“I’m not quite sure I’d like that,” said Nigel a little nervously.
“But not when we go, don’t worry. You do have to queue, though, you can’t book, it’s all part of the fun.”
“Well,” said Nigel—and she could almost hear him taking a deep breath—“well, it all sounds very exciting. For me as well as them. It’s certainly a long way from Derry and Toms Roof Garden, where I used to be taken if I’d been good.”
“How grand,” said Catherine, and then found herself wondering what she would wear. Which was obviously ridiculous, for Nigel was hardly going to take any notice of her, it was the children’s treat…
Chapter 43
SEPTEMBER TO OCTOBER 1990
There she was in all the papers, crying. Because her little boy had gone away to school. Well, if it was all right for Diana to cry, Catherine thought, then she would too. Of course, Prince William was going to boarding school and Freddie would be coming home again that evening—quite late, he had to stay at school for prep—but he was still terrified, white-faced and shaking with nerves in his too-big uniform.
He had gone in without a backward glance, ushered by his form master, and in the company of a bigger boy. “Such a good system, isn’t it?” Phyllis had said. “They allot seniors to take care of the little ones, as of course they would if he was boarding. Now, we’ve got a long drive home, Catherine. I hope you realise you’re going to have to do this every day.” Catherine said she did. But at least she would be driving; she actually had a car, and it promised to transform her life. Lucinda had said, when she came to collect them, that she had been thinking and that really, for the time being, she would like Catherine to have her Peugeot.
“I’ve got the Gti, after all, and I can’t drive them both at the same time, and Blue thinks it’s a really good idea.” She didn’t add that Blue had said that clearly the car would have been driven into several walls within the space of a week, and that he hoped Lucinda was ready to say goodbye to it. “So you take this, and—”
“Lucinda, I can’t.”
“Of course you can. It’ll help, and make me less worried about you, down there on your own with those dreadful people. And besides, you’ll be able to come up and see me more easily, think of it that way.”
It seemed a very long day, waiting to collect him; all she could think of was his white face, and her terror that he might cry and be labelled a sissy.
She and Caroline spent the afternoon marking her new school uniform; it was rather nice: brown kilts, blue blouses, oatmeal sweaters, and dark brown hats and coats.
“I’m sorry it’s so big, sweetie,” she said, as Caroline tried it all on. “I don’t think I can shorten the kilt, because of the pleats, but I can probably do the coat. Only…”
“It’s OK,” said Caroline bravely. “Honestly, I’m growing so fast, that’s one thing Grandma’s right about, it’ll probably fit me by half term.”
Catherine hugged her, thinking how brave her children were and how she didn’t deserve them.
She was so terrified of being late that she was back at the school by twenty to six. The area slowly filled up with Range Rovers and Volvo Estates, with mothers shouting at one another and ignoring her.
What on earth am I going to do, Catherine thought, if he doesn’t like it, if he’s unhappy here? We really have burned our boats—how could we possibly move again? And she felt so sick with apprehension she thought she might follow Freddie’s example and throw up in the hedge.
Endless small boys appeared, but there was no sign of Freddie; after ten minutes she was frantic; he might be inside crying, or hiding from her, afraid that she would see he was upset…or had he got a detention already? Or had he—oh God—had he run away again? Then three small boys came out like rockets, cannoning into her.
“Hi, Mum, this is Groom and this is Hutchings, we’re all new and guess what, Mum, I’m doing soccer trials tomorrow and there’s a choir, I’m trying for that as well…”
She stood there, smiling at Freddie, trying not to cry at the same time, and at Groom and Hutchings too.
“No problems here then,” said one of their mothers, and, “Super, absolutely super, isn’t it?” said the other.
However lonely she was, Catherine thought, however dreadful her in-laws, it simply didn’t matter. If the children were happy, then she could stand anything else. Anything.
They drove home, Freddie talking nonstop: the other boys were really cool, his form master was great, the work was fine, he was ahead in maths even.
Phyllis met them on the doorstep, received a truncated account of the successful day, gave Catherine an “I told you so” look and then said, “There was a phone call for you. A man.” Her tone carried a distinct note of disapproval.
“Oh,” said Catherine. “Did he give a name?”
“Yes, Mr. Cowper, he said. He asked if you could ring him back. I said it would be better if he rang you, as it was long-distance.”
“Yes, of course,” said Catherine. “Thank you. When did he—that is, what time…”
“About six,” said Phyllis. “Now I must go, I’m off to a drinks party. I’ll see you tomorrow. Glad the day was a success, Freddie. What did I tell you? And if you were boarding, you’d still be there—just think of that.”
“Wish I was,” said Freddie.
“He loved it,” said Catherine, smiling into the phone when Nigel rang later in the evening. “Of course, it’s early days, but it really seems to suit him. And guess what, he said he wanted to board.”
“Take no notice,” said Nigel briskly. “I wanted to board at his age, and then spent the next year crying myself to sleep. But I’m so glad it went well.”
“It’s sweet of you to ring,” said Catherine. “Thank you.”
“Not at all. Nothing so terrifying as a first day at a new school. Couldn’t stop thinking about him. Well, tell him well done from me.”
“I will. Goodbye, Nigel.”
“Goodbye, Catherine. Enjoy country life.”
Well, that was clearly that, she thought, putting the phone down. Goodness, he was a nice man. And clearly still hopelessly in love with Lucinda.
Debbie was actually quite enjoying her new life. Without Richard. Well, of course she missed him, she was used to having him around all the time, he was her husband, for heaven’s sake; but it made a fantastic difference to how much she got done, having her evenings to herself, deciding how to spend them, being able to work if she wanted to, or watch any old crap on the telly, or have an hour-long bath and read.
The children liked it too; they liked having her undivided attention. They looked forward to the alternate weekends, but day to day, or rather evening to evening, she had never known them so biddable, so calm.
She’d found a nice lady called Jenny to look after them after school, and Richard rang three nights a week full of enthusiasm: “It’s so wonderfully peaceful up here, Debbie. I feel quite different, unstressed, you know, and with much more energy, and the school’s the most marvellous place—the children are all so bright and confident and really want to work and learn, and I seem to be managing. Morag’s been absolutely fantastic, so patient with me, so encouraging…”
And Debbie kept saying good, great, that’s marvellous, how wonderful, and how they were fine, but they missed him and were counting the days till half term when they were all going up there, while counting the days herself, only backwards rather than forwards, thinking, “Only two whole months left,” or “Only ten weeks,” and wondering how she was going to bear the ending of it. Because, of course, she just didn’t want to go.
The children had all finally gone to bed that evening, and she was settling down happily to her new favourite programme, Capital City, which Richard would have poured great scorn on, all about the yuppies and their dealings in the City, when there was a ring at the bell. Probably Jan; it was another bonus of Richard’s absence that she saw more of her now. He had been jealous of Jan and their closeness. She wen
t to the front door, smiling as she opened it. “Hi, Jan,” she said. Only it wasn’t Jan, it was Joel.
“I had to see you,” he said. “I couldn’t bear it any longer. I’m sorry.”
“Joel,” she said in a low voice, “you can’t come and see me at my house; the children are all upstairs, probably still awake. I’m not going to let you in. Just go away and—”
“Mum! I’m thirsty.” Alexander appeared at the top of the stairs, peered down at Joel. “Who’s that?”
“It’s a man come to see the house,” she said.
“He can’t come now, we’re all in bed.”
“I know, Alexander, that’s what I’ve just told him. I’ll be up with some water in a minute.”
“If you don’t agree to see me now,” said Joel, “I’ll come to your office tomorrow.”
“I’m not in the office tomorrow.”
“OK. On Thursday in the office.”
“Joel, why are you doing this? Why can’t you respect what I want to do?”
“Because it’s not what you want to do. And I won’t let you think it. I know you’re not happy—”
“Yes, I am,” she said. “We’re perfectly happy together, thank you.”
“Bollocks,” he said. “Anyway, you’re much too lovely to be locked into a miserable situation and to have to spend the rest of your life in some Scottish convent—”
“It’s not a convent.”
“It might as well be.”
“Oh, Joel…” But the kernel of the truth had reached her heart; she felt tears stinging at the back of her eyes.
“So which is it to be? Now, or the day after tomorrow?”
A long silence, while she fought against it. It won.
“The day after tomorrow,” she said, very quietly.
“All right,” Flora said. “Colin, I’ve made up my mind. Let’s do it. Anything rather than let them have this house.”
“Fantastic,” he said. “Look, we’d better not discuss it on the phone. Would you like to have dinner with me tonight or tomorrow and we can set the wheels in motion. I know you’ve made the right decision, Flora. I really do.”
It was Simon’s death that had determined that decision. She had gone for a long ride on Hal, thinking about this monster that had, in their own small circle, killed Simon—for she remained as sure as she could be of anything that it had been suicide—destroyed Nigel Cowper’s upright, harmless life and Catherine Morgan’s bright young one, and led a small boy into running away. If she could keep that monster from taking any more from any of them, she wanted to do it passionately. It was the only thing to do. Otherwise Lloyd’s had won. And she just wouldn’t let them. She just wouldn’t.
Chapter 44
SEPTEMBER TO OCTOBER 1990
It just wasn’t possible, was it? She couldn’t be, could she? And if she was—well, could she cope with it? What would everyone think? What would everyone say? Did it make things worse? Or did it make them better? Two days, they’d said. That was doing it properly. Which, of course, she wanted. She wasn’t going to trust some over-the-counter rubbish. Oh God. It just wasn’t possible—was it? She couldn’t be, could she?
Blue had gone on a two-day trip to Brussels; Lucinda had decided to take advantage of his absence to see Steve Durham, make a progress report. Now that she had given up work, it was much harder to do anything without Blue cross-questioning her about it; where had she been, who had she seen, why, what for; for some reason he probed very closely into her comings and goings, how long she had been out, how she had got there. It was beginning to drive her mad.
Blue was very patient and sympathetic most of the time, but every so often when he was tired, when he had had a bad day at work, and life wasn’t easy for him, with rocketing interest rates and the country tipping fast into a depression—then he would snap if she said she was fed up, telling her she had nothing to be fed up about, constantly telling her they should have moved, that it was like living in a bloody rabbit hutch and what did she think they were going to do for space when the baby came.
And he did have a point, Lucinda thought. The little house looked like the baby department of Peter Jones, with a pram, car seat, and high chair stacked in the hall; the tiny room she had turned into a nursery only just big enough to take the frilled crib, the chest of drawers, and the changing table; and the sleek white, chrome-trimmed bathroom was filled with packs of nappies, a baby bath, and another changing table.
“We can’t move now,” said Lucinda, while thinking wistfully of the huge houses she had rejected, with their nurseries and en suite baby bathrooms, their huge kitchens—God, she was doing a lot for Nigel. “It’s much too late. I’ve only got about six weeks to go—”
“Thank God,” said Blue and walked out, slamming the door.
“How are you feeling then?” Steve Durham said as she walked into his office. “You look wonderful.”
This was so patently untrue that Lucinda felt quite cross.
“I don’t look wonderful, Steve, I look like some kind of two-legged hippo.”
“Nonsense,” he said, and grinned at her. “Anyway, we’re nearly there. Your American friend wrote a very nice letter, very nice indeed, saying exactly what I asked him to. Want to see it?”
“No,” said Lucinda, “I don’t think so. It would just make me cry, thinking what I might be doing, running some chic gallery in the middle of Manhattan and earning megabucks for it.”
“Hmm…” said Steve Durham. He saw her glaring at him and gave her a quick smile. “Course. But then you wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t be having Blue’s baby. Now, I’ve written back to your husband’s solicitor, sorted out his questions, told him both clients are happy with it, and then we’ll put it to the court, send off the consent order, and hopefully get it all done and dusted this side of Christmas. And then you can do what you like with it all. Now he has still got the farm, hasn’t he?”
“Yes, he has. But it’s got to go soon, he says.”
“Not too soon,” said Steve Durham, “or this isn’t going to wash so well. You had better point that out to him, Lucinda, and best not in writing, just give him a call. Say once it’s all over, it’ll be fine to go ahead; in fact, it’ll make it all the more convincing. Now, do you want to have a little chat about setting up this charitable trust?”
When she got home, her head was throbbing; she lay down on the bed and closed her eyes. This was exactly what she didn’t need just now: complicated arrangements and the need to remember dozens of small important things. Like…golly, like she must ring Nigel.
She rang his office; no reply. What was he doing, out in the middle of the day—and where was that annoying secretary of his? She dialled the home number, and when the answering machine cut in, “Hello, Nigel,” she said, “it’s Lucinda here. Hope you’re well. I need to speak to you as soon as poss, so give me a call either today or tomorrow.” And then she fell asleep.
It was terrible. And absolutely glorious. And how had she allowed herself to do this, to get into a full-blown, wonderfully brilliant affair; and worse than that to admit what she had known all along, of course, of course: that she was in love, in love for the first time, as she could now see it was. Proper love, heart-possessing, mind-engrossing, completely obsessing love.
She’d thrown caution not just to the wind but into a reckless hurricane. She told lies to everyone: to her colleagues, to her children, to her husband, to her friends. She had to see clients, she said, she had to attend late meetings, she had to visit her dentist, her doctor—if anything really went wrong with her health it would be impossible to claim any further appointments and she would die of a ruptured appendix and it would serve her right. It wasn’t just to go to bed with Joel, their meetings; sometimes it was just to snatch a coffee break, a drink after work, spending time together, talking, laughing, quite often in Debbie’s case crying—it was as important as sex. The sex was amazing, flying, shouting, blazing, glorious sex; but it was Joel himself that she loved, Joe
l, who was funny and solemn and tender and crude and sweet and harsh, and loving and lovable. The thing that had swung it, first swung her back into bed with him, was not that he had finished with Maggie, but an unbelievable story that she had believed.
“Do you know when I realised I cared about you?” he had said at the first meeting, two days after he had come to her house. “Really cared about you, I mean. When I was in the Bahamas, fresh from you, from enjoying you, I met this girl, a model. Quite a famous one.”
“Called?”
“Bibi.”
“I’ve never heard of her,” she said, cross.
“OK. She was in Vogue this month, she told me.”
“And—”
“She came to my room. We shared some champagne, she wasn’t even staying in my hotel, I met her at the other place, she’d tracked me down.”
“Am I supposed to be impressed that she fancied you so much?”
“I want you to be. And then she stood up and started taking her clothes off. Well, she didn’t have much on—a sort of silk tunic thing and some trousers. That was it. And she just stood there, totally sublime, this glorious colour all over—and you know what? I told her to go away. Just go away. I thought of you, with those wonderful round firm little breasts, and that flat stomach of yours, how did you ever house all those babies there, and your gorgeous thick, black bush, and I just didn’t want her. I wanted you. Now you can believe me or not, as you wish, but it’s the truth, Debbie.”
“Did you really send her away?”
“I did.”
“And was it really because of me?”
“It was. I think you’re a hundred times lovelier, and sexier, and more lovable.”
“You’re mad,” she said. “Completely mad.”
“Maybe. Mad with love. Now, you going to meet me again? Like—tonight?”
“Yes,” she said. “Tonight.”
That was when the lying had to begin.
An Absolute Scandal Page 45
