Lucinda hoped desperately that the news would be good. More than anything now she longed for a baby; a baby would make sense of life again, help to mend her heart, re-create her marriage. And help ease the misery of the torture chamber…
Flora Fielding was quite excited by the letter from George Meyer. She sensed that he had more in mind than an evening of waffle. She rang Richard.
“I wondered if I could stay with you next Friday?”
“Of course you can, Mother, you know you’re always very welcome. The children will be thrilled. And Debbie, of course,” he added hastily.
“Thank you. I’m going to a meeting in the evening, in Central London. It’s rather exciting: a meeting of Names in Westfield Bradley, my major syndicate at Lloyd’s. I had a letter from someone called George Meyer, who sounds very interesting. I was very impressed by his letter anyway.”
“Well, it’ll be lovely to see you,” said Richard, smiling down the phone. “Will you come here first?”
“Oh, I don’t think so, darling, no. I’ve got a meeting with a gallery in Mumbles, they’re talking about giving me an exhibition, and that’s not till midday. No, I’ll go straight to the meeting. And I’ll leave quite early in the morning too; there’s a talk at the Gower Society in the early afternoon, which I don’t want to miss.”
“Fine. I’ll tell Debs. Oh, and Mother…” His voice was slightly anxious suddenly.
“Sorry, Richard, I have to go, the blacksmith’s just arrived.”
He put down the phone, thinking how grateful he was, they should be, that Flora led such a dynamic life, and thought that he must ring her again as soon as possible, and certainly before the next Friday.
Debbie said carefully that it would be lovely to see Flora and then added: “But I don’t quite see why she wants to go to a meeting with lots of other Lloyd’s people when things are better for her. It seems like a waste of time to me.”
“Well, they’re very complex, these syndicates,” Richard said, and had she not been sorting out whites from colours she would have noticed that he flushed suddenly, then started busying himself with folding up the papers.
And all might yet have been well, had Flora not phoned the very next day before he had been able to have the conversation—which was clearly going to be difficult—with Debbie. She had answered the phone, and Flora had said that she wondered if Richard might be free to come to the meeting with her. “And you too, of course, darling, if it would interest you. See what we’re all up against. I could certainly do with Richard’s support and advice, and get his reaction to what’s been said. The man who’s called the meeting definitely sounds as if he means business.”
“Well, I’m sure he’ll come if he can,” Debbie said. “He’s very immersed in time-tabling at the moment, but there’s nothing on that evening, as far as I know. I’ll get him to ring you.”
“Thank you, Debbie.”
And then, as the proper weight of Flora’s words worked into Debbie’s brain, and a dreadful, wormlike suspicion began to form, she asked the question. The question—and its answer—which, as she saw it, altered her life forever.
“What I don’t understand though, Flora, is why you’re going to this meeting, and why you need Richard’s support, when everything’s so much better.”
There was a silence, then Flora said, “But Debbie, it isn’t so much better. I don’t quite understand why you should think it was. It’s worse—much worse.”
“You lied to me. Don’t try to deny it, you did. I can’t believe you could have done anything so awful. God, you’re disgusting. The pair of you.”
“It’s got nothing to do with my mother.”
“I’m sorry, but I find that very hard to believe. Don’t speak to me, don’t come near me. I’m going out now, to try and think what to do. You can stay here and look after the children. And maybe you’d like to sort out some more things you’re going to tell me. Only don’t expect me to believe anything either of you says ever again.”
“Debbie, I swear to you, Mother had no idea what I’d told you. And I’d meant to tell you—”
“Tell me what? Some more lies. I don’t know that I can stay married to someone who’s done something so disgusting. I need to think. And you might as well start writing letters to those schools now, tell them the children are leaving. They’re not getting any more of our money than I can help.”
Debbie was crying so hard, she didn’t notice the rain for quite a long time. She walked for miles along the Uxbridge Road and then down Gunnersbury Avenue, and into Gunnersbury Park, careless that she was soaked through, that people were looking at her curiously, then past the boating lake and across to the Potomac fishpond where she and the children and indeed Richard had spent many happy hours. There she sat on a bench, staring into the water, blinded by her tears as much as the rain. How could he have deceived her like that? They were supposed to trust each other, completely; that was what marriage was about. She would never trust him again: never. It was just as bad as if she had discovered he was having an affair—worse, in fact. This wasn’t just about the two of them, it was about their family. Him deciding what was best for the children and then lying about it, in case she didn’t agree.
“I hate you!” she shouted into the wet grey skies. “I hate you so much!”
And in spite of the fact that she was very cold now, she stayed on her bench and buried her head in her arms and wept.
She reached home again well into the afternoon, cold and soaked to the skin; she stalked upstairs, ran herself a bath, and locked the door. The children didn’t follow her, but Richard did, and started first knocking tentatively, then banging on the door.
“Debs, let me in. Please.”
“No. Go away. Leave me alone.”
“I’m not going anywhere. I have to explain.”
“There’s nothing to explain. Just—just leave me alone.”
Finally she came out, walked into their bedroom; he was there, looking pale and wretched.
“Oh, just go away,” she said.
“Debbie, please—” He put his hand on her arm.
“Stop it. I don’t like being lied to and I don’t want to talk about it now.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” he said, “you’re overreacting. I haven’t committed adultery, for God’s sake, I just wanted to spare you any anxiety, and the children any distress, for that matter. It would have been dreadful for them to have to change schools now, they’re doing so well, and you’d have hated seeing them disrupted and upset. And I know I can do the fees another year at least. I’ll get a new job and—”
“Oh, do shut up,” Debbie said. “And as far as I’m concerned, I think I’d almost rather you had been unfaithful to me. At least that’s an uncomplicated situation. Anyway, I have decided one thing: I’m going to come to that meeting with you, hear it all for myself, find out exactly what is going on. I wouldn’t trust a word you told me about it. Now just piss off, why don’t you, and take the children to the cinema or something.”
Richard did as he was told.
Very few of the Names who were to attend George Meyer’s meeting at the Grenville Club slept particularly soundly the night before. George Meyer himself was very anxious; he had staked a great deal on this, invested a huge amount of time, some money—only a few hundred, but that he could ill afford—and he was nervous as well about people’s reactions to what he had to say, and that he would end up back where he started. It had given him a purpose in life for a few months, as he researched his original idea, took legal advice, and then went about writing the letters, arranging a venue, and composing his speech. The uptake on his invitation had been encouraging: a very large number of the Names he approached had accepted. Among them surely he would find not only recruits to his cause but other prime movers, associates with areas of expertise other than his own, who could help him progress the whole thing. What was that quote from Henry V before the Battle of Agincourt? Oh, yes: “Stiffen the sinews, summon up the b
lood.” It was hard to do much sinew stiffening on your own. Time for some companionship and some support.
A former marketing director of a medium-size company operating from Greater Manchester, Meyer had been a casualty of first the recession—“Terribly sorry, George, we’re going to have to let you go”—and then of Lloyd’s, and he was still reeling at the change in his circumstances from being well-heeled and successful, living in a large house in Cheshire with a rather glamorous wife and three children, to hard up and a failure, living in a small flat in Putney without his wife, who had left him. For most of which he blamed Lloyd’s.
Simon Beaumont was very hopeful; apart from a natural attraction to new ideas, new causes, he could see that, without some plan such as George Meyer might be offering, he faced a future of increasing unpleasantness.
Elizabeth was rather less hopeful; she couldn’t imagine what a few individuals could possibly do, pitted against the might of Lloyd’s. But she was touched by Simon’s excitement, she saw him more hopeful and positive about the situation than he had been for some time, and she was anxious to be supportive. Things had improved between them recently, and her accompanying him to the meeting clearly meant a lot to him. It would be boring and almost certainly a waste of time—but it was only one evening.
Nigel was trying not to pin too many hopes on the meeting. He wasn’t feeling quite as bullish about his situation with Lloyd’s as he had been. And he felt unable to talk to Lucinda about it. She had got very thin and was certainly not eating enough; and she was working so hard which couldn’t possibly help her to get pregnant. He had tried several times to suggest she give up work, but she had got quite cross and said what on earth would she do, sitting around at home all day, with nothing to do, watching the calendar.
He had been so excited about his plan, the transfer of his assets to her, that he had effected as much as he could simply by instructing his bank manager. But his solicitor, who had had to be involved in the transfer of the properties to Lucinda, had been most unhappy about it.
“The transfer of assets in the full knowledge of outstanding debts could well be deemed illegal, Nigel. I would advise very strongly against it. How far are you along this road?”
Nigel said that he had only transferred the contents of his bank account and his share portfolio to Lucinda.
“I should leave it at that, if I were you. Lloyd’s aren’t fools, they’ll prosecute. Even money put offshore isn’t safe. I really think you’re on very dangerous ground, Nigel. You’d be committing perjury if you denied your knowledge of the situation a year or so down the road.”
And so he had left it at that. And fallen prey once again to the dreadful anxiety that gnawed away at him in the middle of the night.
Lucinda was quite looking forward to the meeting; anything that served as a distraction was welcome at the moment. Anything that saved her from sitting alone at home with Nigel.
Flora was also looking forward to it very much, but was acutely anxious about Debbie’s emotional state and how it would affect their relationship. She felt furious with Richard; not just that he had told a stupid lie to Debbie but that he had failed to think it through properly, how much it involved her and indeed, to warn her about it. She felt pleased in a way that Debbie was coming to the meeting: she might understand more clearly what they all were up against. And it would be awfully good to meet some other people in her situation; Flora had been feeling increasingly overwhelmed lately.
Richard was simply terrified of one thing: of Debbie making another scene. Which seemed to him altogether possible since, after well over a week, she was still hardly speaking to him.
And Debbie, quietly furious, was simply determined to find out the truth: and how bad for everyone the whole business threatened to be. And almost more important, for how long.
Chapter 9
8 SEPTEMBER 1989
“Do you mind if I sit here?”
“Of course not. My son and daughter-in-law are coming shortly, but they can sit here on my other side.”
“Thank you. And I have to keep a seat for my wife. She’s working late.”
Flora smiled at the young man as he settled in the chair beside her, well, he was fairly young, young men were getting older these days. He was in his late thirties, early forties maybe, very well dressed, with a public-school accent: he seemed charming. William had always said that was one of the best things about Lloyd’s—you knew you were with the right sort.
“Nigel Cowper,” the young man said, holding out his hand.
“Flora Fielding.”
“And where do you live, Mrs. Fielding?”
“I live in Wales.” She smiled at him. “And call me Flora, please. Mrs. Fielding makes me feel old. Which I am, of course.”
“May I say you don’t look it.”
“Thank you.”
“And that’s a long way to come for a meeting.”
“Oh, I’m sure others will have come just as far, if not farther. Things are rather…worrying. And getting information really is the allegorical blood from a stone. I thought Mr. Meyer’s letter promised at least a little blood—if you follow me. I presume that was him, greeting us at the door.”
“I gathered so, yes. Well, he’s got a good turnout. Ah, here’s Lucinda now. Hello, darling.” He stood up, gave her a quick kiss. “Come and sit down. This is Mrs. Fielding, Mrs. Flora Fielding. She’s travelled all the way up from Wales. Mrs. Fielding, Lucinda. My wife.”
He spoke with great pride: and no wonder, Flora thought, this really was a very pretty girl, blond with big blue yes, and her voice was pretty too, very light and attractively soft. She thought of Debbie’s slightly raw voice, tinged with her London accent, then chided herself for her disloyalty. No one could help their voice.
“I love Wales,” said Lucinda, shaking Flora’s hand. “We used to go there quite often when I was little—to Abersoch, do you know it?”
“Oh, it’s lovely,” said Flora. “I haven’t been there for many years though. I live in South Wales, on the Gower peninsula. Anyway, do come and join us. Oh, and there are my lot. Debbie, Richard, over here…”
This was even worse than she had expected, Debbie thought, absolutely full of braying posh people. Flora must be in heaven. She’d already homed in on a couple of her own; that girl was just ridiculous, an absolute cliché, more like Princess Diana than Princess Diana herself. As for that chinless wonder she was with…
“Hi,” she said briefly to Lucinda and Nigel. “Sorry to disturb you. And sorry we’re late, Flora, the babysitter let us down.”
“Oh, have you got a baby?” said Lucinda. “How lovely.”
“Sometimes,” said Richard. “I mean, sometimes it’s lovely. And actually we’ve got three. Well past the baby stage, unfortunately.” He smiled at Lucinda; he was clearly very taken with her.
“That’s a matter of opinion, Richard,” said Debbie. “Personally, I’m very glad they’re not babies anymore.”
“No, I should think they’re pretty hard work,” said the chinless Nigel. “My brother’s got a couple and they’re permanently exhausted. Jolly little things though.”
Jolly little things! thought Debbie. How was she going to get through this evening? If these were Lloyd’s sufferers, they deserved all they got. And then she saw a rather pale middle-aged woman, very neatly dressed, sit down just in front of them and take her husband’s hand. He gripped hers; he appeared very distressed. Debbie felt suddenly less sure of herself.
The room had filled up considerably. Simon looked round, amazed and slightly comforted at the extraordinary mix of people there: representatives of the chattering classes; earnest women with no makeup and worn-corduroy-jacketed husbands; bellowing City types—he hoped he wasn’t as much of a caricature as many of them—others equally near-caricatures of the huntin’, shootin’, and fishin’ community; a few who were clearly theatricals, luvvie-ing away; and a lot of anxious middle-aged couples.
The man who had been greetin
g everyone at the door walked towards the platform at the front of the room. He was quite short, with neat dark hair; he was probably about forty-five, Simon thought, watching from where he was still standing at the door, waiting for Elizabeth. Couldn’t she this once, just for him, be on time? And then the door opened and she slipped in. “Sorry,” she whispered, “did my best. Is that George Meyer?”
“Think so. Wearing an Old Carthusian tie. Bodes well, doesn’t it?”
George Meyer got up onto the platform, went through the usual rigmarole of microphone tapping and testing, and then raised his hand. Everyone stopped talking and cleared their throats. The middle-aged couple in front of Debbie grasped each other’s hands more tightly.
Meyer smiled at them all.
“Thank you for coming. I’m George Meyer and I’m very pleased to see you here. I’ve talked to a few of you already and it’s clear we’ve all been hit very hard financially, some of us desperately so, by the steeply escalating Lloyd’s losses of the last few years.”
A general murmur of affirmation ran through the room.
“Another thing we have in common is that we all share the same Members’ Agent, Jackson and Bond. In my case, and I’m pretty sure in all of yours too, our problem has been greatly exacerbated by what was—with hindsight—a disproportionately heavy participation in the Westfield Bradley Group of Syndicates, whose performance has been particularly disastrous.”
Another murmur; Debbie shifted in her seat. This could get tedious. Meyer was asking questions now, requested a show of hands in answer to each one. He asked how many of them had been introduced to Lloyd’s by someone they had not met before; how many got a specific suggestion from Jackson and Bond that 1986 was sure to be a very good year and that the best way to recoup any losses from 1985 (the first year there had been any, it seemed) was to increase their premium income limit—whatever that was—by as much as possible; and how many had been told by Jackson and Bond that they were recommending heavy participation in the Westfield Bradley Group, because they never took any big risks and were therefore “as safe as the Bank of England.” There was some edgy laughter at this, and a great many hands went up.
An Absolute Scandal Page 10
