The Gatecrasher (8 page)

But now everything was different. Now there was a woman called Fleur. A woman she knew nothing about.

“You’ll
love
her,” Richard had added just before putting the phone down. This Gillian doubted. Of course, he’d meant “love” in the casual, modern use of the word. She’d heard it bandied about by the women in the clubhouse
bar—I
love
your dress . . . Don’t you just
love
this scent. Love, love love. As though it meant nothing; as though it weren’t a sacrosanct word, a precious syllable, to be used sparingly. Gillian loved human beings, not handbags. She knew with a fierce certainty whom she loved, whom she had loved, whom she would always love. But in her adult life she had never uttered the word aloud.

Outside, a cloud moved, and a shaft of sunlight landed on the table.

“It’s a nice day,” said Gillian, listening to her voice fall into the dead silence of the kitchen. She’d been talking to herself more and more, recently. Sometimes, with Richard up in London and Antony away at school, she was alone in the house for days at a time. Empty, lonely days. She didn’t have any friends at Greyworth; when the rest of the family were away, the phone soon stopped trilling. Many of Emily’s friends had gained the impression over the years that Gillian was more a paid housekeeper than a member of the family—an impression which Emily had never bothered to correct.

Emily. Gillian’s thoughts paused. Her little sister Emily, dead. She closed her eyes and rested her head in her hands. What kind of world was it where a younger sibling died before the elder? Where a married sister’s frail body might be almost destroyed by repeated miscarriages, while her spinster sister’s sturdy frame was never put to the test? Gillian had nursed Emily through each miscarriage, nursed her through the birth of Philippa and—much later—Antony. She’d watched as Emily’s body gradually gave up; watched as everything faded away. And now she was left alone, living in a family that wasn’t really hers, waiting for the arrival of her sister’s replacement.

Maybe it was time to leave and start on a new life. After Emily’s generous bequest she was now financially independent. She could go anywhere, do anything. A series of visions flipped through her mind like the pictures in a retirement plan brochure. She could buy a cottage by the sea. She could take up gardening. She could travel.

Into Gillian’s thoughts crept the memory of an offer made many years ago, an offer which had thrilled her so much that she’d run and told Emily straight away. A trip round the world, with Verity Standish.

“You remember Verity,” she’d said excitedly to Emily, who stood by the fireplace, fiddling with a piece of porcelain. “She’s just taking off! Flying to Cairo in October and going on from there. She wants me to come too! Isn’t it exciting?”

And she’d waited for Emily to smile, to ask questions, to welcome Gillian’s delight as wholeheartedly as Gillian had welcomed Emily’s own many happinesses over the years. But Emily had turned, and without waiting for Gillian’s breath to subside, had said, “I’m pregnant. Four months.”

Gillian had caught her breath and stared at Emily, startled tears of delight springing into her eyes. She had thought—everyone had thought—that Emily would never have another child. Every one of her pregnancies since Philippa had ended in miscarriage before twelve weeks; it had seemed unlikely that she would ever carry another baby to term.

She’d hurried over and clasped Emily’s hands in joy.

“Four months! Oh, Emily!” But Emily’s blue eyes had bored into Gillian’s reproachfully.

“Which means the baby’s due in December.”

Suddenly Gillian had realized what she meant. And for once in her life she’d tried to resist Emily’s dominance.

“You won’t mind if I still go on the trip?” She’d adopted a cheery, matter-of-fact voice. “Richard will be very supportive, I’m sure. And I’ll be back in January, I can take over then.” She had begun to falter. “It’s just that this is such a wonderful . . .”

“Oh you go!” Emily had exclaimed in a brittle voice. “I can easily hire a maternity nurse. And a nanny for Philippa. It’ll be fine.” She’d flashed Gillian a little smile, and Gillian had stared back at her with a miserable wariness. She knew this game of Emily’s; knew that she was always too slow to anticipate the next move.

“And I’ll probably keep the nanny on after you come back.” Emily’s silvery voice had travelled across the room and lodged itself like a painful splinter in Gillian’s chest. “She can have your room. You won’t mind, will you? You’ll probably be living elsewhere by then.”

She should have gone anyway. She should have called Emily’s bluff and gone with Verity. She could have travelled for a few months, come back and joined the family again. Emily wouldn’t have rejected her help. She felt sure of that now.
She should have gone
. The words echoed bitterly in her mind and she felt her entire body tense up as the regrets of fifteen years circled around her like poisoned blood.

But she had not gone. She had caved in, as she’d always caved in to Emily, and she had stayed for the birth of Antony. And it was after his birth that she’d realized that she could never go; that she could never leave the house by her own choice. Because Emily didn’t love little Antony. But Gillian loved him more than anything else in the world.

“So, tell me about Gillian,” said Fleur, leaning comfortably back in her seat.

“Gillian?” said Richard absently. He put on his indicator. “Go on, let me in, you idiot.”

“Yes, Gillian,” said Fleur, as the car changed lanes. “How long has she been living with you?”

“Oh, years. Since . . . I don’t know, since Philippa was born, maybe.”

“And do you get on well with her?”

“Oh yes.”

Fleur glanced at Richard. His face was blank and uninterested. So much for Gillian.

“And Antony,” she said. “I haven’t met him yet either.”

“Oh, you’ll like Antony,” said Richard. A sudden enthusiasm came into his face. “He’s a good lad. Plays off twelve, which is pretty good for his age.”

“Marvellous,” said Fleur politely. The more time she spent with Richard, the more clear it was becoming that she was going to have to take up this appalling game. She tried to imagine herself in a pair of golfing shoes, with tassels and spikes, and gave a little shudder.

“It’s lovely country round here,” she said, looking out of the window. “I didn’t realize Surrey had sheep.”

“The odd sheep,” said Richard. “The odd cow too.” He paused, and his mouth began to twitch humorously. Fleur waited. The twitching mouth meant he was going to make a joke. “You’ll meet some of Surrey’s finest cows down at the golf club,” said Richard eventually, and gave a snort of laughter. Fleur giggled along, amused at him rather than the joke. Was this really the same stiff, dull man she’d met six weeks ago? She could hardly believe it. Richard
seemed to have plunged into a life of merriment with an almost zealous determination. Now it was he who phoned her up with outlandish suggestions, who cracked jokes, who planned outings and amusements.

In part he was trying to compensate, she guessed, for the lack of physical intimacy in their relationship; a lack which he clearly believed troubled her as much as it troubled him. She had told him once or twice that it didn’t matter—but not too convincingly; not too unflatteringly. And so, to allay both their frustrations, he’d begun to fill their nights with substitutes. If he could not entertain her in bed, he could entertain her in theatres and cocktail bars and night clubs. Every morning he called her at ten o’clock with a plan for the evening. To her surprise, Fleur had started to look forward to his calls.

“Sheringham St. Martin!” she suddenly exclaimed, noticing a sign out of the window.

“Yes, it’s a pretty village,” said Richard.

“That’s where Xavier Formby’s opened his new restaurant. I was reading about it. The Pumpkin House. Apparently it’s wonderful. We must go some time.”

“Let’s go right now,” said Richard at once. “Have supper there. Perfect! I’ll give them a call, see if there’s a table.”

Without pausing, he reached down to his phone and punched in the number for Directory Enquiries. Fleur looked at him carefully. Was there any reason for her to point out that this Gillian character had probably organized dinner for them already? Richard didn’t seem to care—in fact he seemed almost oblivious of Gillian. In some families it was well worth winning round the womenfolk—but what was the point here? She might as well play along with Richard. After all, he was the one with the money. And if he wanted
to go out to dinner, who was she to persuade him otherwise?

“You have?” Richard was saying. “Well, we’ll be right along.” Fleur beamed at him.

“You’re so clever.”

“Carpe diem,”
said Richard. “Seize the day.” He smiled at her. “You know, when I was a boy I never understood that saying. I thought it was ‘sees’ as in ‘to see.’ Sees the day. It never seemed to make sense.”

“But it makes sense now?” said Fleur.

“Oh yes,” said Richard. “It makes more and more sense.”

The phone rang at seven o’clock, just as Antony had finished laying the table. As Gillian answered, he stood back to admire it. There were lilies in vases, and lacy white napkins and candles waiting to be lit, and from the kitchen was coming a wonderful smell of roast lamb. Time for a gin, thought Antony. He looked at his watch. Surely his father would be here soon?

Suddenly Gillian appeared at the door of the dining room, wearing the blue dress she always put on for special occasions. Her face was grim, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.

“That was your father,” she said. “He won’t be here till later.”

“Oh. How much later?” Antony straightened a knife.

“About ten, he said. He and this woman are eating out.” Antony’s head shot up.

“Eating out? But they can’t!”

“They’re at the restaurant now.”

“But you’ve made supper! Did you tell him? Did you
say there was roast lamb waiting in the oven?” Gillian shrugged. She had the resigned, weary expression on her face that Antony hated.

“Your father can eat out if he likes,” she said.

“You should have said something!” cried Antony.

“It’s not for me to tell your father what to do.”

“But if he’d realized, I’m sure . . .” Antony broke off and looked at Gillian in frustration. Why the hell hadn’t she said something to Dad? When he got back and saw what he’d done, he’d feel terrible.

“Well, it’s too late now. He didn’t say which restaurant he was at.”

She looked almost pleased, thought Antony, as though she got some satisfaction from having all her efforts wasted.

“So we’ll just eat it all ourselves?” He sounded aggressive, he knew, but he didn’t care.

“I suppose so.” Gillian looked down at herself. “I’ll go and get out of this dress,” she said.

“Why don’t you keep it on?” said Antony, desperate somehow to salvage the occasion. “You look nice.”

“It’ll get all creased. There’s no point messing it up.” She turned, and made her way towards the stairs.

Well fuck it, thought Antony. If you don’t want to make an effort, then neither do I. He remembered Xanthe Forrester and Mex Taylor that morning. They had actually invited him out, hadn’t they? Maybe they weren’t so bad, after all.

“I might go out then,” he said. “If we’re not having a big dinner or anything.”

“All right,” said Gillian, without looking back.

Antony went over to the phone and dialled Fifi Tilling’s number.

“Hello?” Fifi’s voice was bubbling over with fun; there was music in the background.

“Hi, it’s Antony. Antony Favour.”

“Oh right. Hi, Antony. Hey, everyone,” she called, “Antony’s on the phone.” In the background, he thought he could hear sniggers.

“I wasn’t going to be free this evening,” he said awkwardly, “but now I am. So I could come round or something. Xanthe said everyone was getting together.”

“Oh. Yeah.” There was a pause. “Actually we’re all about to go out to a club.”

“Great. Well, I’m on for that.” Did he sound friendly and laid-back, or anxious and desperate? He couldn’t tell.

“The thing is, actually, the car’s full.”

“Oh, right.” Antony looked at the receiver; not sure. Was she trying to say . . .