The Gatecrasher (19 page)

Taking another sip of his beer, Richard resolved to talk to Fleur about it that very night. He wouldn’t make the mistake he had made with Emily, of leaving things unsaid until it was too late. With Fleur it would be different. With Fleur there would be no hidden thoughts. With Fleur, thought Richard, nothing was secret.

Fleur rarely dwelled on mistakes or misfortune. Striding swiftly along the paths of the Greyworth estate, blinking as the dazzling evening sunlight caught her in the eye, she did not allow herself to consider that the past few months with Richard Favour might all have been for no financial gain whatsoever. Instead, she focused her mind fully ahead. The next funeral, the next memorial service, the next conquest. Thinking positive was Fleur’s speciality. She would call Johnny and fix herself up some more funerals and Richard Favour would become just another name from the past.

In fact, she rationalized, leaning against a tree to catch her breath, it had been no bad thing for her to stay at The Maples for a while, money or no money. After all, few of the men whose hospitality she had enjoyed in the past had allowed her to get away with doing so very little as Richard Favour did. The demands he made on her were practically zero. She wasn’t required to exert herself in the bedroom. She wasn’t required to exert herself in the kitchen. She wasn’t expected to host elaborate functions, nor to remember
people’s names, nor to profess fondness for any small children or animals.

This time with Richard had been a recharging time. A rest-cure, practically. She would emerge refreshed and regenerated, ready for the next challenge. And it was unrealistic to suppose that she would leave The Maples with no money whatsoever. She would manage to mop up a couple of thousand before she left, maybe more. She wouldn’t exactly steal it—breaking the law directly wasn’t Fleur’s style. But twisting the law to suit her own ends was exactly her style, as was judging exactly how much she could risk taking from a man without provoking a chase.

She had reached The Meadows—a remote corner of the Greyworth estate laid over to natural beauty which was rarely visited. Glancing around to check no-one was around to overhear, she took her mobile phone from her bag, switched it on, and dialled Johnny’s number.

“Johnny.”

“Fleur! At last!”

“What do you mean, at last?” said Fleur, frowning slightly.

“Didn’t Zara tell you to ring me?”

“Oh,” said Fleur, remembering. “Yes, she did. She said you were in a tizz.”

“Yes, I am. And it’s all your fault.”

“My fault? Johnny, what are you talking about?”

“It’s not
what
I’m talking about,” said Johnny, in a voice laden with drama. “It’s
who
I’m talking about.” Fleur had a sudden mental picture of him standing by the mantelpiece in his Chelsea drawing room, sipping sherry, enjoying every moment of their conversation.

“All right, Johnny,” she said patiently. “Who are you talking about?”

There was a perfectly timed pause, then Johnny said, “Hal Winters. That’s who.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Rattled, Fleur found herself snapping more loudly than she had meant to. “Not that old story again. I’ve told you, Johnny . . .”

“He’s in London.”

“What?” Fleur felt the colour drain from her cheeks. “What’s he doing in London?”

“Looking for you.”

“How can he be looking for me? He wouldn’t know where to start.”

“He started with us.”

“I see.” Fleur stared ahead for a few seconds, as thoughts whirled round her mind. An evening breeze rustled the trees and blew through her hair, warm and soft. Here at Greyworth, London seemed another country. And yet it was under an hour away. Hal Winters was under an hour away.

“So what did you tell him?” she said at last. “I hope you sent him away.”

“We stalled him,” said Johnny.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning in a few days’ time, he’s going to be back on our doorstep, wanting to know if we’ve got anywhere.”

“And you’ll just tell him that you haven’t,” said Fleur briskly.

“No we won’t.”

“What?” Fleur stared at the receiver.

“Felix and I have discussed it. We think you should agree to see him.”

“Well you can both bugger off!”

“Fleur . . .”

“I know. A pound in the bloody swear box.”

“Fleur, listen to me.” Suddenly the drama was gone from Johnny’s voice. “You can’t keep running away for ever.”

“I’m not running away!”

“What do you call your life, then?”

“I . . . What do you mean? Johnny, what is all this?”

“You can’t treat Hal Winters like you treat all the others. You can’t run away from him. It’s not fair.”

“Who are you to tell me what’s fair and what isn’t?” said Fleur furiously. “You’ve got nothing to do with it. And if you tell Hal Winters where I am . . .”

“I wouldn’t do that without your permission,” said Johnny. “But I’m asking you to change your mind. If you could have seen his face, you’d understand. He’s desperate.”

“Why should he be desperate to see me?” said Fleur sharply. “It’s not as though he knows.”

“But he does know!” said Johnny. “That’s the whole point! He does know!” Fleur felt her legs weaken beneath her.

“He knows?”

“He doesn’t exactly know,” amended Johnny. “But he’s obviously found something out. And now he wants the whole story.”

“Well, he can bugger off too.”

“Fleur, grow up! He deserves to know the truth. You know he does. And Zara deserves to meet her father.”

Gillian arrived back from her bridge lesson to find Richard on his third glass of beer, Antony and Zara engrossed in the television, no sign of Fleur and no sign of supper.

“What’s everyone been doing?” she said shortly, dumping her bag on the kitchen table and opening the fridge. All the dishes and packets that she had set aside for Fleur were still there, untouched.

“Nothing,” said Richard idly. “Just sitting.” He glanced up and smiled at Gillian. She half-smiled back, but on her face was the beginnings of a frown. Richard looked past her at the fridge, and suddenly realized what had happened.

“Gillian! The supper! I’m so sorry. Quick, Antony, let’s help Gillian.” He leapt to his feet, and Antony slowly followed suit.

“What’s wrong?” he said, eyes still glued to the television, moving like a zombie across the kitchen.

“Well, Fleur . . .” Richard tailed away in discomfiture. “Oh dear. Oh Gillian, I’m terribly sorry.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Gillian, staring gloomily down at the unassembled ingredients before her.

“Fleur promised to make supper, right?” Zara’s voice cut harshly across the kitchen.

“Well, she did make some mention of it,” said Richard feebly. “I’ve no idea where she’s got to.” Zara rolled her eyes.

“What I would do,” she said, “is order takeout and make her pay for it. Forget all this stuff.” She gestured at the table. “Get something easy and expensive. You got a phone book?”

“It’ll be just as quick for me to do it,” said Gillian, taking off her jacket with a sigh. “And we’ve got everything out now.”

“Yeah, so we put it away again. And we make a phone call. And they deliver the food. How quick is that? Quicker
than peeling a pile of carrots.” Zara shrugged. “It’s up to you. But I’d go for takeout. This stuff’ll keep, right?”

“Well, yes,” said Gillian grudgingly. “Most of it.”

“Which things won’t? Tell us exactly, then we can keep those bits out and eat them. Is it like . . . salad-type stuff?” Zara grinned at Antony. “You can tell I failed Home Ec.” She turned back to Gillian. “What won’t keep?”

“I’ll . . . I’ll have to have a look.”

Gillian moved away from Zara and prodded a packet of lettuce. It was ridiculous; the girl was only a child. But Zara’s easy analysis of the situation left her feeling suddenly unsure of herself. Inside, a familiar mass of resentment had already built up; grumbling phrases were on her lips; her face was poised to frown in martyred gloom. That was the role she knew; that was the role which everyone expected. Everyone but Zara.

“I should add that I can’t stand Indian,” added Zara, taking a swig from her can. “And we don’t want some crummy pizza. Do you have a good Thai takeout place round here?”

“I have no idea,” said Richard, starting to laugh. “We’re not really ‘takeout’ sort of people. Are we, Gillian?”

“I don’t know,” said Gillian. Weakly, she sat down. Antony was already putting her dishes and labelled plastic boxes back into the fridge. Zara was scanning the Yellow Pages. The moment for righteous indignation had gone; had dissipated. She felt strangely robbed, and at the same time, uplifted.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had Thai food,” she said cautiously.

“Oh, then we absolutely have to have Thai,” said Zara at once. “Thai food is just the best.” She looked up with
an animated face. “These friends of ours in London, they live right above a Thai food place. I practically live off the stuff when I’m staying with them. Antony, how does this stupid book work? Find me the Thai takeout page.”

“Oh, right.” Obediently, Antony trotted over to Zara’s side and began to leaf through the pages. Richard caught Gillian’s eye and she felt a sudden urge to giggle.

“OK,” said Zara. “Let’s try these.” She picked up the phone and dialled briskly. “Hello? Could you please fax me your menu? I’ll give you the number.”

“Gillian, why don’t you have a drink,” said Richard in an undertone. His eyes were twinkling. “Dinner seems to be well under control.”

“Cool,” said Zara, putting down the phone. “The menu’ll be here any minute. Shall I choose?”

“I’ll help,” said Antony. “Dad, can we have the key to your office? We need to get at the fax.”

“You don’t mind if I order for everyone?” said Zara.

“You go ahead,” said Richard. He handed the office key to Antony and watched as he and Zara hurried out of the kitchen.

“I was beginning to worry about Zara’s eating habits,” he remarked to Gillian when the two of them were out of earshot. “I think I was worrying about nothing. I’ve never seen her look so sparky.”

He stood up, stretched and went into the larder.

“But I am sorry, Gillian,” he said, returning with a bottle of wine. “About Fleur, I mean. It’s not like her to let people down.”

“I know it isn’t,” said Gillian. “I imagine something must have happened to hold her up.”

“I hope she’s all right.” Richard frowned, and handed
Gillian a glass of wine. “Perhaps I’ll ring the clubhouse in a minute. See if she went for a swim.”

“Good idea,” said Gillian. She took a deep breath. “And there’s no need to apologize. What does a meal matter? It’s only food.”

“Well,” said Richard awkwardly. “Even so.”

“I know I have a tendency to take these things too seriously.” Gillian bit her lip. “I get . . . what would Antony say? Stressed out. By silly little things.” She sighed. “I’m the one who should be sorry.”

“Nonsense!” said Richard. “Goodness me, Gillian . . .” She ignored him.

“But I think I’m changing.” She sat back, took a sip of wine and looked at Richard over the rim of her glass. “Fleur’s changing me.”

Richard gave a gallant little laugh.

“Changing our charming Gillian? I hope not!”

“Richard!” There was a blade of anger in Gillian’s voice. “Don’t be polite to me, please. Tell me I’m changing for the better.” She took a deep sip of wine. “I know you and I don’t usually speak to each other on this . . . on this . . .”

“This level.” Richard’s expression was suddenly serious.

“Exactly. This level.” She swallowed. “But you must realize as well as I that since Fleur has been here, things have been different. There’s something about Fleur . . .” She tailed away and blinked a few times.

“I know,” agreed Richard. “There is.”

“Fleur is kind to me in a way that my own sister never was,” said Gillian in a voice which trembled slightly.

“Emily?” Richard stared at her.

“Emily was a dear sister to me. But she had her faults. She did things that were thoughtless and unkind.” Gillian raised her head and looked straight at Richard. Her blue eyes were glistening. “Perhaps I shouldn’t be telling you this now,” she said. “But it’s the truth. Emily was unkind to me. And Fleur is kind. That’s all.”

Fleur had arrived back at The Maples, gone straight upstairs and into her bedroom. Now she was seated in front of the mirror in her bedroom, wearing her black veiled hat, staring at her reflection. She had been sitting there for half an hour without moving, waiting for the unfamiliar feeling of disquiet to subside. But still her insides felt clenched and her brow was screwed up in wrinkles, and Johnny’s voice rang in her ear, cross and pestering like a woodpecker. “Why won’t you see him? Why won’t you face up to your past? When are you going to stop running?”

Never before had she heard Johnny so stern; so unbiddable.

“What do you expect me to do? Invite him to stay?” she’d said, trying to sound flippant. “Introduce him to Richard? Come on, Johnny. Be serious.”