Madeleine Wickham - The Gatecrasher (mobi).mobi

by The Gatecrasher (mobi)

  “Surely she didn’t really want to . . .” he began, then stopped, unable to form the words in his mouth.

  “Of course not,” said Gillian. “It was a . . .” her voice faltered, “a cry for help.”

  “But she always seemed—” said Richard, and halted. He’d been about to say Philippa had always seemed happy. But suddenly he realized it wasn’t true. It came to him that since she’d grown up, he’d rarely seen Philippa looking positively happy. She’d always seemed anxious, or sulky; when she was in high spirits there was always a slightly hysterical edge to her mood.

  But he’d assumed she was more or less all right. Now a miserable guilt plunged through his body. I should have brought happiness to her life, he found himself thinking. I should have made sure she was happy and stable and content. But I left it to her mother and then I left it to her husband. And they failed her. We all failed her.

  “Philippa,” said Lambert, bending down. “Can you hear me?”

  Philippa’s eyes opened and she gave a louder moan.

  “Lambert,” said Gillian. “I think you should keep away from her.”

  “Why?” said Lambert truculently. “I’m her husband.”

  “There was a note,” said Gillian. She passed it to Richard; as he skimmed it with his eyes his face darkened. A vein began to beat in his forehead.

  “Give it to me,” said Lambert. “I’ve got every right . . .”

  “You have no rights!” spat Richard. “No rights at all!”

  “The ambulance is here,” said Gillian suddenly, looking out of the window. “Who’s going to go with her?”

  “I will,” said Lambert.

  “No,” said Richard at once, “you won’t. I will.”

  On the way to the hospital, Richard gazed down at his daughter’s face; held her head as she retched into a cardboard dish and smoothed her hair back.

  “I didn’t want to marry him,” she muttered, and tears coursed down her swollen face. “He makes me sick!”

  “All right, sweetheart,” said Richard gently. “We’ll be there soon. You’ll be all right.”

  “It was Mummy,” cried Philippa. “She made me marry Lambert! She said I was ugly and I wasn’t a . . .” She broke off and gazed at him with red-rimmed eyes. “Did you really hate Jim?”

  “Who’s Jim?” asked Richard helplessly. But Philippa was vomiting again. Richard stared at her in silence. A heavy, bleak depression was creeping through him; he felt as though his happy family of shining jewels was being turned over one by one to reveal a swarm of ugly maggots. What else didn’t he know? What else wasn’t he being told?

  “Where’s Fleur?” said Philippa, as soon as she was able to sit up again. “Does she know?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Richard soothingly. “We needn’t tell her if you don’t want us to.”

  “But I do want her to know!” cried Philippa hysterically. “I want her to be with me!”

  “Yes, darling,” said Richard, feeling suddenly close to tears. “Yes, so do I.”

  Much later Richard arrived home, weary and depressed, to find everyone waiting in the hall for him.

  “What happened?” asked Fleur. She hurried over and took his hand. “Darling, I was so shocked when I heard about it.”

  “They’re keeping her in overnight,” said Richard. “They don’t think any damage has been done. They’re going to . . .” He swallowed. “They’re going to set up some counselling for her.”

  “Can we, like, go and visit her?” said Antony uncertainly. Richard looked at him, sitting on the stairs with Zara, and smiled. “She’ll be home tomorrow. Honestly, there’s nothing to worry about. It was just a silly scare.”

  “But why did she do it?” said Antony. “I mean, didn’t she realize? Didn’t she think how frightened we’d all be?”

  “I don’t think she thought very hard about it at all,” said Richard gently. “She’s a bit confused at the moment.” Suddenly he looked around sharply. “Where’s Lambert?”

  “Gone,” said Gillian. “I packed him off to a hotel for the night.” Her mouth tightened. “He was too drunk to drive.”

  “Well done, Gillian.” Richard’s eyes met hers. “And thank you. If you hadn’t gone looking for Philippa . . .”

  “Yes, well.” Gillian looked away. “Let’s not think about that.” She glanced at her watch. “It’s late. Time for bed. Antony, Zara, off you go.”

  “OK,” said Antony in a subdued voice. “Well, good night everyone.”

  “Good night,” said Zara.

  “Antony, I’m sorry we didn’t get to celebrate your win properly,” said Richard, suddenly remembering. “But we will. Another time.”

  “Sure, Dad. G’night.”

  “I think I’ll turn in too,” said Gillian. She looked at Richard. “Are you hungry?”

  “No,” said Richard. “Not hungry.” He looked at Fleur. “But I think I could do with a glass of whisky.” She smiled.

  “I’ll pour you one,” she said, and disappeared into the drawing room. Richard looked at Gillian.

  “Gillian,” he said quietly. “Did you have any idea that this was on the cards? Did you realize Philippa was so unhappy?”

  “No,” said Gillian. “I had no idea.” She bit her lip. “And yet when I look back, I wonder whether it wasn’t obvious all along. Whether I should have noticed something.”

  “Exactly,” said Richard. “That’s exactly how I feel.”

  “I feel I let her down,” said Gillian.

  “You didn’t,” said Richard in suddenly fierce tones. “You didn’t let her down! If anyone let her down, it was her mother.”

  “What?” Gillian stared at him.

  “Emily let her down! Emily was a . . .” He broke off, breathing hard, and Gillian stared at him in dismay. For a few moments neither said anything.

  “I was always convinced that there was a hidden side to Emily,” said Richard. “I was desperate to find out more about her character.” He looked up bleakly. “And now it seems that the sweet, innocent Emily I knew was only a . . . a façade! I didn’t know the true Emily! I wouldn’t have wanted to know the true Emily!”

  “Oh Richard.” Tears glittered in Gillian’s eyes. “Emily wasn’t all bad, you know.”

  “I know she wasn’t.” Richard rubbed his face. “But I’d always thought she was perfect.”

  “No-one’s perfect,” said Gillian quietly. “No-one in the world is perfect.”

  “I know,” said Richard. “I was a fool. A gullible fool.”

  “You’re no fool,” said Gillian. She got to her feet. “Go and drink your whisky. And forget about Emily.” She met his eyes. “It’s time to move on.”

  “Yes,” said Richard slowly. “It is, isn’t it?”

  Fleur was sitting on the sofa in the drawing room, two tumblers of whisky at her side.

  “You poor thing,” she murmured as Richard entered the room. “What a horrendous evening.”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” said Richard. He picked up his glass of whisky and drained it. “Sometimes, Fleur, I wonder if there are any decent people left in the world.”

  “What do you mean?” said Fleur, getting up and replenishing his glass. “Did something else happen tonight?”

  “It’s almost too sordid to recount,” said Richard. “You’ll be disgusted when you hear.”

  “What?” She sat back down on the sofa and looked expectantly at Richard. He sighed and kicked off his shoes.

  “Earlier this evening, I found Lambert in my office, attempting to forge a letter from me to my solicitors. He’s in money trouble, and he hoped that my name would help to keep his creditors off his back.” Richard took another slug of whisky and shook his head. “The whole thing is despicable.”

  “Is he in serious money trouble?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so.” Richard frowned.

  “Don’t tell me any more if you don’t want to,” said Fleur quickly. Richard took her hand and gave her a wan smile.r />
  “Thank you, darling, for being so sensitive. But I don’t have any secrets from you. And it’s actually a relief to talk to someone about it.” He sighed. “Lambert had been given the impression by . . . by someone . . . that Philippa was soon to come into a lot of money. And on the strength of that he began to spend well beyond his means.”

  “Oh dear,” said Fleur. She wrinkled her brow. “Is that why Philippa . . .”

  “No. Philippa doesn’t know about the money. But they had had a row. Philippa threatened to leave Lambert and things became rather nasty.” Richard looked at Fleur. “Apparently you and she had a long talk about it in London.”

  “Hardly a long talk,” said Fleur, frowning slightly.

  “Nevertheless, she found your advice very helpful. She’s desperate to see you.” Richard stroked Fleur’s hair. “I think she’s beginning to see you as a mother figure.”

  “I’m not sure about that,” said Fleur, giving a little laugh.

  “As for Lambert . . .” Richard shrugged. “I’ve no idea whether he and Philippa will manage to patch things up, or whether he should be sent packing.”

  “Sent packing,” said Fleur, with a shudder. “He’s odious.”

  “And dishonest,” said Richard. “I find it hard to believe now that he didn’t marry Philippa for her money in the first place.”

  “Is she rich, then?” said Fleur casually.

  “She will be,” said Richard. “When she turns thirty.” He took another swig of whisky. “The irony is, I only signed the papers this morning.”

  For a moment, Fleur was very still, then she looked up and said lightly, “What papers?”

  “This morning I signed a very large amount of money over into trust for Antony and Philippa.” He smiled at her. “Five million each, as a matter of fact.”

  Fleur stared at Richard for a few seconds.

  “Five million each,” she said slowly. “That makes ten million.” She paused, seeming to listen to the words.

  “I know it seems like a lot of money,” said Richard. “But I wanted to give them financial independence. And I’ll still be more than comfortable.”

  “You’ve just given all that money away,” said Fleur faintly. “To your children.”

  “They don’t know about it yet,” said Richard. “But I know I can trust you to keep this to yourself.”

  “Of course,” murmured Fleur. She drained her glass and looked up. “Could you . . . do you think you could pour me another whisky, please?”

  Richard rose, poured another measure of the amber liquid into Fleur’s glass and walked back over towards her. Suddenly he stopped.

  “Fleur, what am I waiting for?” he exclaimed. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you for a long time. I know that tonight’s been very upsetting, but maybe . . . maybe that gives me even more reason to do what I’m about to do.”

  Kneeling down on the carpet, still clutching her whisky glass, Richard looked up at Fleur.

  “Fleur,” he said, in a trembling voice. “Fleur, my darling, will you marry me?”

  The Gatecrasher

  Chapter 18

  Early the next morning, a white Jeep pulled up outside The Maples and hooted loudly, waking Richard. Rubbing his eyes, he padded over to the bedroom window and looked out.

  “It’s Antony’s friends,” he said to Fleur. “They must be leaving early for Cornwall.”

  Suddenly there was a knock at the door and Antony’s voice said, “Dad? We’re going!”

  Richard opened the door and looked at Antony and Zara, standing on the landing. They were dressed identically, in jeans and baseball caps, and each was loaded down with a huge squashy bag.

  “So,” he said. “Off to Cornwall. You will behave yourselves, won’t you?”

  “Of course we will,” said Antony impatiently. “Anyway, Xanthe’s mum’s going to be there.”

  “I know,” said Richard. “I spoke to her yesterday. And mentioned a few ground rules.”

  “Dad! What did you say?”

  “Nothing very much,” said Richard grinning. “Just that you were to have a cold bath every morning, followed by an hour of Shakespeare . . .”

  “Dad!”

  “I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time,” said Richard, relenting. “And we’ll see you back here on Friday.”

  From outside, the Jeep hooted again.

  “Right,” said Antony. He looked at Zara. “Well, we’d better go.”

  “I hope Philippa’s OK,” said Zara.

  “Yeah.” Antony looked up at Richard and bit his lip. “I hope she’s . . .”

  “She’ll be fine,” said Richard reassuringly. “Don’t worry. Now, off you go, before Xanthe starts that infernal noise again.”

  He watched as they shuffled down the stairs. Zara was almost bent double under the weight of her bag, and he wondered briefly what on earth she was carrying. Then, as he heard the front door slam, he turned back to Fleur.

  “That was Antony and Zara,” he said unnecessarily. “Off to Cornwall.”

  “Mmm.” Fleur turned over sleepily, rumpling the duvet around her body. Richard stared at her for a moment, then took a deep breath.

  “I don’t know what time you want to leave,” he said. “I’ll take you to the station. Just tell me when.”

  “All right,” said Fleur. She opened her eyes. “You don’t mind, do you, Richard? I just need to have some time to think.”

  “Of course you do,” said Richard, forcing a cheerful note into his voice. “I completely understand. I wouldn’t expect you to rush your decision.”

  He sat down on the bed and looked at her. Her arms were lying on the pillow above her head; graceful arms, like a ballerina’s. Her eyes had drifted shut again, recapturing the sweet sleep of morning. Through his mind passed the possibility that she might refuse him. And with it came a stab of pain, so strong and sharp it almost frightened him.

  Downstairs, Gillian was making a pot of tea. She looked up as Richard entered the kitchen.

  “I saw them go,” she said. “That young man, Mex, was driving. I hope he’s responsible.”

  “I’m sure he is,” said Richard. He sat down at the kitchen table and looked around.

  “The house seems awfully quiet,” he said. “I miss the thumping music already.” Gillian smiled, and put a mug of tea in front of him.

  “What’s going to happen about Philippa?” she said. “Will she come out of hospital today?”

  “Yes,” said Richard. “Unless anything’s happened overnight. I’ll go and pick her up this morning.”

  “I’ll come with you,” said Gillian. “If that’s all right.”

  “Of course it’s all right,” said Richard. “I’m sure she’d love to see you.” He took a sip of tea, marshalling his thoughts, then looked up. “There’s something else I should tell you,” he said. “Fleur’s going to London for a few days.”

  “I see,” said Gillian. She looked at Richard’s taut, pale face. “You’re not going too?” she said hesitantly.

  “No,” said Richard. “Not this time. Fleur . . .” He rubbed his face. “Fleur needs a little time on her own. To . . . think about things.”

  “I see,” said Gillian again.

  “She’ll be back by Saturday,” said Richard.

  “Oh well,” said Gillian cheerfully. “That’s hardly any time at all.” Richard smiled wanly and drained his mug. Gillian looked anxiously at him. “Would Fleur like some tea, do you think?” she asked. “I’m about to go upstairs.”

  “She doesn’t want tea,” said Richard, suddenly remembering. “But she asked if I could bring her up The Times.”

  “The Times,” said Gillian, looking about the kitchen. “Here it is. I’ll take it up to her if you like.” She picked up the crisp, folded newspaper and looked at it curiously. “Fleur doesn’t usually read the paper,” she said. “I wonder what she wants it for.”

  “I don’t know,” said Richard, pouring himself another cup of tea. “I
didn’t ask.”

  By ten o’clock, Fleur was ready to leave.

  “We’ll drop you at the station,” said Richard, carrying her suitcase down the stairs, “and then go on to the hospital.” He paused. “Philippa will be upset not to see you,” he added lightly.

  “It’s a shame,” said Fleur. Her eyes met Richard’s. “But I really don’t feel I can . . .”

  “No,” said Richard hastily. “Of course not. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “You’re a sweet man,” said Fleur, and ran her hand down Richard’s arm. “And I do hope Philippa comes through this.”

  “She’ll be all right,” said Gillian, coming into the hall. “We’ll keep her at home for a bit; look after her properly. By the time you come back, she’ll probably be right as rain.” She looked at Fleur. “You look very smart,” she said, “all in black.”

  “Such a useful colour to wear in London,” murmured Fleur. “It doesn’t show the dirt.”

  “Will you be staying with your friend Johnny?” asked Gillian. “Could we reach you there if there was an emergency with Zara?”

  “I probably won’t stay there, no,” said Fleur. “I’ll probably check into a hotel.” She frowned slightly. “I’ll call you when I’ve arrived and leave a number.”

  “Good,” said Richard. He looked uncertainly at Gillian. “Well. I suppose we ought to get going.”

  As they walked out into the drive, Fleur looked back at the house appraisingly.

  “It’s a welcoming house, this, isn’t it?” she said suddenly. “A friendly house.”

  “Yes,” said Richard eagerly. “Very friendly. It’s . . . well, I think it’s a lovely house to have as a home.” Fleur met his eye.

  “Yes,” she said kindly, and opened the car door. “Yes, Richard, I’m sure it is.”

  Philippa was sitting up in bed when Richard and Gillian arrived. She watched them walking through the ward, and automatically tried to give them a bright smile. But her mouth felt awkward and her cheeks stiff. She felt as though she might never smile again; as though the freezing shame sinking through her body had caused all her natural reactions to seize up.

  She hadn’t thought it would be like this. She’d thought she was committing the ultimate romantic gesture; that she’d wake up to find everyone gathered round her bed, blinking back their tears and stroking her hand and promising to make her life better. Instead of which she’d woken to a series of humiliating assaults on her body, administered by nurses with civil phrases on their lips and contempt in their eyes. When she’d glimpsed her father’s devastated face, something inside her had crumpled, and she’d felt like crying. Except that suddenly she couldn’t cry any more. The ready fountain of tears inside her had dried up; the backdrop of romantic fantasy had fallen, and what was left was cold and dry, like a stone.