“Let’s get a cab,” he said, in a blurred voice, pulling himself away from Fleur. “Let’s go back to the flat.” He could hardly bear to speak. Each word seemed to sully the moment; to spoil the conviction inside him that he was on the brink of a perfect experience. But one had to break the silence. One had somehow to get off the street.
“What about Hyde Park?”
Richard felt as though Fleur were torturing him.
“Another day,” he managed. “Come on. Come on!”
He hailed a taxi, bundled her inside, mumbled an address to the taxi driver and turned back to Fleur. And at the sight of her, his heart nearly stopped. As Fleur had leaned back on the black leather taxi seat, her dress had mysteriously hitched itself up until the top of one of her black stockings was just visible.
“Oh God,” he said indistinctly, staring at the sheer black lace. Emily had never worn black lace stockings.
And suddenly a cold flash of fear went through him. What was he about to do? What had happened to him? Images of Emily came flashing through his mind. Her sweet smile; the feeling of her hair between his fingers. Her slim legs; her neat little buttocks. Cosy, undemanding times; nights of fondness.
“Richard,” said Fleur huskily, running a finger gently along his thigh. Richard flinched in panic. He felt terrified. What had seemed so clear on the pavement now seemed muddied by memories that would not leave his mind alone; by a guilt that rose up, choking his throat till he could hardly breathe. Suddenly he felt close to tears. He could not do this. He would not do it. And yet desire for Fleur still whirled tormentingly about his body.
“Richard?” said Fleur again.
“I’m still married,” he found himself saying. “I can’t do this. I’m still married to Emily.” He stared at her, waiting for some relief to his agony; some internal acknowledgement that he was doing the right thing. But there was none. He felt awash with conflicting emotions, with physical needs, with mental anguish. No direction seemed the right one.
“You’re not really married to Emily any more,” said Fleur, in slow soft tones. “Are you?” She put up a hand and began to caress his cheek, but he jerked away.
“I can’t!” Richard’s face was white with despair. He sat forward with taut cheeks and glittering eyes. “You don’t understand. Emily was my wife. Emily’s the only one . . .” His voice cracked and he looked away.
Fleur thought for a moment, then quickly adjusted her dress. By the time Richard had gained control of himself and looked back towards her, the lacy stockings had disappeared under a sea of decorous black wool. He looked silently at her.
“I must be a great disappointment to you,” he said eventually. “I’d quite understand if you decided . . .” he shrugged.
“Decided what?”
“That you didn’t want to see me any more.”
“Richard, don’t be so silly!” Fleur’s voice was soft, compassionate, and just a little playful. “You don’t imagine that I’m only after you for one thing?” She gave him a tiny smile, and after a few seconds Richard grinned back. “We’ve been having such wonderful times together,” continued Fleur. “I’d hate either of us to feel pressured . . .”
As she was speaking, she caught a glimpse of the taxi driver’s face in the rearview mirror. He was staring at them both in transparent astonishment, and Fleur suddenly wanted to giggle. But instead she turned to Richard and in a quieter voice, said,
“I’d love to come down and stay at Greyworth and I’d be very happy to have my own bedroom. And if things move on . . . they move on.”
Richard looked at her for a few seconds, then suddenly grasped her hand.
“You’re a wonderful woman,” he said huskily. “I feel . . .” He clasped her hand tighter. “I feel suddenly very close to you.” Fleur stared back at him silently for a moment, then modestly lowered her eyes.
Bloody Emily, she thought. Always getting in the way. But she said nothing, and allowed Richard’s hand to remain clutching hers, all the way back to Regent’s Park.
The Gatecrasher
Chapter 4
Two weeks later, Antony Favour stood in the kitchen of The Maples, watching as his Aunt Gillian whipped cream. She was whipping it by hand, with a grim expression and a mouth which seemed to grow tighter at each stroke of the whisk. Antony knew for a fact that inside one of the kitchen cupboards lived an electric whisk; he’d used it himself to make pancakes. But Gillian always whipped cream by hand. She did most things by hand. Gillian had been living in the house since before Antony was born, and for as long as he could remember she’d been the one who did all the cooking, and told the cleaner what to do, and walked around after the cleaner had left, frowning, and polishing again over surfaces which looked perfectly clean. His mother had never really done any of that stuff. Some of the time she’d been too ill to cook, and the rest of the time she’d been too busy playing golf.
A vision of his mother came into Antony’s mind. Small, and thin, with silvery blond hair and neat tartan trousers. He remembered her blue-grey eyes; her expensive rimless spectacles; her faint flowery scent. His mother had always looked neat and tidy; silver and blue. Antony looked surreptitiously at Gillian. Her dull grey hair had separated into two heavy clumps; her cheeks were bright red; her shoulders were hunched up in their mauve cardigan. Gillian had the same blue-grey eyes as his mother, but apart from that, Antony thought, it was difficult to believe that they’d been sisters.
He looked again at Gillian’s tense expression. Ever since Dad had called to tell them he’d be bringing this woman to stay, Gillian had been walking around looking even more grim than usual. She hadn’t said anything—but then, Gillian didn’t often say very much. She never had an opinion; she never said when she was pissed off. It was up to you to guess. And now, Antony guessed, she was seriously pissed off.
Antony himself wasn’t quite sure how he felt about this woman. He’d lain in bed the night before, thinking about his mother and his father and this new woman, waiting for a sudden gut reaction; a stab of emotion to point him in the right direction. But nothing. He’d had no particularly negative emotions, nor any positive ones, just a kind of astonished acknowledgement that this thing was happening; that his father was seeing another woman. Occasionally the thought would hit him as he was in the middle of something else, and he’d feel so shocked that he would have to stare ahead and breathe deeply and blink several times, to stop his eyes filling with tears, for Christ’s sake. But other times it seemed completely natural; almost something he’d been expecting.
He’d got used to telling people that his mother was dead; perhaps telling them that his father had a girlfriend was just the next step along. Sometimes it even made him want to laugh.
Gillian had finished whipping the cream. She shook the whisk and dumped it in the sink without even licking it. Then she sighed heavily and rubbed her forehead with her hand.
“Are we having pavlova?” said Antony.
“Yes,” said Gillian. “With kiwi fruit.” She shrugged. “I don’t know if it’s what your father wants. But it’ll just have to do.”
“I’m sure it’ll be great,” said Antony. “Everyone loves pavlova.”
“Well, it’ll just have to do,” repeated Gillian. She looked wearily about the kitchen and Antony followed her gaze. He loved the kitchen; it was his favourite room. About five years ago his parents had had it done up like a huge farmhouse kitchen, with terracotta tiles everywhere, and an open fire, and a huge wooden table with really comfortable chairs. They’d bought five million pots and pans and stuff, all out of expensive catalogues, and hung garlic on the walls and got a woman to come in and arrange dried flowers all over the place.
Antony could have spent all day in the kitchen—in fact, now they’d installed a telly on the wall, he often did. But Gillian seemed to hate it. She’d hated it as it was before—“all white and clinical,” she’d called it—and she still hated it, even though she’d been the one to choose the tiles and tell th
e designer where everything should go. Antony didn’t understand it.
“Can I help?” he said. “Can I peel the potatoes or something?”
“We’re not having potatoes,” said Gillian irritably, as if he should have known. “We’re having wild rice.” She frowned. “I hope it’s not too difficult to cook.”
“I’m sure it’ll be delicious,” said Antony. “Why don’t you use the rice cooker?”
His parents had given Gillian a rice cooker three Christmases ago. The year before that they’d given her an electrical juicer; since then there had been an automatic herb shredder, a bread slicer and an ice-cream maker. As far as Antony knew, she’d never used any of them.
“I’ll manage,” said Gillian. “Why don’t you go outside? Or do some revision?”
“Honestly, I don’t mind helping,” said Antony.
“It’s quicker if I do it myself.” Gillian gave another heavy sigh and reached for a cookery book. Antony looked at her silently for a few moments, then shrugged and walked out.
It was a nice day, and he was, he thought, quite glad to get out into the sunshine. He wandered out of the drive of The Maples and along the road towards the clubhouse. All the roads on the Greyworth estate were private and you had to have a security pass to get in, so most of the time there were hardly any cars; just people who had houses on the estate or who were members of the golf club.
Maybe, Antony thought as he walked, there was time for a quick nine holes before Dad arrived. He was supposed to be revising for his exams this week; that was the reason he was at home. Ahead of him stretched a week-long home study period. But Antony didn’t need to study—he knew all the stuff they were going to ask. Instead he was planning to spend his days lazing around, playing golf, a bit of tennis maybe. It depended on who was around. His best friend, Will, was away at school like him, and Will’s school didn’t have home study periods. “You jammy bastard,” Will had written. “Just don’t blame me if you fail everything.” Antony had to agree. It was bloody jammy. His dad hadn’t been at all impressed. “What are we paying your fees for,” he’d exclaimed, “if all they do is send you back home?” Antony didn’t know. He didn’t care. It wasn’t his problem.
The road to the clubhouse was downhill, lined with grass and trees and the gates to other people’s houses. Antony glanced at each driveway as he passed, assessing from the presence of cars who was at home and who wasn’t. The Forresters had a new white Jeep, he noticed, pausing by their gate. Very nice.
“Hey, Antony! Like my Jeep?” Antony started, and looked up. Sitting on the grass about fifty yards down the road were Xanthe Forrester and Mex Taylor. Their legs were entwined in a tangle of 501s and they were both smoking. Antony fought with a desire to turn round and pretend he hadn’t heard. Xanthe was about his own age; he’d known her for ever. She’d always been a bitchy little girl; now she was just a bitch. She always managed to make him feel stupid and awkward and ugly. Mex Taylor was new to Greyworth. All Antony knew was that he was in the upper sixth at Eton and played off seven, and all the girls thought he was great. Which was enough.
He walked slowly down the hill towards them, trying not to rush, trying to keep his breath steady, trying to think of something clever to say. Then, as he neared them, Xanthe suddenly put out her cigarette and began kissing Mex, clutching his head and writhing about as though she were in some stupid movie. Antony told himself furiously that she was just showing off. She probably thought he was jealous. She probably thought he’d never snogged anyone in his life before. If only she knew. At school, they were bussed off to dances nearly every weekend, and Antony always came away with a couple of love bites and a phone number, no problem. But that was at school, where there was no childhood history; where people took him for what he was. Whereas Xanthe Forrester, Fifi Tilling—all that little clique—still thought of him as square old Antony Favour, good for a round of golf but not much else.
Suddenly Xanthe pulled herself away from Mex.
“My phone! It’s vibrating!” She darted a wicked look at Mex, glanced at Antony, then pulled her mobile phone from the bright red leather holster on her hip. Antony looked awkwardly at Mex and, in spite of himself, felt his hand shoot up protectively to his eye, covering his birthmark.
“Hi? Fifi! Yeah, I’m with Mex!” Xanthe’s voice was triumphant.
“Want a smoke?” said Mex casually to Antony. Antony considered. If he said yes, he would have to stay and talk to them. And someone might see him and tell his dad, which would be a real hassle. But if he said no, they’d think he was square.
“OK.”
Xanthe was still babbling away into her phone, but as Antony lit up, she paused and said with a giggle, “Antony! Smoking! That’s a bit daring for you, isn’t it?” Mex gave Antony an amused look and Antony felt himself flushing.
“It’s so cool!” said Xanthe, putting her phone away. “Fifi’s parents are away until Friday. We’re all meeting at hers tonight,” she added to Mex. “You, me, Fifi and Tania. Tania’s got some stuff.”
“Sounds good,” said Mex. “What about . . .” He jerked his head towards Antony. Xanthe pulled the briefest of faces at Mex, then turned to Antony.
“D’you want to meet up, Antony? We’re watching Betty Blue on Fifi’s laser disc.”
“I can’t, I’m afraid,” said Antony. “My dad’s . . .” He paused. He wasn’t about to tell Xanthe that his dad had a girlfriend. “My dad’s coming home,” he said weakly.
“Your dad’s coming home?” said Xanthe incredulously. “You can’t come out because your dad’s coming home?”
“I think that’s really nice,” said Mex kindly. “I wish I was that close to my dad.” He smirked at Xanthe. “It would help if I didn’t hate his guts.”
Xanthe burst into peals of laughter.
“I wish I was closer to my dad,” she said. “Maybe then he would have given me a Jag instead of a Jeep.” She lit up another cigarette.
“How come you’ve got a Jeep?” said Antony. “You can’t drive yet. You’re only fifteen.”
“I can drive on private roads,” retorted Xanthe. “Mex is teaching me. Aren’t you, Mex?” She lay back on the grass and ran her fingers through her blond curls. “And that’s not all he’s teaching me. Know what I mean?” She blew a circle of smoke into the air. “Actually, you probably don’t.” She winked at Mex. “I don’t want to shock Antony. He still kisses with his mouth closed.”
Antony stared at Xanthe in furious embarrassment, searching in his mind for some witty put-down. But the co-ordination between his brain and his mouth seemed to have disappeared.
“Your dad,” said Xanthe musingly. “Your dad. What did I hear about him the other day?” Suddenly she sat up. “Oh yes! He’s got a floosie, hasn’t he?”
“No he hasn’t!”
“Yes he has! Mum and Dad were talking about it. Some woman in London. Really pretty, apparently. Mum caught them having lunch.”
“She’s just a friend,” said Antony desperately. All his nonchalance had disappeared. Suddenly he hated his father; even hated his mother for dying. Why couldn’t everything have stayed as it was?
“I heard about your mum,” said Mex. “Rough.”
You don’t know anything about it! Antony wanted to shout. But instead he stubbed out his cigarette awkwardly with his foot, and said, “I’ve got to go.”
“Too bad,” said Xanthe. “You were really turning me on, standing there in those sexy trousers. Where’d you get them? A jumble sale?”
“Catch you later,” said Mex. “Have a nice time with your dad.”
As Antony began to walk off, he heard a suppressed snigger, but he didn’t look back until he reached the corner. Then he allowed himself a quick glance behind him. Xanthe and Mex were kissing again.
Quickly he rounded the corner and sat down on a low stone wall. Through his mind ran all the phrases he’d heard from grown-ups over the years. People who tease you are just immature . . . Don’t take any notice—the
n they’ll get bored . . . If they attach more importance to your looks than your personality, then they’re not worth having as friends.
So what was he supposed to do? Ignore everyone except Will? End up with no friends at all? The way he saw it, he had two choices. Either he could be lonely, or he could get on with the crowd. Antony sighed. It was all very well for grown-ups. They didn’t know what it was like. When was the last time someone had been bitchy to his dad? Probably never. Grown-ups weren’t bitchy to one another. They just weren’t. In fact, grown-ups, thought Antony morosely, should stop complaining. They had it bloody easy.
Gillian sat at the huge wooden table in her dead sister’s kitchen, looking blankly at a heap of French beans. She felt weary, almost too weary to raise the knife. Since Emily’s death an apathy had been creeping up on her which alarmed and confused her. She knew no other way of dealing with it than by throwing herself wholeheartedly into the household tasks which filled her day. But the harder she worked, the less energy she seemed to have. When she sat down for a break she felt like stopping for ever.
She leaned forward on her elbows, feeling lethargic and heavy. She could feel her own weight sinking into the farmhouse chair, the mass of her solid, unbeautiful body. Ample breasts encased in a sensible bra, bulky legs hidden under a skirt. Her cardigan was thick and weighty; even her hair felt heavy today.
For a few minutes, she stared down at the table, tracing the grain of the wood with her finger, trying to lose herself in the whorls and loops, trying to pretend she felt normal. But as her finger reached a dark woody knot, she stopped. There was no point pretending to herself. She didn’t just feel heavy. She didn’t just feel apathetic. She felt scared.
The phone call from Richard had been brief. No explanation beyond the fact that he was bringing a woman down to stay and she was called Fleur. Gillian stared at her stubby, roughened fingertip and bit her lip. She should have realized that this would happen; that sooner or later Richard would find a . . . a female companion. But somehow she had imagined everything carrying on as normal: Richard, Antony and herself. Not so very different from when Emily had been alive—from all the times that the three of them had sat eating supper together, with Emily upstairs in bed.
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