The Gatecrasher

by Madeleine Wickham

  Fleur’s gaze flitted idly over to Richard. He was leaning back in his chair, looking out of the conservatory into the garden, with an apparent look of contentment on his face, as though he were beginning a holiday. As he felt her eyes on him, he glanced up and smiled. Fleur smiled back. It was easy to smile at Richard, she thought. He was a good man, kind and considerate, and not nearly as dull as she had first feared. These last few weeks had been fun.

  But it was money she needed, not fun. She hadn’t persevered so hard in order to end up with a limited income and holidays in Majorca. Fleur gave an inward sigh, and took another sip of tea. Sometimes the effort of pursuing money quite exhausted her; sometimes she began to think that Majorca would not be so bad after all. But that was weakness. She hadn’t come so far simply to give up. She would achieve her goal. She had to achieve it. Apart from anything else, it was the only goal she had.

  She looked up at Richard and smiled.

  “Is this the largest house on the Greyworth estate?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Richard. “One of the largest, I suppose.”

  “The Tillings have got eight bedrooms,” volunteered Antony. “And a snooker room.”

  “There you are.” Richard grinned. “Trust Antony to be on the ball.”

  Antony said nothing. He found the sight of Fleur across the table from him unsettling. Was this woman really going out with his dad? She was gorgeous. Gorgeous! And she made his dad look different. When the two of them had arrived the night before, all smart and glamorous looking, they’d looked as if they came from someone else’s family. His dad didn’t look like his dad. And Fleur certainly didn’t look like anyone’s mum. But she wasn’t a floosie, either, thought Antony. She wasn’t a dolly-bird. She was just . . . beautiful.

  Reaching for his cup, Richard saw Antony staring at Fleur with undisguised admiration. And in spite of himself, he felt a little dart of pride. That’s right, my boy, he felt like saying. Life’s not over for me yet. At the back of his mind ran guilty thoughts like a train: remembered images of Emily sitting just where Fleur now sat; memories of family breakfasts with Emily’s tinkling laugh rising above the conversation. But he stamped on them every time they surfaced; refused to allow his sentimentality to get the better of him. Life was for living; happiness was for taking; Fleur was a wonderful woman. Sitting in the bright sunshine, there seemed nothing more to it than that.

  After breakfast, Richard disappeared to get ready for golf. As he had explained to Fleur, today was the Banting Cup. Any other Saturday, he would have forgone golf to show her around the place. But the Banting Cup . . .

  “Don’t worry,” Fleur had said at once. “I’ll be fine.”

  “We can meet up for a drink afterwards,” Richard had added. “Gillian will bring you down to the clubhouse.” He’d paused, and his brow had wrinkled. “Do you mind?”

  “Of course not,” Fleur had said, laughing. “I’ll have a lovely morning on my own.”

  “You won’t be on your own!” Richard had said. “Gillian will look after you.”

  Now Fleur eyed Gillian thoughtfully. She was taking clean plates from the dishwasher and stacking them in a pile. Every time she bent down she gave a little sigh; every time she stood up she looked as though the effort might kill her.

  “Lovely plates,” said Fleur, getting up. “Simply beautiful. Did you choose them?”

  “What, these?” said Gillian. She looked at the plate in her hand as though she hated it. “Oh no. Emily chose them. Richard’s wife.” She paused, and her voice became harsher. “She was my sister.”

  “I see,” said Fleur.

  Well, it hadn’t taken long to get on to that subject, she thought. The dead, blameless wife. Perhaps she had underestimated this Gillian. Perhaps the attack would begin now. The pursed lips, the hissed threats. You’re not welcome in my kitchen. She stood, watching Gillian and waiting. But Gillian’s face remained impassive; pale and pouchy like an undercooked scone.

  “Do you play golf?” said Fleur eventually.

  “A little.”

  “I don’t play at all, I’m afraid. I must try to learn.”

  Gillian didn’t reply. She had begun to put the plates back on the dresser. They were hand-painted pottery plates, each decorated with a different farmyard animal. If they were going to be displayed, thought Fleur, they should at least go the right way up. But Gillian didn’t seem to notice. Each plate went back on the dresser with a crash, until the top shelf and half the second shelf were filled with animals at assorted angles. Then all of a sudden the animals came to an end and she began to fill the rest of the shelves with blue and white patterned china. No! Fleur wanted to exclaim. Can’t you see how ugly that looks? It would take two minutes to make it look nice.

  “Lovely,” she said, as Gillian finished. “I adore farmhouse kitchens.”

  “It’s difficult to keep clean,” said Gillian glumly. “All these tiles. You chop vegetables and all the bits go in between.”

  Fleur looked around vaguely, wondering what she could find to say on the subject of chopped vegetables. The room reminded her uncomfortably of a kitchen in Scotland in which she’d shivered for an entire shooting season, only to discover at the end that her titled host was not only heavily in debt, but had been two-timing her all along. Bloody upper classes, she thought savagely. Waste-of-time losers.

  “Excuse me,” said Gillian. “I’ve got to get to that cupboard.” She reached down, past Fleur, and emerged with a grater.

  “Let me help,” said Fleur. “I’m sure there’s something I can do.”

  “It’s easier if I do it myself.” Gillian’s shoulders were hunched and her eyes refused to meet Fleur’s. Fleur gave an inward shrug.

  “OK,” she said. “Well, I might pop upstairs and do some bits and pieces. What time are we going to the clubhouse?”

  “Twelve,” said Gillian, without looking up.

  Plenty of time, thought Fleur, as she made her way up the stairs. With Richard and Antony both out and Gillian grating away in the kitchen, now was the perfect opportunity to find out what she needed. She walked slowly down the corridor, mentally valuing as she went. The wallpaper was dull but expensive; the pictures were dull and cheap. All the good paintings had obviously been crammed into the drawing room downstairs, where visitors could see them. Emily Favour, she thought, had probably been the sort of woman to wear expensive dresses and cheap underclothes.

  She walked straight past the door to her bedroom and turned down a tiny flight of stairs. The beauty of being new to a house was that one could always claim to be lost. Especially since the guided tour the night before had been so vague. “Down there’s my office,” Richard had said, gesturing towards the stairs. And Fleur had not so much as flickered, but had given a tiny yawn and said, “All that wine’s making me feel snoozy!”

  Now she descended the flight of stairs with determination. At last she was starting on the real business in hand. Behind that door she would discover the true extent of Richard’s potential—whether he was worth bothering with, and how much she could take him for. She would quickly work out whether it was worth waiting for a particular time in the year; if there were any unusual factors she should take into account. She suspected not. Most men’s financial affairs were remarkably similar. It was the men themselves who differed.

  The thought of a new project filled her with a slight exhilaration, and she felt her heart beat more quickly as she reached for the door handle and pushed. But the door didn’t budge. She tried again—but it was no good. The door to the office was locked.

  For a few seconds she stared at the glossy white panels in outrage. What kind of man locked the door to the office in his own house? She tried the handle one more time. Definitely locked. She felt like giving it a little kick. Then self-discipline took over. There was no point lingering there and risking being seen. Quickly she turned and retreated up the steps, down the corridor and into her room. She sat down on her bed and gazed crossly at her refl
ection in the mirror. What was she going to do now? That door stood between her and all the details she needed. How could she proceed without the right information?

  “Damn and blast,” she said aloud. “Blast and damn. Damn and blast.” Eventually the sound of her own voice cheered her. It wasn’t so bad. She would work something out. Richard couldn’t keep the office locked all the time—and if he did, she would just have to find the key. Meanwhile . . . Fleur ran an idle hand through her hair. Meanwhile, she could always have a nice long bath and wash her hair.

  At half-past eleven Gillian came trudging up the stairs. Fleur thought for a moment, then, still wearing her dressing gown, she came out onto the landing. Gillian would prove a distraction, if nothing else.

  “Gillian, what shall I wear to the clubhouse?” she asked. She tried to meet Gillian’s eye. “Tell me what to wear.” Gillian gave a little shrug.

  “There aren’t really any rules. Fairly smart, I suppose.”

  “Too vague! You’ll have to come and help me decide. Come on!” Fleur went back into her room and after a moment’s hesitation, Gillian followed.

  “My smartest clothes are all black,” said Fleur. “Does anyone at the golf club wear black?”

  “Not really,” said Gillian.

  “I didn’t think so.” Fleur gave a dramatic little sigh. “And I so wanted to blend in. Can I see what you’re wearing?”

  “I’m not wearing anything special,” said Gillian in a rough, almost angry voice. “Just a blue dress.”

  “Blue! I tell you what . . .” Fleur rummaged around in one of her bags. “Do you want to borrow this?” She produced a long blue silk scarf and draped it over Gillian’s shoulder. “Some fool gave it to me. Do I look the sort of woman who can wear blue?” She rolled her eyes at Gillian and lowered her voice. “He also seemed to think I was size eight and liked wearing red underwear.” She shrugged. “What can you do?”

  Gillian stared back at Fleur, feeling her colour rise. Something unfamiliar was happening at the back of her throat. It felt a bit like laughter.

  “But it should suit you perfectly,” said Fleur. “It’s exactly the same colour as your eyes. I wish I had blue eyes!” She scrutinized Gillian’s eyes and Gillian began to feel hot.

  “Thank you,” she said abruptly. She looked down at the blue silk. “I’ll try it. But I’m not sure it’ll suit the dress.”

  “Shall I come and help you? I know how to tie these things.”

  “No!” Gillian almost shouted. Fleur was overwhelming her. She had to get away. “I’ll just go now and change. And I’ll see.” She hurried out of the room.

  In the safety of her own bedroom Gillian stopped. She picked up the end of the scarf and rubbed the smooth fabric across her face. It smelt sweet. Like Fleur. Sweet and soft and bright.

  Gillian sat down at her dressing table. Fleur’s voice rang in her ears. A bubble of laughter was still at the back of her throat. She felt enlivened; out of breath; almost overcome. That’s charm, she suddenly thought. Real charm wasn’t the gushing and kisses of the frosted women at the golf club. Emily had been called a charming woman, but her eyes had held splinters of ice and her tinkling laugh had been saccharine and humourless. Fleur’s eyes were warm and all-inclusive and when she laughed she made everyone else want to laugh too. That was real charm. Of course Fleur didn’t really mean any of it. She didn’t really want blue eyes; she didn’t really need Gillian’s advice. Nor—Gillian was sure—did she want to blend in with the others at the golf club. But, just for a few seconds, she’d made Gillian feel warm and wanted and in on the joke. Never before had Gillian been in on the joke.

  The clubhouse at Greyworth had been built in an American colonial style, with a large wooden veranda overlooking the eighteenth green.

  “Is this the bar?” asked Fleur as they arrived. She looked around at the tables and chairs; the gins; the flushed, jolly faces.

  “The bar’s in there. But in the summer everyone sits outside. It’s terribly hard to get a table.” Gillian looked around, eyes screwed up. “I think they’re all taken.” She sighed. “What would you like to drink?”

  “A Manhattan,” said Fleur. Gillian looked at her dubiously.

  “What’s that?”

  “They’ll know.”

  “Well . . . all right then.”

  “Wait a moment,” said Fleur. She reached towards Gillian and tugged at the ends of the blue scarf. “You need to drape it more. Like this. Don’t let it get wrinkled up. OK?” Gillian gave a tiny shrug.

  “It’s all such a fuss.”

  “The fuss is what makes it fun,” said Fleur. “Like having seams on your stockings. You have to check them every five minutes.”

  Gillian’s expression became gloomier still.

  “Well, I’ll get the drinks,” she said. “I expect there’ll be an awful queue.”

  “Do you want some help?” Fleur asked.

  “No, you’d better stay out here and wait for a table.”

  She began to walk towards the glass doors leading to the bar. As she reached them she slowed very slightly, almost imperceptibly reached for the ends of the scarf, and pulled them into place. Fleur gave a tiny smile. Then, moving unhurriedly, she turned and looked around the veranda. She was aware that she had begun to attract a few interested glances. Red-faced golfing men were leaning across to their chums; sharp-eyed golfing women were nudging one another.

  Quickly Fleur assessed the tables on the veranda. Some overlooked the golf course, some didn’t. Some had parasols, others didn’t. The best one was in the corner, she decided. It was large and round, and there were only two men sitting at it. Without hesitating, Fleur walked over and smiled at the plumper of the two men. He was dressed in a bright yellow jersey and halfway down a silver tankard of beer.

  “Hello,” she said. “Are you two alone?” The plump man became a degree pinker and cleared his throat.

  “Our wives will be joining us.”

  “Oh dear.” Fleur began to count the chairs. “Might there still be room for my friend and me? She’s just getting our drinks.”

  The men glanced at each other.

  “The thing is,” continued Fleur, “I’d so like to look at the golf course.” She began to edge towards the table. “It’s very beautiful, isn’t it?”

  “One of the best in Surrey,” said the thinner man gruffly.

  “Just look at those trees!” said Fleur, gesturing. Both men followed her gaze. By the time they turned back, she was sitting down on one of the spare chairs. “Have you been playing today?” she said.

  “Now look here,” said one of the men awkwardly. “I don’t mean to . . .”

  “Did you play in the Banting Cup? What exactly is the Banting Cup?”

  “Are you a new member? Because if you are . . .”

  “I’m not a member at all,” said Fleur.

  “You’re not a member? Do you have a guest pass?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Fleur vaguely.

  “This is bloody typical,” said the thinner man to the yellow-jerseyed man. “Absolutely no bloody security.” He turned to Fleur. “Now look, young woman, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you . . .”

  “Young woman?” said Fleur, sparkling at him. “You are kind.”

  He stood up angrily.

  “Are you aware that this is a private club and that trespassers will be prosecuted? Now I think the best thing is for you and your friend . . .”

  “Oh, here comes Gillian,” interrupted Fleur. “Hello, Gillian. These nice men are letting us sit at their table.”

  “Hello, George,” said Gillian. “Is anything wrong?”

  There was a tiny silence, during which Fleur turned unconcernedly away. A confused, embarrassed conversation broke out behind her. The men hadn’t realized that Fleur’s friend was Gillian! They’d had no idea. They’d thought . . . No, of course they hadn’t thought. Well, anyway . . . a small world, wasn’t it? What a small world. And there were the drinks.
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  “Mine’s the Manhattan,” said Fleur, turning round. “How do you do? My name is Fleur Daxeny.”

  “Alistair Lennox.”

  “George Tilling.”

  “I’ve found my guest pass,” said Fleur. “Do you want to see it?” Both the men began to harrumph awkwardly.

  “Any friend of Gillian’s . . .” began one.

  “Actually, I’m more a friend of Richard’s,” said Fleur.

  “An old friend?”

  “No, a new friend.”

  There was a pause, during which a flash of comprehension passed through George Tilling’s eyes. Now you remember, thought Fleur. I’m that piece of gossip your wife was trying to tell you while you were reading the newspaper. Now you wish you’d listened a bit harder, don’t you? And she gave him a tiny smile.

  “You realize you’re the subject of a lot of gossip?” said Alec, as they reached the seventeenth green. Richard gave a little smile, and took out his putter.

  “So I gather.” He looked up at his old friend; kindly and concerned. “What you don’t realize is that being the subject of gossip is actually quite fun.”

  “It’s no joke,” said Alec. His Scottish accent was becoming more pronounced, as it always did when he was anxious. “They’re saying . . .” He broke off.

  “What are they saying?” Richard held up a hand. “Let me putt first.”

  With no hesitation he sank the ball from ten feet.

  “Good shot,” said Alec automatically. “You’re playing well today.”

  “What are they saying? Come on, Alec. You might as well get it off your chest.” Alec paused. A look of pain passed across his face.

  “They’re saying that if you persist with this woman, you might not be nominated for captain after all.” Richard’s mouth tightened.

  “I see,” he said. “And have any of them actually met ‘this woman,’ as you so charmingly put it?”