The Gatecrasher (15 page)

Richard, he was certain, appreciated his superior attributes—his intellect, his breeding, his ability to make decisions—although not as fully as Emily had appreciated them. Philippa was a little fool who thought flowers looked nicer on a tie than Old Creightonian stripes. But Fleur . . . Lambert scowled, and wiped a drip of sweat from his
brow. Fleur didn’t obey the rules. She seemed heedless of his rank as Richard’s son-in-law and almost oblivious of social convention. She was too slippery; he couldn’t place her. What was her age exactly? What was her accent exactly? Where did she fit into his scheme of things?

“Lambert!” Philippa’s voice interrupted his thoughts. She was coming towards the eighteenth green, merrily waving her bag at him.

“Philippa!” His head jerked up; in his state of frustration he felt almost glad to see his wife’s familiar face, slightly flushed. Tea with Tricia had clearly metamorphosed into G and T with Tricia.

“I thought I’d catch you playing the eighteenth! But you’ve finished already! That was pretty quick!”

Lambert said nothing. When Philippa was in full voluble flight she would scoop everything up from a subject that could possibly be mentioned, leaving no crumbs for an answer.

“Good game?” Lambert shot a glance behind him. Richard and the two men from Briggs & Co. were some way behind, walking slowly, all listening to something Fleur was saying.

“Bloody awful game.” He stepped off the course and without waiting for the others began to stride towards the trolley shed, his spikes clattering noisily on the path.

“What happened?”

“That bloody woman. All she did was ask questions. Every fucking five minutes. ‘Richard, could you explain that again to a very stupid lay-woman?’ ‘Richard, when you say cashflow, what exactly do you mean?’ And I’m trying to impress these guys. Christ, what an afternoon.”

“Maybe she’s just interested,” said Philippa.

“Of course she isn’t interested. Why would she be interested? She’s just a stupid tart who likes having all the attention.”

“Well, she certainly looks very good,” said Philippa wistfully, turning to survey Fleur.

“She looks terrible,” said Lambert. “Far too sexy for a golf course.” Philippa giggled.

“Lambert! You’re awful!” She paused, then added in needlessly hushed tones, “We were talking about her this afternoon, actually. Tricia and I.” She lowered her voice further. “Apparently she’s really rich! Tricia told me. She’s got a chauffeur and everything! Tricia said she thought Fleur was super.” Philippa darted a bright-eyed glance at Lambert. “Tricia thinks . . .”

“Tricia is a moron.” Lambert wiped the sweat off his brow again and wondered why the hell he was talking about Fleur to his wife. He turned and looked at Fleur sauntering along in her white dress, looking at him with her mocking green eyes. The arousal which he had fought all afternoon began to stir in him again.

“Christ what a fiasco,” he said coarsely, turning back, running a frustrated hand over Philippa’s inferior buttocks. “I need a bloody drink.”

Unfortunately the chaps from Briggs and Co. didn’t have time for a drink. Regretfully they shook hands and, with one last admiring glance at Fleur, got back into their Saab and drove off. The others stood politely in the car park, watching them manoeuvre the car past rows of glossy BMWs, the occasional Rolls-Royce, a sprinkling of pristine Range Rovers.

Philippa felt a twinge of disappointment as their car
disappeared through the gates. She had looked forward to meeting them, chatting to them, perhaps flirting a little, perhaps even organizing a dinner party for them and their wives. Since marrying Lambert two years before, she had only given one dinner party, for her parents and Antony. And yet at home she had an elegant dining room with a table big enough for ten, and a kitchen full of expensive saucepans, and a “Dinner Party” book full of recipes and time-saving tips, laboriously copied out of magazines.

She had always thought that being married to Lambert would mean she spent the evenings entertaining Lambert’s friends: cooking elaborate dishes for them, perhaps striking up jolly acquaintanceships with their wives. But now it appeared that Lambert didn’t have any friends. And neither, if she was honest, did she—only people at Greyworth who had been her mother’s friends, and people from work, who were always leaving to go to other jobs and never seemed to be free in the evenings anyway. Her contemporaries from university had long since dispersed about the country; none of them lived in London.

Suddenly Fleur laughed at something Richard had said, and Philippa’s head jerked up. If only Fleur could be her friend, she thought wistfully. Her best friend. They could go out to lunch, and have little private jokes which only they understood, and Fleur would introduce her to all
her
friends, and then Philippa would offer to host a dinner party for her in London . . . In her mind, Philippa’s dining room became filled with amusing, delightful people. Candles burning, flowers everywhere, all her wedding china out of its wrappers. She would pop into the kitchen to check on the seafood brochettes with civilized laughter in her ears. Lambert would come in after her ostensibly to
replenish glasses, but really to tell her how proud he was of her. He would put the glasses down, then draw her towards him in a slow embrace . . .

“Is that Gillian?” Fleur’s voice, raised in astonishment, woke Philippa from her reverie. “What’s she doing here?”

Everyone looked up, and Philippa tried to catch Fleur’s eye; to start the seeds of friendship between them. But Fleur didn’t see her. Fleur was looking up at Richard as though no one else in the world existed.

Watching Gillian approach across the car park, Richard gradually pulled Fleur closer and closer to him until they were practically hip to hip.

“I’m so glad you came along,” he murmured in her ear. “I’d forgotten how interminable these games can be. Especially when Lambert’s involved.”

“I enjoyed it,” said Fleur, smiling demurely at him. “And I certainly learned a lot.”

“Would you like some golf lessons?” said Richard immediately. “I should have suggested it before. We can easily fix some up for you.”

“Maybe,” said Fleur. “Or maybe you could teach me yourself.” She glanced up at Richard’s face, still flushed from the sun, still exhilarated from his victory. He looked as relaxed and happy as she’d ever seen him.

“Hello Gillian,” said Richard, as she came within earshot. “What good timing. We’re just about to have a drink.”

“I see,” said Gillian distractedly. “Are the people from Briggs and Co. still around?”

“No, they had to shoot off,” said Richard. “But we’re going to have a celebratory drink on our own.”

“Celebrate?” said Lambert. “What’s there to celebrate?”

“The preferential rate which Briggs and Co. have offered us,” said Richard, his mouth twisting into a smile. “Which Fleur charmed them into offering us.”

“A preferential rate?” said Philippa, ignoring Lambert’s disbelieving scowl. “That’s marvellous!” She smiled warmly at Fleur.

“It would be marvellous,” said Fleur, “if they weren’t a pair of utter crooks.”

“What?” They all stared at her.

“Didn’t you think so?” she said.

“Well . . .” said Richard doubtfully.

“Of course I didn’t think so!” said Lambert. “These chaps are chums of mine.”

“Oh,” said Fleur. She shrugged. “Well I don’t want to offend anyone. But I thought they were crooks, and if I were you I wouldn’t do business with them.”

Philippa glanced at Lambert. He was breathing heavily and his face was an even brighter scarlet than before.

“They cheat a little on the golf course, maybe,” said Richard uncomfortably. “But . . .”

“Not just on the golf course,” said Fleur. “Trust me.”

“Trust you?” exclaimed Lambert, as though unable to keep quiet any more. “What the hell do you know about anything?”

“Lambert!” said Richard sharply. He looked fondly down at Fleur. “Tell you what, darling, I’ll think about it. Nothing’s signed yet.”

“Good,” said Fleur.

“Fleur,” said Gillian quietly. “You’ve got—”

“What do you mean, you’ll think about it?” Lambert’s scandalized voice exploded across hers. “Richard, you’re not taking this rubbish of Fleur’s seriously?”

“All I’ve said, Lambert,” said Richard tightly, “is that I’ll think about it.”

“For Christ’s sake, Richard! The deal’s all set up!”

“It can be un-set up.”

“I don’t believe I’m hearing this!”

“Fleur,” said Gillian more urgently. “You’ve got a visitor back at the house.”

“Since when was Fleur consulted on company decisions?” Lambert’s face was almost purple. “Whose advice are you going to ask next? The milkman’s?”

“I’m just giving an opinion,” said Fleur, shrugging. “You can ignore it if you like.”

“Fleur!” Gillian’s voice rose harshly into the air. Everyone turned to look at her. “Your daughter’s here.”

There was silence.

“Oh, is she?” said Fleur casually. “Yes, I suppose it must be the end of term. How did she get here?”

“Your daughter?” said Richard, giving a little, uncertain laugh.

“I told you about my daughter,” said Fleur. “Didn’t I?”

“Did you?”

“Perhaps I didn’t.” Fleur sounded unconcerned.

“The woman is a nutter!” muttered Lambert to Philippa.

“She just arrived out of the blue,” said Gillian, in tones of stupefaction. “Is her name Sarah? I couldn’t quite make it out.”

“Zara,” said Fleur. “Zara Rose. Where is she now?” she added, almost as an afterthought.

“She’s gone out for a walk,” said Gillian, as though this surprised her the most of all, “with Antony.”

Antony looked again at Zara and tried to think of something to say. They’d been walking for ten minutes now in complete silence. Zara’s hands were in her pockets and her shoulders were hunched up, and she was staring straight ahead as though she didn’t want to catch anyone’s eye. They were very thin shoulders, thought Antony, glancing at her again. In fact Zara was one of the thinnest people he’d ever seen. Her arms were long and bony; her ribs were practically visible through her T-shirt. No tits to speak of, even though she was . . . how old was she?

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Thirteen.” Her voice was American and raspy and not very friendly. She shook back her long white-blond hair and hunched her shoulders again. Her hair was bleached, thought Antony knowledgeably, pleased with himself for having noticed.

“And . . . where do you go to school?” This was more like it. Small talk.

“Heathland School for Girls.”

“Is it nice?”

“It’s a boarding school.” She spoke as though that were answer enough.

“Did you . . . When did you move here from the States?”

“I didn’t.” Oh ha-ha, thought Antony.

“Canada, then,” he said.

“I’ve lived in Britain all my life,” she said. She sounded bored. Antony stared at her, perplexed.

“But your accent . . .”

“I have an American accent. So what? It’s my choice.” For the first time she turned towards him. Her eyes were
extraordinary, he thought—green like Fleur’s but deep-set and fierce-looking.

“You just decided to speak with an American accent?”

“Yup.”

“Why?”

“Just did.”

“How old were you?”

“Seven.”

They walked for a while in silence. Antony tried to remember himself at seven. Could he have made a decision like that? And stuck with it? He thought not.

“I guess your dad’s rich, right?” Her voice rasped through the air and Antony felt himself blushing.

“Quite rich, I suppose,” he said. “I mean, not that rich. But you know. Well off. Relatively speaking.” He knew he was sounding awkward and pompous, but there was nothing he could do about it. “Why do you want to know?” he said, retaliating.

“No reason.” She took her hands out of her pockets and began to examine them. Antony followed her gaze. They were thin hands, tanned pale brown, with a single, huge silver ring on each. Why? thought Antony in sudden fascination. Why are you staring at your hands? Why are you frowning? What are you looking for?