“Oh, I don’t know,” said Fleur suddenly. “It’s all so difficult. Why can’t life be straightforward?” She sighed. “Let’s have a cocktail.” She beckoned to the young waiter, who came striding over.
“A Manhattan,” said Fleur, smiling at him.
“Two,” said Philippa. The waiter grinned back at her. He was, thought Philippa, extraordinarily good-looking. In fact, everybody who worked in expensive shops seemed to be good-looking.
“Excuse me, ladies.” Another waiter was approaching their table. He was holding a silver tray, on which reposed a bottle of champagne. “This has been ordered and prepaid for you.”
“No!” Fleur burst into peals of laughter. “Champagne!” She looked at the bottle. “Very good champagne, in fact. Who ordered it for us?” She looked around. “Are we allowed to know?”
“It’s just like a film,” said Philippa excitedly.
“I have a message card for a Mrs. Daxeny,” said the head waiter.
“Aha!” said Fleur. “So they know our names!”
“Read it!” said Philippa.
Fleur ripped open the little card.
“ ‘Have a lovely lunch, my sweethearts,’ ” she read, “ ‘and I wish I could be there with you. Richard.’ ” Fleur looked up. “It’s from your father,” she said. She sounded astonished. “Your father sent us champagne.”
“I thought it was from an anonymous prince,” said Philippa disappointedly. “How did Daddy know where we’d be?”
“I must have told him,” said Fleur slowly. “And he must have remembered, and ordered this for us over the phone, and hoped that we wouldn’t change our lunch plans. And all the time he said nothing about it.”
“Shall I open it?” said the head waiter.
“Ooh yes!” said Philippa.
“Yes please,” said Fleur. She picked up the little card and gazed at it for a few seconds. “What an extraordinarily thoughtful man your father is.”
“Actually, I think I’ll still have my Manhattan,” said Philippa. “And then go on to champagne. After all, I’m not driving anywhere!” She glanced up brightly at Fleur. “Are you OK?”
“I’m fine,” said Fleur, frowning slightly. “I was just . . . thinking.”
They both watched as, with the tiniest of whispered pops, the head waiter opened the champagne and poured out a single glass. He handed it ceremonially to Fleur.
“You know, men don’t usually manage to take me by surprise,” she said, as though to herself. “But today . . .” she took a sip. “This is delicious.”
“Today you’ve been taken by surprise,” said Philippa triumphantly.
“Today I’ve been taken by surprise,” agreed Fleur. She took another sip and looked thoughtfully at her glass. “Twice.”
The sound of the cleaner’s key in the front door made Lambert give a startled jump. With fumbling hands he replaced all the bank statements in the filing cabinet, hurried out of the office, and sauntered down the stairs. He gave the cleaner a cheery smile as he passed her in the hall, but his heart was beating hard and shock was still needling down his back.
Ten million liquid assets. That had to be the money for the trust. But it wasn’t in trust, it was still in Richard’s account. What was going on? He reached his car and paused, panting slightly, trying not to let panic overwhelm him. The money wasn’t in trust. Which meant Philippa wasn’t the millionairess he’d thought she was. And he had an enormous overdraft and no means of paying it off except her.
He opened the car door, got in and rested his clammy head on the steering wheel. It didn’t make sense. Had Emily been lying to him? She’d promised him that Philippa was going to be rich. She’d told him they were going to sort it out straight away. She’d said the money would be put in Philippa’s name; that as soon as she turned thirty it would be hers. And instead, where was it? It was still in Richard’s name. From the look of things, Richard had been liquidizing his assets for months. He was obviously planning to do something with the money. But what? Give it to Philippa? Or throw it to the fucking birds? Nothing would have surprised Lambert any more. And the worst thing was, there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.
As the puddings arrived, Philippa leaned across the table and looked Fleur in the eye. Fleur looked back at her. Philippa had drunk two Manhattans and at least her share of the champagne and had become more and more garrulous and less and less distinct. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair was dishevelled and she seemed to have something important to say.
“I lied to you.” Her words came tumbling out, and Fleur peered at her in surprise.
“I’m sorry?”
“No, I’m sorry. I mean, you’re my best friend, and I lied to you. You’re my best friend,” repeated Philippa with a swaying emphasis. “And I lied to you.” She reached for Fleur’s hand and blinked back a couple of tears. “About Lambert.”
“Really? What did you tell me about Lambert?” Fleur disentangled her hand and reached for her spoon. “Eat your pudding.”
Obediently, Philippa picked up her spoon and cracked the surface of her crème brûlée. Then she looked up.
“I told you I loved him.”
Fleur unhurriedly finished her mouthful of chocolate mousse.
“You don’t love Lambert?”
“Sometimes I think I do—but.” Philippa shuddered. “I don’t really.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“I’m trapped in a loveless marriage.” Philippa gazed at Fleur with bloodshot eyes.
“Well then leave it.” Fleur took another spoonful of chocolate mousse.
“You think I should leave Lambert?”
“If he doesn’t make you happy, then leave him.”
“You don’t think maybe I should have an affair?” said Philippa hopefully.
“No,” replied Fleur firmly. “Definitely not.” Philippa took a spoonful of crème brûlée, munched halfheartedly, then took another one. A tear rolled down her cheek.
“But what if I leave Lambert and then . . . and then I realize I do love him really?”
“Well, then, you’ll know.”
“But what if he won’t have me back? I’ll be on my own!”
Fleur shrugged.
“So what?”
“So what? I couldn’t stand to be on my own!” Philippa’s voice rose above the clamour of the restaurant. “Do you know how difficult it is to meet people these days?”
“I do,” said Fleur. She allowed herself a tiny smile. “You have to look in the right places.”
“I couldn’t stand to be on my own,” repeated Philippa doggedly. Fleur sighed impatiently.
“Well then, stay with him. Philippa, you’ve had a lot to drink . . .”
“No, you’re right,” interrupted Philippa. “I’m going to leave him.” She shuddered. “He’s disgusting.”
“I have to agree with you there,” said Fleur.
“I didn’t want to marry him,” said Philippa. A fresh flurry of tears fell onto the table.
“And now you’re going to leave him,” said Fleur, stifling a yawn. “So that’s all right. Shall we get the bill?”
“And you’ll help me through it?”
“Of course.” Fleur raised her hand and two waiters with identical blond haircuts immediately descended.
“Our bill, please,” she said. Philippa looked at her watch.
“You’ve got to go to your service, haven’t you?” she said blearily. “Your memorial service.”
“Well, you know, I may not go to the memorial service, after all,” said Fleur slowly. “I’m not sure . . .” She paused. “Hattie wasn’t such a great friend to me. And I’m not really in the mood for it. It’s . . . a bit of a difficult situation.”
Philippa wasn’t listening.
“Fleur?” she said, wiping her eyes, “I really like you.”
“Do you, darling?” Fleur smiled kindly at her. How on earth, she wondered, could someone like Richard have produced such a characterless lump o
f self-pity?
“Are you going to marry Daddy?” sniffed Philippa.
“He hasn’t asked me,” replied Fleur swiftly, giving Philippa a dazzling smile.
The bill arrived in a leather folder; without looking at it, Fleur placed Richard’s Gold Card inside it. They both watched silently as it was borne away by one of the identical waiters.
“But if he does ask you,” said Philippa. “If he does. Will you?”
“Well,” said Fleur slowly. She leaned back in her chair. Ten million, she thought. The idea ran round her mind like a big shiny ball bearing. Ten million pounds. A fortune by any standards. “Who knows?” she said at last, and drained her glass.
“So, do you reckon your mother will marry my father?” asked Antony, flopping down on the immaculate green turf of the putting green.
“I don’t know,” said Zara irritably. “Stop asking me that. I can’t concentrate.” She screwed up her nose, took a deep breath and jabbed at the golf ball with her putter. It trickled a few inches towards the hole, then stopped. “There. Look what you made me do. That was crap.”
“No it wasn’t,” said Antony. “You’re picking it up really well.”
“I’m not. It’s a stupid game.” She banged her putter crossly on the ground, and Antony looked around nervously to check no-one had seen her. But few people were about. They were on the junior putting green, an out of the way practice area shielded by pine trees and usually empty. Antony had spent half the morning practising his putting in preparation for the Club Cup, the major golfing event of the summer. The other half he’d spent retrieving the golf balls which Zara seemed unable to prevent flying over the hedge every few minutes.
“Putting’s supposed to be, like, really controlled,” he said. “You should just imagine . . .”
“There’s nothing to imagine,” snapped Zara. “I know what I’ve got to do. Get the fucking ball into the hole. It’s just I can’t do it.” She threw her putter down on the ground, and sat down beside Antony. “I don’t know how you can play this dumb game. You don’t even burn off any calories.”
“You kind of get hooked on it,” said Antony. “Anyway, you don’t need to lose weight.” Zara ignored him and hunched her shoulders up. For a few moments neither of them said anything.
“So, come on,” said Antony at last. “How come you’re in such a bad mood?”
“I’m not.”
“Yes you are. You’ve been in a terrible mood all day. Ever since your mum left this morning.” He paused. “Is it because . . .” He broke off awkwardly.
“What?”
“Well. I just wondered if maybe you knew the person whose memorial service she’s going to. And maybe that was why you were a bit—”
“No,” interrupted Zara. “No, that’s not it.” She turned away from him slightly; her face looked fiercer than ever.
“It’ll be great when you go to New York,” said Antony brightly.
“If I go.”
“Of course you’ll go! Your friend Johnny’s going to take you!”
Zara shrugged.
“I don’t see it happening somehow.”
“Why not?” She shrugged again.
“I just don’t.”
“You’re just feeling a bit miserable,” said Antony understandingly.
“I’m not miserable. I’d just like . . .”
“What?” said Antony eagerly. “What would you like?”
“I’d like to know what’s going to happen. OK? I’d just like to know.”
“Between your mum and my dad?”
“Yeah.” Her mutter was almost imperceptible.
“I think they’re going to get married.” Antony’s voice bubbled over with enthusiasm. “I bet Dad asks her really soon. And then all that stuff with the Gold Card . . .” He lowered his voice slightly. “Well, it won’t matter anymore, will it? I mean, she’ll be his wife! They’ll share all their worldly goods anyway!” Zara looked at him.
“You’ve got it all neatly sorted out in your mind, haven’t you?”
“Well.” He coloured slightly and plucked at the close-shorn grass.
“Antony, you’re so fucking decent.”
“I’m not!” he retorted angrily. Zara gave a sudden laugh.
“It’s not a bad thing to be.”
“You make me sound really square,” he protested. “But I’m not. I’ve done loads of . . . stuff.”
“What have you done?” said Zara teasingly. “Shoplifting?”
“No. Of course not!”
“Gambling, then?” said Zara. “What about sex?” Antony flushed and Zara moved closer to him. “Have you ever had sex, Antony?”
“Have you?” he parried.
“Don’t be dumb. I’m only thirteen years old.”
Antony felt a sudden swoosh of relief.
“Well, how am I supposed to know?” he said truculently. “You might have done. I mean, you smoke dope, don’t you?”
“That’s different,” said Zara. “Anyway,” she added, “if you have sex too young you get cervical cancer.”
“So-vital cancer?” said Antony, mishearing. “What’s that?”
“Cer-vi-cal, dummy! Cancer of the cervix. You know what the cervix is? It’s right here.” She pointed to a spot at the top of her jeans fly-buttons. “Right up inside.” Antony followed her finger with his gaze; as he did so he felt blood start to rush to his head. His hand shot up confusedly to his birthmark.
“Don’t cover it up,” said Zara.
“What?” His voice felt strangled.
“Your birthmark. I like it. Don’t cover it up.”
“You like it?”
“Sure. Don’t you?” Antony looked away, not knowing quite what to say. No-one ever mentioned his birthmark; he’d got used to pretending he thought it wasn’t there.
“It’s sexy.” Her voice fell, soft and raspy on his ears. Antony felt his breathing quicken. No-one had ever called him sexy before.
“My mother hated it,” he said, without meaning to.
“I bet she didn’t,” said Zara encouragingly.
“She did! She . . .” He broke off. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Sure it matters.”
For a few silent moments Antony stared downwards. Years of loyalty to his mother battled with a sudden, desperate yearning to unburden himself.
“She wanted me to wear an eyepatch, to hide it,” he said, suddenly.
“An eyepatch?”
Antony swivelled round to meet Zara’s incredulous gaze.
“When I was about seven. She asked me if I didn’t think it would be fun to wear an eyepatch. Like a pirate, she said. And she pulled out this . . . this horrible black plastic thing, on elastic.”
“What did you do?”
Antony closed his eyes and remembered his mother, staring at him with that look of distaste, half masked by a bright, fake smile. A pain grabbed him in the chest and he took a deep, shuddering breath.
“I just sort of stared at it, and said, But I won’t be able to see if I wear an eyepatch. And then she laughed, and pretended she was just joking. But . . .” He swallowed. “I knew she wasn’t. Even then, I knew. She wanted me to cover my eye up so no-one could see my birthmark.”
“Jesus. What a bitch.”
“She wasn’t a bitch!” Antony’s voice cracked. “She was just . . .” He bit his lip.
“Well, you know what? I think it’s sexy.” Zara moved closer still. “Very sexy.” There was an infinitesimal pause. Zara met his eyes.
“Does . . . does kissing give you cervical cancer?” asked Antony eventually. His voice sounded husky to his own ears; his heart was pulsing loudly in his chest.
“I don’t think so,” said Zara.
“Good,” said Antony.
Slowly, self-consciously, he put an arm round her skinny shoulders and pulled her towards him. Her lips tasted of mint and Diet Coke; her tongue found his immediately. She’s been kissed before, he thought hazily. She’s been kissed lots
. More than me, probably. And as they drew apart he looked at her cautiously, half expecting her to be giggling at him; half expecting her to humiliate him with some barbed, experienced comment.
But to his horrified surprise, she was gazing into the distance and a tear was running down her cheek. Visions of accusations and useless denials raced terrifyingly through his mind.
“Zara, I’m sorry!” he gasped. “I didn’t mean . . .”
“Don’t worry,” she said in a low voice. “It’s not you. It’s nothing to do with you.”
“So you didn’t mind . . .” He stared at her, panting slightly.
“Of course I didn’t mind,” she said. “I wanted you to kiss me. You knew that.” She wiped away the tear, looked up at him and smiled. “And you know what? Now I want you to kiss me again.”
By the time she arrived home, Philippa had a throbbing headache. After Fleur had left in a taxi for Waterloo, she had continued shopping by herself, wandering into the cheaper shops which Fleur had ignored but which she secretly preferred. Now her shoes felt too tight, and her hair was falling out of shape, and she felt raw and grimy from the London streets. But as she let herself in, she heard an unfamiliar voice in the study, and her heart quickened. Perhaps Lambert had invited guests over. Perhaps they would have an impromptu supper party. What a good thing she was wearing her pink suit; they’d think she wore clothes like this every day. She hurried down the hall, checking her reflection in the mirror, adopting a sophisticated yet welcoming expression, and threw open the door of the study.
But Lambert was alone. He was slumped in the armchair by the fire, listening to a message on the answer machine. A woman’s voice which Philippa didn’t recognize was saying, “It is absolutely imperative that we meet without delay to discuss your situation.”
“What situation?” said Philippa.
“Nothing,” snapped Lambert. Philippa looked at the machine’s red light.
Madeleine Wickham - The Gatecrasher (mobi).mobi Page 19