At moments like this, Elizabeth’s success, her power, her much-acknowledged brilliance meant nothing to her whatsoever; it was simply a wife who stood there, an anxious, jealous, fearful wife…
“He’s such a charmer, your husband, isn’t he?” said their hostess, a new neighbour from the Boltons whom Elizabeth hardly knew, and turning to look at her, seeing that she was pretty too, pretty and young and beautifully dressed, and therefore yet another source of danger, further prey for Simon, suddenly she couldn’t bear it any longer, thought that she might go over to the small group and throw her glass of champagne in Simon’s face, just to take the smile off it, and she did indeed go over, but only to say, “Simon, darling, I’m sorry to break up the party, but we really do have to go.”
And he was immediately responsive, saying yes, of course, and he kissed the first woman, and followed Elizabeth over to their hostess so that they could say goodbye, and he kissed her too, waved briefly at her husband and then they were out the door.
“What was that about?” he said, clearly genuinely baffled as they walked away.
“I might ask you the same thing,” she said. “What was that about? Who was that woman, why did you give her your card?”
“She was an American who’s come to live here with her husband. He’s looking for a tennis partner, apparently, and I said I might just be able to fill that brief.”
“And you expect me to believe that?”
“Oh Elizabeth,” he said wearily, shaking his head. “Please, please don’t do this.”
“Do what?”
“Pursue me with that insane jealousy of yours. It’s so destructive—”
“Insane! Given what happened, what you did…”
They had reached their own house now; he unlocked the door, ushered her in.
“Elizabeth, this isn’t helping our relationship.”
“We still have one, do we?” she said, stalking into the kitchen, reaching in the fridge for a bottle of water. “I hadn’t realised.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake. Of course we do. Well, we could if you would give it only half a chance. You’ve got to learn to trust me again. I know it’s difficult, I know I was a bastard, but it was over a year ago—more. I promised you and I’ve kept my promise.”
She was silent, fiddling with the top of the bottle.
“Please, Elizabeth. Otherwise there’s no point our being together. I might as well clear out.”
“And go back to her, do you mean?”
“No, of course not.”
“It’s so easy for you, Simon. Saying these things now. Telling me it’s firmly in the past, when you’d been lying to me for years.”
“Not years.”
“Years, Simon. You don’t know how much it hurt. You can’t just expect someone to start believing you, when you’ve been lying to them for a long time.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“I mean, every time I hear you saying a woman’s name, I wonder.”
“Look,” he said, “I made an appalling mistake. I’m terribly sorry. But I can’t wipe it out. It’s there. And really it’s up to you now. To try and make it work.”
“Yes, I know,” she said very quietly.
“We can survive—I know we can. Other marriages do.”
“Simon, you’re doing it again, talking as if it was just a fling. It wasn’t.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he said. “I’m tired, I’ve got some work to do. Look, we’ve been over this a hundred times. I’m a bastard, I did you terribly wrong. But I’ve been eating humble pie for a long time now and the taste’s pretty ghastly. I can’t do more. Good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”
She sat there, staring at the closed door, too angry, too proud to meet him halfway.
It was quite true, what he had said: there was nothing more he could do. It was up to her now. Otherwise there was no point staying. She had to start trusting him—somehow. Or at least mistrusting him less. It was just that, well, it hadn’t been just a fling. That would have been bearable. But it hadn’t…
She had found out in the age-old way; he had told her he was somewhere one night, one of the children had been taken ill, she had phoned the hotel where he was supposed to be at a conference, and they had said, clearly embarrassed, that he wasn’t there, had never been there.
Confronted, he had confessed: said he was sorry. She had said it must end, at once. He said that was impossible, he couldn’t give her up.
“Then get out,” she said. “Get out, now. Tonight.”
He had, for a while, not to live with the other woman but to bide his time, to try to decide what to do. Elizabeth refused to learn her name even, didn’t want to know who she was—“Even if she’s a friend of ours.”
“She’s not,” he said.
She said she’d never take him back, but when he asked, she did: and expecting to feel better, she felt worse.
Jealousy tore at her. What did she have, this woman, that she, his wife, had not? What had she given him?
“Time,” he had said. “Time and attention. Elizabeth, when you really need me, I manage to be there for you. Somehow I don’t feel you do that for me. I long to talk to you, to consult you, just to be with you, and quite often you simply are never there. And I don’t mean just physically. How often have I sat talking to you, trying to discuss something important with you, and felt you were actually at the next presentation, the last sales conference.”
Clear-sighted about herself, she recognised this and felt ashamed. She was prioritising her career above her marriage, above Simon whom she did—astonishingly—still love. She promised to try to spend more time at home and with him, but it was difficult; her job was not one that could be fitted into prescribed hours. But she did struggle to be more attentive, to consider his needs, to do more to please him. It seemed to have been in vain.
She sighed, picked up her glass and the bottle of water, and walked up the stairs and into her own study. Where she had work to do and where for a while she would feel in command and control once more. For a while…
Nigel had got home early. He had some champagne on ice, and some strawberries to dip into it, and he’d booked a table at San Frediano for later in the evening. It was going to be so special and she was going to be so pleased, and relieved too: he was sure she’d been worrying quietly about Lloyd’s, and then he wanted to tell her about his other decision; that would make her happy too. He knew she felt it was time, time he got himself checked out baby-wise, as she put it (although she hadn’t said anything about it lately); he didn’t exactly want to, but he was prepared to do it for her—and so that they could become a family, of course. She—There was the door now.
She came in looking rather strained; she kissed him briefly, put down her bag, and then said, “Nigel, could I possibly have a drink?”
This was unlike her; he really hadn’t wanted to open the champagne until he’d told her what he’d done, so he got out the bottle of Sancerre they’d started on last night.
“This all right?”
“Yes, fine. Thank you.” She took an enormous gulp, then as if she’d only just noticed, said, “You’re very early.”
“Yes,” he said, “I know. I wanted to talk to you about something.”
“Oh yes? Me too. I mean, I wanted to talk to you. Nigel, you have a drink too.”
“I will in a minute, darling. Actually I’ve got something a bit special for us. In the fridge. Some Bolly. It’s to go with what I’ve got to tell you. To celebrate it.”
“Oh.” She looked almost frightened. “Nigel, I think I’d better go first. If you don’t mind.”
“Poor darling. You’re really in a bit of a state, aren’t you? It’s that wretched job. You’ve been working much too hard. Well, I think—if you want to—you can give it up.”
She stared at him. “Give it up? But why should I? And I thought you said we needed my income. In case Lloyd’s got worse.”
“Well, darling, I’ve got t
hat all sorted. It’s not going to be nearly such a problem now.”
“What? Really? Oh Nigel, that’s wonderful news. I’m so glad. So you’re feeling much better? Much happier?”
“Much.”
“Right. Well,” she looked at him rather nervously, “well then, my news. Nigel, I—”
“Lucinda, let me finish. I’ve hardly begun.”
“But—”
“Please, darling. Please.”
She sat down, her eyes fixed on his face. “Go on, then.”
“Right. You are, from this moment—well, from this morning anyway—a much richer woman.”
“Nigel, what are you talking about?”
“I’ve transferred all my assets to you. Well, everything I could. Into a trust fund for you. The contents of our deposit account, a few hundred thou, I’ve sold most of my shares and put that money in too; and the deeds of this house, and the deeds of the farm; they’ll all be in your name too, once it’s been legally cleared. So, you’d better not leave me, darling, all right?”
She looked a bit odd then. “But—but Nigel, why? I don’t understand.”
“It’s quite simple. If all one’s assets are held by the person in the family who isn’t the Name, they can’t claim them. Apparently. So—we’re safe. Isn’t that wonderful?”
“Well, yes.” She was very white. “Is it really so bad, Nigel?”
“Pretty bad. I talked to a couple of people who were getting out, and—”
“But why can’t you do that as well?”
“Darling, it’s not as easy as that. In the first place, liability is unlimited—literally. It can go on when you’re food for worms. And anyway, as I’ve told you before, the accounting is three years in arrears. So even if I resigned tomorrow, and I am trying very hard to do that, I’d still be liable for another three years’ underwriting. At very best.”
“So…how bad is it?”
“Well, it isn’t anymore. But it could have been. I could literally have lost everything. I’ve underwritten about a million, and frankly I’d be hard-pressed to put my hands on half of that. And they’d want twice that. That’s how it works. I—we—really would have been bankrupted. As it is, they can take all I’ve got, which is very little really, and you can look after the rest.”
“But…but are you sure it’s this simple?”
“Seems to be. Someone suggested it to me—dear old Chris Paige, remember Chris?”
Lucinda did; he was a sweet, rather jolly friend of Nigel’s. She wouldn’t have taken any financial advice from him more complex than not keeping money under the bed.
“Yes, well, he’s doing it, seemed a brilliant idea to me.”
“And what about legally? Is it all right?”
“Well,” he said, looking slightly less confident, “it might be necessary if it went to court, which it wouldn’t, for you to say you had no idea I’d done this. But as you didn’t—that’s fine. It’s true. So as I say, you’d better not leave me.”
“And—if I don’t want it?”
“Darling, why on earth should you not want it? And please do want it, because otherwise I’m up the creek without a canoe. Now before I get the champagne out, I want to tell you something else. Something on the baby front. I think I’ve been rather selfish and…”
Blue had been waiting for about half an hour when Lucinda came out of the house. She walked very slowly over to the car and got in. She seemed very calm, very composed; she turned her head to look at him.
“Hello.”
“Hello, lovely. All right?”
“I…Blue, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, but I can’t do it. I can’t come. He’s—well, he’s sort of trumped us.”
She sat there, ice calm, being very, very careful not to touch him, and told him.
In his modest flat in the less smart area of Putney, George Meyer was patiently addressing envelopes which were to contain a letter from him to everyone appearing on his list of clients of the Jackson and Bond Members’ Agency. It was a long job, but George had time on his side, a lot of empty evenings.
The letter took the form of an invitation to a meeting at the Grenville Club, Pall Mall, and was, George hoped, sufficiently intriguing and attractive to ensure a high acceptance rate.
Chapter 8
AUGUST TO SEPTEMBER 1989
“Good Lord,” said Simon. “Have a look at this. Very interesting.” He handed Elizabeth a letter; she was reading in bed, a book for once rather than a report. They were spending a week in London, worn out by the grind of commuting in the hottest summer of the decade, leaving Tilly and Toby at Chadwick House in the care of Mrs. Ford.
She read it, then said, “Goodness. He sounds eminently sensible.”
“More than that, I’d say. Impressive even. He’s obviously done his homework. Do you think I should go?”
“Oh definitely, yes.”
“Would you come with me?”
“Simon, I—” and then she stopped. She should go. It would be a supportive thing to do. The sort of thing that might help.
“Yes,” she said, “yes, I will.”
“Thank you. And I promise to stay by your side all evening and not even speak to anyone who isn’t wearing a three-piece suit and stout shoes.”
She managed to smile, picked up the letter and read it again.
Dear Simon Beaumont,
As a Lloyd’s Name, a client of Members’ Agent Jackson and Bond, and a major participant in the Westfield Bradley Group of Syndicates, I have become increasingly unhappy with what I am sure many of us regard as a deplorable state of affairs. I have been looking into the situation in some depth and I have come to three very disturbing conclusions.
The heavy losses we have all experienced recently are almost certain to get worse rather than better over the next few years. Many of us may well be bearing a disproportionate share of these losses. I have heard it estimated (though I cannot vouch for the figures) that 70 percent of the losses are being borne by only 30 percent of the Members!
I fear the possibility cannot at this stage be eliminated that as a result of (at best) bad management, there have been some serious irregularities in the way our affairs have been handled. More than this I am reluctant to commit to paper at this point, but I am inviting a number of people in a similar situation to get together for an informal exchange of views and ideas, and I would be delighted if you would join us in the large meeting room at the Grenville Club, Pall Mall, on Friday 8 September at 6 p.m.
Yours sincerely,
George Meyer
Nigel was very intrigued by the letter. He showed it to Lucinda. “Interesting, darling, wouldn’t you say? Of course, I don’t think we have much of a problem anymore, but it would still be a good idea to go, I think, meet some people in the same boat, have an exchange of views and ideas, as he says.”
“Can I go too?”
“You? Lucinda, why on earth would you want to go? You’re not a Name, I don’t think you understand it very well and—”
“Nigel, I understand it perfectly well, thank you,” she said, stung, remembering sharply the conversation with Blue about Lloyd’s. “I know there are big problems with claims over—” She stopped.
“Over what?” he said. He looked almost shocked, as if she had shown a knowledge of sex shops.
“Oh, I’ve read quite a lot about it recently, as a matter of fact.” Careful, he’d be wondering how she knew so much about it. “Something about asbestos—is that right?”
“Asbestosis is what you’re probably thinking of. Well, you can come if you want to, but I think you’ll be very bored.”
“I’m sure I won’t.”
It was getting better. She knew it was getting better. It was as if the skin had begun to grow over the gaping wound that was centred someplace where she supposed her heart to be. Day by day, she could feel herself recovering. It was a pretty feeble recovery; she still had dreadful, or rather wonderful dreams where she was with Blue and woke up smiling to the wret
ched reality, she still saw him on every street corner, she still half expected to hear his voice every time the phone rang, and she was very far from feeling emotionally well.
But at least she didn’t want to die anymore. And Nigel had been utterly sweet, of course, and so happy, released from his own dreadful anxiety. He kept telling her she looked washed out and suggesting they take a little holiday.
“Just a few days, darling, in the sun somewhere, put a bit of colour in your cheeks—think of it as a second honeymoon. Of course if you don’t want to take me, spend the money on me…”
This was his favourite joke at the moment and it made her want to scream: that she was the financially dominant partner in their relationship and he the poor dependent. “I’m a kept man,” he told everyone. “Sort of a toy boy, if you like. Rather an elderly one, of course, but still…”
Lucinda found it hard to be alone with him anywhere at all, let alone on holiday, with time to think about Blue; her only salvation lay in surrounding herself and Nigel with their friends and keeping terribly busy. She entertained feverishly, one dinner party and one kitchen supper every week, in spite of feeling dreadfully tired and not actually very well; she had bought what seemed to be miles of material to make curtains for their bedroom—the torture chamber as she thought of it—and for the drawing room and the dining room as well.
The other thing she had done was take on extra work reading some manuscripts for Graham. She’d made this offer before, and it had always been refused. But this time he’d smiled at her and said yes, that would be great, and asked her to do a short report on each of them; she had felt pleased and excited and as near to happy as she had been since she had said goodbye to Blue that night. Maybe she was a career woman at heart after all…
And then Nigel had had a sperm test, and she knew what an ordeal it must have been for him. He had gone off to the fertility clinic alone and come back rather quiet and said that it’d been fine but that he didn’t want to talk about it. “They’ll let me know in a week or so. Can’t think why it takes so long. Suppose they want to be sure. Too jolly important to make a mistake.”
An Absolute Scandal Page 9
