“Yes, I know. And I have been meaning to write. I will.”
“Good for you. I think it’s worth a shot. Although I’m a bit disappointed there’s no action yet. I wouldn’t mind if it was just me, you know, but it’s hurting the family now. My twelve-year-old daughter, Tilly she’s called, isn’t speaking to me. Our house in the country has to go and her pony with it. We’ve had our last summer there, it’s on the market.”
“Where is it?”
“West Sussex. Lovely place. And I keep a boat near Chichester—my wife calls her the love of my life.”
“My husband used to sail,” said Flora. “I could never see the fun of it myself.”
“Oh, some of my happiest hours are out there with the Lizzie, that’s her name, the nearest thing to flying on this earth.”
“Why Lizzie?”
“It’s my wife’s name. Well, she’s Elizabeth, but…Anyway, back to Tilly and the horse. She adores that animal. And I feel utterly wretched about it. She cries herself to sleep every night.”
“That is very sad,” said Flora, and meant it. “Have you considered livery?”
“Yes, but London would be ghastly for him, and—well, it’s just not very practical, I’m afraid.”
There was a silence, then Flora said, quite casually, “Well if it’s a matter of not having anywhere for him to go, I have a couple of empty stalls at the moment. I’ve had to sell one of my hunters—thanks again to Messrs. Lloyd’s. I’d be very willing to have him. How big is he?”
“Fifteen hands. He’s an eventer.”
“He sounds lovely. And I could ride him for her, keep him exercised. Your daughter could come down in the school holidays. It’s quite a big house. The riding’s a bit rough, but at least it wouldn’t be that awful agonising farewell. Think about it, I really mean it.”
“Daddy, oh Daddy, I love you so so much. Thank you, thank you…” Tilly was home at Chadwick House on a weekend exeat.
“Darling, don’t thank me. Thank this very nice lady. It’s she who’s going to have Boy.”
“And this very nice lady is—who?” said Elizabeth when Tilly had gone off to get herself a drink. Her voice was rather cold.
“She’s called Flora Fielding. Remember? She was the first to speak on the platform at the Lloyd’s meeting, and I got chatting to her later. After you’d gone off early.”
“It seems an awful lot to do for a complete stranger,” Elizabeth said.
“Do you know,” he said, “she doesn’t feel like a complete stranger. It’s a very strong bond, this business. We’re all in it together. It’s the one good thing about it.”
“Yes, well, you certainly seem keen on sharing it with George Meyer.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake. It’s something I might be able to do, Elizabeth, rather than just chewing my nails to the quick and staring into the darkness.”
“Yes, but—” She stopped. They had had one row about his not consulting her; and he had been completely incapable of understanding her anger.
“It’s my money, I’m not asking you to contribute.”
“Simon, any money you don’t have, I have to find.”
“That’s a filthy lie,” he said. “I’m probably going to have to sell the Lizzie, and that would support me through this lawsuit. Oh, for God’s sake, what is the point of this discussion! I thought you’d be pleased about Flora Fielding having Boy. Obviously I was wrong.”
She felt remorse suddenly.
“I’m sorry. I am really. And it is very good of her. I just feel—well, we should be giving her something for it. Towards Boy’s keep.”
“I offered, obviously. She said at the moment it wouldn’t be much—apart from vet’s bills, of course. He’ll be out a lot of the year. And she seems to have a fair bit of land.”
“And when can he go down there? Boy I mean?”
“Probably at half term.” As their daughter came back into the room: “Now, Tilly darling, you do realise, don’t you, that you won’t be able to see nearly so much of Boy? Wales is a lot farther away.”
“Yes, of course. But at least he won’t have to be sold, and he’ll be happy and I can see him every holiday.”
“Tilly, not every holiday, darling,” said Elizabeth.
“Why not? Daddy said Mrs. Fielding said I could go and stay in the holidays.”
“Yes, well, that won’t always be easy. And you might not like her. She might not like you. I really think, Simon, we should perhaps take Tilly down to meet Mrs. Fielding before we even accept this offer. And then we could check the place out. I mean, it might be some fearful dump, you don’t know.”
“I think I do know,” said Simon, “but yes, I agree that she and Tilly should meet. We could go down next weekend even, if it suited her. And if we could take Tilly out of school again.”
“Oh, they won’t mind,” said Tilly blithely.
“Well, I’ll ask. Toby’s home next weekend, we could make a family outing of it. Anyway, what I think you should do first, Tilly darling, is write Mrs. Fielding a very, very nice letter saying thank you. And maybe send her some pictures of Boy, so she—”
“—can see how beautiful he is. Yes, I will. I’ll go and write to her now. Oh I’m so happy. I can’t believe how happy I am.”
It was on 10 October that it happened. Lucinda would never forget the date: 10.10.89, so easy to remember, it seemed somehow gouged out in her brain.
She had actually had a good day. Graham had been very pleased with a report of a manuscript she had done, said she had made some really good points that he had missed; and Justin, the art director, told her she was looking particularly tasty. She was wearing a new pale-pink V-neck sweater she’d bought herself as a present—she was buying herself a lot of presents at the moment, she felt she deserved them—and a much shorter skirt than she usually wore (another present). This made her think of Blue, who was always telling her she had the best legs he’d ever seen, and why did she keep them hidden under a series of tablecloths; but she managed to push that thought down and concentrate on Justin’s compliment instead.
And then she had met her friend Katy for lunch. Katy worked for a small art gallery in Cork Street and had just become engaged.
“So when’s the wedding? And where?” Lucinda said, surprised to find she could actually whip up a degree of interest at least.
“Oh, in the country. Mummy would die if it wasn’t. And next June—how corny is that? But it is the perfect month, don’t you think, roses everywhere, and it might even be nice weather, you never know. And Lucinda, please please will you be matron of honour?”
Lucinda flushed with pleasure and said she’d love to, and thought how amazingly lucky she was to have such good friends, and how without even knowing it, they were all helping her get through her misery; and after an hour of discussing the wedding and its date, she returned to the office feeling almost happy.
She and Nigel were going out that evening to see When Harry Met Sally. Going to the cinema was one of the things that worked best for Lucinda at the moment; a total absorption in the experience, an evening taken care of with no need to talk much, and then straight home to bed. Quite late: which meant Nigel usually went straight to sleep. That was a big help as well.
He came to collect her from the office. She was still clearing up and told reception to send him along to her office; he came in looking very happy and kissed her.
“Something to celebrate,” he said, shutting the door and then lowering his voice. “I got my results today. Of the, you know, the test.”
“And?” said Lucinda, suddenly nervous.
“And it’s not too bad. I don’t exactly have a high, you know, high sperm count, apparently, in fact, it’s a little low—but there’s no reason why we shouldn’t be able to have a family. Isn’t that wonderful?”
“It is, really wonderful,” said Lucinda, and meant it. It would be wonderful for her too she thought.
“Yes. So we just have to keep working at it, darling. B
e fun, won’t it?” He blushed.
“Nigel, I’m so, so happy,” said Lucinda, shrinking slightly from the thought of working at it. “Now look, I just have to go to the loo, make myself look a bit more presentable.”
“You look pretty presentable to me,” he said, “but then you always do. OK, I’ll wait for you here.”
“I won’t be a minute. Help yourself to a book, there’s that new one on the ancient Egyptians you were interested in.”
She took her time in the loo; putting on some fresh lipstick, spraying herself with perfume, even gingering up her hair with her tongs, humming under her breath.
She walked out, after smiling at herself in the mirror, thinking that things really were getting better, thinking that even the sex would be more bearable now, with the thought of a baby to help her along, and she did a little skip as she walked along the corridor into her office.
“Sorry I was so long, darling, I—”
And stopped. For he was standing with his back to her desk, white-faced and almost hollow-eyed, one hand in his pocket, looking at her with such intense hostility she was quite frightened.
“Nigel,” she said, “whatever is it? What’s the matter?”
“What the fuck are you doing with these?” he said, shaking something at her; he never swore, the strongest word he ever used was “shit,” and that only in the most dire situations. “What the fuck have you been up to?”
She couldn’t see for a moment what it was he was holding. And then she realised. It was what she had kept so carefully, so fearfully, in her desk drawer, only taking them into the house singly at the weekends, tucked into her wallet, wrapped in tissue: her contraceptive pills.
At the very first, he had assumed she had been taking them simply to avoid pregnancy, had been lying to him, had not wanted a child at all, had accused her of the ultimate selfishness. “What were you worrying about, Lucinda? Ruining your figure? Giving up your job?” But even as she protested, tears of panic streaming down her face, the second horror hit him.
“You’ve been having an affair, haven’t you? That’s what you’ve been doing. All that working late, having to go away, I thought it seemed odd—you know, I’m not quite the simpleton you clearly think—but I kept telling myself you’d never do that, it wasn’t in you. I thought you were incapable of it. That’s it, isn’t it, you’ve been having an affair?”
And yes, she had said finally, calm suddenly; and he became calmer too, said who was it, that he had to know. Was it someone at work, was it one of their friends…?
They were home now; after a totally silent cab ride.
“No, Nigel, it isn’t one of our friends, it’s no one you know,” she said.
“So who then? I would rather know, Lucinda. I shall go mad otherwise.”
“Really,” she said, “there’s no point telling you. Leave it, please.”
“Are you still seeing him?”
And, “No,” she said, “I’m not,” thankful for that at least, that she could claim it was over, that she had decided not to stay with him.
“And why was that?”
“Well, I—” She couldn’t give him the real reason, that it was because of the money; it would sound terrible, so open to misinterpretation.
“When did it end then? Perhaps you’d be good enough to tell me that? It seems odd that you’re still taking those—those things.”
“I’m not,” she said. “I stopped the moment I ended the affair. I felt I had to give our marriage every possible chance, and obviously having a baby, or trying to have a baby, was a huge part of that.”
“How good of you.”
She was silent.
“I do want to know,” he said, “when it ended. I really feel I have a right to know. To know everything. I’m not sure why,” he added. He sounded bewildered, the old Nigel, gentle and good. “It wasn’t the money, was it? You didn’t stay with me because of the money? I did wonder where on earth you disappeared to that night, rushing out like that, coming back without the coffee.”
“What coffee?” she said.
“The coffee you said you were going to get. So was that it? When you decided to stay with me?”
“Well…yes,” she said, watching herself walking into his trap, absolutely unable to prevent herself. “Yes, it was.”
“So it wasn’t loyalty that drove you back to me, or a desire to keep your marriage vows, or even love. It was money—”
“Nigel, please. You don’t understand.”
“You are disgusting,” he said, and his pale, decent face was suddenly flushed and ugly, distorted with pain and rage. “You are utterly disgusting. I cannot imagine how I could ever have loved you. Just get out, would you? I don’t care where you go, you can sleep in the street for all I care. Just get out.”
“Yes, all right,” she said, her voice very low, and she picked up her bag and walked towards the door.
“Of course, you could go and stay at Claridge’s or the Savoy with the money I gave you. And take your fancy man with you. Why don’t you, Lucinda, why don’t you do that?”
And then he put his head in his arms and started to sob; and she looked at him, and thought she could hardly endure having put him in such pain, and she went over and placed her hands on his shoulders.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, “so very, very sorry. I do hope one day you’ll be able to believe it.”
And she walked out, pulling the door to behind her.
Chapter 11
NOVEMBER TO DECEMBER 1989
Debbie was trying very hard to be a good wife. She knew Richard deserved it, because he was being so great about her working; of course he still felt guilty about lying to her, but just the same, it wasn’t exactly easy for him, having to leave all his marking and organisational work until she got home, making sure he wasn’t late to collect the children, and that there was something for their tea, and OK, it was only what she did, what most mothers did, but it didn’t come so easily to men. And it meant she could have this wonderful time, for two days every week when she was doing something so well that someone was paying her for it. It made her feel sleek and cool and clever, far from the dithery Debbie who had become so familiar to her, always late, the house always in chaos. She was still like that at home, of course, but in the office she was a byword for efficiency, with a slickly neat desk, a perfectly planned diary. She got more done in her two days, Anna often told her, than most people did in five.
“Well, it’s so mind-concentrating,” she had said. “I know I can’t waste a minute, from the moment I hit the desk.”
She loved it, loved the work; she enjoyed presentations and was going to be extremely good at them, Anna had said, having allowed her to assist on a couple; sensing when a cool prospective client became enthusiastic, picking up on what they liked and running with it. “It’s taken me years to learn to do that,” Anna said, slightly ruefully, after one particularly successful pitch for a series of books on finance for women. “Who taught you?”
“My husband,” said Debbie briefly, and in a way it was true. She had learned to read Richard’s mind and capitalise on the knowledge very early in their marriage.
And so she had suggested half term in Wales, and of course everyone had been thrilled, especially Richard.
“I know I was against you working,” he said carefully, “but I think I was wrong. It suits you.”
And she had been really nice to Flora, and found it surprisingly easy. And they had all been having a lovely time until…
“We have some visitors coming the day after tomorrow,” Flora said. “I do hope you’ll like them.” The visitors were the Beaumonts. “He was at the Lloyd’s meeting,” Flora said. “I met him after you’d gone. Charming, absolutely charming.”
Debbie knew what charming meant. Posh. Smooth. Public school. She managed to smile.
“And he’s bringing his wife and family. I’ve offered to have the daughter’s pony here, they’ve got to sell their country house and…”
They arrived about midday, the man, yes, oh so charming, with his perfect haircut and smile and his Barbour and green Wellies, and his wife, who was actually rather beautiful, and turned out to have an incredibly high-powered job; in fact, she was exactly the sort of person Debbie would have liked to be. But the child, she was really ridiculous, a simpering, irritating little thing, with her long blond hair and her big blue eyes and a voice so plummy you practically needed an interpreter; she could see Flora thought she was absolutely wonderful, that she’d grow up into exactly the sort of girl Richard should have married, if Flora had had her way. And the boy, he’d just been a joke; he’d stayed in the Land Rover at first, had sat there listening to his Walkman until the man called him from the doorway, said, “Come on, Toby, come along in,” and he’d reluctantly got out of the car and walked across the yard and into the house; and then shaken hands with Flora and everyone in sight, saying how do you do.
“And where are you at school, Toby?” Flora had said, and “Eton,” he’d said (of course). Debbie studied him, with his floppy haircut and his blue-and-white striped shirt and blazer—a blazer, for God’s sake, what sort of a boy these days wore a blazer?—and thought how much she’d hate it if Alexander turned out like that.
And they’d all stood there in the kitchen, drinking sherry, apart from the children who’d been given lemonade. “Homemade, hope it’s all right,” Flora had said, with her most annoying smile, while the visitors blah-blahed away, and the girl, Tilly—Tilly, what a name—brought out some pictures of her pony to show them.
“Oh, he’s such a gorgeous chap. So beautiful,” Flora had said, gushing, “sweet face”—as if a horse could have a face that was sweet or sour or anything really.
Sherry finished, they all went out to inspect the stables; Debbie said she’d make the salad for lunch and was furiously chopping cucumber when Toby, the boy, came back in.
“Hi,” she said. “Finished viewing the accommodation?”
“What? Oh yes, thanks.” He grinned at her, rather shyly. “I’m not very horse-minded. Don’t like them that much, to tell you the truth. In fact, I hate riding. How about you?”
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