The Gatecrasher (13 page)

Fifty thousand pounds wasn’t a lot of money. Not for someone like Richard, it wasn’t. Richard had so much money, he could easily spare that much. He would never even notice it was missing. Lambert would borrow fifty grand, use it to solve his problems with the bank and then
put it back. Five thousand pounds here, ten thousand pounds there—he’d take it out in bits and pieces, then put it back again when he had the chance. As long as the bottom lines added up at the end of the year, no-one would be the wiser.

Forging Richard’s signature wasn’t a problem. Setting up the transfers wasn’t a problem. Deciding which accounts to go into was more tricky. He didn’t want to find he’d wiped out the housekeeping account, or this year’s holiday fund. Knowing Richard, every bit of money, large or small, was probably allocated to something or other. He would have to be careful.

Lambert closed the top drawer and opened the second one down. He began to flip through the files. Suddenly a sound made him stop, fingers still poised. Something was behind him. Something—or someone . . .

He spun round, and felt his face freeze in disbelief. Sitting at Richard’s desk, legs calmly crossed, was Fleur. His mind began to race. Had she been there all the time? Had she seen him . . .

“Hello Lambert,” said Fleur pleasantly. “What are you doing in here?”

Philippa finished the last page of her book and leaned back, feeling both satisfied and slightly sick. Words and images jangled in her mind; in her nostrils the aroma of car upholstery mingled uneasily with the lingering smell of Lambert’s driving peppermints. She opened the door and breathed in dazedly, trying to wrench herself away from fiction, into reality. But in her mind she was still on the Swiss Alps with Pierre, the dashing ski instructor. Pierre’s manly mouth was on hers; his hands were in her
hair; music was playing in the background . . . When Gillian suddenly banged on the car she gave a little shriek and jumped, bashing her head against the window frame.

“I’ve been picking strawberries,” said Gillian. “Do you want a drink?”

“Oh,” said Philippa. “Yes. I could do with a cup of coffee.”

She got out of the car with stiff, stumbling legs, shook herself down and followed Gillian into the house. Pierre and the Alps began to recede from her mind like an ill-remembered dream.

“Is Daddy out?” she said, sitting feebly down on a kitchen chair.

“He’s at a meeting with Oliver Sterndale,” said Gillian.

“Antony’s out too.” She began to run water into the kettle.

“I suppose we are a bit early. What about . . .” Philippa pulled a tiny face.

“What about what?”

“You know. Fleur!”

“What about her?” said Gillian shortly.

“Well . . . where is she?”

“I don’t know,” said Gillian. She paused. “We only got back from Eleanor’s brunch a short while ago.”

“Eleanor’s brunch?”

“Yes.”

“You went to Eleanor Forrester’s brunch?”

“Yes.” Gillian’s face seemed to close up under Philippa’s astonished gaze. “A lot of nonsense, really,” she added roughly.

“Did you buy anything?”

“I did in the end. This.” Gillian pulled aside her blue scarf to reveal a little gold tortoise sitting on her lapel. She
frowned. “I don’t know if I’m wearing it right. It’ll probably pull at the fabric and spoil the dress.”

Philippa stared at the little tortoise. Gillian never bought brooches. Neither did she usually go to Eleanor’s brunches. It had always been Philippa and her mother who went, while Gillian stayed behind. Gillian had always stayed behind. And now, thought Philippa with a sudden jealousy, it was Gillian and Fleur who had gone, and she who had been left behind.

Fleur did so enjoy shocking men. It was almost worth the inconvenience of being interrupted to see Lambert’s face staring speechlessly at her. Almost, but not quite. For things had been going so well until he’d arrived. She’d found the office door unlocked, had quickly slipped in and begun to look for what she wanted. And she would have found it, too, if she hadn’t been interrupted. Richard was obviously a highly organized person. Everything in his office was filed and listed and paperclipped. She’d headed first of all to his desk, in search of recent correspondence—and had been rooting through his desk drawer when the door opened and Lambert came in.

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.