“In our house, in Cadogan Square.”
“Very nice. And your husband lives there still, does he?”
“Oh, yes.”
“And have you remained on good terms with him?”
“Yes. Very,” she said firmly.
He sighed and shook his head.
“And would you say the marriage was happy? Until you met Mr. Horton, of course.”
“Yes. Very happy.”
“And…Mr. Cowper treated you well?”
“Terribly well. He was very—very kind and generous.”
“So until you did meet Mr. Horton, you had no complaints?”
“No. I still don’t. None at all.”
“Right. Now Lucinda, forgive me, but I’m not sure we have much of a case here. Or that you need someone like me. There you were, happily married to a kind and generous man, against whom you had no complaints. You aren’t going to find many judges to take your side.” She was silent. “I mean, it looks quite bad—on your part. You run away and leave him, for no reason whatsoever, set up home with Mr. Horton, and now you’re pregnant with Mr. Horton’s baby. I’m afraid that makes you very much the guilty party.”
“Yes, I suppose it does.”
“A short marriage, with no children—that doesn’t earn you a huge amount of assets that weren’t yours in the first place. Mr. Cowper is pretty well-off, I gather?”
“Well, yes. But that’s—”
He interrupted her. “Is that mostly in liquid assets?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Well, is it cash sitting in the bank, or in stocks and shares, or tied up in property, or what?”
“Oh, I see. Well, he does have some stocks and shares, and quite a lot of cash. At least, he did. But most of his real wealth is in land. He’s got about two thousand acres in Norfolk, for instance.”
“And property?”
“Well, there’s a farmhouse there, and some cottages. It’s a working farm, you see.”
“Ye-es. And in London?”
“There’s the house in Cadogan Square.”
“Right.”
“Oh, and then I suppose you could count the income from the family business. It’s a manufacturing company, still privately owned. It’s quite small, but Nigel’s the chairman and he owns the majority share. But Mr. Durham—”
“Steve, please.”
“Steve. There’s something I want to explain—”
“We’ll come to that in a minute. I’d rather get the facts sorted first. Were any of these things acquired after he met you?”
“Oh, goodness no.”
“So there’s nothing you’ve contributed to, financially?”
“Well, no.”
He was silent, then he said, “Of course. Now—there was no baby for you and Mr. Cowper?”
“No.”
“Was that—forgive me for asking this, Lucinda—was that agreed between you?”
“Oh, yes.” She wasn’t going to get into discussing that; not with him.
“So you did want to have a baby together?”
“Well, we did one day, yes. But—there was plenty of time, we felt.”
“And yet you and Mr. Horton are having a baby pretty soon after you began cohabiting.”
“Well, yes.”
“So you must have been pretty keen on the idea?”
“Oh, I was. Yes.”
“So it was Mr. Cowper who didn’t want children?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“OK, we’ll leave that for now. Now I understand there has been a trust fund set up for you.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“In a very generous settlement, by Mr. Cowper.”
“Yes.”
“Which of course will now probably be redistributed at the discretion of the courts.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Look,” he said, “I don’t often say this, but I’m not sure there’s a lot I can do for you. You have a pretty weak case. This is a short marriage, you made little or no contribution to it, and you’re now living with another wealthy man and having his child.”
“I know, I know. But—but can I explain now?”
“Yeah, OK. Go ahead.”
He sat back, looking at her with what she could only describe as disdain.
“There’s something I don’t think you realise,” she said. “I thought Blue had told you.”
“He didn’t tell me anything,” said Steve Durham. “Mind if I smoke?”
“Yes,” said Lucinda firmly, “I’m sorry, but I do. Now please, let me finish. Nigel’s about to lose almost everything he’s got to Lloyd’s.”
“Oh yes? Well, that settles it. He certainly won’t have anything for you in that case.”
“I know,” said Lucinda. “That’s the whole point.”
“Sorry? I don’t get it.”
“Mr.—Steve, if you’d just listen to me for a bit, you will get it. I have had an idea, and I think it’s quite a good one. But I’m really going to need all your—your experience to even remotely bring it off. Can I go on?”
“Go ahead.” He was looking slightly more interested.
“Well, you see…”
It didn’t take long; and when she had finished, he stood up and walked over to the window looking down at Regent Street. Then he turned round and grinned at her.
“It’s going to be tough,” he said, “but I like a challenge. I reckon we can do it somehow. Somehow or other. I must admit, Lucinda, you’re a lot cleverer than I thought you were. Very impressed I am. Very impressed.”
“Oh good,” she said. “I’m so pleased.”
She thought they had got away with it. That Flora actually hadn’t seen them, not in flagrante as it were. Not that it was in flagrante, of course, but who could have blamed Flora for thinking it was, rather than an innocent—well, nearly innocent—comforting embrace.
Simon had reacted with incredible speed, pulling away from her, reaching for the wine bottle and making a great thing of pouring yet more; and she had gone equally fast over to the sink and made a great thing of washing glasses.
“You’ve caught us at it, Flora, I’m afraid,” Simon had said, and she had turned in horror, but he was grinning up at Flora ruefully—and Debbie had never known quite what rueful was until that moment—“getting drunk together. I’ve been boring the pants off poor Debbie, and she’s been really gallant, letting me run on and on.”
“I see,” said Flora briskly, and Debbie felt her stomach heave with fear; but then, “Well, I just wanted a cup of tea. Can I interest either of you in something so wholesome?”
“Absolutely,” Simon said, “do us both good. Here, Debbie, could you rinse these cups out as well?”
And keeping her back still carefully turned to Flora, she said, praying her voice would sound normal, “Sorry, Flora, did we wake you up?”
“No, no, I couldn’t sleep. Often happens these days.”
“It’s a symptom of our common disease,” Simon said to Debbie, smiling. “Lloydsitis, very nasty. Others include nausea, headaches, nightmares. Oh, and loss of appetite.”
How did he do that, she wondered. How could he switch from wretched to lighthearted at the click of a switch—or rather the turn of a door handle? It was a great gift.
Debbie lay awake for hours, staring into the darkness, suffering from intermittent tremor just about all over, wondering what on earth Flora might have thought: and indeed what she might do, had she thought it.
It was truly hideous: here she was, Flora’s daughter-in-law, married to her only son, and apparently behaving like a trollop in her house. But then, Debbie thought, Flora had seemed fine, not really suspicious; although obviously a bit surprised. And anyway, what exactly would she want to tell Richard? Well, and here the waves began to rise again, well, that Simon had had his arms round Debbie and she had been bending over him, clearly about to kiss him; and Flora didn’t like her, never had, and would be delighted to
blacken her in Richard’s eyes…
At six, having slept about two hours, woken by the sound of horse’s hooves, she went downstairs and out into the garden, bathed in mist; and saw Simon sitting on a low wall.
“Hi,” he said. “You all right?”
“Not really,” she said, “bit—you know—worried.”
“About last night? No need. She’s fine. I was just chatting to her—she’s gone out riding. I kind of dug a bit and she couldn’t have been easier or more relaxed. I’m sure she doesn’t suspect a thing. Not that there was a thing to suspect.”
“Simon, there was. And I’m married to her son. Don’t be ridiculous, please.”
“Darling—”
“And don’t call me darling. I don’t like it.”
“Sorry. But you really are worrying about nothing. Promise. You’ll see.”
And indeed when Flora got back she seemed very happy and they all had breakfast in the kitchen and Flora proposed a picnic and was actually very warm towards Debbie. So perhaps Simon was right. But she continued to worry, just a little; and also to remember the sliver of attraction and wonder what exactly might have happened, had Flora not come down.
Lucinda swallowed hard.
“I just don’t understand,” Blue said, “why you won’t talk about it. It’s ridiculous!”
“Because—well, because I need to think about it.”
“Think about what? Lucinda, I’ve been very patient for a long time, listening to you fretting over that overaged schoolboy of a husband of yours, saying how sorry you are for him, how worried about it all, and I’ve had enough. You get rid of him, and fast; I want to get married, before the boy’s born—”
“Blue, that really won’t be possible. Divorce can’t just be done in five months.”
“That’s bollocks,” he said. “It’s uncontested, for God’s sake. You’re supplying the grounds, no one’s arguing about it, it could be done in no time, no time at all.”
“That’s not what Steve Durham said. Blue, please. We have to be very…careful about all this.”
“Careful? What have we to be careful about, for God’s sake? What’s the matter with you, Lucinda? This bloke seems to have affected you very badly.”
“He didn’t. He just made me…think. That’s all.”
“Think about what? Us? Because I’ll have his balls off if that’s the case.”
“Blue, stop it! You just don’t understand. I—”
“You’re too right I don’t,” he said. “I’m going out. And when I get back, I’d like a bit more of an explanation, all right? So you’d better be ready with it.”
He stood up and stalked out of the door, slamming it hard. She looked after him, near to tears, wondering if she was in fact brave enough to go through with what at best would be terribly, terribly difficult. And then she thought of Nigel, dear, dear Nigel, living in a council house and forced to sell his diamond cuff links, and she knew she had to be.
“And this is Flora Fielding. Flora, Colin Peterson. Flora has one of the most beautiful houses on Gower, Colin. You’d give your eyeteeth for it, I’m sure.”
“Oh really? Are you looking for a house on Gower?” said Flora, as politely as she could. She didn’t feel very polite. She would have much preferred to be at home, where a very self-important Tilly was acting as babysitter, with Mrs. Connor in the cottage five hundred yards down the lane on call and Mr. Connor popping in regularly throughout the evening. But Philippa invited her to dinner at least once a month, determinedly kindly, and it was impossible not to like the Webbers; they had moved to the area ten years earlier, and William in particular had tried and failed to dislike them, and the Fieldings had entertained them occasionally and Flora became deeply ashamed of herself after William died and they phoned, once or twice a week, to ask if she’d like to go for a walk with them; they brought her flowers, and in the early days, Philippa had delivered her some soup from time to time, or a quiche that she had made, saying, “I know how easy it is not to bother,” and just very quietly and sweetly kept an eye on her.
And so it was that, from time to time, Flora gritted her teeth and drove along the South Gower Road with dread in her heart for an evening of admittedly very good food and to meet the Webbers’ friends who were rather alien to her, living as they did in large modern houses in Swansea, or even Cardiff, and who drove flashy cars and went on holiday to places like Gran Canaria and Florida.
It transpired that Colin Peterson, a widower, Philippa rather archly announced as she guided them into the dining room, was not looking for a house on Gower, or not personally at any rate; he was a property developer and responsible for several of the flashier developments on the outskirts of Swansea. Since property developers would have been prominent among those Flora would have compulsorily ejected from this world and into the bowels of hell, she was fairly appalled to find herself placed next to him; he had other vices too, in her book, he wore a Ralph Lauren shirt complete with polo emblem, a matching Christian Dior tie and silk handkerchief, and had nails that looked to her suspiciously manicured.
On the other hand, he was rather good company. And disarming. He told her he would no more touch Gower with a single new brick than throw himself off the Worms Head, and that although he made his crust putting up modern houses, he was in fact a member of various Victorian societies and spent a lot of time getting up petitions to save terraces and other antique structures. His passion in life was actually sacred music, and she left the Webbers’ dinner party a great deal later than she had planned, feeling warmed and almost happy. Not least by Colin Peterson’s suggestion that they might perhaps attend a forthcoming concert in Cardiff Cathedral.
And after all, wearing clothes covered with those dreadful trademarks—or logos as you were supposed to call them, Tilly had told her—wasn’t exactly a capital crime. She had managed to overlook Simon’s.
Annabel really, really couldn’t believe it. Half of her had expected never to hear from him again. It had only been just over a week, after all, and OK, he had said he loved her, but that often happened with holiday romances, which is what it was in a way, and America was a long, long way away, and he had a whole life there, and he was young and gorgeous and…and…
“And he’s asked me to go over and stay with them,” she said.
“Who, darling?”
“Dad! You haven’t been listening. Jamie, you know that gorgeous American boy.”
“Oh, yes. And you really like him?”
“I really like him, Dad. And he’s asked me to go over to Boston and stay with him and his family. For a few days.”
“Well, that sounds great. And—do you think you’ll go?”
“Well, of course I’ll go!”
“Didn’t you meet his parents?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And?”
“And they were great. Well, his dad was great. His mother was a bit terrifying. Jamie seemed to find her quite terrifying too.”
“My darling, never have anything to do with a man who’s frightened of his mother. Not a good scene.”
“You’re joking, aren’t you?”
“Only partly. Anyway, when does he want you to go?”
“Sometime in July. God, I hope I can get the time off. Oh, it’s so exciting, Daddy, isn’t it? I must ring him right now—or would it be better to write, do you think? Cooler?”
“Definitely cooler. He wrote to you, after all.”
“Yes, I know, but—Yes, you’re right. I’ll write today, when I’ve asked for the time off. Oh, wow, I really can’t believe it! It is just so wonderful—wait till I tell Carol…”
Joel Strickland was just filing a rather mediocre story on negative equity—the new buzzword in the property business—and wondering if he could cut and run after lunch (well, it was Friday) when his phone rang. It was Simon Beaumont. “Look,” he said, “if you’re still interested in talking to me, I could spare you half an hour next week. I don’t know how much use it would be,
I imagine my story’s pretty much like everyone else’s, but you’re welcome to it.”
Joel said he would be very interested in talking to him.
“Right then. Suppose we say Thursday, around seven? Royal Garden Hotel suit you?”
“That’s great,” said Joel. “I’ll be there. Thank you. Er…anything in particular change your mind?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. Friend of mine, another victim, tried to kill himself recently. I think this is a story that needs to be told.”
“Well, I agree with you,” said Joel, “and thanks very much.”
Simon sat staring at the phone, feeling nervous and almost excited, as if he had done something rather momentous, without being sure why. He was easing up the lid of Pandora’s box, and God knew what demons would be released. Well, someone had to do it.
“Freddie, where’s your lunch box?” said Catherine.
“Um, don’t know. Must have left it at school.”
Freddie’s normally pale face had become slightly rosy and his big brown eyes were firmly fixed on the cereal packet he was reading.
“Darling, that’s two this term already. You must be more careful, Freddie, lunch boxes cost a lot of money.”
“Sorry.”
“And now what am I going to put your lunch in?”
“He can have mine,” said Caroline helpfully.
“What? That pink thing—My Little Ponies all over it?” said Freddie. “No thanks. I’ll just take a plastic bag, Mummy, it’ll be fine.”
“Well, it’s not really allowed. But we don’t have much option, do we? Now I must go. See you this afternoon. Have good days. Love you.”
“Love you,” they said in unison. She left them, worrying as she always did, praying silently that they’d be all right, and hurried down the street towards the tube station. It wasn’t ideal, but it did mean Freddie was happier. So much happier. And doing well. So it really was worth it.
“Right,” said Freddie, ten minutes later after they had cleared away their breakfast things, and picked up their school bags. “Let’s go. Get it over with.”
“Freddie,” said Caroline. “Don’t you think we ought to tell Mummy?”
An Absolute Scandal Page 23
