An Absolute Scandal

by Penny Vincenzi

  She looked up one afternoon from her word processor to see Simon smiling down at her.

  “Hello, Catherine. I want to ask you a favour.”

  “Of course.”

  She had expected him to give her some extra work to do; what he actually wanted was for her to join the Graburn and French box at Ascot “to help look after some of our lady guests.” She said it sounded wonderful, but she couldn’t possibly; that she had nothing to wear, that she was bound to drop and spill a great many things, that she would have nothing to say, that he was being much, much too kind, that—And he had interrupted this torrent of self-denigration to say that, on the contrary, he was not being much too kind, rather the reverse; he was planning to make her work very hard. She would be of inestimable value to him, “just looking after people, quietly and nicely.”

  “I need someone keeping an eye on things in the box, making sure glasses are topped up, that everyone’s had enough to eat, that people know where the loos are, especially the wives, that nobody’s being left out, all that sort of thing. You’ve no idea how easily it can go wrong; some quiet little person isn’t properly introduced, gets left in a corner while hubby goes flashing his money around at the Tote. You’d be ideal. It’s the week after next—Wednesday, if that’s all right. And if you’re worried about clothes, go and get yourself an outfit on expenses. I’ll sign the chit. Oh, and if you’re worrying about them,” he said, indicating the photograph on her desk, “we can easily cover any expense there.”

  “No,” she said, “I’ve got this nice woman, Mrs. Lennox, who helps in the holidays. I’m sure she’d take care of them.”

  She asked Mrs. Lennox, who said that she would be happy to look after the children. It would be a pleasure. Catherine, relieved and excited, and, feeling increasingly like Cinderella suddenly granted an invitation to the ball, went shopping. She bought her outfit at Fenwick: Simon had given her a budget of £200 which seemed like a queen’s ransom to her. She’d got a dress and jacket similar to one of the outfits Princess Diana had worn the year before, which made it absolutely safe, style-wise, she decided. It was very simple, in brilliant pink silk, the jacket lapels trimmed in black; and then she bought a very plain black straw hat and fairly low-heeled black court shoes. She would be on her feet all day long, Simon kept telling her, and she wanted to be comfortable.

  The children seemed perfectly content at the idea of Mrs. Lennox looking after them: well, Caroline was. Freddie didn’t seem quite himself; he was rather pale and tired-looking, but whenever she asked him if he was all right he told her not to fuss.

  “I’m fine,” he said, “honestly. Don’t worry about me.”

  Elizabeth had planned to leave the agency early; she knew Simon wanted to talk to her about the lawsuit, but just after lunch the client services director came into her office and said there was a problem with a presentation the next day to a hugely important new business pitch. It was going to take a lot of sorting out. She called Simon.

  “Sorry. I’ll do my best to be back by nine. That won’t be too late, will it?”

  “I suppose not,” he said. He sounded tired and deflated.

  “Sorry, Simon. But it’s really important.”

  “Of course.”

  It was half past ten when she got home.

  Simon was sitting up in bed reading; he looked at her, his face expressionless.

  “Good of you to come home.”

  “Simon! I was working.”

  “Of course. As always. Important client, no doubt.”

  “Important would-be client. Presentation tomorrow, last-minute hitch. God, I’m tired.” She kicked off her shoes, rubbed her neck.

  “Really? I’m so sorry. Well, I’m just the unimportant husband, of course. It’s one law for the rich in this house, isn’t it, another for the poor. Me being the poor. Obviously.”

  “Simon—”

  “You can stay out all hours, go to dinners, cancel evenings with me, that’s all fine. God help me if I step out of line.”

  “How dare you,” she said, slightly breathless with her rage. “How dare you compare your behaviour with mine! Let me remind you, Simon, I have not been having an affair, I have not announced that I am in love with someone else, I have not threatened to leave. I just get on with my job. Trying to keep things together, you know. Before we go bankrupt.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, I have had it up to here with my bad behaviour. How much longer do I have to drag myself round in sackcloth and ashes. It’s nearly two fucking years ago now, Elizabeth. For Christ’s sake, give me a break. What do you think it’s like for me, living in this Lloyd’s nightmare? I’m doing my best, just as I’m doing my best for you and the family. And everything I try to do, to make things better, I get pilloried for—selling Chadwick, selling all our pictures…Christ Almighty, I decided tonight I really have got to sell the Lizzie. It’s bloody terrifying, Elizabeth, and I know it’s my own fault, but I need you with me, supporting me, not dragging me constantly through the mire, reminding me of my shortcomings…”

  He stopped, and she saw with a sense of shock that there were tears in his eyes; he dashed his hand across them. “Oh, just fuck off, why don’t you? Get some sleep, ready for another important day tomorrow.”

  A long, long silence; then she sat down suddenly, put her hand on his arm.

  “Simon, I’m sorry. So, so sorry. I—I didn’t think. Didn’t realise how badly you felt, how worried you were. I should have done.”

  “Yes, you bloody well should. I’ve never felt so alone.”

  That was it, she realised, staring at him, that was what had gone wrong; they both felt alone. Were alone. They were separated by a vast abyss of recrimination and rejection, and how were they ever to cross it now? And she felt absolutely terrified suddenly that it was gone forever.

  “I think I’d better go,” he said.

  “Go where?”

  “I don’t know. Just—leave here. This house—you. I’m clearly no use to any of you. I mean it, you’ll be better off without me. I’ll get out, Elizabeth. We’ve lost one another, there’s no way back.”

  She stared at him.

  “Don’t you feel that?” he said. “Honestly? Don’t you think it’s time to give in? Because I do. We’ve fought this for a long, long time and we’re not winning, are we?” He stared back at her, his face heavy with despair. “God, I used to love you so much. And you loved me. But it’s gone. I really think that it’s gone. I’ve tried, Christ knows I’ve tried, to get back, to get you back, but I can’t. We’ve gone too far.”

  Elizabeth sat on the bed, knowing that he had indeed done all he could; and knew she must—somehow—try to explain. Which would require a brand of courage she wasn’t sure she was capable of; the courage to let down her guard, to be no longer cool and self-sufficient, but frail and weak and dependent.

  “It’s…not…you,” she said, dragging the words out slowly and painfully. “It’s me. I feel so…despairing of myself. Being unable to…to manage it.”

  “Manage what?”

  “Manage living with it. It’s so…so hard.” She felt her eyes fill with tears. “I just feel I’m not what you want anymore. That I can’t be.”

  “You were always what I wanted.”

  “But I wasn’t, was I? You wanted her too. And now…well, all the time, all the time we’re together, whenever we get close, whenever we make love, I think of her. Or rather of you and her. What did she do? To please you? Was it different from me? Did she know how to arouse you, did she do things I never discovered you like…”

  “Elizabeth—”

  “No, listen to me. You’ve got to understand. It’s why I’m so jealous. So afraid. I…I watch myself in bed with you, and I can’t…can’t…” Tears began to fall on the bedclothes; she brushed them angrily away. “How hard do you think it is, admitting this? That I feel inadequate, when I’m with you. Of course it’s hard. It’s horrible. I—I’m in despair. Despair about myself.”

&
nbsp; Simon reached out and touched her face, very gently. “Well, now you know how I feel. All the time. In despair about myself. My darling Elizabeth, I have never wanted anyone as I want you. Ever. After all these years, I still want you, desperately. What happened was a kind of—of lashing back. Of course, there was more to it than that, I don’t pretend that was the only reason.” He smiled at her. “I’m not a fine example of the husband breed, I know. But you seemed to put me last, always. No, that’s not right. You just dumped me emotionally while you got on with your important life. I was too demanding, took too much time from you. That’s hard to live with. And someone else put me first for a while and that was very pleasant. But—God, it wasn’t enough. It was you I really wanted. If you only knew how much I want you. Still. And, yes, how much I love you.”

  “Do you?”

  “Of course I do. And I can see how you can wonder how, when I betrayed you so completely. But actually, it wasn’t so complete. It was only because I couldn’t have you. In the way I wanted, the way I did have once. Now I know that’s a feeble excuse, and it isn’t even meant to be one, and Christ we’ve been over this so many times, and I’m so ashamed of myself, and shocked at the way I behaved, but just this one last time, let me tell you it’s you that I wanted and loved and needed, and you that didn’t seem to want or love or need me. You may tell me that is not right, but it’s what I felt, Elizabeth. And I still feel that. I really do. That you’ve removed yourself, from my life. You’ve been marvellous and taken me back and carried on being the wonderful wife everyone so admires, but I’ve lost the essential you. The you that was really close to me.”

  “But you haven’t, you see, that’s what I’m trying to say. The essential me is still here. But I hid her. It was the only way I could cope, by pretending, staying cool, saying, ‘Look, everybody, look at me, still smiling, still succeeding, still in control. It didn’t really matter, Simon’s little fling, it’s fine, I’m not the sort of woman who can’t deal with a little infidelity.’”

  “Well, you did a pretty good job,” he said. “And I began to think: If she can deal with it this well, maybe she didn’t care that much—and what does that say about her and me and our relationship?”

  She sat there, staring at him, shocked and frightened.

  “Oh dear,” he said, “what dangerous territory we stray into, in our efforts to exalt ourselves. I stray into infidelity, you into rejection of a different kind altogether. One emotion following another. But at least I understand now, and I can—just possibly—draw you back to me. I know how hard it must have been for you to tell me that, and I know it means you do indeed still love me. And do you know what that makes me want to do?”

  “No,” she said, almost irritably, and she looked at him, and saw he was smiling his most infectious, glorious smile.

  “It makes me want to shout out of the window, take space in newspapers, hire a plane with a banner behind it saying ‘Elizabeth Beaumont loves me, and that makes me the luckiest man in the world.’ And if you’ll come and sit a bit nearer to me—yes, that’s right, and take those silly shoes off, and maybe the jacket…I’m going to try and persuade you I mean it.”

  It was very good sex: quick, urgent, violent. It was the first time she had wanted it, really wanted it since…well, since then. And the first time she had felt confident enough to release herself, and that there hadn’t been some dark anger and misery hanging over their bed. She felt loved, truly loved and totally engaged by him, she had almost forgotten that, in her long grief and anger, forgotten how sex could consume everything but itself, time and place and other concerns lost in its intense rituals and delights. She came, more than once, crying out, her body arched with pleasure, willing it to go on and on. And afterwards, lying on the bed, still half dressed, almost surprised at the depth of her desire, her body eased, stilled, her mind released of tension, she said, “I’ve missed that so much, Simon. So much.”

  “Me too. But it seems we can still do it. We just have to practise a lot.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “I have never loved anyone as I love you, you know. In every way. Try to believe it. Try to go on believing it.”

  “I will.”

  She laughed and realised she felt quite different. Stronger. And very much happier. She was a realist, she knew she would return to the jealousy and the rage every so often, but she also felt, for the first time since it had happened, that she might be able to survive it.

  “I love you,” she said suddenly. She hadn’t said it for a long time; it was very sweet and very good to be able to do so.

  “I love you too,” he said.

  Chapter 21

  JUNE 1990

  “And perhaps I could buy you a drink after the meeting?” Was she really saying this?

  “That would be very nice.”

  She was going to buy a man—not a particularly attractive man, but a very nice one and quite important—a drink. On expenses. On her expenses.

  “The Royal Garden would be quite near. Would that suit you?”

  “It would, yes, thank you.” Derek Earnshaw clearly found the idea almost as exciting as she did. She would be in the bar of a smart hotel. At teatime. Well, high teatime. Fish-finger time. Only it wouldn’t be fish fingers for her, it would be olives and those extra-thin crisps. Washed down by some extremely cold Chardonnay.

  She had given up on Richard: there simply seemed no point. Life was altogether horrible. Until today. Somehow she had gone back to work and summoned up the other Debbie, the cool, efficient, clever Debbie, who was a success at her job and who everyone seemed to approve of. And the contrast was so great that she felt even more the other Debbie; she felt sexy, larky, a bit of a witch.

  This was her first proper account: one she was handling all on her own. A small publishing company producing personalised books for children: where the hero—or heroine—could bear the name of the child who was to receive it.

  “I think you should handle this one,” Anna had said. “You’ve got kids—you’ll have lots of ideas.”

  She had: several. The one she was proudest of was that every child receiving the book could enter a competition to write a short story of their own: the winning entry would then be properly printed and presented to its new author.

  “And the panel of judges could include a well-known children’s author. Maybe the child could even meet him or her.”

  “I like that,” Derek Earnshaw said, “it’s very clever. Yes. Well done.” He had liked her other ideas too; walking into the bar at the Royal Garden Hotel with him, Debbie felt absurdly excited and pleased with herself; rather as if she was walking into a theatre on the red carpet, or—

  “Debbie! Hello. How lovely to see you.”

  It was Simon Beaumont, looking extremely smooth and handsome. And somehow younger. He stood up and gave her a kiss; she felt starrier still.

  “Lovely to see you too, Simon,” she said. “This is Derek Earnshaw, a client of mine. Derek, this is Simon Beaumont.”

  “Who would dearly love to be a client of hers,” said Simon, smiling, holding out his hand. “Lucky man. Well, I won’t keep you. Enjoy your drink. Nice to have met you,” he added to Earnshaw. If she had written the script herself, Debbie couldn’t have done it better.

  As they settled at a table at the far end of the bar, she saw Simon had been joined by a man. A young, rather tasty man, with dark, slightly spiky hair and a very sharp suit. Pity he hadn’t been there a few minutes earlier…Debbie, concentrate. You’re a professional woman, not a bimbo. You have a client to look after.

  “Nice chap,” said Derek Earnshaw. “What does he do?”

  “Oh, he runs a bank,” said Debbie airily.

  Simon liked Joel Strickland: very much. He hadn’t exactly been expecting a hack in a beer-stained jacket, but a bright and personable young man with a clear grasp of his subject seemed too much to hope for. Nevertheless, that was what he had got.

  “Now what can I tell you,” said S
imon. “I haven’t got too long, I’m taking some clients out to the White City, to the dogs. You ever do that?”

  “Yeah, I’ve been with the boys at the sports desk once or twice. Good fun.” He grinned at Simon. “Can I say first of all that I’m so grateful to you for seeing me. And I simply want your story, everything you can tell me about the Lloyd’s experience. As it affected you, obviously.”

  The interview ran along fairly predictable lines; when had he first considered becoming a Name, who had introduced him, how much business had he written; had he been encouraged to increase his underwriting; had he had any say in which syndicates he went into.

  “Sadly not. Although how could I have known, anyway, that Westfield Bradley was one of the less scrupulous groups. And yes, I’d been advised that I’d always make money on marine and motor. I said I’d like to be in those. They said fine. Which I was. But a few other things as well. Like non-marine. Only much later did I learn that was a holdall which included asbestosis.”

  He had felt absolutely no suspicion, he said. Lloyd’s record was impeccable, a lot of his friends did very nicely out of them. “I thought I was pretty lucky to have been invited in.”

  “And—good years followed?”

  “Very good. Ten of them. Can’t deny it. But then the rumours began towards the end of eighty-seven, I’d say. I remember sitting at a lunch and someone saying he thought there’d be enormous calls on Names soon and that Lloyd’s was in debt to the tune of a billion or whatever. And we said, almost cheerfully, you know how one does, ‘Well, nothing we can do about it.’ We were all confident our particular syndicates would be all right, that our Members’ Agents would look after us—and it’s always the other fellow, isn’t it, who gets caught.”