The Gatecrasher (6 page)

“I don’t know,” said Philippa. “I suppose so.” She took a sip of her fizzy water and tried to remember the last time she’d had a cocktail. Then, to her disbelief, she noticed her father’s hand creeping under the table to meet Fleur’s. She glanced at Lambert; he was gazing, transfixed, at the same thing.

“And I’ll have one too,” said Fleur cheerfully.

“I think I’d better have a gin,” said Philippa. She felt slightly faint. Was this really her father? Holding hands with another woman? She couldn’t believe it. She’d never even seen him holding hands with her mother. And here he was, grinning away as though Mummy had never existed. He wasn’t behaving like her father, she thought. He was behaving as though . . . as though he were a normal man.

Lambert was the tricky one, thought Fleur. It was he who kept giving her suspicious looks; who kept quizzing her
on her background and probing her on exactly how well she’d known Emily. She could almost see the phrase “gold-digger” forming itself in his mind. Which was good if it meant there was some money to be had—but not if it meant he was going to rumble her. She would have to butter him up.

So, as the puddings arrived, she turned to him and adopted a deferential, almost awed expression.

“Richard’s told me that you’re his company’s computer expert.”

“That’s right,” said Lambert, sounding bored.

“How marvellous. I know nothing about computers.”

“Most people don’t.”

“Lambert designs computer programs for the company,” said Richard, “and sells them to other firms. It’s quite a profitable sideline.”

“So are you going to be another Bill Gates?”

“Actually, my approach is completely different from Gates’s,” said Lambert coldly. Fleur looked at him to see if he was joking but his eyes were hard and humourless. Goodness, she thought, trying not to laugh. Never underestimate a man’s vanity.

“But you still might make billions?” Lambert shrugged.

“Money doesn’t interest me.”

“Lambert doesn’t bother about money,” put in Philippa, giving an uncertain little laugh. “I do all our bookkeeping.”

“A task eminently suited to the female mind,” said Lambert.

“Hang on a minute, Lambert,” protested Richard. “I don’t think that’s quite fair.”

“It may not be fair,” said Lambert, digging a spoon into
his chocolate mousse, “but it’s true. Men create, women administrate.”

“Women create babies,” said Fleur.

“Women
produce
babies,” said Lambert. “Men create them. The woman is the passive partner. And who determines the sex of a baby? The man or the woman?”

“The clinic,” said Fleur. Lambert looked displeased.

“You don’t seem to appreciate the point of what I’m saying,” he began. “Quite simply . . .” But before he could continue, he was interrupted by a ringing, female voice.

“Well, what a surprise! The Favour family
en masse!”
Fleur looked up. A blond woman in an emerald green jacket was bearing down on them. Her eyes swivelled from Richard to Fleur, to Lambert, to Philippa, and back to Fleur. Fleur returned her gaze equably. Why did these women have to wear so much makeup? she wondered. The woman’s eyelids were smothered in bright blue frosting; her eyelashes stuck straight out from her eyes in black spikes; on one of her teeth there was a tiny smear of lipstick.

“Eleanor!” said Richard. “How nice to see you. Are you up with Geoffrey?”

“No,” said Eleanor. “I’m having lunch with a girlfriend; then we’re off to the Scotch House.” She shifted the gilt chain strap of her bag from one shoulder to the other. “Actually, Geoffrey was saying only the other day that he hadn’t seen you at the club recently.” Her voice held a note of enquiry; again her eyes slid towards Fleur.

“Let me introduce you,” said Richard. “This is a friend of mine, Fleur Daxeny. Fleur, this is Eleanor Forrester. Her husband is captain of the golf club down at Greyworth.”

“How nice to meet you,” murmured Fleur, rising from her seat slightly to shake hands. Eleanor Forrester’s hand was firm and rough; almost masculine except for the red-painted nails. Another golfer.

“Are you an old friend of Richard’s?” asked Eleanor.

“Not really,” said Fleur. “I met Richard for the first time four weeks ago.”

“I see,” said Eleanor. Her spiky eyelashes batted up and down a few times. “I see,” she said again. “Well, I suppose I’d better be off. Will you be playing in the Spring Meeting, any of you?”

“I certainly will,” said Lambert.

“Oh, I expect I will too,” said Richard. “But who knows?”

“Who knows,” echoed Eleanor. She looked again at Fleur, and her mouth tightened. “Very nice to meet you, Fleur. Very interesting indeed.”

They watched in silence as she walked briskly away, her blond hair bouncing stiffly on the collar of her jacket.

“Well,” exclaimed Lambert when she was out of earshot. “That’ll be all over the club tomorrow.”

“Eleanor was a really good friend of Mummy’s,” said Philippa apologetically to Fleur. “She probably thought . . .” She broke off awkwardly.

“You know, you’ll have to watch it,” said Lambert to Richard. “You’ll get back to Greyworth and find everyone’s been talking about you.”

“How nice,” said Richard, smiling at Fleur, “to be the centre of attention.”

“It may seem funny now,” said Lambert. “But if I were you . . .”

“Yes, Lambert? What would you do?”

A note of steel had crept into Richard’s voice, and Philippa shot Lambert a warning look. But Lambert ploughed on.

“I’d be a bit careful, Richard. Frankly, you don’t want people getting the wrong idea. You don’t want people gossiping behind your back.”

“And why should they gossip behind my back?”

“Well I mean, it’s obvious, isn’t it? Look, Fleur, I don’t want to offend you, but you understand, don’t you? A lot of people were very fond of Emily. And when they hear about you . . .”

“Not only will they hear about Fleur,” said Richard loudly, “but they will meet her, since she will be coming down to stay at Greyworth as soon as possible. And if you have a problem with that, Lambert, then I suggest you keep well away.”

“I only meant . . .” began Lambert.

“I know what you meant,” said Richard. “I know only too well what you meant. And I’m afraid I think a lot less of you for it. Come on, Fleur, let’s leave.”

Out on the pavement, Richard took Fleur’s arm.

“I’m so sorry about that,” he said. “Lambert can be most objectionable.”

“It’s quite all right,” said Fleur quietly. My God, she thought, I’ve had it a lot more objectionable than that. There was the daughter who tried to pull my hair out, the neighbour who called me a slut . . .

“And you will come down to Greyworth? I’m sorry, I should have asked first.” Richard looked at her anxiously. “But I promise you’ll enjoy it down there. We can go for long walks, and you can meet the rest of the family . . .”

“And learn to play golf?”

“If you’d like to.” He smiled. “It’s not compulsory.” He paused awkwardly. “And of course, you’d . . . you’d have your own room. I wouldn’t want you to . . . to . . .”

“Wouldn’t you?” said Fleur softly. “I would.” She raised herself on tiptoe and gently kissed Richard on the lips. After a moment, she softly pushed her tongue inside his mouth. Immediately, his body stiffened. With shock? With desire? She casually ran a hand down the back of his neck and waited to find out.

Richard stood completely still, with Fleur’s mouth open against his, her words echoing in his mind, trying to marshal his thoughts and yet completely unable to. He felt suddenly rigid, almost paralysed with excitement. After a few moments Fleur moved her lips softly to the corner of his mouth, and he felt his skin explode with delicious sensation. This was how it should have been with Emily, he thought dizzily, trying not to keel over with headiness. This was how it should have felt with his beloved wife. But Emily had never aroused him like this woman—this bewitching woman whom he’d only known for four weeks. He had never felt anticipation like this before. He’d never felt like . . . like
fucking
a woman before.

“Let’s get a cab,” he said, in a blurred voice, pulling himself away from Fleur. “Let’s go back to the flat.” He could hardly bear to speak. Each word seemed to sully the moment; to spoil the conviction inside him that he was on the brink of a perfect experience. But one had to break the silence. One had somehow to get off the street.

“What about Hyde Park?”

Richard felt as though Fleur were torturing him.

“Another day,” he managed. “Come on. Come on!”

He hailed a taxi, bundled her inside, mumbled an address to the taxi driver and turned back to Fleur. And at the sight of her, his heart nearly stopped. As Fleur had leaned back on the black leather taxi seat, her dress had mysteriously hitched itself up until the top of one of her black stockings was just visible.

“Oh God,” he said indistinctly, staring at the sheer black lace. Emily had never worn black lace stockings.

And suddenly a cold flash of fear went through him. What was he about to do? What had happened to him? Images of Emily came flashing through his mind. Her sweet smile; the feeling of her hair between his fingers. Her slim legs; her neat little buttocks. Cosy, undemanding times; nights of fondness.

“Richard,” said Fleur huskily, running a finger gently along his thigh. Richard flinched in panic. He felt terrified. What had seemed so clear on the pavement now seemed muddied by memories that would not leave his mind alone; by a guilt that rose up, choking his throat till he could hardly breathe. Suddenly he felt close to tears. He could not do this. He would not do it. And yet desire for Fleur still whirled tormentingly about his body.

“Richard?” said Fleur again.

“I’m still married,” he found himself saying. “I can’t do this. I’m still married to Emily.” He stared at her, waiting for some relief to his agony; some internal acknowledgement that he was doing the right thing. But there was none. He felt awash with conflicting emotions, with physical needs, with mental anguish. No direction seemed the right one.

“You’re not really married to Emily any more,” said Fleur, in slow soft tones. “Are you?” She put up a hand and began to caress his cheek, but he jerked away.

“I can’t!” Richard’s face was white with despair. He sat forward with taut cheeks and glittering eyes. “You don’t understand. Emily was my wife. Emily’s the only one . . .” His voice cracked and he looked away.

Fleur thought for a moment, then quickly adjusted her dress. By the time Richard had gained control of himself and looked back towards her, the lacy stockings had disappeared under a sea of decorous black wool. He looked silently at her.

“I must be a great disappointment to you,” he said eventually. “I’d quite understand if you decided . . .” he shrugged.

“Decided what?”

“That you didn’t want to see me any more.”

“Richard, don’t be so silly!” Fleur’s voice was soft, compassionate, and just a little playful. “You don’t imagine that I’m only after you for one thing?” She gave him a tiny smile, and after a few seconds Richard grinned back. “We’ve been having such wonderful times together,” continued Fleur. “I’d hate either of us to feel pressured . . .”

As she was speaking, she caught a glimpse of the taxi driver’s face in the rearview mirror. He was staring at them both in transparent astonishment, and Fleur suddenly wanted to giggle. But instead she turned to Richard and in a quieter voice, said, “I’d love to come down and stay at Greyworth and I’d be very happy to have my own bedroom. And if things move on . . . they move on.”

Richard looked at her for a few seconds, then suddenly grasped her hand.

“You’re a wonderful woman,” he said huskily. “I feel . . .” He clasped her hand tighter. “I feel suddenly very close to you.” Fleur stared back at him silently for a moment, then modestly lowered her eyes.

Bloody Emily, she thought. Always getting in the way. But she said nothing, and allowed Richard’s hand to remain clutching hers, all the way back to Regent’s Park.

Two weeks later, Antony Favour stood in the kitchen of The Maples, watching as his Aunt Gillian whipped cream. She was whipping it by hand, with a grim expression and a mouth which seemed to grow tighter at each stroke of the whisk. Antony knew for a fact that inside one of the kitchen cupboards lived an electric whisk; he’d used it himself to make pancakes. But Gillian always whipped cream by hand. She did most things by hand. Gillian had been living in the house since before Antony was born, and for as long as he could remember she’d been the one who did all the cooking, and told the cleaner what to do, and walked around after the cleaner had left, frowning, and polishing again over surfaces which looked perfectly clean. His mother had never really done any of that stuff. Some of the time she’d been too ill to cook, and the rest of the time she’d been too busy playing golf.

A vision of his mother came into Antony’s mind. Small, and thin, with silvery blond hair and neat tartan trousers. He remembered her blue-grey eyes; her expensive
rimless spectacles; her faint flowery scent. His mother had always looked neat and tidy; silver and blue. Antony looked surreptitiously at Gillian. Her dull grey hair had separated into two heavy clumps; her cheeks were bright red; her shoulders were hunched up in their mauve cardigan. Gillian had the same blue-grey eyes as his mother, but apart from that, Antony thought, it was difficult to believe that they’d been sisters.