An Absolute Scandal

by Penny Vincenzi

  “Could we just stop talking about bloody Simon Beaumont?” Richard said, and he was almost shouting at her. “I don’t want to—to—” he stopped.

  Flora stared at him. “Yes, of course,” she said calmly, “if you like. Sorry.” A few seconds went by, then she said, very gently, “Is there some problem between you and Simon?”

  “I…don’t know,” he said, and then the tears came. It was terribly embarrassing; he sat at his mother’s kitchen table and buried his head in his hands. “I really don’t know. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t apologise,” said Flora. “Don’t be silly. Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No. Well—yes. Mother, you know him pretty well. Have you ever thought—had reason to think—there was something going on between him and Debbie?” There was a silence that seemed rather long to him, then; “Let’s have a drink, shall we?” she said.

  It had been her suggestion that they should meet at Fortnum’s Soda Fountain: “I’ll buy you tea. Lots of crumpets and things. In return for your advice.”

  “Nothing I like better than lots of crumpets. I’ll be there.”

  Lucinda saw him coming in; got up, went over to him, and hugged him. “Darling Simon. So sweet of you to come. How are you?”

  “Oh, not too bad considering. A lot better for seeing you.”

  “I can’t believe that. I’m beginning to feel a bit portly.”

  “Well, you certainly don’t look portly. Never was an adjective less suitable. Let’s order, shall we, and then I can concentrate.”

  “I don’t quite know where to begin,” she said, shortly. “Milk in your tea?”

  “A bit, please. What about the beginning?”

  “Well, the beginning is me leaving Nigel. No, it’s not, it’s Lloyd’s. As you know, Simon, he’s going to be horribly badly hit, poor angel.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Steve Durham and I have put our heads together and come up with something quite clever.”

  “Who’s Steve Durham?”

  “My solicitor.”

  “Right. Go on.”

  “Well, we thought—Simon, you won’t talk to anyone about this, will you? It’s a bit…delicate.”

  “Of course I won’t.”

  “Anyway, what we thought was that I should get as much from Nigel by way of a settlement as I possibly could.”

  “Difficult, I’d have thought. You’re not exactly the innocent party, my darling, are you?”

  “No, of course not. But Steve has managed to make things look a bit more as if I am. And he thinks I can get the house, because Nigel made it over to me anyway, and he’s said he wants me still to have it.”

  “Nigel! Is he involved in this deception?”

  “Oh yes, very much so. He’s finding it all very difficult, of course, because he’s so terribly upright, but I’ve managed to persuade him. Anyway, he’s saying things like he’s worried the relationship might not last, that he feels I’m in a very vulnerable position, being pregnant and not married, and he wants me to be financially secure. And that he wants me to have the house at least. And then he put a lot of money in trust for me and Steve is arguing that it would be unreasonable to take it back at this stage. When I could be relying on it.”

  “I see. He’s going to come over as a bit of a patsy, isn’t he?”

  “Maybe, but it’ll be worth it. And then there was another angle Steve thought of—that maybe I’d given things up when I married Nigel, a job, for instance. And of course I did. I was working for an artist, as his sort of PA. Sweet man, called Virgil Barrymore. Anyway, he did ask me to go with him when he moved to New York and I didn’t because I was marrying Nigel.”

  “Ye-es.”

  “And the thing is that Virgil’s paintings sell for squillions now, and I could have been working on a percentage, earning ten percent of a squillion. And been financially independent. Virgil’s coming over to London next month, and he’s going to—well, I hope he’s going to—agree to say that.”

  “Lucinda,” said Simon, “this is rather incredible. You’re a very clever girl.”

  “No, I’m not. Steve thought of most of it. I’m just—well, maybe a bit ingenious.”

  “Very ingenious. So let’s say you win, and you get all this money, and the house—then what?”

  “Well, then, first of all, we set up some kind of educational trust. A charity that benefits poor deprived children. And some of the income will come from property which the trust owns. Including the house in Cadogan Square. I’ll borrow against it and put all the money into that. And Nigel will be able to get at it, you see; he’ll be one of the major trustees…It will have to be quite a complex process, but Steve is sure it can be done and Lloyd’s won’t be able to touch it. And Nigel will have lost everything—on paper. To me.”

  “Christ,” said Simon, “I wish this man Durham was my lawyer.”

  “I’m sure he would be if you asked him. But yes, it is clever, isn’t it? I mean, even if I don’t get everything, Steve really thinks I’ll get a lot. Which means Nigel will get a lot.” She looked smug and started on the pile of smoked-salmon sandwiches.

  “Hmm.” Simon studied her. “There’s only one thing that I don’t get about it all. I mean, it’s all very well Nigel saying he’s worried the relationship won’t last, but here you are, bursting with happiness, so why should any divorce judge believe all this guff about Nigel being afraid the relationship won’t last.”

  “Well…oh dear, this is the difficult part, Simon. I’ve got to say I’m a bit worried about it too. About the relationship. Say I do feel insecure. I’ve got to put that in a letter. And also I certainly can’t be living in some mansion that Blue’s bought, because Nigel’s also going to say that the little house where we are is most unsuitable for a baby. So we’ll have to stay there until the thing’s gone through. It has to look really good on paper, you see. I’m sure Blue won’t mind, not really, that he’ll go along with it if I explain properly. Well, I thought so at first. Now I’m not quite so sure.”

  “So he doesn’t know anything about all this?”

  “Well, no. I’m beginning to wish I’d told him about it in the first place, so he could get used to the idea slowly. But it’s a bit late for that now. So I wondered what you thought about it, exactly how I should play it, so to speak.”

  “I think,” said Simon carefully, “you have to tell him just the minute you can. Be completely honest. And I also think you have to be prepared for him minding quite a lot.”

  “Oh dear, do you?”

  Simon thought of Blue, his pride in and love for Lucinda, his driving, pugnacious energy, his old-fashioned, working-class proprietary attitude and tried to imagine his reacting sympathetically to Lucinda’s plan.

  “I do, my darling, yes. I should get it over just as soon as you can, if I were you. Really soon. Before it’s too late.”

  Chapter 32

  JULY 1990

  “Oh God,” said Debbie. “Oh God, oh God, oh God.” She felt—what did she feel? Scared. Very scared. Shocked at herself, at what she had done. Disbelieving of what she had done. Excited, of course. Emotionally and sexually. And happy. Brilliantly, feverishly, shakily happy.

  She was at her desk; the same desk she had been at twenty-four hours earlier, in the same office, and that in itself was hard to believe, that she was still sitting there, working, or supposedly working; that the world had not dropped from its axis, time had not speeded up nor stood still; that all around her people were working and chatting and laughing and fretting, doing the same sort of things in the same sort of way, as she was presumed to be doing. And she looked the same—she kept checking that, for reassurance, getting the mirror from her drawer, looking at her face, scared of what it might show.

  And she sounded the same; she kept hearing herself saying things like, “I’m fine, thanks,” and “I’ll get that release off today,” and “Yes, of course I can run off that presentation document.”

  And yet, everythi
ng had changed.

  She was no longer nice—or quite nice—respectable Debbie Fielding, married happily—or quite happily—to Richard, mother of three children, struggling to keep her family and her job and her husband all going in the same direction. She was Debbie Fielding, adulteress; she had a lover, a man who was not her husband, who she had been to bed with, and she couldn’t wait to do so again, and she felt really bad and really wonderful in equal proportions and at the same time…

  He had been waiting for her at the Criterion. Careful not to appear wretched, she had put on lots of makeup, rushed out and bought herself a new shirt at Next, rather than the shabby T-shirt she’d pulled over her tear-stained face, been ready with a lighthearted version of her story. He’d asked her what she wanted to drink: “White wine spitzer, please,” she said (it took a lot of those to make her drunk), and after ordering it and a beer for himself, Joel had sat just looking at her for a minute and then said, “You look great.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “No, you do. I mean it. So want to talk about it? Whatever’s upsetting you so badly?”

  “Not…not really.”

  “In that case,” he said, grinning, “you’ve got me here under false pretences, Mrs. Fielding—”

  “Don’t call me that. Mrs. Fielding is my mother-in-law.”

  “Sorry. OK, what shall we talk about instead?”

  “Um…not sure.” This was awful; her mind was a blank, she couldn’t think of a word to say; she stared into her glass, feeling hot and cold and thoroughly miserable. She should never have come, she’d just drink the spritzer and then go, and—

  “Mind out what you’re bloody doing.”

  It was Fate: Fate in the form of a man, slightly the worse for the hour or so he had already spent in the bar, pushing past them, knocking Joel’s arm, and thus the contents of Joel’s bottle of beer over Debbie. Over quite a lot of her, but most markedly, her chest.

  “Oh God, I’m so sorry,” said the man. “God. Here, let me get a cloth from the bar, wait there…” He disappeared.

  Joel sat looking at Debbie rather ruefully, and then pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and started dabbing at her jacket. “I’m sorry. How awful.”

  “Oh, doesn’t matter. Honestly. It’s an old shirt.” About three hours old; nicely ruined. The man reappeared, with two clean tea towels.

  “Give those to me,” she said, and made for the ladies’, where she applied lots of cold water, but the stain was quite bad. And the smell. Well, best thing was to make her excuses and leave. She went back to the bar, to where Joel was sitting, looking rather depressed.

  “Look, I think I’d better just go home. I can’t sit here, smelling of Budweiser or whatever it was for the rest of the evening.”

  “Oh, OK.” He was clearly miserable about the way the evening was turning out. He drained his glass. “I’ll escort you to the tube.”

  They walked out into the evening sunshine; or rather the petrol-induced haze that was Piccadilly Circus at the end of a hot day.

  A bunch of girls walked past, giggling and chattering, carrying Miss Selfridge bags; Joel looked after them. Debbie felt irritated and still more depressed; they were all young, pretty, clearly unencumbered by husbands or babies.

  “Nothing like a bit of retail therapy,” Joel said.

  “Well, no,” said Debbie.

  “You know, I don’t mind shopping. Maggie—she’s my girlfriend—says it’s one of my few virtues.”

  OK, he had a girlfriend. Well. Of course he would have done.

  “But I mean—what bloke wouldn’t like it?” he said. “Hanging around with crowds of women, preferably near the changing room. Great.”

  “I don’t think my husband sees it quite like that,” said Debbie. And thought how wholesome the conversation had become, him talking about his girlfriend, her talking about her husband.

  “In fact,” Joel was looking at her now and smiling, “it’s Thursday, isn’t it? Late-night shopping. Let me buy you a new shirt.”

  “Oh Joel, no.”

  “Oh Debbie, yes. Come on, it’ll make me feel better, less guilty. What’s your favourite shop? I’ll enjoy helping you choose. And hanging round the changing room.” Suddenly she felt more cheerful. It would be fun. He was fun.

  “All right,” she said, “you’re on. But you’re not paying for it.”

  “I am. But we can argue about that later.”

  They went to Miss Selfridge, the big one inside Selfridges itself. It was full of lovely sexy tops, strappy T-shirts, denim shirts, boned corselettes; none of which remotely replaced the shirt. It was also full of young girls, with their bosoms breaking out of their tops and their long legs bare. Joel began to feel slightly dizzy.

  “That’s nice,” he said, pointing at a strapless, clingy dress, very, very short.

  “It is,” she said, “it’s totally gorgeous, but I don’t see it in the office.”

  “I don’t know. Might get the clients pouring in even faster. Try it on. Go on.” She came out of the changing room smiling. She had an amazing smile, it was that big mouth of hers and those perfect white teeth. She was a bit like Julia Roberts…Joel! Come on! The dress looked incredible on her. She was very skinny, and it only came about a quarter of the way down her thighs, so that he was able to see more of her legs. Her really rather amazing legs.

  “You should get it,” he said.

  “You think?”

  “Sure. Turn around. Give us a twirl.”

  She twirled, laughing, and then it happened: the dress, which really required more of a bosom than she possessed, slipped, and for a moment, maybe five moments, Joel found himself staring at her breasts. Which were small, OK, but absolutely perfect: firm, dark-nippled…

  Joel had never liked big breasts. Well, not as much as he liked small ones. He swallowed, felt a response, a very strong response, it threatened to become embarrassing, and tried to tear his eyes away. And then she hitched up the dress, and her eyes met his, half startled, half amused, and—something else? what? something slightly carnal—she disappeared into the changing room. She reappeared, wearing a white cotton shirt, slightly oversized, the sort Princess Diana had worn and made famous last year, photographed with the princes.

  “I think this is a bit more suitable,” she said.

  “Well, it’s great,” Joel said, “but I still think you should buy the dress.”

  “Well, I don’t,” she said firmly. “That is no dress for a—a mother.”

  “But Debbie, you don’t look like a mother.”

  “I am a mother. I’m not ashamed of it.”

  “I know you’re not. But mothers look mumsy. You look—well, like a very sexy girl. Who should be wearing that dress. Go on, get it.”

  “Joel, I’m not buying it.”

  “OK. Let’s get the shirt. I’ll pay.”

  “You won’t.”

  “I will. I really do want to. Now are you going to leave it on?”

  “Yes, I am. Get rid of the smell of bitter or whatever it was.”

  “It was not bitter,” he said. “I have my pride. It was Michelob.”

  “Is that a trendy beer?”

  “Very trendy. Ask your husband.”

  “He wouldn’t know a trendy beer if—if it was chucked all over him,” she said, and then, “I didn’t say that.”

  “Yes, you did. Sorry.”

  She was happy and easy now, an intimacy forged by the shopping experience.

  “Come on,” he said, “let’s buy ourselves a picnic and go up to the park.” He watched her struggling with this, knowing that he shouldn’t have asked her, and half hoping she’d say no.

  She didn’t: she grinned at him. “OK,” she said.

  So they went back into Selfridges and bought some French bread and pâté and strawberries and a bottle of white wine and got a cab up to Regent’s Park. Where they settled on the grass, near one of the ponds, and Joel opened the wine and the sun was warm, slanting through the t
rees, and they set out their picnic, chatting easily about work and colleagues and films they had seen and their ambitions and even those of their partners, and he thought how lovely she was and what fun—interspersed with thoughts of how lovely her breasts were, and how good her legs, and how much he would like to see the bit in between, only clearly he wasn’t going to. And thought that really the evening should end like this: happy, flirty, quite safe.

  And then she lay back on the grass, clearly just slightly drunk, flung her arms out to the sides, and said, “Oh, this is such fun.”

  And he suddenly wanted to know a bit more about her. He leaned over her, smiling down at her, and said, “S-o-o…what was the matter? This afternoon?” She shouldn’t have told him that either; she shouldn’t have become so relaxed, so happily reckless.

  “Oh, it’s totally silly,” she said. “I can’t go into it all. But we fell out weeks ago, over his new job—he got one in Scotland.”

  “And let me guess, you didn’t want to go to Scotland.”

  “Well, not terribly. And unfortunately, I sort of said that. And then the other day he saw me leaving a hotel with Simon—”

  “With Simon?”

  “Yes.”

  “What hotel?”

  “The Royal Garden. And—and he decided we must be having an affair. It’s just ridiculous!”

  “Is it?”

  “Well, of course.”

  “I’ll tell you something,” he said, “if I saw you leaving the Royal Garden Hotel with Simon Beaumont, I’d probably think you were having an affair as well.”

  “But why?”

  “You can’t be that dumb,” he said.

  “But he’s miles older than me, and he likes things like horses and drives a Range Rover and—”

  “Dear God,” said Joel, and he started to laugh. “If that was your defence, I really am beginning to feel very sorry for your husband.”

  “But why?”

  “Debbie, Simon Beaumont is extremely charming and incredibly good-looking, added to which he’s a smooth bastard and—”

  “No, he’s not,” said Debbie heatedly.

  “He must seem so, to your husband. And he’s successful—”