“She certainly does. I like her hair a bit longer too.”
After that, things got easier very quickly.
For Blue, meeting Lucinda’s parents, things were more difficult. He could have been an alien landing on Earth from another planet for the violence of their reaction to him. They stared at him, transfixed, their smiles chilly, their faces frozen, through the longest lunch Lucinda could ever remember; her father only addressed him directly to ask him if he would like some more wine; her mother, clearly at a complete loss to understand the relationship, struggled to be more friendly, asking Blue about his work, about where he lived, about his own family, but it was painfully awkward. Quite apart from anything else, they had trouble with his name, ended up calling him Mr. Horton. As soon as coffee was half drunk, Lucinda stood up and said they must go.
“I’m so sorry, Blue,” she said, almost in tears as they drove away. “They’re just—just rather stupid.”
“It’s OK.”
“It’s not OK at all. They were rude—rude and insulting. And what for?”
“Well, I s’pose we’ve broken the number-one rule: stick to your own tribe.”
“Your family don’t mind me.”
“They do a bit. I mean, they like you and that, but they think it’s well odd. Oh, except for my dad. He thinks you’re wonderful. Calls you the princess. I didn’t tell you that, did I?”
“No,” she said, “you didn’t. Blue, I do apologise.”
Blue pulled into the side of the road. “Lucy,” he said, “it’s you I love. Not them. In fact, I love you more than ever.”
“Why?” she said curiously.
“Well, to have managed to have turned out so extremely well. I’d say it was a considerable achievement, myself. Now give me a kiss and let’s stop worrying about them, OK? If I can live with them, then you can.”
“Not literally, please God,” she said, and shuddered.
Her friends she told gradually; a lot of them took Nigel’s part and stopped seeing her. She was hurt; she hadn’t expected that. It seemed terrible that a rift in a marriage should have to gape so widely and so relentlessly. Some people did take her side, though; she was grateful, and then introduced them to Blue rather nervously. On the whole it was the men who took to him more.
“Bloody clever,” said Katy’s fiancé, Hugh. “Fantastic what he does every day. Millions of pounds go through his fingers. Don’t know how he does it without having a heart attack.”
Others said much the same thing. Lucinda felt a bit silly; she had always thought what Blue did must be clever, but she had never really understood it and certainly hadn’t realised how extremely difficult it must be. She looked at him almost awed, newly and deeply impressed by him. He was very amused.
“You see, Lucinda, it’s possible to be quite clever, do fairly well even, without ever having been to one of those schools of yours.”
They were living in his little house in Limehouse; she was still working at Harrison. Graham Parker twinkled at her when she told him what was happening to her.
“I’m glad it’s all worked out so nicely,” he said. “I was a bit…concerned.”
“Thank you,” she said, and then, staring at him: “What do you mean, it’s worked out?”
“Lucinda,” he said, “you must think I am very stupid. It’s quite hard not to notice when someone working for you is having an affair. All those long lunch hours? And what a lot of dental appointments you had.”
“Oh,” she said, blushing furiously. “Oh no, I mean yes, I mean—well, thank you for putting up with it.”
“That’s all right. I was more impressed than anything. Bit of excitement in my middle-aged life.”
But she continued to worry about Nigel until Katy told her he was surviving quite well.
“Honestly, Lucinda, you don’t have to worry about him. All his friends are looking after him beautifully. I saw him at two dinner parties last week alone.”
She felt a stab of hurt, then of relief. But he still wouldn’t reply to any of her phone calls or letters.
“Well, he’ll have to now,” said Blue. “We got to get this thing sorted. Including the money.”
“Yes, I know—but how, without it all going to Lloyd’s?”
“God knows,” said Blue. “You need to ask a lawyer.”
Now what had she done, Debbie thought. Without consultation too. God, she’d be in trouble. Terrible, awful trouble. Maybe she should backtrack, say she must think about it. But why on earth should she? It was entirely good, what she was doing. Contributing hugely, financially—and anyway, she was much better-tempered, much happier altogether, really. Certainly felt less mad. And no one was suffering, and—
Her door opened again. It was Anna.
“Sorry. Should have asked you. How soon can you start?”
“Well…” The Easter holidays were about to begin. She didn’t think she could possibly spring this on Richard, tell him he was committed to another whole day of childminding a week until they were all back at school. “In about four weeks? That soon enough?”
“It’ll have to be. If you could shave a week off…”
“Leave it with me, Anna, I’ll try. But I can’t promise.”
“Fine,” said Anna.
“Easter in Wales with Granny then?” she said to the children, three days later. “That be fun? She just invited us.”
And, “Yes!” they all yelled; she would have been irritated, if it hadn’t been part of her plan. For Flora had not exactly invited them. Well, she had, but only in response to a hint heavy enough to stun.
“Right,” said Fiona Broadhurst. “I’ve had a look at everything you’ve given me, and the implications. And I think you have a case. If you’re right about what you’ve said here, and if we can find any evidence of a cover-up, of knowledge of what was going on, while they continued to promote Membership—and I appreciate you’re not the first to have made this claim—then I think there is a reasonable prima facie case and we can go on, if you still wish. I have to say, however, that what you’ve given me here is almost certainly not enough. I think we need to find the smoking gun.”
“What does that mean exactly?” said George Meyer.
“It means we need something much closer to proof. We need to find someone who has said something, or done something, that can be seen as at least fairly conclusive. I think we all need to do more work on the extent of your knowledge. There’s still a very long way to go. Now, I think you should discuss what you can afford, and I would urge you to put a limit on the cost, because that helps me as well in planning the case. And I would like to say at this point that if you do run out of money and can’t afford to go on, then please don’t think you can come crying to me because I’ve got bills to pay.”
There was a long silence while she looked at them; then Simon Beaumont said, “Well, thank you for your time, Ms. Broadhurst. And for considering the case so carefully. Speaking for myself, I feel I would definitely like to go on.”
“Good.” For the first time she smiled at them properly. “I hope your colleagues will feel the same way.”
God, she was sexy, thought Simon.
“And if we do, if we’re all in agreement, what would be the next step?” said Meyer.
“The next step would be that we would go to Counsel. Who, I hope, would say I’m right. Let us say that yes, he agrees there is a case or might be a case, then I would invite you to meet him. I feel you’re paying for the show, and you should hear what he has to say. And I also want him—or her—to share your passion about it, to know how you feel. It won’t necessarily be an easy conversation, but I would hope then that he would say yes, and then I would expect him to say what work we all have to do. I want precise information, the people who told you what a great club this was, and exactly how they told it, the language used, and when. We’ll need chapter and verse; hearsay is no good to me. Litigation is teamwork—clients, solicitor, barrister, we’ve all got to do our share. I hope that�
��s clear.”
“It is clear,” said Meyer, “and I have to say to you I like it. I like this idea of our having such close involvement, some kind of control.”
“Good,” said Fiona. “We do find it a far more pragmatic and indeed useful way to proceed. Now I would suggest that you go away and discuss the matter and then come back to me with your decision. In writing, obviously. Is that all right?”
They stood on the pavement outside, hardly looking at one another, Meyer and Terrence Cunningham slightly sheepishly lighting cigarettes.
“What I need is a drink,” said George. “Shall we go and get one and see what we think?”
But they actually knew what they thought; and half an hour later, Simon agreed to draft a letter officially instructing Fiona to take their case.
It was as well the family were coming this year, Flora thought. The next year’s results had arrived and next year there might be no house to come to. Correction. Would be no house to come to.
It had actually been a physical shock, reading the results; she felt faint, breathless, had to close her eyes. And then she opened her eyes and forced them onto the piece of paper again. It informed her she owed £275,000. A sum she most assuredly had not got, would not have even if she sold everything she possessed.
She gazed around her in a kind of desperation, seeing what she must lose to feed the monster: the house, the beloved house, of course; she had almost faced that, knowing only a miracle could save her from it, but suddenly she saw the other things that she had not properly considered that must go with it. The stables, and thus the horses: gone the long days of riding over the moors in the hot sun, in the company of the wild ponies and the hawks, surrounded with skylark song, and she would lose Tilly too, and Boy would have to go, and all these lovely easy holidays with the children. She would lose her Meadow and the rest of her land, lose the particular views of Gower they offered; would lose the sweet summer darkness filled with owls hooting and foxes screeching, and the lovely dawns, drenched in birdsong; would lose the wild winter landscape, the towering black cliffs above the raging seas, the sound of the wind hurtling round her house.
It was wicked, it was monstrous, it was absolutely and totally unjust, the result of a small, foolish act of generosity on the part of her husband.
And there was absolutely nothing she could do about it.
“You buggers!” she shouted, standing in the yard, holding the letter, waving her fist at the stormy sky. “You absolute bastards!”
Boy, Tilly’s pony, and her own beloved Prince Hal looked at her in surprise. She was enjoying having Boy immensely, and enjoying her relationship with Tilly too. She was a sweet child, perfectly mannered, and a hugely talented rider. She and Boy could have made a pretty impressive mark on the eventing circuit, had the money been still there. But it wasn’t…
They had come down after Christmas as promised, she and her father; they had stayed in the B&B for a couple of days and then, when Richard and the family arrived for New Year, perfect chaperones for Tilly, it had seemed very silly for her not to move in with them and for Simon to leave. Emma adored Tilly, followed her about everywhere, mucking out the stables, sweeping up the icy yard uncomplainingly while Tilly encouraged her, gave her lessons, patiently answered her endless questions and not even Debbie could dislike her. Why was her daughter-in-law so awkward? Flora often wondered. It would be so nice if she could be sweet and pliable, like—well, like Tilly. Of course, Richard had his faults, and she was far from blind to them; and as the years went by he seemed to her to become increasingly like his father.
On the other hand, Flora thought, she wasn’t too much like Debbie. And crushed the rider to that thought that she hoped not…
“Is that Simon Beaumont?”
“Yes, speaking. Who—”
“Mr. Beaumont, my name’s Joel Strickland, I’m a financial journalist, work on the Daily News—”
“Oh yes?”
“I believe you’re a Name at Lloyd’s.”
“Correct,” said Simon shortly.
“Mr. Beaumont, I’m investigating some of the—the events at Lloyd’s. For a piece I’m writing.”
“Right,” said Simon slowly. “What sort of piece?”
“Oh, pretty broadly based—history, financial analysis, all that sort of thing. I personally think there’s rather more going on than meets the eye. Plus, you know, there is the human element, the stories behind the facts.”
“Well, I certainly don’t want to be part of some bleeding-hearts story, sorry. How did you get my name anyway?”
“It wouldn’t be bleeding hearts, as you put it. I can guarantee that. And I met your daughter at a photographic session. Oh, she was very discreet, but she thought you might like to talk about it.”
“No, I don’t think so. I’m sorry if she’s wasted your time.”
“She hasn’t. Following up leads is part of the job. But if anything changes your mind—ring me. Here are my numbers…”
Simon put the phone down. He’d have to speak to Annabel; he couldn’t have her talking about the family affairs to complete strangers. Especially if the strangers were journalists. Even so, interesting what the guy had said…very interesting. He could even be useful.
“Wow. Get him. Totally gorgeous. Shirt-soaking time, Bel. My turn.” Annabel looked; an Adonis had just walked into the salon. Young, but not too young, probably about twenty-three, she decided, blond, tall, wearing a light camel-hair coat over jeans and very nice brown cowboy boots. Totally, totally gorgeous, as Carol said. But Carol wasn’t going to have him. She pushed her mane of hair back and walked purposefully towards him.
She had actually made eye contact with him, was congratulating herself that he’d clearly noticed her, when, “Carol, take Mr. Cartwright’s coat, would you?” Susan the receptionist said, with a tart smile. “And then tell David his client is here. Bel, I think the floor could do with a little sweep, dear.”
“Bitch!” hissed Annabel into Carol’s ear. Carol flashed Annabel her sweetest smile as she walked towards Mr. Cartwright and held out her arm for his coat.
“Good morning,” she said, redirecting the smile. “I’m Carol, your junior. Would you like to follow me over to the dressing table. David will be with you in just a moment.”
“Temper temper,” said Florian as Annabel swept round his feet just a little too vigorously. “Honestly, darling, he’s not for you, much too much of a baby, it’s men of the world you need.”
Annabel, seeing that Mr. Cartwright was momentarily not being taken care of, pushed her broom purposefully over to his dressing table. Or rather work station as Miki now liked them to be called.
“Er—can I get you a coffee or something? While you’re waiting?” she said. Mr. Cartwright directed a pair of rather intense blue eyes at her and smiled.
“That’s really nice of you,” he said, in an accent that Annabel recognised as old-money American, “but I think the other young lady is bringing me some.”
“There we are.” The other young lady set down a tray of coffee on the table with a slight, Playboy Bunny–style bob. “Can I get you some magazines? Bel, I think Florian’s looking for you.”
Annabel gave up.
She was walking wearily past the Carlton Tower Hotel that evening, looking longingly at the cab rank, when she heard a voice. An American old-money voice.
“Hello. Isn’t it Cinderella?”
She spun round; he was emerging from the hotel. Miraculously alone.
“Well, yes. Yes, it is. I’m just looking for my pumpkin coach.” He grinned. Showing the inevitably perfect American white teeth.
“Haven’t seen one. Well—look, I don’t have a coach or anything, but I’m taking a cab down to Fulham Road. Could I offer you a lift? Or is that totally the wrong direction?”
Annabel would have said it was the right direction if he had been going to Birmingham, but, “It is totally the right one,” she said, “thank you.”
“That’s OK.�
� He ushered her into a cab, then held out his hand to her. “James Cartwright. Usually known as Jamie.”
“Hi, Jamie. I’m Annabel. Annabel Beaumont.”
“And you work in that place full-time, Annabel?”
“Oh yes. I like it,” she added firmly. She could feel the usual puzzlement coming. “Except the sweeping. It’s fun.”
“I felt kind of like an idiot in there,” he said, “with all those women, but my mother said I absolutely had to get a haircut and the hotel recommended your place.” It was almost seven; the traffic was bad. “This is terrible,” he said, “I’m going to be so late.”
“For?”
“Oh, drinks with friends of my parents. My mother’s already there. She’s going to be so annoyed.”
“Well, you could call her. In about five minutes we’ll be at my house. You can come in, use our phone if you like.”
“That’s so nice of you. Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“Of course not. Anyway, my dad pays the bill.”
“Great. Well, thank you. So how come you work there?” he said, visibly more relaxed. “You just don’t seem quite…quite…” He stopped, obviously afraid of committing a gaffe.
“The sort of girl you find in a hairdressing salon?”
“Well, yes. Sorry, does that sound rude? Or too personal?”
“Not rude. A bit personal. Anyway, whether I am or whether I’m not that sort of girl, I’m to be found there, and I really, really like it. Honestly. I know it looks like shit and it is a lot of the time, but it’s also fun and it’s what I want to do, and when I’m a stylist, which I will be in another year, life’ll be a lot better. And even if I didn’t like it,” she added with a grin, “I could never admit it to my parents, so I’m stuck with it anyway.”
“Your parents aren’t into the idea?”
“They’re coming round. And at least I’m earning something. However pathetic.” They pulled into Bolton Place. “That one, down at the bottom,” said Annabel.
An Absolute Scandal Page 18
