“On the next floor,” he said, still looking wretched.
“Right. Tell me exactly and I’ll be up later. OK? I mean it, Jamie, this is horrible. I love you, I’ve missed you, please, please try to understand.”
“Well, I’ve missed you too,” he said, “but—”
“But nothing. Look, all right. I’ll stay here tonight.” (“Wait till the second night”—Florian.) “I still feel a bit rough. But tomorrow—just you and me, all right? Except for this pop concert in the evening, maybe?”
“It’s not a pop concert,” he said wearily.
“Well, whatever sort of concert. I want to see the city and I want to be alone with you, preferably in a bed. God, Jamie, we’re talking about loving each other, and we’ve never had sex; it’s ridiculous. I mean don’t you fancy me or something?”
“Yes, of course I do. But—”
“No buts. That’s the deal. Gosh, I feel better already. Tell you what I’d love, do you have any Diet Coke?”
“I’m not sure,” he said.
“Well, go and check it out. Then I’ll leave you in peace. Until tomorrow.”
He stood up, looking down at her.
“Go on. It’s not a lot to ask.”
“I know. Sorry.” He looked more like a frightened little boy than a lover. “It’s all right. And you’d better bring me a bowl as well. I do feel better, but…it might happen again.”
When Jamie came back, bearing the bowl but no Diet Coke, just a jug of iced water, she was fast asleep. He breathed a sigh of immense relief and tiptoed out, shutting the door behind him, smiling nervously at his mother who was hovering in the corridor.
“She’s asleep,” he said. “Good night, Mother.”
“Good night, Jamie. Sleep well. I do hope she’ll be all right. Something she ate on the plane, no doubt.”
“No doubt.”
Chapter 29
JULY 1990
It was very odd, Simon was discovering, not to be in the office every day. His life had revolved around it for almost thirty years; he had had dreams of becoming chairman one day, at very least managing director, but he had awoken now to the harsh reality of, at very best, some nonexecutive directorships, and at worst the half-life of early retirement and some meaningless consultancies.
The perks of his job—the first-class travel, the car, the driver, the easy acquisition of tables at fashionable restaurants, the best seats at theatres, the best view at sporting events—he could live without. It was the other, much more important things that his job gave him that he would miss: the things that made it challenging, difficult, that pumped out the adrenaline and speeded up the clock, that created the sense of being not personally but professionally important: those were the things that he knew he would look back on and long for. And he owed Lloyd’s and would for the rest of his life.
God, it was unfair, so dreadfully desperately unfair. All his life he had worked and fought and schemed and manoeuvred and been rewarded for it; and now nothing could ever see him rewarded, see him safe. And all he had done, to find himself in this helpless, hapless situation, was make one piece of fatally bad judgement, in the very best of faith. Other mistakes could be rectified, but not that one; and at the end of that first, awful day, he could see that the Simon Beaumont he had been, that he had wanted to be, might as well have died for all that his future could possibly offer.
“I’ve decided to bite the bullet,” said Catherine. “In fact, I don’t feel I have any choice anymore.”
Blue and Lucinda had invited her and the children to tea; she had revealed that it was her birthday. Lucinda had gone to enormous trouble, ordered a cake from Fortnum, made piles of smoked-salmon sandwiches, and given her a pink cashmere sweater; and Blue had decorated the front of the house with balloons and a banner that said HAPPY BIRTHDAY CATHERINE and bought musical candles for the cake. They all sang “Happy Birthday” and Catherine was so touched she cried. Blue had then taken the children to see what would be the Marina, and Lucinda and Catherine were sitting in the kitchen, pretending not to be eating any more cake, while actually picking at it constantly.
“What bullet?” said Lucinda.
“I’m going to ask for help. From Frederick’s parents.”
“But I thought they were vile. I thought you said you’d rather die than go to them?”
“Even if I’d rather die, the children wouldn’t. I’ll almost certainly lose my job. Simon’s secretary, who’s never liked me, called on Friday and said he’d gone, and that personnel want to see me. Which means they’re going to tell me to leave. I knew it would happen. I was very much in Simon’s personal gift, so to speak. Anyway, I can’t manage anymore. I can’t earn enough to pay Freddie’s school fees, and I’m not having him going back to that terrible place, it’s too cruel.”
“No, I can see that.”
“The worst aspect of this whole thing is that none of us have done anything wrong,” said Catherine. “We’re being punished just for trying to do the right thing for our families. We haven’t stolen anything, or embezzled any funds, or—well, or done anything really. I was saying that only yesterday morning to Nigel.”
“To Nigel!”
“Yes. Oh gosh.” Catherine blushed suddenly, looked at Lucinda. “I hope it’s all right, talking about him and to him, and so on. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Catherine, of course it’s all right. Why ever shouldn’t it be?”
“Well, I don’t know. He was your husband and I know you’re still friends…”
“Friends, yes. And he was my husband, but he’s about not to be anymore. Don’t be silly. Where did you see him?”
“Well, we were in Peter Jones—you know, I’ve still got an account there, and I never use it and our bath towels are just threadbare, and I thought, golly, why not. I can pay it off at five pounds a month for the next twenty years, so in we went and bought them, huge great fluffy things, so lovely, and then the children wanted to ride on the escalator and we were going up and he was coming down and—well, we all had coffee together. I was jolly surprised he remembered me actually, as we only met once.”
“Of course he would have remembered you,” said Lucinda.
“Well, anyway, we had a super chat. He was rather good with the children, kept asking them silly riddles and things. They thought he was wonderful.”
“He would so have loved children,” said Lucinda, rather sadly. “But—well, I’m sure it’s not too late.”
“I hope not. Anyway, that’s what we were talking about, how blameless we’d all been and how this great thing had come along and knocked us right off our perches—”
“Exactly. Oh, I’m glad you had coffee with him, it would have cheered him up; he’s awfully lonely, poor lamb.”
“Anyway, back to my in-laws. I’m throwing myself on their mercy. And I can tell you, merciful is the opposite of what they are. They’re really horrible, although they were very supportive and concerned, I must say, when Freddie was missing; kept ringing me and asking if there was anything they could do.”
“Well, they are his grandparents.”
“Yes, I know. But not exactly interested ones. He’s a bully and she’s just totally mean-spirited. How they produced Frederick, I’ll never know. But they have got lots of money and even if they’d see me starve—which they would, quite happily—they won’t let that happen to the children.”
“But what could they do for you?”
“Oh, they told me before, when I first came home. They’ve got a huge house. Well, it seems huge to me. It’s not specially nice, it’s a sort of two-storey bungalow in the depths of Somerset. Anyway, they’ve offered to put me and the children up there until we get ourselves sorted out. I know it sounds kind, but I can tell you it will be dreadful. I’ll be made to feel like Jane Eyre or something, completely the poor relation, and Mrs. Morgan actually said I could claim benefits and give it to her in return for board and lodging.”
“What?”
“
Yes. But Freddie and Caroline will both be secure, not latchkey kids living in a poky flat. Lots of fresh air, room to run about and play—so good for them, don’t you think?” She smiled bravely at Lucinda.
“Well, yes, of course. But won’t Freddie have to move schools again?” asked Lucinda. “I thought—”
“Lucinda, I can’t keep him at Lynton House. And he’ll go somewhere similar. They’ll be so much better off. And in due course, maybe I can get a job down there and even a place of our own again.”
“You’re very brave, you know,” said Lucinda. “They wouldn’t do something really helpful if they’ve got all that money and pay your debts? Or buy you a little house?”
“No, of course not,” said Catherine. “They see it as absolutely my fault, signing all the money over to Lloyd’s, and it is a bit. I shouldn’t have been so gullible.”
“Catherine, stop being so totally ridiculous. Oh hello, Blue darling. Nice walk?”
“Yes, thanks. Your Freddie’s very bright, Catherine, asking me about what I did—said it sounded like a game of poker. How does he know about poker?”
“Freddie!” said Catherine. “That wasn’t very polite.”
“Sorry. Daddy used to play sometimes, out in Hong Kong. He explained it to me a few times.”
“Perfectly polite,” said Blue. “I’m impressed. It is exactly like poker, what I do. Well, almost exactly. He can come to me for a job anytime.”
“You don’t employ minors, I suppose?” said Catherine.
It was very clever, Colin’s plan, Flora thought. And she could see it was just about feasible. It wouldn’t exactly save the house for her—and certainly not her Meadow—but it would leave her far from destitute, with Lloyd’s neatly done down. She smiled at him.
“Thank you so much. I really do appreciate your devoting so much thought to my problems. I’m deeply touched. And I do see that it could work…Look, let me have a think about it, would you? And then we can proceed to the next stage.”
“Of course.”
“And meanwhile, will you have some more cottage pie?”
“I certainly will. It’s absolutely delicious. Is it made from salt-marsh lamb?”
“Is there any other sort?” said Flora, and smiled at him. “Now—some more wine to go with it? I presume your driver’s coming for you.”
“He is indeed. So yes, please. And maybe we should change the subject. There’s another lovely concert in Cardiff Cathedral in two weeks’ time. Would you like to go?”
“I’d love to,” she said.
After he had gone, she went outside and sat on the stone garden bench with another cup of coffee. It was a beautiful night and the moonlight on the calm sea was almost daytime brilliant. She put her cup down, walked to the gate of the Meadow, and, after hesitating for a moment, opened it and set off down the path to the sea, shining her big torch in front of her. A heavy scuffling fifty yards ahead startled her for a moment; then she smiled. She knew what it was. Mr. Badger as William had called him—or to be precise Mr. Badger’s great-grandson’s great-great-grandson—setting off across his run. He followed exactly the same route on his hunting expeditions, as all badgers do, and always used the same place, just above the ditch to relieve himself; his run was as clearly marked across the Meadow as any man-made footpath. He froze briefly in the beam, then scuttled firmly across, his big heavy body moving the grass on either side of him. She switched her torch off; the moonlight, brighter without it, shone down on what looked like scores of rabbits: good pickings for the foxes and their young families. If there was a heaven, she thought, it must be very like this. And if it wasn’t, she didn’t want to go there.
There was nowhere she could imagine loving like this: not even the wilds of the Scottish Highlands, or the rocky coast of the Algarve, both of which Colin had suggested as possible new homes for her. And if she adopted his plan, would she not be betraying it, this place and its beauty? But then she would have to leave it anyway, and who knew what the new owner might do? And if she was far away, at least she wouldn’t have to see it.
She stood for a while, looking at the sea, then turned and walked back up the Meadow towards the house. The lovely grey stone house that had been home to her husband’s family for more than two centuries. Everything she cared about was held in those walls; leaving it would be like dying, having her heart removed from her. How was she going to bear it?
As she had borne other griefs and hurts, she supposed: William’s death, the endless miscarriages she had suffered; because she was her, because she was strong. It was just that she didn’t feel very strong at all. She was beginning, in fact, to feel rather feeble. Defeated, even…
“Hello, Debbie.”
“Simon, hello. How lovely to hear from you.” It was; it always was.
“How’s things?” he asked.
“Oh, you know. Much the same. How are they with you?”
“Oh, fine,” he said, and she could hear the effort in his voice. “It’s wonderful, not being chained to the office and the diary.”
“So what are you doing?”
“Oh, I’m very busy. At the moment. Truly. Loads of loose ends to tie up. House to sell, all that sort of thing.”
“Yes, I see. Well, is there anything I can do for you? Because—”
“No, no, not really. Just wanted to bring you up-to-date, see how you were, give you my home phone number—that is, my personal one. You never know, you might want to talk to me again.”
“Simon! I’ll always want to talk to you, don’t be silly. Look, can I buy you a drink? It’s my turn. Then we can chat a bit more. And I promise I won’t even mention my husband.”
“How sweet of you. I…” He hesitated. Then: “Well, that would be very nice. Yes, thank you. Where would you like to meet? Your end of town?”
“It would be easier. What about the Royal Garden again?”
“Fine. So when and what time? Your call. I have all the time in the world.”
“How about Wednesday evening? Richard’s taking the children to some film, as an end-of-term treat. They won’t be home till eight at the earliest.”
“You’re on. Bless you, Debbie. I’ll look forward to it. Bye, my love.” It seemed ages since anyone had used a term of endearment to her; absurdly she felt her eyes filling with tears. Get a grip, Debbie, for God’s sake!
The Fourth of July concert had actually been rather wonderful. A sort of cross between Glyndebourne and the Last Night of the Proms; they had sat on the grass by this thing called the Hatch Memorial Shell, which was a vast red-and-gold shell-shaped concert platform, and drunk champagne, being very careful of her consumption, and Frances had produced a suitably grand picnic, and Dana and Bif had laughingly provided a silver candelabra, and they listened to the Boston Pops playing all sorts of familiar classics. The finale was the 1812 Overture; and then there was a spectacular and very long firework display, set off over the Charles River, lighting up the sky and the water. Annabel had always loved fireworks, they affected her emotionally, tended to make her cry; the whole family teased her about it. She sat there, on the grass, gazing at them, her head still filled with the music, and tears began to roll down her cheeks; Bif noticed and nudged his younger brother.
“Annabel’s crying—what have you done to her?”
“Nothing,” said Jamie indignantly, and put his arm round her shoulders. “What is it? What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” she said. “I always cry at fireworks, they make me feel so happy, and these are just so wonderful.” Nothing could have endeared her to the Cartwrights more; they all laughed and made a great fuss of her and suddenly it was all right for Jamie to have his arm round her, she didn’t feel they were at all disapproving, rather the reverse, and when they finally reached home, walking through the warm smiling crowds, greeted constantly by friends, she realised he had been holding her hand all the way.
Later, much, much later, as the household fell silent, she left her pretty, virginal room and c
rept up the stairs to his. “This is as much a little boy’s room as mine is a little girl’s,” she hissed at him, and indeed it was; she had seen it earlier, a big rectangular room, with dark green curtains and cream walls, and bookshelves filled with things like Huckleberry Finn and The Man in the Iron Mask, and a fantastic display of lead soldiers on a large table, and to bring it into the twentieth century, a computer, a fantastic music system, a television, and a sleek-looking video player. But it was very much a bedroom, not a bed-sitting-room, as she had at home—there was no sofa, no coffee table; clearly no question of him having any privacy. His life was lived with the family; it was as simple as that.
But they had privacy now; she abandoned her bathrobe onto the floor and slithered into bed beside him. She was naked, but he was wearing pyjamas.
“Jamie,” she said, “take them off. At once. Let me help you.” She tugged at his trousers, giggling; and felt his erection. “And I don’t want to hear even a syllable of any words like ‘mother’ or ‘parents,’” she said. “Their light is out, and your dad’s snoring, if that makes you feel any better. Oh Jamie, I do love you. I really, really do. And that was such a wonderful evening.”
He began to kiss her, sweetly and slowly; his hands moved on her, over her, a little hesitant, but then with more confidence. She felt the first real shoots of desire, began to squirm, to breathe more quickly; he stopped suddenly, moved away from her and said, “Should I…that is, do you want me to…”
Briefly puzzled, then amused, she said, “Jamie, I’m on the pill, don’t worry. All I want is for you not to stop.”
“I won’t,” he said. “I can’t.” And then he moved onto her, and into her, and began to move and she with him, and her memories of the evening, the music, the fireworks, the happiness all merged together with her body and his, and it wasn’t just sex, it was absolute happiness and pleasure as she closed round him, and melted and sank and rose and climbed into the brightness, and finally came gloriously and triumphantly, the pleasure as vivid, as violent, as piercing as the fireworks she had watched and wept at with him, what seemed like another lifetime ago, and, “I love you,” he whispered as he came too and they lay there together as the pleasure slowly eased and ebbed away, and for the first time since she had arrived she felt properly happy.
An Absolute Scandal Page 33
