What had Emily been playing at, telling him he was going to be a rich man? What the fuck had she been playing at? A cold fury rose through Lambert and he cursed her for being dead, cursed her for having flitted out of the world leaving loose ends floating in the wind. What was the truth? Was Philippa going to be rich? Was that money going to be hers? Or had Richard changed his mind? Had the whole trust story been an invention of Emily’s? He wouldn’t have put it past her, the manipulative bitch. She’d encouraged him to think he was rich; encouraged him to start spending more than he had done before. And now he was in debt and all her hints and promises had come to nothing.
Except—Lambert bit his lip—he couldn’t be sure that they would come to nothing. It was still tantalizingly possible that Richard would deliver. Maybe he was still going to put some of that money into trust for Philippa. Maybe when she turned thirty she would become a millionairess, just as Emily had promised. Or maybe Richard had now decided to wait a bit longer—until she was thirty-five, perhaps, or forty.
It was torturous, not knowing. And he had no way of finding out. Richard was a secretive bastard—he would never tell Lambert anything—and of course Philippa knew nothing. Philippa knew nothing about anything. A sudden memory came into Lambert’s mind of Philippa’s red, contorted face the night before. She’d been sobbing on the sofa when he’d stormed out of the house; he hadn’t seen her since then.
He’d overreacted to her feeble threat of leaving him; he realized that now. Of course, she hadn’t meant it; Philippa would never leave him. But at the time, she’d rattled him. He’d felt white-hot panic flashing through his body and a conviction that he must, at all costs, stop her. He had to remain married to Philippa; he had to keep things ticking over, at least until he knew where he stood. And so he’d lashed out. Maybe he’d overdone it a bit, maybe he’d upset her a bit too much. But at least that would keep her quiet for a while; give him time to sort himself out.
The phone rang, and he felt a spasm of fear zip through him. Perhaps this was Erica Fortescue from First Bank, he thought, ridiculously. She was down in reception; she was on the way up . . .
It rang again, and he snatched it up.
“Yes?” he barked, trying to conceal his nerves.
“Lambert?” It was his secretary, Lucy. “Just to say, I’ve rearranged that meeting for you.”
“Good,” said Lambert, and put the phone down. He couldn’t face any meetings at the moment; couldn’t face anyone. He had to have some time to think what to do.
Should he just go to Richard, explain the situation and ask for a bail-out? Would Richard willingly hand over that kind of money? The total sum sprang into his mind again, and he shuddered. The figure which had seemed so reasonable when viewed against the mountain of Philippa’s future fortune now seemed outlandish. He closed his eyes and imagined telling Richard; asking humbly for assistance; sitting silently while Richard lectured him. His life would be a misery. What a fucking nightmare.
This was all Larry Collins’s fault, Lambert thought suddenly. Larry, his chum at the bank. Larry, who had invited Lambert to take out an overdraft. He’d been impressed by Lambert’s assurances that soon Philippa would be coming into millions. He’d told Lambert he was a valued customer. He’d said the paperwork didn’t matter; he’d upped the limit without question. If he hadn’t been such an irresponsible moron; if his bosses hadn’t been so fucking blind—then Lambert would never have had such a big overdraft limit in the first place and the whole problem would never have arisen. But no-one had thought to check up, Lambert’s overdraft had risen like the sun—and only then had Larry been fired. Larry was safely out of the picture, thanks very much, and it was Lambert who’d been left to pick up the pieces.
What was he to do? If he kept to his original plan—took fifty thousand from the ten million account and threw it at the bank to keep them happy—then he’d have to find a way of paying Richard back before the end of the year. He couldn’t just leave it; Richard would notice a deficit of fifty thousand. So he’d need another overdraft. But who would authorize another overdraft now that Larry was gone? Who would authorize another overdraft for him without any proof that Philippa’s trust fund was established? Lambert clenched his fists in frustration. If only he had proof. Some little corroborating piece of evidence. Something that would convince some fool somewhere to let him keep his overdraft. A document, or a letter. Something signed by Richard. Anything would do.
The Gatecrasher
Chapter 15
Two weeks later Richard sat in Oliver Sterndale’s office, signing his name repeatedly on different pieces of paper. After the last signature he replaced the cap on Oliver’s fountain pen, looked at his old friend and smiled.
“There,” he said. “All done.”
“All gone, more like,” said Oliver tetchily. “You do realize that you’re now practically a pauper?”
Richard laughed.
“Oliver, for someone who has just signed away ten million pounds, I have an indecently large amount of money left to call my own. As well you know.”
“I know nothing of the sort,” said Oliver. His eyes met Richard’s and suddenly twinkled. “However, since you have been so consistently wedded to this little scheme, may I offer my congratulations on its successful completion?”
“You may.”
“Well then, congratulations.”
They both looked at the contracts, lying in thick piles on the desk.
“They’re going to be two very rich young people,” said Oliver. “Have you decided when to tell them?”
“Not yet,” said Richard. “There’s still plenty of time.”
“There’s a fair amount of time,” said Oliver. “But you do need to give them some warning. Especially Philippa. You don’t want to find it’s the eve of her thirtieth birthday, and you’re suddenly trying to find the words to tell her she’s about to become a multimillionairess. These announcements have a nasty habit of backfiring.”
“Oh, I’m aware of that,” said Richard. “In fact, I thought I might bring both Philippa and Antony in here, say in a few weeks’ time, and we could both explain it to them. Since you’re the trustee of the fund.”
“Good idea,” said Oliver. “Splendid idea.”
“You know, I feel liberated,” said Richard suddenly. “This has been hanging over me more than I’d realized. Now I feel able to—” He broke off, and coloured slightly.
“To pursue your fresh start?”
“Exactly.”
Oliver cleared his throat delicately.
“Richard, is there anything which—as your lawyer—I should know?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“But you would let me know if there were . . . anything.”
“Naturally I would.” A small smile played about Richard’s lips, and Oliver gazed at him severely.
“And by that I don’t mean a fax from Las Vegas saying ‘Guess what, I’m hitched.’ ” Richard burst into laughter.
“Oliver, who do you think I am?”
“I think you’re a decent man and a good friend.” Oliver’s eyes bored into Richard’s. “And I think you may need protection.”
“From whom, may I ask?”
“From yourself. From your own generosity.”
“Oliver, just what are you saying?”
“I’m saying nothing. Just promise me you won’t get married without telling me first. Please.”
“Honestly, Oliver, I wouldn’t dream of it. And anyway, who says I’m getting married?”
Oliver gave him a wry smile.
“Do you really want me to answer that? I can give you a list of names, if you like. Beginning with my own wife.”
“Perhaps you’d better not.” Richard chuckled. “You know, I really don’t care who says what about me anymore. Let them gossip all they like.”
“Did you used to care?”
Richard thought for a minute.
“I’m not sure I did. But Emily used to wor
ry terribly. And so of course I always used to worry too, on her behalf.”
“Yes,” said Oliver. “I can imagine.” He grinned at Richard. “You’ve certainly changed, haven’t you?”
“Have I?” said Richard innocently.
“You know you have.” Oliver paused. “And quite seriously, I’m glad things are working out so well for you. You deserve it.”
“I’m not sure I do,” said Richard. “But thank you anyway, Oliver.” For a moment the two men’s eyes met; then Richard looked away. “And thanks for coming in on a Saturday morning,” he said lightly. “On Club Cup morning too!”
“It was no trouble.” Oliver leaned back comfortably in his chair. “I’m not teeing off until twelve. What about you?”
“Half-past. Just enough time to get in some putting practice. I certainly need it. You know, I’ve barely played this summer.”
“I know,” said Oliver. “That’s what I said. You’ve changed.”
By eleven o’clock, Philippa was finally ready to leave the flat. She peered at herself in the mirror and gave her hair one last tug.
“Come on,” said Lambert. “I tee off at one, remember.”
“There’s plenty of time,” said Philippa tonelessly. Without meeting his eye, she followed him down the stairs.
How had it happened? she wondered for the hundredth time, as they both got into the car. How had she let Lambert back into her life without a protest; without so much as a question mark? He had arrived back at the flat, three days after the row, holding a bottle of wine and some flowers.
“These are for you,” he’d said gracelessly at the door of the sitting room, and her head had jerked round from the television in shock. She’d thought she would never see Lambert again. At one point, she’d considered changing the locks of the flat; then she’d discovered how much it cost and decided to spend the money on a crate of Baileys instead. By the time Lambert arrived back, she was on the fourth bottle.
The alcohol must have dimmed her faculties, she thought. Because as she’d looked at him, standing in the doorway, not sneering or swaggering but not looking particularly penitent either, she’d found herself entirely devoid of emotion. She’d tried as hard as she could to conjure up the anger and hatred which she knew should be burning inside her; tried to think of some appropriate insult to hiss at him. But nothing came to mind except “You bastard.” And when she said it, it was in such lacklustre tones that she might as well not have bothered.
He’d given her the flowers, and she’d found herself looking at them and thinking they were rather nice. Then he’d opened the wine and poured it into a glass for her, and although she was feeling slightly sick, she’d drunk it. And once she’d taken his flowers and drunk his wine, it had seemed to be tacitly agreed between them that he was back, that he was forgiven, that the rift between them was healed.
It was as though the whole thing had never happened. As though she’d never threatened to leave him; he’d never touched her. As though none of the shouting and sobbing had occurred. He never referred to it and neither did she. Whenever she opened her mouth to speak about it, she began to feel sick and her heart began to pound, and it seemed so much easier to say nothing. And the more days that passed, the more remote and shadowy the whole thing seemed, and the less convinced she felt of her ability to tackle him on the subject.
Yet she wanted to. Part of her wanted to shout at him again; to work herself up into a frenzy and scream at him until he crumpled in guilt. Part of her wanted to relive the entire confrontation, this time as the heroine, the victor. And part of her wanted to find the energy to let the world know what had happened.
Because no-one knew. Fleur didn’t know; her father didn’t know; none of her friends knew. She had been through the worst crisis of her life, had come through it somehow, and no-one knew. Fleur still had not phoned her back. It had been over two weeks and she still hadn’t phoned back.
Philippa felt angry tears spring to her eyes, and she looked out of the car window. At first, she’d kept ringing The Maples, frantic to talk to Fleur; desperate for some help and advice. Then Lambert had arrived back, and the two of them had seemed to patch things up—and Philippa had found herself wanting to relay her story to Fleur not so much for help as for the shocked admiration that it would surely provoke. Every time the phone had rung, she’d jumped to answer, thinking it was Fleur, ready to tell in low tones what had been happening to her; ready to savour the reaction at the other end. But Fleur hadn’t called back and hadn’t called back, and eventually Philippa had given up expecting her to. Perhaps Fleur was just hopeless with phones, she’d rationalized to herself. Perhaps she hadn’t received any of Philippa’s messages. Perhaps she’d always tried ringing just when Philippa was on the line to someone else.
But today was different; today they didn’t need phones. She would have Fleur all to herself, and she would tell her the whole story. At the thought, Philippa felt an exhilarating anticipation begin to fizz inside her. She would tell Fleur every detail of what had happened. And Fleur would be astounded that Philippa had got through such a trauma on her own; astounded, and consumed with guilt.
“I had no-one,” Philippa heard herself saying to Fleur, in matter-of-fact tones. “When you didn’t call back . . .” She would give a little shrug. “I was desperate. Of course, I turned to the bottle.”
“Oh darling. You didn’t. I feel terrible!” Fleur would grasp her hands pleadingly; Philippa would simply give another little shrug.
“I got through it,” she would say carelessly. “Somehow I got through it. Jesus, it was hard, though.”
“What?” said Lambert suddenly. “Are you talking to me?”
“Oh!” said Philippa, and felt her cheeks turn red. “No, I’m not.”
“Muttering away to yourself,” said Lambert. “No wonder everyone thinks you’re mad.”
“They don’t think I’m mad,” said Philippa.
“Whatever,” said Lambert. Philippa looked crossly at him and tried to think of a clever retort. But her mind felt stultified in the real world; her words mismatched and fell apart in her mouth. Already she was flying happily back to Fleur, who would listen to her story, and gasp, and take Philippa’s hand, and vow never to let her down again.
“Cool,” said Zara, as she and Antony approached the clubhouse. “Look at all those flaggy things.”
“Bunting.”
“What?”
“Bunting. It’s what they’re called.” Zara gazed at him sceptically for a moment. “Well anyway, they always decorate the clubhouse on Club Cup day,” continued Antony. “And there’s a band in the garden. It’s quite fun. We’ll get a cream tea later on.”
“But we have to go round the golf course first?”
“That’s kind of the point.”
Zara gave a melodramatic sigh and collapsed onto the clubhouse steps.
“Look,” said Antony anxiously, sitting down beside her. “I’ll understand if you don’t want to caddy for me after all. I mean it’s a hot day, and everything.”
“Are you trying to fire me?”
“No! Of course not!”
“Well, OK then.” Zara squinted at Antony. “You nervous?”
“Not really.”
“Who’s going to do better? You, or your father?”
“Dad, I expect. He always does.”
“But he hasn’t been practising all week like you have.” Antony shrugged awkwardly.
“Still. He’s a bloody good golfer.” They sat in silence for a while.
“And you’re a bloody good kisser,” said Zara suddenly. Antony’s head jerked up in astonishment.
“What?”
“You heard.” She grinned. “Should I say it again?”
“No! Someone might hear!”
“So what? It’s the truth.” Antony flushed scarlet. A group of chattering women was coming up the clubhouse steps, and he turned his face away from them.
“And you’re . . .” he began. “I mean
. . .”
“Don’t feel you have to compliment me in return,” said Zara. “I know I’m good. I was taught by an expert.”
“Who?” said Antony, feeling jealous.
“Cara.”
“Who the hell’s Cara?”
“This Italian girl. Didn’t I tell you about her? We were living in her house last summer. She had a rich daddy too. In the Mafia, I think.”
“A girl?” Antony goggled at her.
“Sure. But much older. She was seventeen. She kissed, like, loads of people.”
“How did she teach you?”
“How do you think?” Zara grinned at him.
“Jesus.” Antony’s face grew even redder.
“She had a younger brother,” said Zara. “But he was only interested in his dumb computer. Want some gum?” She looked up at Antony’s face and laughed.
“You’re shocked, aren’t you?”
“Well, I mean . . . You were only twelve!” Zara shrugged.
“I guess they start early over there.” She unwrapped her gum and began to chew. Antony watched her silently for a few minutes.
“So what happened?” he asked eventually.
“What do you mean, what happened?”
“Why didn’t you stay living with them?”
Zara looked away.
“We just didn’t.”
“Did your mother and the Italian guy have a fight?”
“Not exactly,” said Zara. She looked around, and lowered her voice. “Fleur got tired of living in Italy. So one night we just scooted.”
“What, just left?”
“Yup. Packed our bags and left.”
Antony stared at her for a moment, thinking.
“You’re not . . .” He swallowed, and rubbed his shoe along the step. “You’re not going to scoot this time, are you?”
There was a long silence.
“I hope not,” said Zara eventually. “I really hope not.” She hunched her shoulders and looked away. “But with Fleur, you never know.”
Madeleine Wickham - The Gatecrasher (mobi).mobi Page 21