“Any arrangements I might make,” he said, “certainly won’t include you. Be quite sure of that, Debbie.”
Joel switched off his tape recorder feeling rather depressed. His Lloyd’s feature was shaping up at last, but Neil Lawrence’s story had been truly dreadful. He’d lost everything, his house—well, two houses actually—his car, his job, and now his wife. Not surprising the poor sod had tried to kill himself.
That had been before the wife had gone—but she had, taking the children with her. Neil said it really seemed the only thing to do.
“Whatever way I turned, I came to the same dead end.”
That was a rather good phrase: he might even call the piece that. And what was it Simon had said? Oh yes, that it was “an absolute scandal,” the whole thing. He liked that too.
And then Neil said that he hadn’t wanted to be rescued, that coming round had been one of the worst moments of his life. “This was not a cry for help. It was an escape bid.”
His wife had called him a coward, apparently: that was one of her reasons for leaving him. Poor bugger. He was living in a bedsit in Camden Town now, on benefits of some kind or another.
“How did you get into it?” Joel said.
“It was a bloke I met playing tennis. At Queens, you know. Nice chap, we played a few times, and then he asked if I’d ever considered becoming a Name. It was in the early eighties, money still growing on trees, we were all getting a bit reckless; you bought shares, they doubled in value overnight; you bought a house, it had put on twenty grand before the ink dried on your signature. It sounded like another good idea, and I was rather flattered, to tell you the truth. It was a bit like being asked to join the Reform, or Wentworth Golf Club.”
“And what was his name?”
“Allinson,” said Neil. “Tim Allinson.”
“My God!” said Joel. “Do you know, you are the second person I’ve interviewed who’s been led to the slaughter by that bugger.”
“I’m not surprised. It was a sort of job for him, as far as I can make out. I’d nail the bastard to a tree if I could get hold of him.”
“And have you tried? To get hold of him, not nail him to a tree.”
“I have, yes. Since things went belly-up, he appeared to move. Certainly changed his phone number. Funny, that.”
“God, I’d like to track him down,” said Joel. “Well, thanks so much, Neil. You’ve been terrifically helpful. And you don’t mind my using all this?”
“God, no,” said Neil. “What have I got to lose?”
That was what had depressed Joel. It was so patently true. He bought Neil another beer and left.
There he was, leaning on the rail in Arrivals. Then when he saw her, holding out his arms, and she left her trolley and just ran into them. And oh God, he was so gorgeous. So totally, unbelievably, wonderfully gorgeous.
“Hi,” he said, smiling at her, standing just slightly back, studying her.
“Hi, Jamie.” She smiled back, thinking how much she had missed him, how odd it was that he had become, so quickly, the most important person in her life.
“You look lovely,” he said.
“Thank you.”
He gave her a quick kiss. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
“You can’t? Neither can I!”
He retrieved the trolley, pushed it along with one hand, his other arm round her. “We’re not going on the water shuttle after all. It’s really crowded when you get to the other side. You can see all that tomorrow. Dad’s driver’s here; he’ll take us home.”
Annabel wouldn’t really have minded if he’d said they had to walk. She was here. He was here. She wouldn’t have minded anything.
Two hours later, she was beginning to mind just a bit. Everything was lovely, of course, but rather formal. The car was huge and the driver equally so, huge and very black; his rearview mirror was vast too, and every time Annabel looked into it, he seemed to be watching her, so there wasn’t the opportunity she had hoped for, for a good, ice-breaking snog. As it was, Jamie sat rather carefully away from her, although he did reach out after a bit to hold her hand. She saw the driver, Tony, watching this too.
The drive from the airport wasn’t exactly long, but it was very slow; the traffic was awful, “Rush hour, I’m sorry,” said Jamie, adding that it was mostly awful all day long anyway.
They hit the city at about five; Annabel was beginning to feel terribly tired—well, it was already around ten London time by her calculation—and to her horror as she heard Jamie say, “Here we are,” she realised she’d been asleep. God, supposing she’d snored. Or dribbled.
“Sorry,” she said to Jamie, who just smiled and said, “That’s OK, you must be exhausted,” but he was so polite, he’d never have told her if she’d been doing anything disgusting. Or even unladylike.
The Cartwright house, which she stood blinking up at, was not in the least how she had expected. It was on a square that could easily have been in London, tall, perfectly proportioned, bow-fronted; it was beautiful. She said as much to Jamie; he smiled and said, “We like it.” And his voice was filled with pride. “And here’s Mother. Mother, hello. She’s arrived, safe and sound.”
“Annabel, my dear.” Mrs. Cartwright was wearing immaculate white trousers and a blue-and-white striped shirt. She kissed Annabel—or rather, sent a kiss winging into the air somewhere past Annabel’s head—and then stood back smiling at her. She had a particularly strange smile; Annabel had noticed it before in London. It was situated entirely in her mouth, revealing a row of perfect and very neat teeth, and made no connection with her eyes whatsoever. “How wonderful to have you here. How was your flight?”
“Oh, fine, thank you. Yes. I’m a bit tired, but—”
“Of course you are. Come along in, let me show you straight up to your room. I expect you’d like a rest before dinner.”
Annabel followed her, feeling suddenly nervous. Inside, the house was also strangely familiar: tall graceful windows, elaborate fireplaces, flowers in huge vases on polished tables, wooden floors, beautiful Oriental rugs. For a wild moment Annabel wondered if she’d managed to leave England at all. Her bedroom was charming: the wallpaper blue and white, with a pretty white fireplace and a white iron bedstead; the carpet was pale blue, the curtains white muslin, the quilt pale blue. A bookshelf was filled with children’s classics, Little Women, What Katy Did, Anne of Green Gables, Alice in Wonderland. A posy of blue-and-white flowers stood on the bedside table and two embroidered samplers hung on the wall on either side of the fireplace. It sent a very clear message. This is a young girl’s room: no sharing.
“I do hope you’ll be comfortable. Regard the bathroom next door as your own; towels in there for you. Is there anything you would like now, Annabel? A cold drink—I’m afraid it’s awfully hot here—iced tea or homemade lemonade?”
“Lemonade sounds lovely.”
“I’ll send some up. Now do take your time, have a bath if you like, no hurry at all, drinks downstairs at six thirty in the drawing room. All right?”
“Wonderful.”
“And just family supper, no need to dress up. Kathleen and Joe will be joining us and Bif and his wife, Dana. They’re all longing to meet you.”
“I’m longing to meet them too.”
Where was Jamie? Why wasn’t he with her? Who had she come to visit? Something resembling ice-cold water seemed to be creeping slowly down her spine.
Jamie was waiting for her in the hall when she came down; not sure what to wear for what Mrs. Cartwright (who had now instructed her to call her Frances) called family supper, she had put on a flowered crêpe dress, mid-calf length, cut on the bias, with cap sleeves; it was what she called her tea-dance dress.
“You look lovely,” he said, and gave her a kiss—on the cheek.
She grabbed his hand. “I want to be alone with you,” she hissed.
Jamie looked almost shocked. “Not now. Maybe later. Now come into the drawing room…Annabel, this is Kathleen and
her husband, Joe.”
“Hello, Annabel,” Kathleen said. “How wonderful to meet you.” She was very pretty, with impeccably styled blond hair exactly like her mother’s and Jamie’s blue eyes; she was wearing a red silk suit with wide shoulders and elbow-length sleeves, very high heels, and a heavy gilt link necklace, which seemed to Annabel much too old for her; but her smile was warm and friendly.
“Lovely to meet you too.”
“Hi, Annabel,” said Joe. He shook her hand; his was sweaty. She wasn’t so sure about him. He looked just slightly sleazy. He was wearing a dark suit buttoned over a burgeoning stomach, and his dark hair was already receding. “Welcome to Boston. You ever been before?”
“No. It seems lovely.”
“Glad you like it.”
“Duck Tour tomorrow,” said Jamie. “First thing.”
“Oh no! Poor Annabel.”
A maid dressed in black with a white apron appeared with a tray of champagne glasses. This was ridiculous, Annabel thought. What family supper?
“Annabel, how lovely you look.” It was Frances Cartwright, dressed in a suit almost identical to Kathleen’s, in brilliant peacock blue, the lacquered helmet of fair hair clearly re-glued for the occasion.
“Thank you.”
“I love that natural English style. Tell me, is that Laura Ashley?”
“No!” said Annabel, unable even to try to sound polite. “Miss Selfridge.” Laura Ashley! As if she’d be seen dead in the stuff.
“Now have you had some champagne?”
“Yes, thank you.” She had; half a glass already. It was cold and fizzily perfect and exactly what she needed. She had felt her spirits lift.
“Bif! I didn’t hear you come in!”
“Sorry, Mother. Now you must be the delectable Annabel.”
She smiled at him. “Hope so.”
He was exactly like Jamie, same colouring, same lovely smile, just slightly more heavily built. And more sensibly dressed certainly than Joe, in a linen suit and open-necked silk shirt.
“This is Dana, my wife.”
Dana was a Kathleen clone, only dark-haired; she too was wearing the Suit, in black, with a huge pearl choker.
“It’s lovely to meet you,” she said, her smile much warmer than Frances’s. “I hope the flight was all right.”
“It was fine. Thank you.” She allowed the maid to refill her glass. She noticed that everyone else’s was still full. Well, what the hell. She needed it.
“Daddy’s going to be a little late,” said Frances to Jamie, “so we’ll give him half an hour and then go in. Big deal going through, apparently. I’m so sorry, Annabel.”
“That’s perfectly all right. Of course.”
The maid brought a plate of canapés round; Annabel shook her head and drained her second glass, smiling hopefully at Jamie; he was looking at his mother, not her. The icy trickle started again. Why was she here? Why had she come?
By the time they sat down to dinner—without Mr. Cartwright—the combination of an empty stomach, an eighteen-hour day, and three glasses of champagne had made Annabel rather drunk. She was next to Jamie—that in itself seemed rather amazing—and Joe on her other side. She put her hand under the table and groped for Jamie’s; it didn’t come to meet hers. What was the matter with him?
“So, what do you do, Annabel?” asked Dana. “Jamie said it was something rather glamorous.”
“I’m a hairdresser,” she said.
“A hairdresser!” said Frances. Her tone outdid Lady Bracknell.
“Oh.” The silence was frozen: just for a moment. Then Dana rallied. “What fun.”
“Yes, it is. And it’s terribly hard work. And actually very creative. And what I want more than anything is to have my own salon.”
“And where do you live?”
“Well, with my parents at the moment. In London.”
“Oh yes. And your father is a banker, I think Mother said.”
“Yes, he is.” No way was she going to tell them what had happened to him. “And my mother is managing director of an advertising agency.” It seemed important she got that in quickly; she wanted them to know her mother was a person in her own right. It would tell them a lot about her family, a lot that she wanted them to know.
“Oh really?” said Dana, her dark eyes thoughtful. “How wonderful. She must be extremely clever.”
“Yes, she is. She’s totally brilliant at it. And she worked so hard to get there.”
“And how many of you are there?” asked Kathleen. “Do you have brothers and sisters?”
“One of each. Both younger than me. Toby’s fifteen and Tilly’s thirteen.”
“Quite a young family, then. So when did your mother return to work? Quite recently, I imagine.”
“She never stopped,” said Annabel firmly. “We all grew up accepting that she worked. We liked it. It was just—how things were.”
“Good gracious, how impressive,” said Frances, making it clear that she found this totally unacceptable. “Jamie, dear, give Annabel some water. And some wine, of course.” But water first, more important: she’d noticed. Oh God. Oh God. She wanted to go home. Or to bed. With Jamie.
The evening got worse. She managed to sober up a bit, but the meal was endless, four courses, and it seemed terribly hot. She found it harder and harder to sound interesting or even remotely intelligent; glancing at her watch which was on English time, she saw that she’d been up nearly twenty-four hours. They must realise. How could they do this to her? How could they?
Mr. Cartwright arrived home at ten, clearly in a bad temper; he came into the dining room, managed to smile at her and welcome her, and then told his wife to have dinner served in his study.
“I have to send some faxes, make some phone calls. Bif, you might come with me for a moment, just want to check a couple of details with you.”
Bif rose from the table at once, followed his father out of the room. Dana smiled at her mother-in-law.
“This one’s been a brute, hasn’t it?”
“A complete brute,” said Frances. “I’m so sorry, Annabel. This must seem rather rude.”
“No, no, not at all. But—”
“Now what plans do you have for tomorrow, Jamie?”
“Well, we’re doing the Duck Tour in the morning, as I said.”
“The Duck Tour! Jamie, you can’t take Annabel on that. It’s appalling.” She said to Annabel, “A trip round the town on some sort of old military tank and then it takes to the water. Terribly touristy and really rather vulgar—the guides are all out-of-work actors.”
“I think they’re rather fun,” said Dana.
“It sounds like that to me,” said Annabel staunchly. She smiled at Jamie. He was looking at Frances.
“I really think she’ll like it, Mother, but if you—”
“Jamie, I want to go,” said Annabel firmly.
“Well, you’d better go then,” said Frances. She sounded almost cross. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“I promise I won’t,” said Annabel. At least she’d get Jamie to herself for a bit.
“And we’ll want to be settled at the Hatch with our picnic by five,” said Kathleen. “Don’t you dare be late for that!”
“Of course not. It’s the Fourth of July celebrations,” said Jamie to Annabel. “I told you about it, it’s absolutely wonderful—a concert by the Boston Pops and a huge firework display over the Charles River. We’re all going—we take a picnic, sit on the grass and listen to the music. You’ll love it.”
“I’m sure I will,” said Annabel. She felt like crying. All of them going. All of these awful people.
“Do have a truffle,” said Kathleen.
“Thank you.” It might help, the sugar, keep her awake. She ate two in swift succession. And then realised, to her horror, she was feeling nauseated. Really, really nauseated. And swimmy and sweaty and…“I’m sorry,” she said, pushing her chair back, standing up. “Could you show me where the bathroom is, ple
ase, Jamie. I feel—I think—”
She rushed from the room, followed by Jamie; just reached the cloakroom in time, didn’t even have time to shut the door…
Later, lying on her bed, being offered cold water by Jamie, feeling more wretched in every way than she could ever remember, some words of Florian’s swam into her head.
“I hate being sick,” he’d said. “It’s so common.” Common indeed; as was getting drunk, getting drunk in your new boyfriend’s parents’ house. How could she have done that?
“I’m so sorry, Jamie,” she said, pushing the water away, “so terribly sorry. Whatever will they think of me?”
“I’m sure they’ll just feel sympathetic,” he said. “It was obviously something you ate on the plane.”
“Jamie, it wasn’t. It was champagne and truffles, too much of both. Oh God, I’m so ashamed.”
“Don’t be silly. I think you should try to get some sleep now; you’ll feel much better in the morning.”
“I won’t,” she said, “not unless we get to spend some time together, just the two of us. That’s what I’ve come for, Jamie, to see you. Your family are lovely, but I kind of thought we’d be alone together this evening.” She patted the bed beside her. “Come and lie down with me, Jamie, please.”
“Annabel, not here.” He looked shocked and embarrassed in equal proportions. “We can’t—Mother’s waiting to hear how you are; she’s so worried about you.”
“Yes, all right, but please come back later.”
“Annabel, you don’t understand. Their room is right along the hallway.”
“Jamie, I don’t get all this. What are we supposed to be, a pair of virgins or something?”
“Well, no, of course not.” He looked wretched. “But you’re a guest in their house; we have to follow their rules.”
A wave of rage swept over Annabel: rage and strength. She sat up suddenly. “Well, I’m sorry,” she said, “but I didn’t come all this way to be with your mother. Either we spend some time together, on our own, or I’m on the first plane back to London tomorrow, OK? Now if this room is along the corridor from your parents, where’s yours?”
An Absolute Scandal Page 32
