“And you can’t get out, of course, can you?”
“You can resign in theory, but that only lets you off the hook with any new business they write. For everything you’ve signed up to, it’s the grave and beyond. The whole thing is an absolute scandal. They can come after your executors if they think it will do them any good. So to an extent it was head-in-the-sand time. Until I got what you might call the first minus accounting. In eighty-eight.”
“And how did you feel?”
“Absolutely sick. Terrified. I was shitting myself. Almost literally. And this year, worse still. I may have to sell the London house. But I’m going to law, planning to sue them…”
“Really?”
“Yes. Lot of us, all with the same Members’ Agency. We’ll be suing them, incidentally, not Lloyd’s as a whole. That really wouldn’t wash.”
“And who’s masterminding it, so to speak?”
“Oh, a chap who might well talk to you, very nice indeed, used to have it all, big house, kids at public school, only difference is his wife’s left him. I’ve been lucky there. Very lucky. Anyway, we’ve decided it’s the only thing to do. We’re just not prepared to lie down and tell them to take it. And one of the reasons I decided to talk to you was that a friend of mine recently tried to kill himself. Nice chap, in total despair, hadn’t even told his wife. Took an overdose. They saved him, but I’m not sure he was very grateful for it. It doesn’t bear thinking about. And he’s not the only one, of course.”
“I know it,” said Strickland soberly. “I interviewed the neighbour of some old lady who did exactly that. Ghastly. Tell me, does the name Allinson mean anything to you?”
“Don’t think so. Why?”
“Oh, got a bit of a lead from someone. You don’t think your friend would talk to me, do you?”
“I’m not sure. I can certainly ask him. He’d be very happy to see the whole of Lloyd’s cast into the fiery furnace.”
“Thanks, I’d appreciate it. Very brave of you to sue them. How’s it going?”
“Oh, slowly. We haven’t even got a barrister yet, but we’ve got a very impressive solicitor. We’re enrolling as many as we can, to help bolster the fighting fund. I’d be pleased with a hundred or so; some of these cases have thousands of protagonists. Anyway, I think that’s about it. I’ll speak to both these chaps, see how they feel about talking to you.”
“Tell me, can you remember which year they suggested you increased your underwriting?”
“Oh, eighty-three, eighty-four, I think.”
“Well,” said Strickland, “as far as I can make out, claims were being made as far back as the 1970s by persons suffering from asbestos-related diseases. Presumably that’s the basis of your case against them—that they must have known.”
“Broadly speaking, yes. But I don’t think we should discuss that now. Probably against the rules. I’ll check with the solicitor.”
“Fine. I’d be very grateful.”
“To be honest, I’ve enjoyed it,” said Simon, “and now—Ah, Debbie. You leaving?”
“Yes, ’fraid so. Mr. Earnshaw has a train to catch.”
“I see. Can’t tempt you to join us then? I hope she’s looked after you nicely, Mr. Earnshaw.”
“She has. Very nicely, thank you. Bye now.”
“Who was that?” said Joel when the two of them had disappeared; he was staring after them. It was fairly obvious his interest wasn’t in Earnshaw.
“Oh, young friend of mine.”
“She’s very attractive.”
“Yes, she is. Bit troublesome though.”
“In what way?”
“Oh, hard to say. I always remember Roald Dahl saying that sharing a house with his daughters was like living with a lot of unsettled heifers. Debbie is a very unsettled heifer.”
“She seemed to like you.”
“Only in a daughterly way,” said Simon.
They were standing waiting for the lift when Debbie realised she had left her scarf behind.
“I’m sorry,” she said to Earnshaw. “Stupid of me. You just go. It’s fine.”
“Sure? I really am running a bit late.”
“Perfectly sure.”
“Thank you again. I feel very excited about the whole project.”
“Good. Me too.”
She supposed a psychiatrist would have said she left the scarf deliberately. So she would have to go back into the bar. And pass Simon Beaumont and his tasty companion. And be drawn into further conversation with them. But she wasn’t dappy, not in that way anyway, and she might not be speaking to her husband at the moment, or rather he might not be speaking to her, but there was no way she’d be going to such lengths to meet some complete stranger just because she liked his haircut. Those days were long gone. Sadly. She walked back into the bar, trying to look relaxed. “Hi,” she said as they both looked up at her. “I left my scarf behind. Stupid of me.”
“Well, your loss is our gain. Want a quick drink with us? Go on, spoil yourself. You could even call it work. Joel here is a journalist, could be an important contact for you.”
“Well…” It would be the end of a perfect day really. And she just felt so—so soothed by it all. After days of Richard treating her like a piece of dog poo that had found its way onto his shoe, here she was being flattered and sought after, it was—well it was irresistible really…
Simon bought a bottle of champagne for the three of them. She sat next to him and opposite Joel, and watched him watching her, admiring her and smiling at her as she chattered and joked and teased Simon about Flora. “She’s my mother-in-law, totally beautiful and wonderful in every way,” she said to Joel.
“Except that she annoys Debbie to death.”
“No, she doesn’t. Well, not to death. Anyway, Simon is rather taken with her—”
“I am not. But I am very fond of her and I do admire her. She might be someone you could talk to,” he said to Joel. “She’s in this thing too—that’s how we all met.”
“She sounds like quite a mother-in-law,” said Joel.
“She is. Hard to live up to. Do you have a mother-in-law?” God, why had she said that? How awful, how embarrassing, how crass…
“No, thank God.” He looked amused, recognising her confusion. “I’ve been spared that so far.”
“Let me top you up, Debbie,” said Simon, “and then I must go.”
“No, no, don’t give me any more—”
“Why not? It suits you. The last time we were together, Debbie and I,” he said to Joel, “we’d both had rather too much, hadn’t we, darling? And talked a bit too much.”
“Just a bit.”
“That was in Flora’s kitchen, in case you get any funny ideas, Joel. Oh Lord, look at the time. I must go. You two finish the bottle, I’ll take care of the bill—”
“No, no,” said Joel, “that’s ridiculous, the News will pay. Please, Simon, I insist.”
“OK. Well, nice talking to you. I’ll get back to you about those people. And the lawsuit.”
“So, are you doing a piece about Lloyd’s?” said Debbie when he had gone.
“Trying to. Most of them won’t talk, but Simon’s opening a few doors.”
“Good. You’re the City editor of the News, did Simon say?”
“That’s correct. Now tell me, what’s a nice girl like you doing in PR?” The dark brown eyes were thoughtful as he looked at her.
“I like it,” she said defensively.
“Really?”
“Yes, really. It’s fun. And it means you can meet journalists,” she added. She smiled at him, but her voice was just slightly barbed.
“Well, obviously that’s a very important bonus.” He grinned back at her. God, he was so sexy. “And what does your old man do?”
“He’s headmaster of a school in Ealing.”
“And he enjoys that?”
“No, not much. He’s frustrated. He’s been offered a new job,” she added, “up in Scotland.”
“So, you’ll be moving up there, will you?”
“I’m…I’m not sure,” she said carefully. “We’re thinking about it.”
“Well, it’s a long way away,” he said. “Big move. Away from all your friends and so on.”
“Yes. But it’s important for him…”
“Well, I’ve certainly got you wrong,” he said, smiling at her again. “Thought you were a go-getting girl about town. And what do I find? A dutiful wife.”
“And what’s wrong with that?” said Debbie.
“Nothing at all. It’s very impressive. I would say you’re a dying breed.” He raised his glass to her. “To wifehood.”
“Don’t say that,” said Debbie. “Now you’ve made me feel dull and dreary.”
“Oh no,” he said, and his expression was quite serious now. “You could never seem dull and dreary. Quite impossible.” She felt herself blush, unable to think of anything to say. He did it for her. “I must go,” he said.
“Me too.”
“It’s been really nice meeting you.”
“Thank you. I’ve enjoyed it too. Very much.” She looked at her watch. “God, it’s late. Goodbye, Joel.”
“Goodbye, Debbie. And if you’re ever in the News offices, come and say hello.”
“I think we should move,” said Blue.
“Move! But why?”
“Well, this is hardly a family home, is it? No room for a nursery, no proper garden, terrible pollution. The country’s the place for children to grow up.”
“The country!”
“I thought you’d like the idea, Lucinda. Thought you was a country girl at heart. You said yourself, you wanted ponies and that for our kids.”
“Yes, I do. So where were you thinking we might go?”
“Chislehurst,” said Blue, without a moment’s hesitation.
“Chislehurst! Where’s that?”
“Kent.”
“Oh. Oh, I see. But I don’t know anybody in Kent. I think I’d rather go where I have a few friends already. Old ones. Like—like Gloucestershire, for instance.”
“No, don’t think so. No offence, Lucy, but your parents have tended to put me off Gloucestershire. No, Chislehurst’s the job. Beautiful properties, easy run into London Bridge for me. And anyway, Luft lives out there and so does Harry; you’ll find yourself with loads of friends readymade.”
“Well, maybe we could have a look,” said Lucinda. “Can I have some more coffee, Blue, please?”
“Course you can. God, it suits you, being pregnant. You look absolutely gorgeous this morning.”
“Thank you. I feel quite gorgeous. Actually.”
“Well, seeing as it’s Sunday, maybe we should pop back into bed. Just for a little while.”
“Yes, let’s,” she said, smiling at him. It was funny, but being pregnant made her feel even more sexy, she thought, as she took his hand and let him lead her into the bedroom. She’d have thought it would be the reverse, but…
Afterwards, when she was settling into herself again, no longer fractured with the violent piercing pleasure, languorously, warmly peaceful, Blue curled up behind her, rather absentmindedly playing with her breasts—her wonderfully full breasts, the sort she had always dreamed of having—she said, “Blue, I would love to move to the country, of course. But maybe not yet. Not till I’ve had the baby, and I can give it my full attention. It’s a lot of work, moving.”
“Yeah, all right,” he said, already half asleep. “Whatever you want.” It was the first time, she realised, quite shocked at her own ability to do so, that she had been anything other than entirely honest with him. But it really would have spoiled the lovely Sunday to have to go any further into why she didn’t want to move yet.
Chapter 22
JUNE 1990
There really was still something special about Ascot, Elizabeth thought, looking down from the agency box on the sixth floor, in spite of the vulgarity, the drunkenness, the overt commercialism. It was, if the sun shone, a wonderful spectacle—the blue sky, the green ribbon of the course, the pastel shades of the hats, and the vivid colours of the jockeys’ silks moving in a kaleidoscopic pattern; the beautiful gleaming animals, so clearly out to enjoy themselves, to show off; and an almost tangible sense of enjoyment settling over the whole thing to create a glorious tapestry. And the sun was shining today.
She was very pleased with what she was wearing: a cream silk suit, very simple, and a wide-brimmed black straw hat with a cream ribbon. And very high-heeled shoes with fine ankle straps which she’d regret, she knew, by the end of the day. But they were lovely—what Annabel called fuck-me shoes. She’d been very shocked when her daughter had first said that; Annabel had simply giggled and said, “Mu-u-um!” (turning the word into three syllables in the way she had).
Of all the corporate entertaining the agency did, she enjoyed Ascot most. It was such fun, a kind of charming carnival that took a miserable spirit to resist. And it still had a huge cachet; clients seldom refused an invitation to Ascot. Her agency took a box for one day, Simon’s bank for two; sometimes they overlapped. This year was one of them. They had never managed to actually go together and for pleasure; they certainly never would now. The extravagance was unthinkable.
They arrived that day, in the same hire car, kissed, parted, made their way to their respective boxes (half an hour before their earliest guests), agreeing to try and meet in the paddock, but otherwise at home very much later, all their attention and loyalty now turned to their clients; and what an illusion they presented, she thought, glossy, good-looking, moneyed, and giving absolutely no hint of the financial nightmare that stalked them.
Lucinda had always enjoyed Ascot, loved the dressing up, the way you could be really excessive without it seeming vulgar. This year’s hat was one of the best. She had chosen it with great care, a wide-brimmed, beribboned thing from Harvey Nichols; smaller, chicer styles didn’t really suit her changing shape; the traditional sort balanced it better, somehow. She was quite pleased with her dress as well, pale-blue silk, like the hat, gently high-waisted with narrow sleeves. At least one bit of her could look slim. It was certainly going to be different. McArthur’s were taking a large party, but she couldn’t help feeling that Ascot in a pair of corporate boxes on one of those top floors wouldn’t be quite the same as being in the Royal Enclosure with lots of lifelong chums, and she had so loved the picnics and then meeting everyone in the evening in a great mob in Kensington.
She’d been to the Derby with Blue—he liked to do the big ones, as he put it—and that had been huge fun; she did love his friends, they all made such a fuss of her, treated her as if she was royalty, even though they did tease her a lot as well, and she supposed a couple of the girls were a bit less friendly. Blue had put some enormous sum of money on a horse, and lost it; he’d just laughed and said he could take a hiding as well as the next man. His generosity was one of the things she loved most about him.
Everything seemed to be all right again; she had managed to explain a bit about the divorce, about what Steve Durham had said they might be able to do. Of course she hadn’t gone into the details, because Steve was still fine-tuning them, as he put it, and one or two of them might be a bit upsetting for Blue, she could see, until he really understood, but he seemed perfectly happy about everything so far.
Joel Strickland was going to Ascot; it wasn’t exactly within his brief as City editor, but several press tickets had arrived and he loved the races. He actually found flat racing slightly boring, he preferred the jumps, but a load of News writers were going together in a minibus: Sandra Keswick and a photographer to cover the fashion, Suzy Jameson to do the gossip, as well as the sports guys. They’d have a laugh. And he always enjoyed being with Suzy, who was pretty and sassy with extremely good legs; she was also brilliant at her job. She was cunning in her pursuit of gossip; manicurists, florists, and chambermaids were her favourite sources of information: she knew they were far more likely to spill spicy beans than the friends and rel
ations of her prey. Her finest hour had been when she managed to prise out of a laundry deliveryman details of a well-known socialite (married) who suddenly started sending twice the number of sheets for laundering every week. “And to pay me with cash; that seemed a bit funny,” he said to Suzy, over a third whiskey and soda. “I mean, always suspicious, cash, wouldn’t you say?”
Suzy agreed.
Suzy was one of the reasons Joel wasn’t taking his girlfriend, Maggie, with him; he and Suzy tended to work together to a degree on such occasions, but she was overtly flirtatious and Maggie was intensely jealous. She was jealous not only of the other women in Joel’s life, even the working colleagues, but of the job itself, the way it took him to parties and smart hotels and on the odd overseas binge. Working in the City herself, she knew how it ran on social contact, and she knew how much Joel enjoyed it; she pretended not to care, but she always grilled him after a dinner or a conference. He was going to have to do something about her soon; it simply wasn’t working. He was terribly fond of her, but he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life with her: which was patently what she wanted.
Meanwhile, the immediate future was today at Ascot. And his presence there was not entirely self-indulgent. You could always pick up a good financial story—or at any rate, some good financial gossip—at Ascot, crawling as it was with the great and the good, or rather, the great and the wealthy. One occasion had provided him with the first straws in the wind of a big money-laundering operation: nowhere better to quietly hide a few grand than at a race meeting. And maybe today he’d get something for his Lloyd’s story. Which was very slow in coming together. And his editor wasn’t keen, said who was going to care about a lot of rich greedy people getting their just deserts. He’d been much more interested in a story about Gordon Brown and John Smith agreeing to support the Exchange Rate Mechanism.
An Absolute Scandal Page 26
