs; his barked commands. Much better this way. And to her surprise, she rather liked being treated like a high-school virgin. She walked along beside Richard with a smile on her face, feeling wrapped up and protected and smug, as though she really did have a virtue to protect; as though she were saving herself for that special moment.
Whether she could wait that long was another matter. Four weeks of lunches, dinners, films and art galleries—and she still had no hard evidence that Richard Favour had serious money. So he had a few nice suits; a London flat; a Surrey mansion; a reputation of wealth. That didn’t mean anything. The houses might be mortgaged up to the hilt. He might be about to go bust. He might be about to ask her for money. It had happened to her once before—and ever since, Fleur had been wary. If she couldn’t find hard proof of money, she was wasting her time. Really, she should have been off by now. On to the next funeral; the next sucker. But . . .
Fleur paused in her thoughts, and tucked Richard’s arm more firmly under her own. If she was honest with herself, she had to admit that her self-confidence had slightly fallen since she’d left Sakis. In the last few weeks she had attended three funerals and five memorial services—but so far Richard Favour was her only promising catch. Meanwhile Johnny and Felix, sweet as they were, had begun to get fidgety at the sight of her luggage littering their spare room. She didn’t usually spend so long between men (“resting,” as Felix put it); usually it was straight out of one bed and into another.
If only, thought Fleur, she could speed Richard up a bit: secure a place in his bed; work her way into his household. Then she’d be able to assess his finances properly and at the same time solve the problem of a place to stay. Otherwise—if things didn’t work out soon—she would be forced to take the sort of steps she’d vowed she’d never stoop to. She would have to find a flat of her own. Maybe even look for a job. Fleur shuddered, and her jaw tightened in determination. She would just have to get Richard into bed. Once that had happened, everything would become easy.
As they turned into Great Portland Street, Richard felt Fleur nudge him.
“Look!” she said in a low voice. “Look at that!”
Richard turned his head. On the other side of the road were two nuns standing on the pavement, apparently engaged in a bitter dispute.
“I’ve never seen nuns arguing before,” said Fleur, giggling.
“I don’t think I have either.”
“I’m going to talk to them,” said Fleur suddenly. “Wait here.”
Richard watched in astonishment as Fleur strode across the road. For a few moments she stood on the pavement opposite, a vibrant figure in her scarlet coat, talking to the black-habited nuns. They seemed to be nodding and smiling. Then all of a sudden she was coming back across the road towards him, and the nuns were walking away in apparent harmony.
“What happened?” exclaimed Richard. “What on earth did you say?”
“I told them the Blessed Virgin Mary was grieved by discord.” Fleur grinned at Richard’s incredulous expression. “Actually, I told them how to get to the tube station.”
Richard gave a sudden laugh.
“You’re a remarkable woman!” he said.
“I know,” said Fleur complacently. She tucked her hand under his arm again, and they began to walk.
Richard stared at the pale spring sunlight dappling the pavement, and felt a bubbling exhilaration rise through his body. He had known this woman for a mere four weeks, and already he couldn’t imagine life without her. When he was with her, drab everyday events seemed transformed into a series of shiny moments to relish; when he wasn’t with her, he was wishing that he was. Fleur seemed to turn life into a game—not the rigid maze of rules and conventions to which Emily had so tirelessly adhered, but a game of chance; of who dares wins. He found himself waiting with a childish excitement to hear what she would say next; what plan she would surprise him with. He had seen more of London over the last four weeks than ever before; laughed more than ever before; spent more money than he had for a long time.
Often his mind would return to Emily, and he would feel a pang of guilt—guilt that he was spending such a lot of time with Fleur, that he was enjoying himself so much, that he had kissed her. And guilt that his original motivation for pursuing Fleur—to discover as much about Emily’s hidden character as he could—seemed to have taken second place to that of simply being with her. Sometimes in his dreams he would see Emily’s face, pale and reproachful; he would wake in the night, curled up in grief and sweating with shame. But by morning Emily’s image had always faded, and all he could think about was Fleur.
“She’s stunning!” said Lambert in outraged tones.
“I told you,” said Philippa. “Didn’t you notice her at the memorial service?”
Lambert shrugged.
They watched in silence as Fleur took off her scarlet coat. Underneath she was wearing a clinging black dress; she gave a little wriggle and smoothed it down over her hips. Lambert felt a sudden stab of angry desire. What the hell was a woman like that doing with Richard, when he was stuck with Philippa?
“They’re coming,” said Philippa. “Hello, Daddy!”
“Hello darling,” said Richard, kissing her. “Lambert.”
“Richard.”
“And this is Fleur.” Richard couldn’t stop the smirk of pride spreading across his face.
“I’m so glad to meet you,” said Fleur, smiling warmly at Philippa and holding out her hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Philippa took it. “And Lambert, of course, I’ve already met.”
“Very briefly,” said Lambert, in discouraging tones. Fleur gave him a curious look, then smiled again at Philippa. Slightly unnerved, Philippa smiled back.
“I’m sorry we’re a little late,” said Richard, shaking out his napkin. “We ahm . . . we got into a contretemps with a pair of nuns. Nuns on the run.” He glanced at Fleur and with no warning they both began to laugh.
Philippa looked uneasily at Lambert, who raised his eyebrows.
“I’m sorry,” said Richard, still chuckling. “It’s too long to explain. But it was terribly funny.”
“I expect it was,” said Lambert. “Have you ordered drinks?”
“I’ll have a Manhattan,” said Richard.
“A what?” Philippa stared at him.
“A Manhattan,” repeated Richard. “Surely you’ve heard of a Manhattan?”
“Richard was a Manhattan virgin until last week,” said Fleur. “I just adore cocktails. Don’t you?”
“I don’t know,” said Philippa. “I suppose so.” She took a sip of her fizzy water and tried to remember the last time she’d had a cocktail. Then, to her disbelief, she noticed her father’s hand creeping under the table to meet Fleur’s. She glanced at Lambert; he was gazing, transfixed, at the same thing.
“And I’ll have one too,” said Fleur cheerfully.
“I think I’d better have a gin,” said Philippa. She felt slightly faint. Was this really her father? Holding hands with another woman? She couldn’t believe it. She’d never even seen him holding hands with her mother. And here he was, grinning away as though Mummy had never existed. He wasn’t behaving like her father, she thought. He was behaving as though . . . as though he were a normal man.
Lambert was the tricky one, thought Fleur. It was he who kept giving her suspicious looks; who kept quizzing her on her background and probing her on exactly how well she’d known Emily. She could almost see the phrase “gold-digger” forming itself in his mind. Which was good if it meant there was some money to be had—but not if it meant he was going to rumble her. She would have to butter him up.
So, as the puddings arrived, she turned to him and adopted a deferential, almost awed expression.
“Richard’s told me that you’re his company’s computer expert.”
“That’s right,” said Lambert, sounding bored.
“How marvellous. I know nothing about computers.”
“Most people don’t.”
“Lambert designs computer programs for the company,” said Richard, “and sells them to other firms. It’s quite a profitable sideline.”
“So are you going to be another Bill Gates?”
“Actually, my approach is completely different from Gates’s,” said Lambert coldly. Fleur looked at him to see if he was joking but his eyes were hard and humourless. Goodness, she thought, trying not to laugh. Never underestimate a man’s vanity.
“But you still might make billions?” Lambert shrugged.
“Money doesn’t interest me.”
“Lambert doesn’t bother about money,” put in Philippa, giving an uncertain little laugh. “I do all our bookkeeping.”
“A task eminently suited to the female mind,” said Lambert.
“Hang on a minute, Lambert,” protested Richard. “I don’t think that’s quite fair.”
“It may not be fair,” said Lambert, digging a spoon into his chocolate mousse, “but it’s true. Men create, women administrate.”
“Women create babies,” said Fleur.
“Women produce babies,” said Lambert. “Men create them. The woman is the passive partner. And who determines the sex of a baby? The man or the woman?”
“The clinic,” said Fleur. Lambert looked displeased.
“You don’t seem to appreciate the point of what I’m saying,” he began. “Quite simply . . .” But before he could continue, he was interrupted by a ringing, female voice.
“Well, what a surprise! The Favour family en masse!” Fleur looked up. A blond woman in an emerald green jacket was bearing down on them. Her eyes swivelled from Richard to Fleur, to Lambert, to Philippa, and back to Fleur. Fleur returned her gaze equably. Why did these women have to wear so much makeup? she wondered. The woman’s eyelids were smothered in bright blue frosting; her eyelashes stuck straight out from her eyes in black spikes; on one of her teeth there was a tiny smear of lipstick.
“Eleanor!” said Richard. “How nice to see you. Are you up with Geoffrey?”
“No,” said Eleanor. “I’m having lunch with a girlfriend; then we’re off to the Scotch House.” She shifted the gilt chain strap of her bag from one shoulder to the other. “Actually, Geoffrey was saying only the other day that he hadn’t seen you at the club recently.” Her voice held a note of enquiry; again her eyes slid towards Fleur.
“Let me introduce you,” said Richard. “This is a friend of mine, Fleur Daxeny. Fleur, this is Eleanor Forrester. Her husband is captain of the golf club down at Greyworth.”
“How nice to meet you,” murmured Fleur, rising from her seat slightly to shake hands. Eleanor Forrester’s hand was firm and rough; almost masculine except for the red-painted nails. Another golfer.
“Are you an old friend of Richard’s?” asked Eleanor.
“Not really,” said Fleur. “I met Richard for the first time four weeks ago.”
“I see,” said Eleanor. Her spiky eyelashes batted up and down a few times. “I see,” she said again. “Well, I suppose I’d better be off. Will you be playing in the Spring Meeting, any of you?”
“I certainly will,” said Lambert.
“Oh, I expect I will too,” said Richard. “But who knows?”
“Who knows,” echoed Eleanor. She looked again at Fleur, and her mouth tightened. “Very nice to meet you, Fleur. Very interesting indeed.”
They watched in silence as she walked briskly away, her blond hair bouncing stiffly on the collar of her jacket.
“Well,” exclaimed Lambert when she was out of earshot. “That’ll be all over the club tomorrow.”
“Eleanor was a really good friend of Mummy’s,” said Philippa apologetically to Fleur. “She probably thought . . .” She broke off awkwardly.
“You know, you’ll have to watch it,” said Lambert to Richard. “You’ll get back to Greyworth and find everyone’s been talking about you.”
“How nice,” said Richard, smiling at Fleur, “to be the centre of attention.”
“It may seem funny now,” said Lambert. “But if I were you . . .”
“Yes, Lambert? What would you do?”
A note of steel had crept into Richard’s voice, and Philippa shot Lambert a warning look. But Lambert ploughed on.
“I’d be a bit careful, Richard. Frankly, you don’t want people getting the wrong idea. You don’t want people gossiping behind your back.”
“And why should they gossip behind my back?”
“Well I mean, it’s obvious, isn’t it? Look, Fleur, I don’t want to offend you, but you understand, don’t you? A lot of people were very fond of Emily. And when they hear about you . . .”
“Not only will they he
ar about Fleur,” said Richard loudly, “but they will meet her, since she will be coming down to stay at Greyworth as soon as possible. And if you have a problem with that, Lambert, then I suggest you keep well away.”
“I only meant . . .” began Lambert.
“I know what you meant,” said Richard. “I know only too well what you meant. And I’m afraid I think a lot less of you for it. Come on, Fleur, let’s leave.”
Out on the pavement, Richard took Fleur’s arm.
“I’m so sorry about that,” he said. “Lambert can be most objectionable.”
“It’s quite all right,” said Fleur quietly. My God, she thought, I’ve had it a lot more objectionable than that. There was the daughter who tried to pull my hair out, the neighbour who called me a slut . . .
“And you will come down to Greyworth? I’m sorry, I should have asked first.” Richard looked at her anxiously. “But I promise you’ll enjoy it down there. We can go for long walks, and you can meet the rest of the family . . .”
“And learn to play golf?”
“If you’d like to.” He smiled. “It’s not compulsory.” He paused awkwardly. “And of course, you’d . . . you’d have your own room. I wouldn’t want you to . . . to . . .”
“Wouldn’t you?” said Fleur softly. “I would.” She raised herself on tiptoe and gently kissed Richard on the lips. After a moment, she softly pushed her tongue inside his mouth. Immediately, his body stiffened. With shock? With desire? She casually ran a hand down the back of his neck and waited to find out.
Richard stood completely still, with Fleur’s mouth open against his, her words echoing in his mind, trying to marshal his thoughts and yet completely unable to. He felt suddenly rigid, almost paralysed with excitement. After a few moments Fleur moved her lips softly to the corner of his mouth, and he felt his skin explode with delicious sensation. This was how it should have been with Emily, he thought dizzily, trying not to keel over with headiness. This was how it should have felt with his beloved wife. But Emily had never aroused him like this woman—this bewitching woman whom he’d only known for four weeks. He had never felt anticipation like this before. He’d never felt like . . . like fucking a woman before.
Madeleine Wickham - The Gatecrasher (mobi).mobi Page 4