He opened the window of his office, his office on the sixth floor, looking down at the street far below him, and seriously considered jumping out of it. Then he picked up the phone and called Joel Strickland…
Chapter 27
JUNE TO JULY 1990
Joel had been very shaken by his evening with Simon. He sat in his office the next day, feeling depressed and impotent. He had seldom seen anyone in such patent distress. It was dreadful; Simon had sat there, emotionally naked, stripped of his confidence, his humour, his charm, talking intermittently and drinking endless brandy and sodas until Joel finally suggested it was time to leave, and poured him into a cab in the courtyard of the Savoy.
At first, he hadn’t told him anything; he had come in looking ghastly, white, and drawn, but clearly struggling to appear normal. Finally, Simon blurted it out.
“Fired?” Joel said. “Simon, surely not. I’m so sorry.”
“Yup, that’s about the size of it,” Simon said, “for doing absolutely fucking nothing. I didn’t abscond with the company’s money, I didn’t upset any clients, I didn’t give away any secrets, I didn’t even fiddle my expenses. I just wanted a bit of justice for us all, you know. Tell a few home truths about those fuckers. It’s not right, is it, not fair. Now I want you to write about this, Joel. About this injustice. People ought to know. People have to know.”
“Sure. Of course.”
“It’s just not fucking fair. Is it?”
“No, it isn’t.”
And then he looked at Joel and said, “Christ, Joel, what am I going to do all day? Can you tell me that? Eh? Because no one else’ll give me a job now.”
And that, Joel thought, as the cab pulled out of Savoy Court, was perhaps the worst thing for him of all.
He wondered if Debbie knew, whether she would want to know, and having decided she would, whether he should ring her and tell her. They seemed to be quite good friends, she and Simon, and it would be one call Simon wouldn’t have to make. Unless he’d made it already. And, well, and it gave him an excuse to ring her.
There was clearly no theoretical point in that—she was married, she had children, he could hardly ask her out—but he couldn’t quite put her out of his head. And who was to say she wouldn’t be up for a quick fling? She’d tried to see him the other day, Nicky Holt had told him, so the interest was obviously reciprocated. He might ask her out for a drink, at least; get to know her a bit better. No harm in that. And—“Oh fuck it,” Joel said, and dialled her number.
She was very upset indeed to hear about Simon. “That’s dreadful, Joel. Awful. Oh, poor Simon. I’m so sorry. I just can’t imagine him without that job. It’s as much a part of him as the colour of his eyes. Or those perfect suits of his. D’you know what I mean?”
“Of course. Very well expressed. Well, I thought you’d want to know.”
“Yes. Thank you, Joel, for telling me. I might try and call him. I wonder if Flora’s heard?”
“Is that your exotic mother-in-law? Debbie, do you think she’d talk to me, about this Lloyd’s piece? Simon was going to ask her, but I can’t really bother him now. And I feel more than ever that I want to write it.”
“Well, she might. Do you want me to ask her?”
“It would be great if you could.”
“OK. I’ll ask her and call you back.”
“So that’s the whole story,” said Flora. “You can see why I’m feeling depressed.”
She was sitting in a restaurant in Cardiff with Colin Peterson, having agreed, very much against her better judgement, to go to the concert, and then to have dinner with him afterwards. And was surprised to find herself not only enjoying the experience but telling him her troubles. Her financial troubles.
“I can indeed,” he said. “I’m so sorry. And you say you have to give them this next sum of money pretty soon?”
“Yes, in theory. I believe they’ll stretch it a bit, if you plead hardship. They’re very gentlemanly, in their conduct.”
“I’m sure. I believe being gentlemanly has done them a great service.”
“Indeed. I remember William being very impressed by it, by the fact that they were such decent chaps, as he put it. Including his own cousin, who actually got him in. It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?”
“How did you feel about it, at the time?” asked Colin.
“Oh, I didn’t feel anything much. I would never have questioned that sort of decision anyway. It wasn’t in my domain.” She laughed suddenly. “That sounds terribly old-fashioned, doesn’t it? But we had a very old-fashioned marriage. He had an extremely clear idea of what my boundaries were and I really didn’t question it. He gave me an allowance for the housekeeping, and a second one for clothes, and that was that. I didn’t have any money of my own, well, very little from my photography, and in an odd way very little status. But I didn’t question that either.”
“But that’s how it was then, wasn’t it? My wife and I had very much that sort of marriage. I saw to the financial side of things, to earning the money, to sorting out things, major things, when we needed a new roof or a new car. She was concerned with the children, the housework and the cooking, schools, holidays. Arguably much more important, of course. It made life very simple, in retrospect. There was no overlap of tasks. Of course we discussed things, but we each knew where our priorities lay.”
“When—when did she die?” asked Flora.
“Oh, quite a long time ago now. Five years. I’m getting quite good at living on my own. Still don’t like it, mind.”
“I do, you know,” said Flora, “in a way. Of course I miss William dreadfully, but he was a bit of a…fusspot. I have to admit I like being able to make decisions, act on them, and I’m pretty good at being on my own. I always was. I’m an only child.”
“But you were…happy? Oh, forgive me, I shouldn’t have asked.”
“Not at all. Yes, we were perfectly happy. When he died, part of me did too. But I don’t approve of people who give in. I’m a fighter. And I still have a great deal. My family, my work, living in that glorious place. Only…” and she heard her voice shake, suddenly, “only I won’t. Much longer.”
“No?”
“No. I’ll have to sell it. And pretty soon. I don’t know how I’m going to give them this next lot of money—”
“Could I be extremely ungentlemanly,” he said, “and ask how much it is.”
“Two hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds,” she said, so quietly she could hardly hear it herself.
He stared at her, clearly shocked.
“And unless I sell the house, I can’t pay it. Can’t pay it if I do sell the house, but it’ll help.”
“Have you tried discussing it with them?”
“Of course. And they’re always very kind, very polite. Very gentlemanly. But they always finish by pointing out that I do owe it to them, that I signed the contract with them, that I have to pay that debt, just as I shared in the money in the good years. Oh God.” Horrified, she felt her eyes fill with tears; impatiently she brushed them away. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s completely understandable. Er, forgive me, but do you really have no other assets?”
“Not now. I’ve sold all my shares, a couple of paintings—”
“What about mortgaging the house?”
“I can’t service the loan. I have very little income left, now the shares have gone, just a bit of capital.”
“Sell some land?”
“Colin, land on Gower isn’t worth much. I’ve only got about ten acres—that’s not going to save me. And besides, if I still own the house, they can come after it. They say you don’t have to sell your main residence, but obviously they can see if it’s much too big for you. You can’t say ‘Right, I’ve given you all I can’ when you patently haven’t. And every year the debt goes on, even though I’ve obviously resigned my membership. You’re never safe, you know. It’s unlimited liability, that’s the whole point.”
“It s
ounds quite criminal. But you know…” He hesitated. “Your land would be worth quite a lot, to someone like me.”
“No, it wouldn’t. This is mostly greenbelt, not available for building on. The planners are incredibly strict, and thank God for it. Oh, I’m sorry, that must sound very rude. I know that’s what you do…”
“Now I did tell you,” he said, “that I wouldn’t want to build on Gower. I think it would be a crime. But if you have to sell your beautiful house anyway…”
“Yes, I know, I know. But at least if I can leave it intact, leave the land intact, I could look myself in the face.”
“And where would you live? If you had to sell?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “This is where I come back to, day after day, night after night. I know that they’d probably take the proceeds of the house in settlement, if I really didn’t have anything else, and leave me enough for some little hole somewhere. They don’t like seeing old ladies tipped destitute onto the street; it’s bad for their image.”
“And this wretched little hole you see yourself living in, would that be here? Would you stay in the area?”
“I can’t see myself anywhere else. I don’t really like anywhere else. I love the sea, I love the moors and the cliffs and the Gower skies, it’s all a part of me. But you know, something’s happened just these last few days that’s changed the way I see things. Made even losing my house seem less important.”
She told him about Freddie; he seemed quite upset.
“How dreadful. And you know this girl?”
“Yes, I’ve met her. She’s very sweet, but another victim—that’s how it happened. She had to take the little boy away from his prep school, then he was being bullied…”
“Oh dear, how sad. But at least he’s been found. Now…” He hesitated. “Flora, will you allow me to put my mind to this for you? I’m quite financially ingenious, you know. I’ve had to be, doing what I do. I probably can’t come up with anything, but—well, two heads are notoriously better than one. Now what about another glass of wine, or even a brandy? I imagine you as a brandy girl.”
“What about your driver? Won’t he be getting tired?”
“I pay him to be tired, and he’s a very patient fellow.”
Debbie was watching Play School with Rachel, who had a stomach bug, when the phone rang. She ignored it; the answering machine could pick it up. Rachel was drowsy; if she dropped off now, it would do her so much good.
Rachel did go to sleep; Debbie eased her onto the sofa, fetched a pillow and a duvet, and went to make herself a cup of coffee and to check the answering machine, to see who had called. The voice was pleasant, with a Scottish burr, and asked for Richard.
“This is Morag Dunbar,” it said. “I wonder if Mr. Fielding could give me a call. Nothing very important, just to get a date in the diary for the next visit, and to say that the house is ready for inspection, if Mrs. Fielding would like to come up with him. I think she’ll be quite pleased with it.”
Chapter 28
JULY 1990
She stood there, staring at the answering machine, feeling an odd mixture of hope and fear. Nothing could save them now, her or the house. But—she pressed the button, listened again.
“Flora, this is Colin Peterson. Look, I wonder if I might come and see you. I’ve done some thinking, as I promised, and I have a bit of an idea. Give me a ring. Here’s my home number.”
How sweet he was, she thought, and how rotten she had been, looking down—well not looking down exactly but—Yes, Flora, looking down. Shame on you.
She picked up the phone and dialled the number: his answering machine cut in. Well, he’d be at work, of course. She left a message, thanking him for his kindness and asking him to ring her: “Perhaps you’d like to come for kitchen supper one night next week. It all sounds very intriguing. I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”
He rang her within the hour; they fixed a date for the following Monday. “I won’t say any more now, except that I think I just might be onto something,” he said.
“Joel, it’s Debbie. Debbie Fielding.”
“Oh—hi. How are you?”
“Fine. Now, I haven’t been able to get hold of Simon, but I did ring my mother-in-law for you. She’s happy to talk. She didn’t know about Simon, she was very upset.”
“I’m sure she was. Thanks, Debbie. That’s really great.”
“Here’s the number. She said to tell you evenings were best.”
“OK. Thanks very much. So—it’s Mrs. Flora Fielding, is that right?”
“That’s right.” The mother of my husband, Debbie thought. My appallingly badly behaved, mean-spirited, devious husband. Who still doesn’t know I know how devious he is.
Joel hesitated. Then he said, “Debbie, I don’t suppose you’d like to come for a drink one night?”
There was a very long silence; he could hear her considering his invitation, hear her being tempted by it—and then deciding against it.
“I’m sorry, Joel, it’d be great, but I really can’t. Thanks just the same.”
An observer watching them put their phones down would have found it difficult to say who was the more regretful.
Richard had taken to eating his supper in complete silence. It would have been better, Debbie thought, if he’d looked at the paper or read a book, but he just sat there, refusing to meet her eyes, chewing—she really hadn’t noticed before how thoroughly he chewed everything, since they had always talked a lot over meals; Flora, she supposed, would have insisted on it, saying it would help his digestion—and then saying, “Thanks,” before taking his plate over to the dishwasher and rinsing it carefully, putting it in, and walking out of the kitchen.
Tonight she had decided not even to bother to cook. She gave the children their tea, ate some of it herself—fish fingers, she had forgotten how delicious they were with lots of tomato sauce—and when he came out of his study at half past seven, their usual suppertime, she just looked at him disinterestedly and then back at the television.
“Are we not eating tonight?” he said, his voice very cold.
“I’m not,” she said, and smiled at him, knowing that would annoy him more, “but you do go ahead.”
“Is it ready?”
“No, it’s not. Sorry. I’m sure there’s something in the freezer though. Have a look.”
She returned to EastEnders; she heard him moving swiftly across the room, didn’t realise what he was doing until the television was switched off. She looked at him, quite shocked; he stared back at her, his face white with rage.
“How dare you behave like this?”
“Behave like what? I’ve been trying very hard, actually. Cooking your supper, ironing your shirts, all that crap. And checking you could cope with the kids the days I was working. I’m sick of sitting opposite you every night while you concentrate on not communicating with me. Oh, and chewing your food really carefully. I’m sure your mother would be proud of that.”
He waited, then he said, and he sounded very tired, “We can’t go on like this, it’s ridiculous. I’m beginning to wonder if there isn’t someone else in your life.”
She stared at him, her heart thudding violently. Had Flora—might Flora…no. Surely not. He would have reacted before this. Wouldn’t he?
“What an extraordinary thing to say.”
“It may be extraordinary but it’s what I feel.”
“Well, you’re mad. Completely mad. Of course there isn’t.”
“Well, I have to take your word for it, I suppose. Anyway, we can’t go on like this.”
“I quite agree.”
“So what are you going to do about it?”
“I really think that’s up to you, Richard—up to you to do something.”
“And I think rather differently. I didn’t start all this—this miserable business,” he said. “It’s been you that’s caused all the trouble.”
A small explosion took place somewhere. Debbie contemplated—and
it seemed quite a slow process, she could feel herself carefully considering each option—slapping his face, boxing his ears, kicking him in the crotch, even spitting at him. None of them seemed quite appropriate to the situation, offensive enough, hurtful enough. And then inspiration came.
“I do hope,” she said, and even managed to smile, a cool, polite smile, “I do hope you’ve been in touch with Morag Dunbar. About the house, about our visit up there. It must be nearly a week since she called. It really does seem a bit rude to ignore her.”
She knew he’d got the message; she’d heard him checking it, listening to the machine when he got in.
She saw Richard apparently cease even to breathe, saw his eyes fix on hers, every facial muscle motionless, saw one of his hands pause on its way to push back his hair the way he did when he was nervous or upset, one foot slightly behind the other. He looked like a shop-window dummy; absolutely absurd. She wanted to giggle.
A long, long time later he released a breath; then said, “How do you know that?”
“Richard, I heard the message. It was on the answering machine.”
“And you didn’t tell me.”
“No, I didn’t tell you. But I knew you’d got the message, I heard you listening to it.”
“And you still didn’t say anything.”
“No, I didn’t say anything. I can’t think what I would have said. Actually.”
Another silence, then: “That was a filthy thing to do. Keeping that to yourself. Filthy and devious.”
“Oh, really? Not as filthy and devious as telling me you’d turned the job down when you hadn’t. Making me feel as bad as you knew how. I call that really filthy. Actually. So have you been in touch with her, Richard, or have you not? I really would rather like to know. For obvious reasons. Arrangements and all that sort of thing.”
An Absolute Scandal Page 31
