She was a fool. Of course everything couldn’t have continued like that for ever. For one thing, Antony was nearly grown up. Before long he’d be leaving school and going off to university. And did she expect to carry on living at The Maples then? Just her and Richard? She had no idea what Richard thought of her. Did he see her as any more than Emily’s sister? Did he consider her a friend? Part of the family? Or did he expect her to leave, now that Emily was dead? She had no idea. In all the years she’d lived in his house, she’d rarely spoken to Richard directly. Their communications, such as they were, had always been through Emily. And now that Emily had gone, they didn’t communicate at all. In the months since her death they had discussed nothing more significant than arrangements for meals. Gillian had not questioned her position; neither had Richard.
But now everything was different. Now there was a woman called Fleur. A woman she knew nothing about.
“You’ll love her,” Richard had added just before putting the phone down. This Gillian doubted. Of course, he’d meant “love” in the casual, modern use of the word. She’d heard it bandied about by the women in the clubhouse bar—I love your dress . . . Don’t you just love this scent. Love, love love. As though it meant nothing; as though it weren’t a sacrosanct word, a precious syllable, to be used sparingly. Gillian loved human beings, not handbags. She knew with a fierce certainty whom she loved, whom she had loved, whom she would always love. But in her adult life she had never uttered the word aloud.
Outside, a cloud moved, and a shaft of sunlight landed on the table.
“It’s a nice day,” said Gillian, listening to her voice fall into the dead silence of the kitchen. She’d been talking to herself more and more, recently. Sometimes, with Richard up in London and Antony away at school, she was alone in the house for days at a time. Empty, lonely days. She didn’t have any friends at Greyworth; when the rest of the family were away, the phone soon stopped trilling. Many of Emily’s friends had gained the impression over the years that Gillian was more a paid housekeeper than a member of the family—an impression which Emily had never bothered to correct.
Emily. Gillian’s thoughts paused. Her little sister Emily, dead. She closed her eyes and rested her head in her hands. What kind of world was it where a younger sibling died before the elder? Where a married sister’s frail body might be almost destroyed by repeated miscarriages, while her spinster sister’s sturdy frame was never put to the test? Gillian had nursed Emily through each miscarriage, nursed her through the birth of Philippa and—much later—Antony. She’d watched as Emily’s body gradually gave up; watched as everything faded away. And now she was left alone, living in a family that wasn’t really hers, waiting for the arrival of her sister’s replacement.
Maybe it was time to leave and start on a new life. After Emily’s generous bequest she was now financially independent. She could go anywhere, do anything. A series of visions flipped through her mind like the pictures in a retirement plan brochure. She could buy a cottage by the sea. She could take up gardening. She could travel.
Into Gillian’s thoughts crept the memory of an offer made many years ago, an offer which had thrilled her so much that she’d run and told Emily straight away. A trip round the world, with Verity Standish.
“You remember Verity,” she’d said excitedly to Emily, who stood by the fireplace, fiddling with a piece of porcelain. “She’s just taking off! Flying to Cairo in October and going on from there. She wants me to come too! Isn’t it exciting?”
And she’d waited for Emily to smile, to ask questions, to welcome Gillian’s delight as wholeheartedly as Gillian had welcomed Emily’s own many happinesses over the years. But Emily had turned, and without waiting for Gillian’s breath to subside, had said, “I’m pregnant. Four months.”
Gillian had caught her breath and stared at Emily, startled tears of delight springing into her eyes. She had thought—everyone had thought—that Emily would never have another child. Every one of her pregnancies since Philippa had ended in miscarriage before twelve weeks; it had seemed unlikely that she would ever carry another baby to term.
She’d hurried over and clasped Emily’s hands in joy.
“Four months! Oh, Emily!” But Emily’s blue eyes had bored into Gillian’s reproachfully.
“Which means the baby’s due in December.”
Suddenly Gillian had realized what she meant. And for once in her life she’d tried to resist Emily’s dominance.
“You won’t mind if I still go on the trip?” She’d adopted a cheery, matter-of-fact voice. “Richard will be very supportive, I’m sure. And I’ll be back in January, I can take over then.” She had begun to falter. “It’s just that this is such a wonderful . . .”
“Oh you go!” Emily had exclaimed in a brittle voice. “I can easily hire a maternity nurse. And a nanny for Philippa. It’ll be fine.” She’d flashed Gillian a little smile, and Gillian had stared back at her with a miserable wariness. She knew this game of Emily’s; knew that she was always too slow to anticipate the next move.
“And I’ll probably keep the nanny on after you come back.” Emily’s silvery voice had travelled across the room and lodged itself like a painful splinter in Gillian’s chest. “She can have your room. You won’t mind, will you? You’ll probably be living elsewhere by then.”
She should have gone anyway. She should have called Emily’s bluff and gone with Verity. She could have travelled for a few months, come back and joined the family again. Emily wouldn’t have rejected her help. She felt sure of that now. She should have gone. The words echoed bitterly in her mind and she felt her entire body tense up as the regrets of fifteen years circled around her like poisoned blood.
But she had not gone. She had caved in, as she’d always caved in to Emily, and she had stayed for the birth of Antony. And it was after his birth that she’d realized that she could never go; that she could never leave the house by her own choice. Because Emily didn’t love little Antony. But Gillian loved him more than anything else in the world.
“So, tell me about Gillian,” said Fleur, leaning comfortably back in her seat.
“Gillian?” said Richard absently. He put on his indicator. “Go on, let me in, you idiot.”
“Yes, Gillian,” said Fleur, as the car changed lanes. “How long has she been living with you?”
“Oh, years. Since . . . I don’t know, since Philippa was born, maybe.”
“And do you get on well with her?”
“Oh yes.”
Fleur glanced at Richard. His face was blank and uninterested. So much for Gillian.
“And Antony,” she said. “I haven’t met him yet either.”
“Oh, you’ll like Antony,” said Richard. A sudden enthusiasm came into his face. “He’s a good lad. Plays off twelve, which is pretty good for his age.”
“Marvellous,” said Fleur politely. The more time she spent with Richard, the more clear it was becoming that she was going to have to take up this appalling game. She tried to imagine herself in a pair of golfing shoes, with tassels and spikes, and gave a little shudder.
“It’s lovely country round here,” she said, looking out of the window. “I didn’t realize Surrey had sheep.”
“The odd sheep,” said Richard. “The odd cow too.” He paused, and his mouth began to twitch humorously. Fleur waited. The twitching mouth meant he was going to make a joke. “You’ll meet some of Surrey’s finest cows down at the golf club,” said Richard eventually, and gave a snort of laughter. Fleur giggled along, amused at him rather than the joke. Was this really the same stiff, dull man she’d met six weeks ago? She could hardly believe it. Richard seemed to have plunged into a life of merriment with an almost zealous determination. Now it was he who phoned her up with outlandish suggestions, who cracked jokes, who planned outings and amusements.
In part he was trying to compensate, she guessed, for the lack of physical intimacy in their relationship; a lack which he clearly believed troubled her as much as it tro
ubled him. She had told him once or twice that it didn’t matter—but not too convincingly; not too unflatteringly. And so, to allay both their frustrations, he’d begun to fill their nights with substitutes. If he could not entertain her in bed, he could entertain her in theatres and cocktail bars and night clubs. Every morning he called her at ten o’clock with a plan for the evening. To her surprise, Fleur had started to look forward to his calls.
“Sheringham St. Martin!” she suddenly exclaimed, noticing a sign out of the window.
“Yes, it’s a pretty village,” said Richard.
“That’s where Xavier Formby’s opened his new restaurant. I was reading about it. The Pumpkin House. Apparently it’s wonderful. We must go some time.”
“Let’s go right now,” said Richard at once. “Have supper there. Perfect! I’ll give them a call, see if there’s a table.”
Without pausing, he reached down to his phone and punched in the number for Directory Enquiries. Fleur looked at him carefully. Was there any reason for her to point out that this Gillian character had probably organized dinner for them already? Richard didn’t seem to care—in fact he seemed almost oblivious of Gillian. In some families it was well worth winning round the womenfolk—but what was the point here? She might as well play along with Richard. After all, he was the one with the money. And if he wanted to go out to dinner, who was she to persuade him otherwise?
“You have?” Richard was saying. “Well, we’ll be right along.” Fleur beamed at him.
“You’re so clever.”
“Carpe diem,” said Richard. “Seize the day.” He smiled at her. “You know, when I was a boy I never understood that saying. I thought it was ‘sees’ as in ‘to see.’ Sees the day. It never seemed to make sense.”
“But it makes sense now?” said Fleur.
“Oh yes,” said Richard. “It makes more and more sense.”
The phone rang at seven o’clock, just as Antony had finished laying the table. As Gillian answered, he stood back to admire it. There were lilies in vases, and lacy white napkins and candles waiting to be lit, and from the kitchen was coming a wonderful smell of roast lamb. Time for a gin, thought Antony. He looked at his watch. Surely his father would be here soon?
Suddenly Gillian appeared at the door of the dining room, wearing the blue dress she always put on for special occasions. Her face was grim, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.
“That was your father,” she said. “He won’t be here till later.”
“Oh. How much later?” Antony straightened a knife.
“About ten, he said. He and this woman are eating out.” Antony’s head shot up.
“Eating out? But they can’t!”
“They’re at the restaurant now.”
“But you’ve made supper! Did you tell him? Did you say there was roast lamb waiting in the oven?” Gillian shrugged. She had the resigned, weary expression on her face that Antony hated.
“Your father can eat out if he likes,” she said.
“You should have said something!” cried Antony.
“It’s not for me to tell your father what to do.”
“But if he’d realized, I’m sure . . .” Antony broke off and looked at Gillian in frustration. Why the hell hadn’t she said something to Dad? When he got back and saw what he’d done, he’d feel terrible.
“Well, it’s too late now. He didn’t say which restaurant he was at.”
She looked almost pleased, thought Antony, as though she got some satisfaction from having all her efforts wasted.
“So we’ll just eat it all ourselves?” He sounded aggressive, he knew, but he didn’t care.
“I suppose so.” Gillian looked down at herself. “I’ll go and get out of this dress,” she said.
“Why don’t you keep it on?” said Antony, desperate somehow to salvage the occasion. “You look nice.”
“It’ll get all creased. There’s no point messing it up.” She turned, and made her way towards the stairs.
Well fuck it, thought Antony. If you don’t want to make an effort, then neither do I. He remembered Xanthe Forrester and Mex Taylor that morning. They had actually invited him out, hadn’t they? Maybe they weren’t so bad, after all.
“I might go out then,” he said. “If we’re not having a big dinner or anything.”
“All right,” said Gillian, without looking back.
Antony went over to the phone and dialled Fifi Tilling’s number.
“Hello?” Fifi’s voice was bubbling over with fun; there was music in the background.
“Hi, it’s Antony. Antony Favour.”
“Oh right. Hi, Antony. Hey, everyone,” she called, “Antony’s on the phone.” In the background, he thought he could hear sniggers.
“I wasn’t going to be free this evening,” he said awkwardly, “but now I am. So I could come round or something. Xanthe said everyone was getting together.”
“Oh. Yeah.” There was a pause. “Actually we’re all about to go out to a club.”
“Great. Well, I’m on for that.” Did he sound friendly and laid-back, or anxious and desperate? He couldn’t tell.
“The thing is, actually, the car’s full.”
“Oh, right.” Antony looked at the receiver; not sure. Was she trying to say . . .
“Sorry about that.” Yes, she was.
“No problem.” He tried to sound casual. Amused, even. “Maybe another time.”
“Oh. Yeah. Sure.” Fifi sounded vague. She wasn’t even listening to him.
“Well, bye then,” said Antony.
“Bye Antony. See you around.”
Antony put the phone down and felt a wave of humiliation rise through him. They would have found room for him if they’d wanted to. He looked down at his hands and saw that they were shaking. He felt hot with embarrassment, even though he was alone in the room.
It was all his bloody dad’s fault—if he’d arrived on time, that phone call wouldn’t have happened. Antony leaned back in his chair. He found that thought gratifying. Yeah, it was his dad’s fault. An invigorating resentment began to wash through him. And it was Gillian’s fault too. What was her bloody problem? Why hadn’t she just given his dad some grief and told him to come right home?
For a few minutes he sat, fiddling with a napkin, thinking how pissed off he was with them both, and looking at the table which he’d laid. What an effort for nothing. Well, it could all just stay there. He wasn’t about to put everything away again.
Then it occurred to him that Gillian might call down and suggest that he did exactly that, so before she could he got up and wandered into the kitchen. The lamb was still roasting away in the oven, and sitting majestically on the table was the pavlova, smothered in whipped cream and decorated with kiwi fruit. Antony looked at it. If they weren’t going to do supper properly, then there was no harm in him having a bit, was there? He pulled out a chair, picked up the remote control and zapped it several times at the screen of the television. Then, as the kitchen filled with the glitzy sound of a game show, he picked up a spoon, dug it into the shiny meringue, and began to munch.
Chapter 5
Breakfast had been laid in the conservatory.
“What a lovely room,” said Fleur politely, looking at Gillian’s face, searching for eye contact. But Gillian was looking down at her plate. She had not once met Fleur’s eye since she and Richard had arrived the night before.
“We like it,” said Richard cheerfully. “Especially in the spring. In the summer, it sometimes gets too hot.”
There was another silence. Antony put down his teacup and everyone seemed to listen intently to the little tinkle.
“We built the conservatory about . . . ten years ago,” continued Richard. “Is that right, Gillian?”
“I expect so,” said Gillian. “More tea, anyone?”
“Yes please,” said Fleur.
“Right. Well I’ll make another pot, then,” said Gillian, and she disappeared into the kitchen.
&nb
sp; Fleur took a bite of toast. Things were going rather well, she thought, despite the uneaten roast lamb and pavlova. It had been the boy, Antony, who had confronted them the night before, almost as soon as they had got inside the door, and informed them that Gillian had spent all day cooking. Richard had looked horror-struck, and Fleur had put on a most convincing show of dismay. Fortunately, no-one seemed to blame her. Equally fortunately, it was obvious this morning that no-one was going to mention the matter again.
“Here you are.” Gillian had returned with the teapot.
“Wonderful,” said Fleur, smiling into Gillian’s unreceptive face. It was going to be easy, she thought, if all she would have to deal with were awkward silences and a few resentful glares. Glares didn’t bother her at all; neither did raised eyebrows; neither did sidelong comments. That was the blessedness of preying on the reserved British middle classes, she thought, sipping at her tea. They never seemed to talk to one another; they never wanted to rock the boat; they seemed almost more willing to lose all their money than to undergo the embarrassment of a direct confrontation. Which meant that for someone like her, the way was clear.
She looked curiously at Gillian. For someone who presumably had access to funds, Gillian was wearing particularly hideous clothes. Dark green trousers—slacks, Fleur supposed they would be called—and a blue embroidered cotton shirt with short, workmanlike sleeves. As she leaned over with the teapot, Fleur glimpsed Gillian’s upper arms—solid slabs of white, opaque, almost dead-looking skin.
Antony’s clothes were a bit better. Fairly standard jeans and a rather nice red shirt. It was a shame about his birthmark. Had they not been able to treat it? Possibly not, because it stretched right across his eye. If he’d been a girl, of course, he’d have been able to wear makeup . . . Other than that, thought Fleur, he was a handsome boy. He took after his father.
The Gatecrasher Page 6
