The Gatecrasher (24 page)

“Suppose you marry someone really nice and there’s a car crash and they lose all their personality? What’s the difference?”

“It isn’t the same! You know it’s not the same.” He peered at her. “Why are you defending your mother?”

“I don’t know!” cried Zara jerkily. “Because she’s my mother, I guess! I’ve never talked to anyone about her before. I never realized—” She broke off. “Oh, for God’s sake! I wish I’d never told you!”

“So do I! What a bloody mess.”

They stared at each other in fury.

“Look,” said Zara eventually. “Your dad’s not stupid. He’s not going to let her rip him off completely, is he?” She forced herself to meet his eye unwaveringly.

“No,” said Antony. He exhaled slowly. “I suppose not.”

“And you like having her around, don’t you?”

“Of course I do! I love having her around. And I like . . . I like having you around.”

“Good,” said Zara. She slowly smiled at him. “ ’Cause I like being around.”

Later on they wandered back up to the house to find Fleur and Richard arguing good-humouredly about wallpaper.

“Antony!” exclaimed Fleur. “Talk some sense into your father. First he gives me
carte blanche
to redecorate his office, then he says he won’t have anything but stripes or fleur-de-lis.”

“I don’t know what fleur-de-lis is,” said Antony. He stared at Fleur. His image of her in his mind had changed now that he knew the truth; as they’d walked towards her he’d honestly expected that she would look different.
More . . . monster-like. He’d found himself dreading the moment of meeting her eye. But there she was, just the same, warm and pretty and friendly. And now she was smiling at him, and he was grinning back, and suddenly he found himself wondering if everything Zara had said about her could really be true.

“Tell you what,” said Richard to Fleur. “Why not get some more wallpaper books when you’re in London? I’m sure we can reach a compromise. Just remember, I’m the one who has to sit in the room and try to work.” He grinned at Antony and Zara. “Fleur is very keen on orange walls.”

“Not orange. Terracotta.”

“When are you going to London?” asked Zara.

“On Friday,” said Fleur. “The day after tomorrow.”

“Your mother has to go to a memorial service,” said Richard.

Zara froze; her face turned pale.

“You’re going to a memorial service?” she said.

“That’s right,” said Fleur.

“A memorial service?” repeated Zara disbelievingly. “You’re going to a
memorial
service?”

“Yes, darling,” said Fleur impatiently. “And please stop making such a fuss.” Her eyes bored into Zara’s. “I’ll only be gone a day. It’s for poor Hattie Fairbrother,” she added casually. “You remember Hattie, don’t you, darling?” Zara flinched, and turned away.

“Zara!” They were interrupted by Gillian. “You’ve got a phone call. Someone called Johnny.”

“Johnny?” Zara’s head shot up. “Johnny’s on the phone? OK, I’m coming! I’m coming! Don’t let him hang up!” And without looking back, she bounded into the house.

“Do you want a Diet Coke?” Antony called, but she wasn’t listening. “I’ll just . . . see if she wants a Diet Coke,” he said to the others, and disappeared after her.

Richard looked at Fleur.

“Zara seemed very upset at the idea of you going to a memorial service,” he said.

“I know,” said Fleur. “Ever since her father passed away, anything to do with death upsets her.” She looked sad. “I try not to press the point.”

“Of course,” said Gillian. “It’s perfectly understandable.”

“Poor little thing,” said Richard. His eyes twinkled slightly. “And who’s Johnny? A special friend of Zara’s?”

“A friend of us both,” said Fleur. Her face closed up slightly. “I’ve known him for years.”

“You should ask him to stay,” suggested Richard. “I’d like to meet some of your friends.”

“Maybe,” said Fleur, and changed the subject.

Zara had disappeared into the tiny room off the hall that contained nothing but a telephone, a chair and a little table for messages. As she came out, Antony was waiting for her. He stared at her: her eyes were sparkling; she looked suddenly cheerful again.

“So, who’s Johnny?” he said, before he could stop himself. “Your boyfriend?”

“Don’t be dumb!” said Zara. “I haven’t got a boyfriend. Johnny’s just a friend. A really good friend.”

“Oh yeah?” said Antony, trying to sound lighthearted and teasing. “I’ve heard that one before.”

“Antony, Johnny’s fifty-six!”

“Oh,” said Antony, feeling foolish.

“And he’s gay!” added Zara.

“Gay?” He stared at her.

“Yes, gay!” She giggled. “Satisfied now?” She started to head into the garden.

“Where are you going?” called Antony, running after her.

“I have a message for Fleur from Johnny.”

They arrived on the lawn together, panting.

“OK, Johnny says he hopes you’ve changed your mind and will you give him a call if you have,” announced Zara.

“About what?” said Fleur.

“He said you knew what he was talking about. And . . . he also said he might take me to New York! As a special fourteenth birthday treat!” She darted a triumphant glance at Fleur.

“New York!” exclaimed Antony. “Fantastic!”

“How nice,” said Fleur acidly.

“Anyway, that’s the message.” Zara took a piece of gum from her pocket and happily began to chew. “So, are you gonna call him?”

“No,” said Fleur, snapping the wallpaper book shut. “I’m not.”

On Friday morning, Richard left early for his meeting, and Fleur breathed a sigh of relief. She was finding his continual presence a little oppressive. As the weather reached summer perfection, he was taking great swaths of time off work—days of long-owed holiday, he’d explained—and spending them all at home. The first time he’d used the word “holiday,” Fleur had smiled prettily, and wondered whether she could persuade him to take her to Barbados. But Richard didn’t want to go away. Like a love-struck adolescent, all he wanted was to be with her. He was in her bed all night; he was at her side all day; she couldn’t escape him. The day before, she’d actually found herself suggesting that the two of them play golf together. Anything, to break up the monotony. We’ll have to be careful, she found herself thinking as she drank the last of her breakfast coffee, or we’ll fall into a rut.

Then, abruptly, she pulled herself up. She wasn’t going to fall into a rut with Richard because she wasn’t going to stay with Richard. By three o’clock that afternoon, she would be at the memorial service of Hattie Fairbrother,
wife of the retired business magnate Edward Fairbrother; by the time the reception was over she might have new plans entirely.

She stood up, checking her black suit for creases, and went upstairs. As she passed the office door, she lingered. She still hadn’t had a chance to explore Richard’s affairs. Now that she was officially decorating the office, it should have been easy. She could wander in whenever she chose, poke around, open drawers and close them again, find out everything she wanted to about Richard’s business affairs, and no-one would suspect anything. And yet with Richard in constant adoration at her side, it was harder than she had imagined to find a moment when she could be alone in there. Besides which, she was almost sure that he was not quite in the league she had hoped. Johnny had got it wrong. Richard Favour was no more than a moderately well-off man, whose Gold Card would net her perhaps fifteen, perhaps twenty thousand pounds. It was almost not worth bothering to look through his dull little books.

But force of habit drew her towards the office door. Her taxi would be arriving in a few minutes, to take her to the station, but there was time to have a quick glance through his most recent correspondence. And she was, after all, supposed to be decorating the place. She let herself into the office with the duplicate key he’d given her, looked around at the bleak walls and shuddered. Her eye fell on the large window behind the desk; in her mind she saw it curtained in a large, dramatic swag of deep green. She would match the curtains with a dark green carpet. And on the walls, a set of antique golfing prints. She would pick some up for him at auction, perhaps.

Except of course she wouldn’t do anything of the sort. Biting her lip, Fleur sat down on Richard’s chair and swivelled round idly. Out of the window she could just see the garden: the lawn, the pear tree, the badminton net which Antony and Zara had left up the night before. They were familiar sights. Too familiar. It would be surprisingly difficult to leave them. And, if she were honest with herself, it would be surprisingly difficult to leave Richard.

But then, life was surprisingly difficult. Fleur’s chin tightened and she tapped her fingernails on the polished wood of the desk, impatient with herself. She hadn’t yet achieved her goal. She wasn’t yet a rich woman. Therefore she would have to move on; she had no choice. And there was no point hanging around here endlessly for the last dribs and drabs. Richard wasn’t the sort who would suddenly splash out on a last-minute couture dress or diamond bracelet. As soon as she had worked out how much he could afford to lose, she would bounce his Gold Card up to the limit, take the cash and go. If she got the amount just right—as she would—then he would quietly pay it off, say nothing, lick his wounds in private and put the whole affair down to experience. They always did. And by that time, she would be in another family, another home, perhaps even another country.

Sighing, she pulled Richard’s in-tray towards her and began to flip through his most recent correspondence. Her fingers felt slow and reluctant; her mind was only half-concentrating. What she was looking for she hardly knew. The thrill of pursuit seemed to have evaporated inside her; her drive had lost its edge. Once she would have scanned each letter urgently, searching for clues; seeking opportunities for financial gain. Now her eyes fell dully
on each page, taking in a few words here, a few words there, then moving on. There was a short letter about the lease on Richard’s London flat. There was a request for donations from a children’s charity. There was a bank statement.

As she pulled it from its envelope, Fleur felt a small quickening inside her. At least this should prove interesting. She unfolded the single sheet and her gaze flicked automatically to the final balance, already estimating in her mind what sort of figure she might expect to see. And then, as her eyes focused, and she realized what she was looking at, she felt a shock jolt round her body. Her fingers felt suddenly clammy; her throat was dry; she couldn’t breathe.

No, she thought, trying to keep control of herself. That couldn’t be right. It simply couldn’t be right. Could it? She felt dizzy with astonishment. Was she reading the figures correctly? She closed her eyes, swallowed, took a deep breath and opened them again. The same number sat, ludicrously, in the credit column. She gazed at it, devouring it with her mind. Could it possibly be correct? Was she really looking at—“Fleur!” called Gillian from downstairs. Fleur jumped; her eyes darted towards the door. “Your taxi’s here!”

“Thank you!” called back Fleur. Her voice felt high and unnatural; suddenly she realized that her hand was shaking. She looked at the figure again, feeling slightly faint. What the hell was going on? No-one, but
no-one
kept a sum like that just sitting in a bank account. Not unless they were very stupid—which Richard wasn’t—or unless they were very, very rich indeed . . .

“Fleur! You’ll miss your train!”

“I’m coming!” Quickly, before Gillian decided to come and fetch her, Fleur put the bank statement back where she had found it. She had to think about this. She had to think very carefully indeed.

Philippa had bought an entirely new outfit for her day out with Fleur. She stood by the ticket barrier at Waterloo station, feeling conspicuous in her pale pink suit, and wondering whether she should have gone for something more casual. But as soon as she saw Fleur, her heart gave a relieved bounce. Fleur looked even more dressed up than she did. She was wearing the same black suit she’d been wearing when Philippa had first seen her at the memorial service, topped with a glorious black hat, covered in tiny purple flowers. People were staring as she made her way along the concourse, and Philippa felt a glow of pride. This groomed, elegant beauty was her friend. Her friend!

“Darling!” Fleur’s kiss was more showy than warm, but Philippa didn’t mind. She imagined, with a rush of exhilaration, the picture the two of them made standing in their suits—one pink, one black. Two glamorous women, meeting for lunch. If, yesterday, she’d seen such a sight, she would have been filled with wistful envy; today she
was
the sight. She
was
one of those glamorous women.

“Where shall we go first?” asked Fleur. “I’ve booked a table at Harvey Nichols for twelve-thirty, but we could begin somewhere else. Where would you like to shop?”

“I don’t know!” exclaimed Philippa excitedly. “Let’s look on the map. I’ve got a tube pass . . .”

“I was thinking more of a taxi,” interrupted Fleur kindly. “I never travel by tube if I can help it.” Philippa looked up,
and felt an embarrassed crimson staining her cheeks. For a horrible moment she felt as though the day might have been spoiled already. But suddenly Fleur laughed, and put her arm through Philippa’s.