Immediately, she had sunk underneath the desk, with an ease borne of practice. For a few minutes she’d wondered whether or not to get up. Should she keep still and wait until he’d gone? Or might Lambert glance over and spot her? Certainly it would be better to surprise him than to be discovered cowering under the furniture.
Then she’d noticed that Lambert didn’t look quite at ease himself. His demeanour was almost . . . shifty. What was he doing, leafing through the filing cabinet? Did Richard know? Was something going on that she should know about? If so, it might be in her interests to let him know that she’d seen him. She’d thought for a moment, then before Lambert could slip away, she’d stood up, sat down casually on Richard’s chair, and waited for him to turn round. Now she looked with relish at his bulging eyes; his rising colour. Something was going on. But what?
“Is this your office, too?” she asked, in tones almost innocent enough to fool. “I didn’t realize.”
“Not exactly,” said Lambert, regaining his composure slightly. “I was just checking something for the company. For the company,” he repeated, more belligerently. “There’s a lot of highly confidential stuff in here. In fact, I’m wondering what you’re doing in here at all.”
“Oh, me!” said Fleur. “Well, I was just looking for something that I left here last night.”
“Something you left here?” He sounded disbelieving. “What was it? Shall I help you look?”
“Don’t worry,” said Fleur, getting up and coming towards him. “I found it.”
“You found it,” said Lambert, folding his arms. “Might I ask what it was?”
Fleur paused, then opened her hand. Inside was a pair of black silky knickers.
“They were underneath the desk,” she said confidentially. “So easy to mislay. But I didn’t want the cleaner to be shocked.” She glanced at his scarlet face. “You’re not shocked, are you, Lambert? You did ask.”
Lambert didn’t reply. He seemed to be having trouble breathing.
“It might be better not to mention this to Richard,” said Fleur, moving close to Lambert and looking him straight in the eye. “He might be a little . . . coy.” She paused for a moment, breathing a little more quickly than usual and leaning very slightly towards Lambert’s face. He looked transfixed.
And suddenly she was gone. Lambert remained exactly where he was; still feeling her breath on his skin, still hearing her voice in his ear, replaying the scene in his mind. Fleur’s underwear—her black silky underwear—had been under the desk. Which must mean that she and Richard . . . Lambert swallowed. She and Richard . . .
With a bang, he closed the filing cabinet drawer and turned away. He couldn’t concentrate any more; he couldn’t focus. He couldn’t think about statements and balances. All he could think about was . . .
“Philippa!” he barked down the stairs. “Come up here!” There was silence. “Come up here!” he repeated. Eventually Philippa appeared.
“I was talking to Fleur,” she complained, hurrying up the stairs.
“I don’t care. Come in here.” He took Philippa’s hand and led her quickly to the end bedroom in which they always stayed. It had been Philippa’s as a child, a fantasy land of roses and rabbits, but as soon as she left home, Emily had torn down the wallpaper and replaced it with dark green tartan.
“What do you want?” Philippa wrenched her arm out of Lambert’s grasp.
“You. Now.”
“Lambert!” She looked uneasily at him. He was staring at her with a glassy, unfocused gaze. “Get that dress off.”
“But Fleur . . .”
“Fuck Fleur.” He watched as Philippa hurriedly pulled her dress over her head, then he closed his eyes and pulled her close, squeezing her flesh painfully between his fingers. “Fuck Fleur,” he repeated in a blurry voice. “Fuck Fleur.”
Richard arrived back from his meeting to find Fleur reclining in her usual spot in the conservatory.
“Where are Philippa and Lambert?” he asked. “Their car’s in the drive.” He looked at his watch. “We tee off in half an hour.”
“Oh, I expect they’re around somewhere,” murmured Fleur. “I did catch a glimpse of Lambert earlier.” She stood up. “Let’s have a quick walk around the garden.”
As they walked, she took Richard’s arm and said casually,
“I suppose you and Lambert know each other pretty well. Now that you’re family.” She looked carefully at his face as she spoke, and saw a fleeting expression of distaste appear on it, which was quickly supplanted by one of reasonable, civilized tolerance.
“I’ve certainly got to know him better as a person,” said Richard. “But I wouldn’t say—”
“You wouldn’t call yourself his friend? I gathered that. So you don’t have long talks with him? Confide in him?”
“There’s a generation gap,” said Richard defensively. “It’s understandable.”
“Completely understandable,” said Fleur, and rewarded herself with a little smile. What she had suspected was indeed the case. The two never spoke. Which meant Lambert was not going to accost Richard with tales of sex on the floor of his office. He wasn’t going to check out her story; she was safe.
What Lambert’s own story was, she had no idea. Once upon a time she might have felt compelled to find out. But experience had taught her that in every family there was someone with a secret. There was always one family member with a hidden agenda; sometimes there were several. Trying to use internal arguments for her own gain never worked. Family disputes were always irrational, always long-standing and the warriors always flipped over to the other side as soon as anyone else touched them. The best thing was to ignore everyone else and pursue her own goal as quickly as she could.
They walked on for a few minutes silently, then Fleur said,
“Did you have a good meeting?” Richard shrugged, and gave her a tense little smile.
“It made me think. You know, I still feel that there were parts of Emily which I knew nothing about.”
“Was the meeting about Emily?”
“No . . . but it concerned some affairs we discussed before she died.” Richard frowned. “I was trying to remember her reasoning; her motivation for doing things,” he said slowly. “And I realized that I don’t know why she wanted certain things done. I suppose she didn’t tell me—or I’ve forgotten what she said. And I never knew her character well enough to work it out now.”
“Perhaps I could help,” said Fleur. “If you told me what it was all about.” Richard looked at her.
“Maybe you could. But I feel . . . this is something I’ve got to puzzle out for myself. Can you understand that?”
“Of course,” said Fleur lightly and squeezed his arm affectionately. Richard gave a little laugh.
“It’s not really important. It won’t affect anything I do. But—” he broke off and met Fleur’s eyes. “Well, you know how I feel about Emily.”
“She was full of secrets,” said Fleur, trying not to yawn. Hadn’t they talked enough about this blessed woman already?
“Not secrets,” said Richard. “I hope not secrets. Simply . . . hidden qualities.”
As soon as he had come, Lambert’s proxy affection for Philippa vanished. He unfastened his lips from her neck and sat up.
“I’ve got to get going,” he said.
“Couldn’t we just lie here for a bit?” said Philippa wistfully.
“No we couldn’t. Everyone’ll be wondering where we are.” He tucked his shirt in and smoothed his hair down and suddenly he was gone.
Philippa heaved herself onto her elbows and looked around the silent room. In her mind, she had begun to organize Lambert’s quick fuck into an example of his passion for her; an anecdote to be confided to the bubbly friends that she would one day have. “Honestly, he was so desperate for me . . . We just disappeared off together . . .” Giggles. “It was so romantic . . . Lambert’s always like that, a real man of the moment . . .” More giggles. Admiring looks. “Oh, Phil
, you’re so lucky! . . . I can’t remember the last time we had sex . . .”
But now, slicing through the laughing voices, there was another voice in her head. Her mother’s voice. “You disgusting girl.” An icy blue stare. Philippa’s diary being waved incriminatingly in the air. Her secret adolescent fantasies, opened up and exposed.
As though the last fifteen years had never happened, Philippa began to feel a teenager’s panic and humiliation begin to rise through her. Her mother’s voice, cutting through her thoughts again. “Your father would be shocked if he saw this. A girl of your age, thinking about sex!”
Sex! The word had rung shockingly through the air, edged with sordid, unspeakable images. Philippa’s embarrassment had suffused her face; her lungs. She had wanted to scream; she’d been unable to look her mother in the eye. The next term she’d allowed several of the sixth-formers from the neighbouring boys’ boarding school to screw her behind the hedges on the hockey pitches. Each time the experience had been painful and embarrassing, and she’d silently wept as it was happening. But then, she’d thought miserably, as one sixteen-year-old after another panted beer-breath into her face, that was all she deserved.
Lambert came downstairs to find Fleur and Richard arm in arm in the hall.
“Fleur’s decided to come with us round the golf course,” said Richard. “Isn’t that a splendid idea?” Lambert looked at him, aghast.
“What do you mean?” he exclaimed. “She can’t come with us! This is a business game.”
“I won’t get in your way,” said Fleur.
“We’ll be having confidential business discussions.”
“On a golf course?” said Fleur. “They can’t be that confidential. Anyway, I won’t be listening.”
“Fleur very much wants to see the course,” said Richard. “I don’t think there’s any harm.”
“You don’t mind, do you Lambert?” said Fleur. “I’ve been here four weeks, and all I’ve seen is the eighteenth green.” She smiled at him from under her lashes. “I’ll be as quiet as a little mouse.”
“Perhaps Philippa could come along too,” suggested Richard.
“She’s already fixed up to have tea with Tricia Tilling,” said Lambert at once. God help us, he thought, they didn’t want a gaggle of women trailing around after them.
“Dear Tricia Tilling,” said Fleur. “We had a lovely chat this morning.”
“Fleur’s becoming quite a regular fixture at the club!” said Richard, beaming fondly at her.
“I bet she is,” said Lambert.
There was a sound on the stairs and they all looked up. Philippa was descending, looking rather flushed.
“Hello Fleur,” she said breathlessly. “I was going to say, how about coming with me to Tricia’s this afternoon? I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”
“I’m otherwise engaged,” said Fleur. “Unfortunately.”
“Fleur’s accompanying us around the golf course,” said Richard with a smile. “A most unexpected treat.”
Philippa looked at Lambert. Why didn’t he ask her to come round the golf course too? If he’d asked her, she would have cancelled tea with Tricia Tilling. She began to imagine the phone call she’d make. “Sorry, Tricia, Lambert says I’ve simply got to go along . . . something about bringing him good luck!” An easy laugh. “I know . . . these men of ours—aren’t they something else?”
“Philippa!” She jumped, and the relaxed, laughing voices in her head vanished. Lambert was looking impatiently at her. “I said would you look in at the pro shop and ask if they’ve mended that club yet.”
“Oh, all right,” said Philippa. She watched as the three of them left—Richard laughing at something Fleur had said; Lambert swinging his cashmere sweater over his shoulders. They were off to have a good time, and she was consigned to an afternoon with Tricia Tilling. She gave a gusty sigh of resentment. Even Gillian had more fun than her.
Gillian sat in the conservatory shelling peas and watching as Antony mended a cricket bat. He’d always been good with his hands, she thought. Careful, methodical, reliable. At the age of three, his nursery school teachers had been bemused at his paintings—always a single colour, completely covering the sheet of paper. Never more than one colour; never a single missed spot. Bordering on the obsessive. Perhaps these days, she thought, they would worry that he was too tidy for a three-year-old; take him off for counselling or workshops. Even back then, she’d sometimes detected a note of concern in the teachers’ eyes. But no-one had said anything. For it had been obvious that Antony was a well-loved, well-cared-for child.
Well loved. Gillian stared fiercely out of the window. Well loved by everyone except his own mother. His own shallow selfish mother. A woman who’d recoiled with dismay at the sight of her own baby. Who had peered at the tiny disfigurement as though she could see nothing else, as though she weren’t holding a perfect, healthy baby for whom she and everyone else ought to have been eternally grateful.
Of course, Emily had never said anything to the outside world. But Gillian had known. She’d watched as Antony had grown into a chuckling, beaming toddler, running around the house, arms outstretched, ready to embrace the world—confident that it must love him as much as he loved all of it. And then she’d watched as the little boy had gradually become aware that his mother’s face perpetually held an expression of slight disapproval towards him; that she occasionally shrank from him when no-one else was watching; that she only fully relaxed when his face was averted and she couldn’t see the tiny lizard leaping across his eye. The first day Antony had raised his little hand to his eye, concealing his birthmark from the world, Gillian had waited until the evening and confronted Emily. All her frustrations and anger had erupted in a tearful tirade, while Emily sat at her dressing table, brushing her hair; waiting. Then, when Gillian had finished, she’d looked round with a cold, contemptuous stare. “You’re just jealous,” she’d said. “It’s unhealthy! You wish Antony were your baby. Well, he’s not yours, he’s mine.”
Gillian had stared at Emily in shock, suddenly less sure of herself. Did she really wish Antony were hers? Was she unhealthy?
“You know I love Antony,” Emily had continued. “Everyone knows I love him.” She’d paused. “Richard’s always saying how wonderful I am with him. And who cares about a birthmark? We never even notice it.” Her eyes had narrowed. “In fact I’m surprised at you, Gillian, mentioning it all the time. We think the best thing is to ignore it.”
Somehow she’d twisted and reversed Gillian’s words until Gillian had felt confused and unsure of her own motives. Was she becoming a frustrated, jealous spinster? Did her love for Antony border on possessiveness? It was Emily, after all, who was his natural mother. And so she’d backed down and said nothing more. And, after all, Antony had grown up a pleasant, problem-free child.
“There!” Antony held out the cricket bat.
“Well done,” said Gillian. She watched as he stood up and tried the bat out. He was tall now; an adult, practically. But sometimes as she caught a glimpse of his sturdy arms or smooth neck, she saw again in him that happy, chunky baby who had laughed up at her from his cot; whose hands she’d held as he took his first few steps; whom she’d loved from the moment he was born.
“Careful,” she said gruffly, as he swung the bat towards a large, painted plant pot.
“I am being careful,” he said irritably. “You always fuss.”
He took a few imaginary swings. Gillian silently shelled a few more peas.
“What are you going to do this afternoon?” she asked at last.
“Dunno,” said Antony. “I might get a video out. Or even a couple. It’s so boring, with Will away.”
“What about the others? Xanthe. And that new boy, Mex. You could organize something with them.”
“Yeah, maybe.” His face closed up and he turned away, swinging the bat viciously through the air.
“Careful!” exclaimed Gillian. But it was too late. As he swung back, there was a crac
k and then a crash as he hit a terracotta pot off its stand and onto the tiled floor.
“Look what you’ve done!” Her voice snapped roughly through the air. “I told you to be careful!”
“I’m sorry, OK?”
“It’s all over the floor!” Gillian stood up and gazed despairingly at the pieces of terracotta, the clumps of earth, the fleshy leaves.
“Honestly. It’s not such a disaster.” He bent down and picked up a piece of terracotta. A clod of earth fell onto his shoe.
“I’d better get a brush.” Gillian sighed heavily and put down the peas.
“I’ll do it,” said Antony. “It’s no big deal.”
“You won’t do it properly.”
“I will! Isn’t there a broom around here somewhere?” Antony’s eyes swept the conservatory and suddenly stopped as his gaze reached the door. “Jesus Christ!” he exclaimed. The piece of terracotta fell out of his hand, smashing on the floor.
“Antony! I’ve told you before—”
“Look!” he interrupted. “Who’s that?”
Gillian turned and followed his gaze. Standing on the other side of the door was a girl with long, white-blond hair, dark eyebrows and a suspicious expression.
“Hi,” she said through the glass. Her voice was high-pitched and had an American accent. “I guess you weren’t expecting me. I’ve come to stay. I’m Zara. I’m Fleur’s daughter.”
The Gatecrasher
Chapter 8
By the time they came off the eighteenth green, Lambert was bright red, sweating and grimacing with frustration. Fleur had dominated the attention all the way round the course, sashaying along beside Richard as though she were at a tea party, interrupting the discussion to ask endless questions, behaving as though she had as much right to be there as Lambert did himself. Bloody impertinent bitch.
A remark made by his old housemaster suddenly came into Lambert’s mind. I’m all for equality in women . . . they’re all equally inferior to men! A little chuckle had gone around the select group of sixth-formers whom Old Smithers had been entertaining with sherry. Lambert had chortled particularly loudly, acknowledging the fact that he and Old Smithers had always shared the same sense of humour. Now his frown softened slightly; a reminiscent look passed over his features. For a few moments he found himself wishing he was a sixth-former once again.
Madeleine Wickham - The Gatecrasher (mobi).mobi Page 10