He was very pleasant, of course, said it didn’t matter in the least—“But sweet of you to ring at all.”
“Yes, well, I think it’s so awful not to do what you say. And I’ve not done about a hundred things today, I shall get fired if I’m not careful. I tell you what,” she said suddenly, looking at the row of books on her shelf, “I can ship over a copy of that Soros book you were talking about, if you haven’t got it yet. It’s the least I can do, after forgetting to ring you.”
“Don’t be silly, it’s only been a few days and I told you it didn’t matter. I wouldn’t dream of accepting the book.”
“Well, you should dream of it. I’ve got at least a dozen here. Take it off your birthday list. When is it?”
“Next week, actually. May the twenty-fifth.”
“I’m coming into the City that very day to, well, to see someone—so I could drop it into your office. I’m looking at your card now, you’re in Threadneedle Street, aren’t you, and I’m meeting my friend in Cornhill.”
“That’s astonishingly kind. You wouldn’t like to have lunch with me, I suppose, instead? Really make my birthday?”
“No, sorry,” she said, and giggled. “I don’t think my fiancé would find that very amusing. But I’ll leave the book in reception for you, shall I?”
“Absolutely not. I’ll come down and get it. Or give you an after-lunch coffee, how about that?”
She hesitated, then said almost regretfully, “No, I’ll be dashing back to work. Sorry again.”
“Never mind. Bye, Lucinda.”
She sat smiling at the phone rather foolishly. He was quite dishy. Then she shook herself. Honestly, Lucinda, whatever would Blue say?
Debbie had agreed to take the children down to Wales on the Saturday; this had caused major ructions from Emma. “But Mummy, there’s a horse show on Saturday, Granny says, and she and Tilly are going—can’t we go on Friday? Oh, please please, we’ll be finished at school by three and—”
“No,” said Debbie, “we can’t. I’m working on Friday, and Daddy’s off on his course…” It seemed a bit odd that, a course starting over a weekend, but she didn’t press him on it, she knew it would be interpreted as awkwardness.
“So? We could get there late. Granny always likes that, and—”
“Emma, no.”
Emma jumped up, rushed out of the room, slammed the door. “I hate you!” she shouted, from the top of the stairs.
Richard’s eyes met Debbie’s. “She’s starting early,” he said, and grinned. She grinned back. He seemed much happier suddenly. Maybe he’d just begun to accept that things had changed.
A compromise was finally reached; the cross-country event was being held at Margam Country Park, which was near Swansea. Debbie and the children would meet Flora and the Beaumonts there.
“It’ll be so much fun,” said Emma, her eyes shining. “There’s a course with lots of jumps, and Tilly and Boy have a really good chance of doing well, Granny says. We can follow them round—”
“What, over the jumps?” said Alex. “I can just see you doing that, Emma, making that stupid trotting noise—”
“Oh, shut up,” said Emma. “You don’t know anything!”
“Well, this is fun.” Debbie stood in the sunshine, smiling at Flora, surprised to find she meant it. Here she was, surrounded by people in Wellingtons with Labradors and shooting sticks, yelling at one another in what seemed pretty well a foreign language, and yet she was really enjoying herself.
“Isn’t it? When the weather’s good, a day of horse trials is unbeatable. Even if you don’t like horses, Debbie, which I know you don’t.”
“It’s not the horses I don’t like, it’s the—” and then she stopped, horrified at what she had nearly said.
“Horsey people,” Flora finished for her. “Don’t look so upset, nor do I—well, not some of them. Dreadful insensitive lot, they can be. But they can be fun, and there is one quality they nearly all share, which is courage. They’re mostly very brave—like the horses they ride. Which is a nice quality, I think,” she added. “Right, come on, everybody, time to move on.”
They had spent about ten minutes at the jump; watched three horses take it, seen one rider come off, one horse stumble and then recover, and one soar over it. Debbie was beginning to get the hang of the whole thing; you moved from one jump to the next, stood patiently at the back as the first horse approached, unable to see much, then shuffled forward for the second, pushing the children in front, and then got a front-row seat—or rather stand—for the third. A few people even carried small stepladders round, which they stood on. She would never have believed she would find it fun, or even remotely interesting, but here she was, clapping and shouting “Oohh!” and “Ahh!” and “Hurray!” in the prescribed manner.
“When will it be Tilly?” asked Emma. “Please say she’s soon, I can’t wait much longer.”
“I think she’s next but one,” said Flora. “I honestly don’t think she’ll do very well,” she said under her voice to Debbie, “not her fault, she and Boy just haven’t had the time to practise, but she’s very talented, she might come in moderately well. Ah, here’s Simon, did you find her?”
“Yes. She’s a mass of nerves, poor child. We shouldn’t have let her do it, Flora, she was sick last night you know, and I—”
“Oh, nonsense,” said Flora. “She’ll have a marvellous day’s riding, meet some of the other young people from round here, and at worst, it’s a wonderful experience. I mean, just being here taking part is a privilege. Look at it, all of you.”
Debbie looked: at the graceful parkland of Margam, the ruined abbey below them, the blue sky above studded with seagulls, and all around them, the golden gorse of early summer on the endless rolling green of the hills. And at the horses, beautiful, gleaming, perfectly schooled, so brave as Flora had said as they took the sometimes impossible-seeming jumps, their riders so absolutely at one with them that they hardly appeared separate beings; she closed her eyes for a moment and heard her children all laughing, and she felt briefly and absurdly happy and wished that Richard was there with her.
And then they heard, “Number seventeen, Miss Ottilie Beaumont, on Golden Boy,” and everything was blotted out and they stayed where they were, afraid that if they moved they might miss her. The jump was a horror, two almost at once, set in a zigzag.
Debbie found herself digging her nails into her palms as they saw the bright blur that was Boy and Tilly a few hundred yards away, soaring over the first two jumps, heard the applause, watched them go out of sight for a while, and then reappear, clearing the water jump that preceded the zigzag, saw them coming towards it now, stood totally silent, all of them equally terrified, as she drew near enough for them to see her face, white and absolutely set in its concentration, her eyes fixed on her own personal horizon, and then she was there, upon them, taking the jump; Debbie felt first one hand grabbed suddenly by Emma and then another by Simon. Amused and touched, she glanced up at him; he was pale, his eyes fixed on his daughter as if he could take her over by sheer willpower. Tilly cleared the first fence, turned Boy neatly, and dug her heels hard into his side; he seemed to hesitate for what felt like minutes and “Go on, go on,” groaned Simon, and then, then it was all right, and Boy seemed to take heart, jumped again, a little late it seemed to Debbie; he cleared it, but then clipped it with his hooves, stumbled slightly, and then recovered. Tilly pulled him up, and they were off again on their way, disappearing into a thicket.
“Water next. She’ll be fine there,” said Flora. “God, she did well. They both did. Oh, I’m so proud of her.”
“Me too,” said Simon, and he released Debbie’s hand suddenly, as if he had only just realised he had been holding it. He grinned at her. “Sorry,” he said, laughing, “got a bit carried away.”
“I don’t mind,” she said, laughing back at him. “Goodness, that was wonderful. How do you think she’s doing, Flora?”
“We won’t know for a bit. She�
��s not going very fast, so—”
“Granny!” said Emma. “She was going like the wind.”
“I know, darling, but some of the others were going faster than the wind. And he’ll lose marks for clipping that fence. But she should get round now. This is definitely the worst jump and she was looking very comfortable…”
Comfortable was the last word Debbie would have chosen: how odd they were, these horsey people, she thought.
In the end, Tilly came in at seventh place, and they all went back to Broken Bay for a triumphant supper, Emma as flushed with triumph as if it was she who had ridden Boy to glory, not Tilly. Halfway through the meal the phone rang; it was Richard, to make sure they were all right and had arrived safely, and Emma spent about twenty minutes talking him round the entire cross-country course—“and then it was the water jump and she cleared that easily and then she did really well at the brush”—until, mindful of Richard’s hotel phone bill, Debbie interrupted her and spoke to him briefly. He sounded very happy and almost excited. “I might have a bit of good news by the time I get home,” he said, refusing to say more; Debbie had had quite a lot of Flora’s wine and said she couldn’t wait for him to get home and that she’d wished he’d been at the trials.
“Did you ever ride in anything like that?” she asked.
“Good Lord, no,” he said, “no good at all,” and she asked Flora later if that had been true.
“Well, he wasn’t much good, no. Bit of a wimp when it came to horses,” Flora said slightly dismissively; and, Debbie saw for the very first time that Richard was not entirely perfect in his mother’s eyes, and felt oddly soothed by it.
After supper they started to play Scrabble, but Simon, who was rather drunk, began doing unsuitably rude words and Debbie took the opportunity to get the children off to bed. Tilly was dropping with exhaustion, and by the time Debbie came back to the kitchen, Flora had disappeared too.
“She said to say good night to you,” Simon said. “She’s very tired.”
“Oh, right. She doesn’t often admit to that. Well, I might follow her myself.”
“Debbie, don’t go,” he said. “Stay and chat to me. I’ll find some more wine.”
“Well…” Suddenly it seemed a rather nice idea. “Just for a bit.”
“Good. Thank you.” He disappeared down the cellar steps, came back grinning. “Here we are. That was a fun day, wasn’t it?”
“Great fun, yes.”
“It was lovely for Tilly. After all her heartbreak. And she did pretty well too.”
“She did. And she’s so kind to Emma, I really do appreciate it.”
“As long as horses are involved, Tilly will do anything. She’d scrub out a stable quite willingly. Ask her to unload a dishwasher and you get a rather different reaction. Anyway, jolly little thing, your Emma. Good fun.” He topped up her glass.
“Don’t give me too much, I don’t want a hangover.”
“Oh, nonsense. You seem to be getting on better with Flora,” he added unexpectedly.
“Yes, I think I am.”
“Good. And how are things with you then?”
“Um—fine,” she said. “Thank you.”
“Good. So, where is hubby? I wasn’t really listening.”
“Oh, he’s on a course. And it’s half term, so Flora’s having the children.”
“Isn’t she wonderful?” He rubbed his hand across his eyes. “Christ, I’m tired. So—what sort of course?”
“Oh, a teaching one.”
“Has he got a new job yet?”
“No, no yet.”
“I’m sure he will soon,” he said easily. “And what about your job? How’s that going?”
“You don’t want to hear about my job,” she said, and, “Yes, I do,” he said. “I want to know all about you, as a matter of fact. I find you very interesting, Debbie. Go on, tell me about your job.”
So she did, trying to make it sound entertaining, while at the same time not exaggerating what she did. He listened intently, asking the occasional, totally relevant question; she found it oddly refreshing. There wasn’t anyone she could talk to about her job; not Richard, not Flora, not her parents, they all disapproved; nor most of her old friends, for apart from Jan, they were jealous and clearly felt she had set them and the life they had all shared aside in order to pursue something more interesting.
“So—is PR your forte, do you think? Or do you feel you might like to do something different one day?”
“I think most of all I’d like to be a journalist,” she said. “I love what I see of their jobs. Of course it’s tough, and terribly hard work, but…”
“Well, you clearly don’t mind that,” he said. “What do you think drives you, Debbie?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. “I just think you ought to do everything you can while you can. But it’s hard on the children, I do realise that.”
“Oh, they survive surprisingly well. Tyrants, children are, bit like husbands.”
“I’m sure you’re not a tyrant,” she said.
“Oh, but I am, in my own way. You’d be surprised.”
“Yes, I would. You told me you were very proud of Elizabeth last time we talked.”
“And so I am. For most of our lives, I’ve been bloody proud of her, and she wouldn’t have been the person I loved otherwise. I could see that. But if Elizabeth could hear me talking now,” he said, his mood suddenly changing, “uttering all these fine words, she’d kick me in the balls and with good reason. I’ve behaved very badly, Debbie, very badly indeed.”
“I’m sure you haven’t.”
“I’m afraid I have. And look at what else I’ve done, landing my family in the most appalling financial mess…”
“If you mean Lloyd’s, as far as I can make out, no one could possibly have known what was going to happen. I went to that meeting, don’t forget; I’m sure all of you were acting for the very best.”
“I’m afraid that’s rather arguable.” He drained his glass again. “Give me some more, there’s a good girl.”
She filled his glass again, knowing that she really shouldn’t, that he was getting very drunk, and at the same time not wanting the conversation to end. He looked at her over the wine and tried to smile. “I’ve done some pretty terrible things, you know, really pretty terrible. And Elizabeth is terribly angry with me and hurt and—oh God.” He dashed his hand across his eyes; when he looked up at her again, she saw there were tears in them. “I’m a grade-A shit, Debbie, that’s what. I deserve everything that’s coming to me.”
Debbie felt a wave of such sympathy she could hardly bear it. She put her hand out across the table, took his.
“Simon,” she said, “Simon, it’s simply not true. You do your absolute best for everyone, I’m sure you do.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. He put his hand over one of hers, held it against him. “No, Debbie, that’s not true. I’ve failed her horribly, and I’m failing them all horribly and—oh God.” Tears were actually falling now. “What am I going to do, Debbie, what in the name of heaven am I going to do?”
Debbie reached out, stroked his cheek, wiped away some of the tears. “It’ll be all right,” she said, as if he was one of the children. “It’ll be fine, I’m sure.”
“No,” he said. “No, it won’t be all right, it can’t possibly be. Only the other day a chap I know, in this like the rest of us, nice chap, he took an overdose, couldn’t cope anymore. And you know, I was thinking, I can see why he did it—”
“Simon, please, please don’t talk like that.”
“I can see it very clearly, he’d be safe now, away from it all, the shame and the misery, and you know that really is the only sure way…I’m frightened, Debbie, do you know that? Absolutely shit terrified.”
She got up and went over to him; he turned on his chair and she drew his head towards her, onto her breast, stood there, stroking his hair and his arms went round her then, and she felt strange—strange and disoriented—as i
f she hardly knew who she was, or what she was doing. And, “Simon, dear Simon, don’t…” she said. And then, quite suddenly, the door opened and Flora came in.
Chapter 19
MAY TO JUNE 1990
“Right, then, Lucinda.” Steve Durham smiled at her. “You don’t mind if I call you Lucinda, I hope?”
“No, of—of course not.”
“Good. And you call me Steve. So let’s have a little chat about this marriage of yours, Lucinda, shall we? And see what we’re going to do about it.”
She didn’t like Steve Durham one bit. Blue had told her she wouldn’t. “But he’s what you—we—need, Lucinda. I’m afraid he’s not really your sort of person. Which is fine—you don’t have to ask him to a dinner party or anything.” Lucinda didn’t say that she never asked anyone to dinner parties anymore. It was one of the things she missed.
She felt uneasy in Durham’s rather flashy office, all black leather and chrome, in a building just off Regent Street. Durham was flashy too and also dressed in black leather, or at least his upper half was; he wore a very fine black leather jacket over a bright blue shirt and white silk tie. Lucinda had the rather wild thought that her mother would not have had him in the house and then mentally shook herself. Nor would Mrs. Worthington have had Blue in the house, were there any choice in the matter.
“Now, I don’t want you to be nervous about any of this,” Durham said.
“I don’t feel in the least nervous,” said Lucinda rather stiffly.
“Good. So let’s get down to business. Your husband’s name is Nigel. Nigel Cowper. Quite a name that, spelled that way—does he come from some terribly ancient English family?”
“Well, quite ancient, yes. I think they go back several hundred years.”
“Very nice. I can only trace my family over a few hundred months. Then it gets very muddy. OK. So you were married—how long?”
“Four years.”
“I see. And—no children?”
“No,” she said quickly.
“And you lived—where?”
An Absolute Scandal Page 22
