“No, no of course not. But Mother was only twenty when she married Father. She thinks that would be OK for us. I don’t know what you’d think,” he added quickly.
“How can I argue? I was only twenty-one when I got married. But what about Annabel, what does she think? She’s the important one, surely.”
“Yes, of course. I think she agrees that would be about right.”
“Good.”
“Anyway, we won’t be taking her away from you just yet, I promise.” Now why did that strike such a chill around her heart, Elizabeth wondered. And then knew. It wasn’t that Annabel would be moving to Boston—she was prepared for that. It was the “we.” She really didn’t like that “we.”
Sitting on the verandah of her father’s beachside house in Barbados, Felicity Parker Jones was reading a clipping she had been sent from The Times, about the tragic death of the prominent City banker, Simon Beaumont.
“Damn shame,” she said aloud; and when her father came out to join her for breakfast she showed it to him.
“Good God,” he said, “poor chap. How dreadful. You’ll miss him, Flick, won’t you? In more ways than one. Have to make a few adjustments.”
“I will indeed,” she said.
Chapter 41
AUGUST TO SEPTEMBER 1990
“Joel, go away. Just go away. Please.”
He had arrived at her office, just as she was leaving, bearing a large bunch of roses. Which was hugely romantic, of course, but wasn’t helping her in her resolve.
“Please go away,” she said feebly again.
That first time he was waiting outside when she left for the day, blinding her with the sweet shock of it.
“Joel!”
“That’s me. Where can we go?”
“Nowhere. I mean, I’m going home. I’m late already and—” And then she looked at him, looked properly at him, and absolutely unable to resist him, said, “Well, maybe just a coffee or something. But only so I can explain.”
She really had tried, so hard. She told him how she felt deeply ashamed of herself. “It was awful, terrible of me; and I shouldn’t have done it.”
“I’m glad you did.”
She sighed and tried to explain how loyal and supportive Richard was being about going up to Scotland, how he had risked losing the job altogether, to give her some time. “I really can’t go on seeing you, Joel.”
“Don’t you want to?” She hesitated; he pounced on it. “There you are, you do want to.”
“Joel please stop it. I—I might want to, but I can’t. It was just a…a fling, and OK, it was great, but—”
“That’s exactly what I thought,” he said, “that it was just a fling. But it wasn’t. Not for me. It was a shock, that—I’m rather good at flings, I’ve had lots of them, and don’t think I’m proud of that either. But when I got back from the Bahamas, I realised you’d meant a bit more than that. A lot more. I…I seem really to care about you, Debbie. I almost wish I didn’t, it would make life much simpler, but I do.”
And Debbie sat there, looking into his dark eyes, and she could hardly bear it, she wanted him and what he was offering her so much; and then she took a deep breath and tried once again to explain. Which was obviously not very effective, since here he was again, two days later.
Catherine couldn’t ever remember being so unhappy. Well, of course she could—when Freddie had run away, and when her husband had died, but even those dreadful events hadn’t wiped out her existence as a fully operating human being. Now she seemed to have been completely taken over by the Morgans, and she had no option but to do what they said. Even down to when they would all eat, what times they could leave the house, where the children went to school. It was horrible; she felt like some kind of programmed automaton.
She had won one battle and that was over Freddie’s school; she had said that he was not to go away to school, that Frederick had been terribly against it, had hated his own prep school, had been bullied dreadfully.
“Nonsense,” Dudley said. “Happy as Larry he was, never heard a word of complaint.”
“No, Dudley,” she said, emboldened by the strength of her feelings. “That’s not true. He told me but he always felt he couldn’t tell you, he was too ashamed.”
A compromise was reached of weekly boarding “next year.” But they were deeply dismissive of Catherine’s revelations about the bullying, clearly felt she was being naïve. Caroline’s school seemed all right; it was full of rather overconfident little girls who all seemed to have ponies, but who were very friendly at the welcome tea party, at the beginning of September, two weeks before term proper began. They were due to move down on 10 September; term for both of them started a week later. Catherine had accompanied Phyllis to the secondhand uniform sale and watched her buying everything in a size too big for Caroline. “Then it will last longer—it’s so expensive, you probably don’t realise.”
The conversion to their “flat” consisted of putting a gas ring and a sink into what had been a very small bathroom. “We’ll leave the bath, as we may want to convert it back again,” Phyllis said. “Dudley suggests fitting some kind of casing over it, to make a useful surface for you—such a good idea, don’t you think?” And had installed a minute shower into the lavatory. “It saves expense with the plumbing, you see,” Dudley had said. The children had small individual bedrooms, made by partitioning one big one, and Catherine’s bedroom was even smaller, with a single bed; while she was sure there wasn’t the slightest possibility of her ever needing a double again, she still felt rather written off, as she said to Lucinda.
“You’re dreading it, aren’t you? Poor Catherine.”
“No, no, not dreading it,” said Catherine firmly, for once she started to talk about her misery, she knew she would never stop. “A little apprehensive, of course. But—well, you know, it will be nice not to be so desperately worried about money and to know the children are at good schools. And I’m sure I’ll make lots of friends in no time…”
She could hear the hollow ring in her voice now, thinking of the mothers at Caroline’s school, all briskly sporty, wearing Puffas and dirndl skirts, shouting at one another about pony-club camps and point-to-points. Where among them would she find one friend, let alone lots?
“Well, you must come up for the day as often as you can and see me,” said Lucinda. “Oh dear, I shall miss you.”
“I’ll miss you too. I was thinking about Simon…Lucinda, do you think he did it deliberately?” Catherine’s face was very distressed.
“I don’t know,” said Lucinda. “It seems at least quite possible. I mean, it wasn’t just the money, he’d lost his job—it was all very…black.”
“Yes, but he was the opposite of black. Right to—to the end. Oh God, I do hope he didn’t. It’s such a terrible way to go.”
Elizabeth spent a long, harrowing afternoon at the solicitors. The facts were stark. She had thought that because Simon had resigned from Lloyd’s, when the first problems arose, his liability would shortly have ceased. “I’m afraid not, Elizabeth,” John Fraser, their solicitor, said gently. “A resignation merely releases you from underwriting new business. You can still be liable for any business you’ve underwritten in the past.”
She had stared at him, stricken.
“So we—I sell the house, give Lloyd’s that money and anything else they can get their hands on, and it could still be going on, them taking money from me, in ten years’ time.”
“I’m afraid so, yes. It’s a great pity that Simon had taken out a bank’s guarantee on your house, of course. Lloyd’s don’t generally insist on the sale of the main residence.”
“Indeed it was. But he made a foolish investment, in an overseas property business. God…” She paused. “So whatever I do or make, they can go on taking for as long as they like?”
“Well, no. The debts don’t pass to you personally, but because Simon’s estate unfortunately does, they can take everything that’s in it.”
She
suddenly felt dreadfully sick.
“Are you all right, my dear?”
“Yes, yes, I’m fine. Thank you. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologise. Have some water.” He poured her a glass; she sipped it and the feeling began to pass.
“Go on,” she said. “I’m all right now.”
“Good. Now, there is quite a lot of good news. Whatever you earn is yours. Lloyd’s can make no claim on it. And there are two substantial sums that Lloyd’s cannot get their hands on.”
“Really? Like what?”
“Well, you have a widow’s pension from the bank.”
“But they fired him.”
“Fact remains, Elizabeth, they are required by law to pay you the pension.”
“Goodness. And…and how much would that be?”
“In the region of thirty thousand pounds a year.”
“Are you sure? Are you quite sure?”
“Absolutely. The other sum due to you is very considerable.”
“Tell me,” she said. She was beginning to feel quite sick again.
“It’s Simon’s personal life cover. Which is written in trust for you.”
“God. How…how much is that, John?”
“Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds. And that is tax free. So I hope that will relieve some of those middle-of-the-night fears. Grief is bad enough without gnawing financial anxiety as well.”
She arrived home feeling very confused. She went straight upstairs to their bedroom, took her jacket off, lay down on the bed.
It was a huge relief, obviously, that they would still be quite comfortably off. On the other hand, it did mean that Simon was indeed worth a great deal more dead than alive. And that meant that…
“Oh Simon,” she said aloud, looking at the photograph of him, her favourite, standing on the deck of the Lizzie, his hair whipped by the wind, smiling his most gloriously infectious smile. “Oh Simon, you shouldn’t have done it. You really shouldn’t.”
Chapter 42
AUGUST TO SEPTEMBER 1990
“My darling, you look wonderful. Positively blooming. Love the hair. Now come and sit down, let me get you something. Er…are you allowed—”
“I am. But this is on me. So—champagne?”
“Champagne it is. A little Bolly would go down a treat. And I won’t argue, although I should as an English gentleman…”
The Bollinger had arrived, duly ice-bucketed. “You can’t beat the Ritz, can you?” said Virgil. “I always forget how wonderful it is. We have the Plaza, of course, very similar in a way, but not quite the class…I prefer the Pierre myself. More discreet. Or even the Carlyle—that was Kennedy’s favourite, you know. Very stylish indeed.”
“Oh, I’d so love to go to New York,” said Lucinda wistfully. She felt her life rather lacked style at the moment; she looked at Virgil in his pale-blue linen shirt, his black linen suit, his perfectly cropped black hair, and thought he epitomised it.
“My darling, come. You’d adore it. And it would adore you.”
“Well, maybe not just now.” Lucinda patted her stomach.
“No, and many congratulations on that. Is—that is, does Nigel…”
“Nigel doesn’t,” said Lucinda firmly. “I have a new—oh dear, what should I call him?”
“Beau?”
“More than a beau. A fiancé.”
“How sweet. So what happened?”
“I—I just met him,” Lucinda said, “and fell in love.”
“Well, darling, that’s very lovely. And is he another good old English toff?”
“No, he isn’t. He comes from…from Essex. Originally.”
“Essex! Lucinda, how exciting. You’ve got yourself a bit of rough. Well, I would never have thought it of you, the archetypal posh English rose. When you first came to work at the gallery, I really thought you were too good to be true. And when you married Nigel, well…How is the old fruit? Heartbroken? Or does he have another?”
“Not yet, I’m afraid,” said Lucinda, “but I keep hoping.”
“And you’re happy?”
“Oh, so happy.”
“Well, that’s what matters. Nigel will get over it, sweetie. He’s got lots of money, after all; some other English rose will bloom for him.”
“That’s the problem,” said Lucinda. “He’s about to be very poor, unless I can help him.”
“Something tells me,” said Virgil, “that this might be where I come in. And what do I come in doing?”
“Just…just saying something, that’s all.”
“Saying something. Hmm. In writing?”
“Well, yes.”
“What sort of something? Go on—I like seeing you squirm, Lucinda.”
“It goes something like this…” She told him what she wanted; he sat staring at her, then burst into peals of mirth.
“Darling Lucinda. What a glorious notion. As if you were worth that!”
“I might have been.”
“Sweetheart, you weren’t. Not a quarter of it.”
“Oh,” she said, and felt her heart literally drop. “Well…well, I’ll have to think of something else then.”
“Here. Have some more Bolly. And don’t look so dejected. Nobody knows you weren’t worth it, except me. So tell me what I have to do exactly. And I’ll do it.”
“Oh, Virgil!” She hurled herself at him, kissed him on both cheeks. “Thank you so, so much, it’s so good of you.”
“It is quite,” he said. “It could be classed as perjury, if anyone was looking. I’m only doing it because it amuses me. And I want to hear exactly what is it about dear old chinless Nige that you want to do this for him. I long to know, darling. It sounds terribly intriguing…”
“Mummy…”
“Yes, darling?” Elizabeth looked up. Tilly was standing in the doorway, very white and big-eyed.
“Mummy, I’m terribly sorry, but I just don’t think I can go to my new school. I can’t face it, not leaving you and Annabel and home and—” She started crying, like a small child. Elizabeth got up, went over, and put her arms round her.
“Oh Tilly. Darling, of course you don’t have to go. I’ve been dreading it too. And worrying about you. I thought you were looking forward to it.”
“Oh Mummy, no. Dreading it more every day. I’m sorry, I should have said, but I didn’t want to worry you.”
“It doesn’t matter a bit,” said Elizabeth, thinking that actually it did. Term began in two days; even a week’s notice would have helped. “Now come on, darling,” she said, berating herself for her selfishness, “let’s see what we can sort out. The first thing to do is ring Mrs. Priest at St. Anne’s. I’ll do it now, while you get us a cup of tea.”
Mrs. Priest was surprisingly accommodating.
“Of course I understand. Let her take her time. A couple more weeks won’t make much difference, and she’s a bright girl, she’ll catch up.”
“There.” Elizabeth smiled at Tilly as she came back into the room with the tray. “They say you can take your time, start when you’re ready. Isn’t that good?”
“Well, sort of, but the thing is, Mummy, I don’t want to go away at all. I want to be home with you, looking after you.”
“Now Tilly,” said Elizabeth firmly, “I can’t have you, any of you, thinking you have to stay at home with me. I want everyone to do what they want, not what they think they ought to do.”
“It’s not what I think I ought to do,” said Tilly, starting to cry again, “it’s what I want to do. I’m scared, Mummy, so scared. It’s like some monster is swallowing us up, bit by bit. I can’t go away, I just can’t. I want to be here, holding on to what we’ve got left. I feel safer here—at least I can see what’s happening…”
And then Elizabeth was crying too, as hard as Tilly, and they sat there for a long time, holding each other. And she promised Tilly she would find her a day school.
Later, when Tilly had gone to meet Annabel, Elizabeth pulled out the Good School Guide and started leafi
ng through it. A good day school, oversubscribed four times as all London schools were, that would take a child at two days’ notice, how on earth was she going to find that? God, she felt so tired. So deathly, deathly tired.
Catherine was packing rather lethargically when the phone rang.
“Is that Catherine?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Catherine, it’s Nigel. Nigel Cowper. I heard you were moving to Somerset and I wondered if you’d let me take you all out to tea before you went. I so enjoyed our coffee that morning at Peter Jones, I thought we could do it again. Your children are a great credit to you, you know.”
“That would be lovely,” said Catherine.
“So what day could you do?”
“Well, Lucinda’s driving us down on Sunday. So it would have to be Saturday, I’m afraid. Is that any good to you? Of course I’ll understand if it’s not. You’re probably terribly busy.”
“What—on a Saturday afternoon? Of course not. So where would you like to go? Where would they like to go?”
Catherine suddenly felt rather reckless. After all, it was most unlikely she’d have a man asking her where she’d like to go for a very long time.
“How brave are you feeling?”
“Oh, pretty brave. I mean, I believe children like McDonald’s—you know, that hamburger place…”
“I do know, yes,” said Catherine, “but if you’re feeling very brave, we could go one better. It would do a lot for their street cred.”
Although, she reflected rather sadly, the children’s new schoolmates would probably be more impressed by a point-to-point than what she was about to suggest.
“Oh well, I’m all for that.”
“It’s a place called the Hard Rock Café and it’s in Old Park Lane. The children have wanted to go there forever. They do burgers, brilliant ones, and later on there’s music, with DJs, rock and jazz and so on.”
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