Rich Again

by Anna Maxted

  ‘All done now,’ she announced, rolling over and sitting up, but he shook his head, and pressed her gently down until she was sprawled on her back.

  ‘Tim-Tim wants to give Em-Em a special kiss.’

  She sighed as his head disappeared between her legs. ‘Knock yourself out.’ He was, oh, what, just, like, whoa! at going down on a girl, but she didn’t like all this baby talk. Baby talk and sex didn’t go together, as far as Emily was concerned. Gross or what? Next thing she’d discover, her husband slept with a teddy bear. She preferred to talk dirty.

  That said, Tim was a very good boy and he deserved his little treats. Emily grinned to herself.

  At first, meeting at the club, he’d been all stern and serious. ‘Was this a trap, Emily? Is this monstrous hullabaloo about cash?’ he’d asked, lounging in the huge overstuffed armchair, sipping brandy and puffing on a fat Cuban cigar. His feet didn’t quite touch the polished wood floor. He looked like a ten-year-old smoking a sugar cigarette.

  She’d wanted to throw her glass of flat ginger ale in his stupid privileged face. ‘Yes, that’s right. It was my grand plan to land myself with a kid when I’m too young to drive it to the park. What happened to you, Tim?’ she’d said slowly, shaking her head. ‘You were my first. I haven’t been with anyone since. I loved you, once. I have your baby in here. And we don’t deserve to be insulted. I’ll make my own money, thanks. I don’t need a hand-me-down fortune off you.’ She’d stood up. ‘I’m going now. Don’t expect to see me, or your son, again.’

  Then she’d leaned her face right into his and stroked his hair gently, ending in a sharp yank, making him yelp with pain. She’d placed the handful of hairs in a little plastic sandwich bag. ‘The results of the paternity test will be published in Hello! Goodbye.’

  She’d stalked out. Once she was in the street, the tears had run down her face and she’d brushed them angrily away. She wasn’t a weeper. Crying was pathetic, it made you feel crap and it totally destroyed your make-up. OK, there had been a few small fibs, but basically, it was the truth. She had wanted to trap him, and it was for money – no, security. ‘Security’ was excusable. But the baby wasn’t the trap! The blow job was the trap. The baby ruined the trap! And … well … she felt that the baby was a boy.

  ‘Oh, it’s a boy,’ Nanny had said, touching a finger to her stomach. ‘Girls take away your beauty.’ Nanny knew best!

  Tim had come legging it out of the club, smelling like his father. He’d whirled her round to face him. The stink of cigar smoke made her gag. ‘Marry me!’ he’d cried. He’d fallen to his knees on the pavement of SW1. He’d grabbed her hand and kissed it. ‘I’m sorry, babes,’ he’d said. ‘I love you – I always have. I was afraid – my father – I’m my own man. I’m going to have a son! I want you as my bride. Will you’ – he smiled – ‘do me the honour of becoming my wife?’

  The vision of a turreted castle rising out of the gentle morning mist, a young princess in a dress of spun gold sweeping across the drawbridge, the jewels in her yellow hair sparkling in the sunlight, fair Emily was her name … And Timmy was a very fine fuck. A little weak in personality, perhaps, but he was only nineteen and girls matured faster than boys. Also, while honour was something she could work with, Emily did not obey, and planned to start never. Better weak than domineering.

  ‘I have two words for you, Viscount,’ she’d said, and his smile had drooped. She’d giggled and shaken her head. Then she’d crouched, until they were both sitting on the pavement, and purred in his ear, ‘Las Vegas!’

  Forty-eight hours later, they were man and wife.

  To be honest, no fairy-tale princess that she knew of had married in a drive-thru, even if it was named A Little White Chapel Tunnel of Love, but it had been cool to screech up to her wedding on a Harley. The heat was impossible and the traffic on the Strip was insane – like a parking lot – so the Harley had been the sensible option, and it had allowed her to fondle the groom en route. Her dress was Vera Wang (hence the delay), and Quintin had flown in from LA to be a witness.

  Afterwards, she and Timmy had shagged each other senseless on one of the huge revolving beds in their 15,000-square-foot Sky Villa at the Medici. ‘Do you know how much I had to lose at the tables to keep this suite?’ gasped Tim as he ground into her.

  ‘Whatever it was I’m worth it,’ she’d gasped back, ‘and anyway, we saved on the wedding!’

  They’d stopped screwing long enough to check out the topless showgirls at the MGM Grand. Then they’d staggered back to their suite, and he’d shagged her from behind in the outdoor pool so they could both admire the unbelievable view. It had a glass end wall and with every thrust she felt as though she was going to burst out of the water on to the Strip below. She was used to excess but this was crazy: the bronze statues, indoor waterfall, the marble floors, the butlers … kind of like home. And sex was too fun! She made Tim do it in the glass elevator too, and on the poker table. ‘Poker table,’ she’d said. ‘Get it?’

  ‘You’re going to,’ he’d replied.

  ‘Oh, yes!’ Emily squealed now. ‘Wow. At least I’ll be relaxed when we tell your parents.’

  Tim sat up, wiped his chin, straightened his tie.

  She smiled. ‘You reek of sex, and the tie is not going to fool anyone.’ She was acting cool, but she was jumpy as a cat. The Earl was not going to be thrilled to find that his son had tied the knot. But the fact she was providing his son with a male heir should soften the blow. He’d get over it. He had no choice. She had the marriage certificate in her green Hermès snakeskin suitcase, and a copy of the DNA test results – only to be brandished if he became abusive. The laboratory notepaper was, she thought, preferable to an issue of Hello!

  ‘We’re here,’ Tim said. Emily had wondered if people could look green. Now she knew they could. ‘Now, remember. He’ll want to know that I’ll be free to continue my education, and pursue my career. He’ll also want to know that you intend to be a supportive and obedient spouse.’

  Spouse?! ‘You’re kidding me, right?’ The words popped out before she could stop them, and a chill curled around her heart.

  Tim looked harassed. ‘He’s old school. He’s like his father. He’ll want to know that you’ll raise the baby as a Fortelyne. Nanny Margaret will be only too pleased to come out of retirement, and the likelihood is, you’ll live at the castle, so they can keep an eye.’

  He could not be serious. ‘So,’ she said, ‘your parents won’t … vacate the castle?’

  He laughed. ‘Would you? Hey. Chin up, buttercup. You’ll barely set eyes on the kid if you don’t want to. That’s got to be a bonus. You can spend all day riding, get your figure back.’

  ‘Fuck riding,’ said Emily. ‘And screw my figure. It will be back to its former glory in, like, a week. Look to your own figure, Fat Boy. I’m having a baby, what’s your excuse? I want to play mother.’

  Now she was bricking it. To Emily, ‘mother’ was a verb. Maybe it came from having parents with better things to do than parent. Emily was one big ball of rebellion. But inside, she was traditional – well, kinda. She ached to be part of a happy family, a loud, jolly family who ate Sunday lunch together, who played ball games on their extensive lawns, who curled up together in front of a roaring fire. Cook would make the lunch. A gardener would keep the lawns, and a housekeeper would stoke the fire. But Emily would read stories to her kid at bedtime, she would play soldiers or dolls, she would kiss better grazed knees, she would know this person, she would love and be loved because there was love in her heart, but she’d got this far in life with nowhere for it to go.

  When you were little, your parents were your sun and moon, and only they could fuck that up. She wasn’t going to.

  She half expected a slap, but Tim ruffled her hair. ‘Easy, Tiger,’ he said. ‘The old man will give you a hard time, but he’ll come round. I suspect if you make a scene, he’ll permit you to live in London with your parents, for the first few years at least.’

  Her
head was swirling. This guy was like two different people. In the US, he was sexy, suave, he could spin a line. In the UK, he was a scared little boy. Not hot.

  ‘Let’s get it over with,’ she said, and took his hand.

  The car was parked in the courtyard, and together they walked over the drawbridge.

  ‘Maybe your dad’s crouched underneath, like a troll,’ she whispered.

  Tim’s mouth was a straight line.

  The portcullis was up. Emily imagined the Earl ordering his steward to let it drop as she passed, its great iron teeth slicing her in two from head to foot, like a salami.

  They walked across the internal courtyard and Tim rapped on the heavy iron knocker of the main door. A man in a black uniform let them in without smiling; Emily didn’t recognize him.

  ‘The Earl and Countess are in the Tower Room, my Lord.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Tim. Emily’s kitten heels echoed on the flagstones. Jesus, a carpet wouldn’t hurt. Slowly, in silence, they walked up the curling staircase. Ancient worn tapestries depicting battle scenes hung from the walls like a warning, and the eyes of a thousand haughty ancestors gazed down at her with disgust from their framed splendour. Everything was fabulous about a castle when you were nine, but at the grand old age of sixteen, Emily saw that they’d done the bare minimum in terms of interior décor. Would a red velvet drape go amiss? She wanted candelabras dripping wax; here were electric light bulbs in nasty little green fringed lamp-shades. Were those curtains Laura Ashley? Also, despite the warm weather, it was freezing in here. Tim knocked on a door.

  ‘Enter!’ barked a voice.

  They tiptoed into a room where the thousands and thousands of books that lined the walls seemed to close in on you. Emily hunched her shoulders; the slightest move and she’d be buried in an avalanche of first editions. The Earl was sitting behind a large desk, and his wife was perched on an aged sofa. At knee level the material was worn to string by generations of passing Labradors. The windows were arrow-slits, and it was dimly lit. The ancient rug was so threadbare, Emily’s heel caught, and there was a clear ripping sound as she yanked it free.

  ‘Good morning, Father,’ said Tim. ‘Hello, Mother, you’re looking … well. I suppose you’ve heard the news. I did the honourable thing—’

  ‘You did an appalling thing, you blasted idiot. Your mother is far from well, she is beside herself. The lawyers would have taken care of everything, but you’ve made a laughing stock of us all. Has your education taught you nothing? Have you no sense of duty?’

  Emily imagined that the Earl would like her to be looking at her feet, so she didn’t take her eyes off his cold, furious face. He was wearing the grossest pair of saggy birdshitgreen cords she’d ever seen, and a jacket with patches on the sleeves, like her old geography teacher.

  ‘I do indeed have a sense of duty, Father, and it’s a boy, which is why—’

  ‘Not to little Miss Kent from Hampstead and her bastard, you moron, I am talking about your loyalty to your family name, your heritage. Does the Fortelyne crest mean nothing to you? Did you not consider that your idiocy brings into disrepute generations? You are bred from a distinguished bloodline, from a succession of men who have cherished and valued the Fortelyne name for the last six hundred years, who have sacrificed their lives to protect and promote its unique legacy and unblemished reputation. And you have disgraced every last one of them!’

  The Countess, Emily noted, wasn’t crying. She was staring, blank-faced, at a point behind her son’s head. Say something, she thought. He’s your son.

  Nothing.

  ‘You’re fortunate, though. This thing isn’t legal. We’ll pay her off. Though you can forget Kitty Fotheringhaugh – a week ago, the daughter of a senior peer would have given her eye teeth to write Fortelyne after her name. You’ve thrown all that away, along with the best part of your future. We’ll salvage what we can.’

  ‘It is legal!’ Emily burst out. She couldn’t believe this man.

  ‘As I am reliably informed, the legal age required of one to marry in’ – the Earl’s bony nose twitched – ‘Nevada is eighteen.’

  Emily beamed. ‘Yes, we know. If you’re sixteen you need consent. And that’s why Mummy gave her permission with a notarized affidavit.’ She scrunched her left hand into a fist, and gave the Earl the finger – the third finger, on which shone a thick gold band. ‘It’s as if we’d been married in Westminster Abbey by the Archbishop of Canterbury himself! And isn’t this ring just too cute?’

  She could feel Tim, beside her, shrivelling in his shoes. She stuck her stomach out.

  ‘Then,’ said the Earl, sighing deeply, ‘I’m afraid you leave me no choice.’ His steel gaze locked on to his son. ‘I shall instruct my solicitors. You will inherit nothing. No title, no castle, no land, not a stick of furniture, not a penny, not a pound.’

  ‘But—’

  She felt frozen in time and space, as if trapped in a nightmare. Was she, this, so bad that he would do such a thing? She hadn’t even considered it. She hadn’t realized it was possible in 1998. Nor, by the look of him, had Tim. His face was ashen. It was as if his soul had slipped away with the news and left a shell. Tears ran down his face, and she shuddered.

  ‘You have chosen to make your own way in life, and by doing so, you have turned your back on your family.’

  ‘Please, Father—’

  ‘Family is the most important thing,’ interrupted the Earl. He waved a dismissive hand. ‘Console yourself with its motto: Semper fortis existo. You may go. Derek will drive.’

  ‘May I … kiss Mother goodbye?’ gulped Tim.

  Emily watched. The woman sat like a statue. Emily turned and followed Tim out of the room. He was sobbing, his shoulders shaking. She knew she should comfort him but she couldn’t say a word.

  So many dreams. So many years of planning a precise, perfect future, and who could have known it would turn out like this? She was bound to a weak, penniless, castle-free prince … with a baby to raise. Why was it always the bloody princess who had to pick up the pieces?

  LONDON, SUMMER 1998

  Claudia

  Claudia couldn’t cry. She couldn’t eat, and she couldn’t cry. She didn’t know if she could live. Each moment was torment. When she gazed at her reflection, a pale ghost stared back. She turned on the shower, and let the hot water cascade over her. She stood, scrubbing at her skin with a rough flannel, until her legs no longer had the strength to hold her upright, and then she curled up on the floor, her mouth open in a silent howl, until the water ran cold.

  She hadn’t seen Martin since he’d come to the hotel. She’d managed, God knew how, to tell him that Emily needed ‘privacy’. He had assumed that her odd behaviour was down to anxiety over her sister; she had managed not to throw up as he’d kissed her mouth. The second she heard the lift ping, she’d fallen to the floor, ‘Oh God, oh God … no … no …’

  Emily had emerged from the bathroom and placed Martin’s beer bottle in a plastic bag. ‘I could be wrong. Wait for the DNA test results.’

  And Claudia had screamed, ‘Fuck the DNA test results! He’s my real father. My real father! I know it, I see it … and so do you! I was going to marry him! Oh God, I was going to sleep with him! I was going to sleep with my real father!’

  And then she’d stood up and screamed and screamed until Emily had slapped her face.

  A week had gone by, and she hadn’t left the hotel room. The DNA test results had confirmed what she already knew. When Martin rang, she’d told him she had the flu, and not to come round. She felt so weak she could barely end the call. She thought of kissing him, the feel of his arms around her, and retched.

  She hated him – she hated him for not seeing, not realizing, not knowing. She was a forgotten mistake of his youth – the biggest mistake he’d ever made and now he was going to reap what he’d sown. She shuddered. At least they hadn’t done it. What they had done was bad enough but if they had done it … She’d have found a gun and shot her
self in the head.

  She couldn’t face telling him the truth. She just couldn’t do it. She didn’t want to speak to or see him ever again.

  She wanted to hurt him. It was his fault. He had betrayed her. He had betrayed her, nearly twenty-three years ago, when he’d rolled out of bed and promised her blood mother, not meeting her eyes, ‘I’ll call you.’ He had been betraying her ever since. Every moment of unhappiness that she’d suffered in her life was his fault.

  But she didn’t want to hurt him that much, not enough to tell him that he’d come close to screwing his own daughter. That kind of knowledge tore a person apart from the inside. It made you dirty; it was the kind of stain that didn’t wash out. It hung over you, clinging and filthy, like a shroud, making you feel as though you had no place in the world, and that you were a vile aberration and didn’t deserve to live.

  She would spare him that.

  She would be cruel to be kind. She would hurt him just enough so that he would be glad to have escaped with his freedom. He would hate and despise her and, most importantly, he would run from her. But he’d recover, and eventually he would look back on their relationship with a wrinkle of the nose and mild relief. He would never ever seek her out, and one day he would meet another woman and the unpleasant memory of Claudia Mayer would be dissolved.

  Claudia clenched her teeth. So be it.

  Slowly, dizzily, she swung herself out of bed, and picked up the phone.

  ‘Hi.’ Her voice was husky from lack of use. ‘It’s Claudia, Claudia Mayer. I’m back. At St Martin’s Lane hotel. I’m sorry. Yes, yes I have. I can tell you everything, if you like. Ask for me at reception. But please – don’t tell a soul. An hour and a half? OK. Bye-bye.’