The Gatecrasher (25 page)

“I shouldn’t be so fussy,” she said. “I expect you travel on the tube all the time, don’t you, Philippa?”

“Every day,” said Philippa. She forced herself to flash a smile at Fleur. “But I’m willing to break the habit.”

Fleur laughed. “That’s my girl.” They began to walk towards the taxi rank, and Philippa allowed her arm to stay in Fleur’s. She felt almost dizzy with excitement, as though she were embarking on some sort of love affair.

In the taxi, Philippa turned to Fleur expectantly, waiting for the start of some hilarious, intimate gossip. She could feel a laugh bubbling up at the back of her throat; even had an affectionate gesture prepared. “Oh Fleur!” she would exclaim, at an appropriate moment, “You’re just too much!” And she would squeeze Fleur’s arm, just like an old established friend. The taxi driver would look at them in the mirror and think they were lifelong chums. Or maybe even sisters.

But Fleur was gazing silently out of the window at the traffic. Her forehead was creased in a slight frown and she was biting her lip and she looked, thought Philippa uneasily, as though she didn’t want to be disturbed. As if she were thinking about something; as if she didn’t really want to be there at all.

Then, suddenly, she turned towards Philippa.

“Tell me, are you and Lambert happy together?” she said. Philippa gave a startled jump. She didn’t want to think about Lambert today. But Fleur was waiting for an answer.

“Oh yes,” she said, and gave Fleur a bright smile. “We have a very happy marriage.”

“A happy marriage,” echoed Fleur. “What exactly makes a happy marriage?”

“Well,” said Philippa doubtfully. “You know.”

“Do I?” said Fleur. “I’m not sure I do.”

“But you were married, weren’t you?” said Philippa. “To Zara’s father.”

“Oh yes,” said Fleur vaguely. “Of course I was. But not happily.”

“Really? I didn’t know that,” said Philippa. She looked at Fleur uneasily, wondering if she wanted to talk about her unhappy marriage. But Fleur gave an impatient wave of the hand.

“What I really mean is, why does one get married in the first place?” She gazed at Philippa. “What made you decide to get married to Lambert?”

A tremor of alarm went through Philippa, as though she were being questioned on the wrong special subject. Swift, positive images of herself and Lambert passed through her mind: the two of them on their wedding day; their honeymoon in the Maldives; Lambert tanned and affectionate; afternoons of sex underneath a mosquito net.

“Well, I love Lambert,” she found herself saying. “He’s strong, and he looks after me . . .” She glanced at Fleur.

“And?” said Fleur.

“And we have fun together,” said Philippa hesitantly.

“But how did you know he was the right man for you?” persisted Fleur. “How did you know it was the right time to stop looking and . . . and settle down for good?”

Philippa felt a flush come to her cheeks.

“I just knew,” she said, in a voice which was too high and defensive.

And suddenly into her mind flashed a memory of her mother; a memory she thought she’d quashed for ever. Her mother, sitting up in bed, fixing Philippa with her ice-blue stare, saying, “You say yes to Lambert, Philippa, and be grateful. What other man is going to want a girl like you?”

“Jim wanted me,” Philippa had quavered.

“Jim?” her mother had snapped. “Your father despises Jim! He’d never let you marry Jim. You’d better accept Lambert.”

“But . . .”

“But nothing. This is your only chance. Look at you! You’re not pretty, you’re not charming, you’re not even a virgin. What other man will want you?”

As she’d listened, Philippa had felt sick, as though she were physically being torn apart. Now suddenly, she felt sick again.

“You ‘just knew.’ ” Fleur sounded dissatisfied. “But I just knew this was the hat for me.” She gestured at her head. “And then, when I’d bought it, I saw an even better one.”

“It’s a lovely hat,” said Philippa feebly.

“The thing is,” said Fleur, “you can have more than one hat. You can have twenty hats. But you can’t have twenty husbands. Don’t you ever worry that you chose too soon?”

“No!” said Philippa at once. “I don’t. Lambert’s perfect for me.”

“Well, good,” said Fleur. She smiled at Philippa. “I’m glad for you.”

Philippa stared at Fleur, and felt her bright happy smile start to fade away, and suddenly wished, for the first time in her life, that she’d been more honest. She could have confided in Fleur; she could have shared her worries and asked for advice. But her foremost instinct had been to paint a rosy, romantic picture of herself; a picture that Fleur would appreciate and, quite possibly, envy. And now her chance to tell the truth was gone.

Lambert arrived at The Maples shortly after Gillian had left for her bridge class. He parked the car, let himself into the house and stood in the hall, listening for voices. But the house was silent, as he’d expected it to be. The night before he’d rung up and casually mentioned to Gillian that he might drop by between meetings.

“But no-one will be here,” she’d said. “Richard’s going to Newcastle, I’ll be playing bridge and Antony will probably be out with Zara, practising for the Club Cup.”

“I’ll pop in anyway,” Lambert had replied casually, “since I’m passing.”

Now, without hesitating, he headed for Richard’s office. It would be a simple matter to find the information he needed, then, when he got back home, transfer an appropriate sum of money into his own account. He would be able to have a cheque ready for the bank within a week, which would buy him a few months. And then, by Christmas, Philippa would be twenty-nine and the trust money would be even nearer and his inconvenient financial problems would be over for ever.

As he entered the office he found himself, ludicrously, bending down to check under the desk. As if he didn’t
know that Fleur was in London, with his own wife. Attending another memorial service. Didn’t the woman have anything better to do with her time than go to bloody memorial services? He frowned at the dusty carpet, then stood up and strode over to the filing cabinet and pulled open the third drawer; the drawer which he hadn’t reached last time. And there, like a reward, were files and files of Richard’s bank statements.

“Bingo,” he muttered softly under his breath. He knelt down and, at random, pulled out a file marked “Household.” The statements were neatly clipped together; as he fanned through them, he began to feel a sense of anticipation. Here was Richard’s financial life, laid out for him to see. The wealth that, one day, would be his and Philippa’s. Except that in this account, there was little evidence of wealth. The balance never seemed to rise above three thousand pounds. What bloody good was that?

Impatiently he replaced it, and pulled out another, rather tattered, marked “Children.” Pocket money, thought Lambert contemptuously, and threw it down on the floor, where it fell open. His hand was outstretched towards another file as he glanced casually down at it. What he saw made him freeze in shock. The top statement was dated the previous month, and the balance was approaching ten million pounds.

“How many courses shall we have?” said Philippa, squinting at the menu. “Three?”

“Ten million,” said Fleur absently.

“What?” Philippa looked up.

“Oh, nothing.” Fleur smiled. “Sorry, I was miles away.”
She began to take off her hat and shake back her red-gold hair. In the corner of the restaurant, a young waiter watched admiringly.

“Ten million miles away,” said Philippa, and laughed heartily. The day had, so far, more than lived up to her expectations. She and Fleur had sauntered from shop to shop, trying on clothes, squirting scent on each other and laughing merrily, attracting attention like two birds of paradise. The magazines were wrong, thought Philippa. They all said that the Way to Get your Man was to go around with someone uglier than yourself. But it wasn’t true. Fleur was much prettier than she, even if she was much older—but today, instead of feeling inadequate, Philippa had felt elevated to Fleur’s status. And people had treated her differently. They had smiled at her, and men had opened the door for her, and young office girls rushing past had looked at her with envy in their eyes. And Philippa had relished every moment.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Fleur suddenly. “It’s all so difficult. Why can’t life be straightforward?” She sighed. “Let’s have a cocktail.” She beckoned to the young waiter, who came striding over.

“A Manhattan,” said Fleur, smiling at him.

“Two,” said Philippa. The waiter grinned back at her. He was, thought Philippa, extraordinarily good-looking. In fact, everybody who worked in expensive shops seemed to be good-looking.

“Excuse me, ladies.” Another waiter was approaching their table. He was holding a silver tray, on which reposed a bottle of champagne. “This has been ordered and prepaid for you.”

“No!” Fleur burst into peals of laughter. “Champagne!”
She looked at the bottle. “Very good champagne, in fact. Who ordered it for us?” She looked around. “Are we allowed to know?”

“It’s just like a film,” said Philippa excitedly.

“I have a message card for a Mrs. Daxeny,” said the head waiter.

“Aha!” said Fleur. “So they know our names!”

“Read it!” said Philippa.

Fleur ripped open the little card.

“ ‘Have a lovely lunch, my sweethearts,’ ” she read, “ ‘and I wish I could be there with you. Richard.’ ” Fleur looked up. “It’s from your father,” she said. She sounded astonished. “Your father sent us champagne.”

“I thought it was from an anonymous prince,” said Philippa disappointedly. “How did Daddy know where we’d be?”

“I must have told him,” said Fleur slowly. “And he must have remembered, and ordered this for us over the phone, and hoped that we wouldn’t change our lunch plans. And all the time he said nothing about it.”

“Shall I open it?” said the head waiter.

“Ooh yes!” said Philippa.

“Yes please,” said Fleur. She picked up the little card and gazed at it for a few seconds. “What an extraordinarily thoughtful man your father is.”

“Actually, I think I’ll still have my Manhattan,” said Philippa. “And then go on to champagne. After all, I’m not driving anywhere!” She glanced up brightly at Fleur. “Are you OK?”

“I’m fine,” said Fleur, frowning slightly. “I was just . . . thinking.”

They both watched as, with the tiniest of whispered
pops, the head waiter opened the champagne and poured out a single glass. He handed it ceremonially to Fleur.

“You know, men don’t usually manage to take me by surprise,” she said, as though to herself. “But today . . .” she took a sip. “This is delicious.”

“Today you’ve been taken by surprise,” said Philippa triumphantly.

“Today I’ve been taken by surprise,” agreed Fleur. She took another sip and looked thoughtfully at her glass. “Twice.”

The sound of the cleaner’s key in the front door made Lambert give a startled jump. With fumbling hands he replaced all the bank statements in the filing cabinet, hurried out of the office, and sauntered down the stairs. He gave the cleaner a cheery smile as he passed her in the hall, but his heart was beating hard and shock was still needling down his back.

Ten million liquid assets. That had to be the money for the trust. But it wasn’t in trust, it was still in Richard’s account. What was going on? He reached his car and paused, panting slightly, trying not to let panic overwhelm him. The money wasn’t in trust. Which meant Philippa wasn’t the millionairess he’d thought she was. And he had an enormous overdraft and no means of paying it off except her.

He opened the car door, got in and rested his clammy head on the steering wheel. It didn’t make sense. Had Emily been
lying
to him? She’d promised him that Philippa was going to be rich. She’d told him they were going to sort it out straight away. She’d said the money would be put in Philippa’s name; that as soon as she turned thirty it would
be hers. And instead, where was it? It was still in Richard’s name. From the look of things, Richard had been liquidizing his assets for months. He was obviously planning to do something with the money. But what? Give it to Philippa? Or throw it to the fucking birds? Nothing would have surprised Lambert any more. And the worst thing was, there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

As the puddings arrived, Philippa leaned across the table and looked Fleur in the eye. Fleur looked back at her. Philippa had drunk two Manhattans and at least her share of the champagne and had become more and more garrulous and less and less distinct. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair was dishevelled and she seemed to have something important to say.

“I lied to you.” Her words came tumbling out, and Fleur peered at her in surprise.

“I’m sorry?”

“No,
I’m
sorry. I mean, you’re my best friend, and I lied to you. You’re my best friend,” repeated Philippa with a swaying emphasis. “And I lied to you.” She reached for Fleur’s hand and blinked back a couple of tears. “About Lambert.”

“Really? What did you tell me about Lambert?” Fleur disentangled her hand and reached for her spoon. “Eat your pudding.”