The Gatecrasher

by Madeleine Wickham

  And then, before she could stop herself, it happened. Fleur put her cup down, stared straight at Nura and said, “I do so admire your diamond ring, Nura. I admire it greatly. I wish I had one like it.”

  The room fell silent. Nura turned pale; her lips began to quiver. Her eyes met Fleur’s, shocked and hurt. There was an infinitesimal pause, during which no-one seemed to breathe. Everyone in the room leaned forward. Then, slowly and carefully, Nura loosened the diamond ring from her finger, reached out and dropped it into Fleur’s lap. She looked at it for a moment, then rose and left the room. Fleur’s last image of Nura was two dark, betrayed eyes.

  That night, Fleur had sold the diamond for a hundred and twenty thousand dollars. She’d caught a flight to New York the next morning and she’d never seen Nura again.

  Now, nearly twenty-five years later, sitting in Eleanor Forrester’s garden, Fleur felt a wrenching in her chest, a hotness in her eyes. If I end up mediocre, she thought furiously—if I end up the English housewife I could have been all along—then the diamond was for nothing. I lost Nura for nothing. And I can’t stand that. I can’t stand it.

  She blinked hard, and looked up, and focused anew on the gilt chain which Eleanor Forrester was holding aloft. I’ll buy a necklace, she thought, and I’ll have brunch, and then I’ll take Richard Favour for everything I can.

  Oliver Sterndale leaned back in his chair and looked at Richard with mild exasperation.

  “You do realize,” he said for the third time, “that once this money goes into trust, it’s not your money anymore?”

  “I know,” said Richard. “That’s the whole point. It’ll be the children’s.”

  “It’s a lot of money.”

  “I know it’s a lot of money.”

  They both looked down at the numbers in front of them. The figure in question was underlined at the bottom of the page—a single one followed by a trail of noughts like a little caterpillar.

  “It’s not that much,” said Richard. “Not really. And I do want the children to have it. Emily and I agreed.”

  Oliver sighed, and began to tap his pen against his hand.

  “Death duties . . .” he began.

  “This isn’t about death duties. This is about . . . security.”

  “You can give your children security without signing over vast amounts of money to them. Why not buy Philippa a house?”

  “Why not give her a vast amount of money?” There was the glimmer of a smile on Richard’s face. “In the end it doesn’t make much difference.”

  “It makes a huge difference! All sorts of things could happen to make you regret handing over your entire fortune prematurely.”

  “Hardly my entire fortune!”

  “A substantial part of it.”

  “Emily and I discussed it. We agreed that it would be perfectly possible to live comfortably on the remainder. And there’s always the company.”

  The lawyer leaned back in his chair, thoughts battling against one another in his face.

  “When did you decide all this?” he asked at last. “Remind me.”

  “Around two years ago.”

  “And did Emily know then that . . .”

  “That she was going to die? Yes, she did. But I don’t see what relevance that has.” Oliver stared at Richard. For a moment he seemed about to say something, then he sighed and looked away.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he muttered. “What I do know,” he stated more firmly, “is that by giving away such a large quantity of money you may be hampering your own future.”

  “Oliver, don’t be melodramatic!”

  “What you and Emily may not have considered is the possibility that your life might change to some degree after she died. I understand you have a . . . friend staying at the moment.”

  “A woman, yes.” Richard smiled. “Her name’s Fleur.”

  “Well then.” Oliver paused. “It may seem a ridiculous idea now. But what would happen if you were, say, to remarry?”

  “It doesn’t seem a ridiculous idea,” said Richard slowly. “But I can’t see what it has to do with giving this money to Philippa and Antony. What does money have to do with marriage?” The lawyer looked aghast.

  “You’re not serious?”

  “Half-serious.” Richard relented. “Look, Oliver, I’ll think about it. I won’t rush into anything. But you know, I’m going to have to do something with the money sooner or later. I’ve been gradually liquidizing it over the last few months.”

  “It won’t do any harm in a deposit account for a while. Better to lose a bit of income than rush into the wrong decision.” Oliver suddenly looked up. “You haven’t told either of the children about this plan? They aren’t expecting it?”

  “Oh no. Emily and I agreed it would be better for them not to know. And also that they should wait till the age of thirty before coming into control of the money. We didn’t want them thinking they didn’t have to make an effort in life.”

  “Very wise. And no-one else knows?”

  “No. No-one else.”

  Oliver sighed and pressed the buzzer on his desk for more coffee.

  “Well, I suppose that’s something.”

  The money was his. Practically his. As soon as Philippa turned thirty . . . Lambert’s grip tightened irritably on the steering wheel. What was so magic about the age of thirty? What would she have at the age of thirty that she didn’t have at the age of twenty-eight?

  When Emily had first told him about Philippa’s money, he’d thought she meant straight away. Next week. He’d felt an exploding exhilaration rush through his body, which must have shown in his face, because she’d smiled—a satisfied smile—and said, “She won’t come into it till she’s thirty, of course.” And he’d smiled back knowingly, and said “Of course,” when really he’d been thinking, Why not? Why the fuck not!

  Bloody Emily. Of course she’d done it deliberately. Told him early so she could watch him waiting. It was just another of her power games. Lambert smiled unwillingly to himself. He missed Emily. She’d been the only one in this whole blasted family that he’d really clicked with, from the moment they’d first met. It had been at a company reception, soon after he’d been taken on as technical director. She’d been standing quietly next to Richard, listening to the jovial anecdotes of the marketing director—a man whom, it later transpired, she despised. Lambert’s eyes had caught hers off-guard—and in an instant he’d seen through that gentle, docile manner to the steely contempt behind. He’d seen the real Emily. As she’d met his gaze she’d clearly realized how much she’d given away. “Introduce me to this nice young man,” she’d immediately said to Richard. And as Lambert’s hand had met hers, her mouth had twisted up in a faint acknowledgement.

  Two weeks later he’d been invited to The Maples for the weekend. He’d bought a new blazer, played golf with Richard and taken walks round the garden with Emily. She had done most of the talking. She’d spoken on a series of vague, apparently unconnected topics. Her dislike of the marketing director; her admiration for those who understood computers; her desire for Lambert to become acquainted with the rest of her family. Some weeks after that, the marketing director had been fired for sending out a computer mailshot full of embarrassing mistakes. It was about the same time, remembered Lambert, that Richard had upgraded Lambert’s company car. “Emily’s been chiding me,” he’d said with a smile. “She thinks we’ll lose you if we don’t treat you properly!”

  And then he’d been invited down to The Maples again, and introduced to Philippa. Philippa’s boyfriend Jim had been there too, a long-limbed lad of twenty-two who had just left university and wasn’t quite sure what he wanted to do next. But as Emily had later explained to everyone in the clubhouse bar, Lambert had quite literally swept Philippa off her feet. “On the sixteenth hole!” she’d added, with a little laugh. “Philippa lost her ball in that boggy patch. She got stuck, and Lambert just lifted her up and carried her back to the fairway!” Now Lambert frowned at the mem
ory. Philippa had been heavier than he expected; he’d nearly pulled a muscle heaving her up out of that mud. On the other hand, she’d also been richer than he’d expected. He’d married Philippa thinking he was buying himself financial security. The news that he was in fact going to be extremely rich had come as an unexpected prize.

  He glanced out of the car window. The dreary suburbs of outer London were beginning to turn into Surrey; they’d be at Greyworth in half an hour. Philippa was silent in the seat next to him, engrossed in one of her romantic novels. His wife, the millionairess. The multimillionairess, if Emily had been speaking the truth. Except she wasn’t a millionairess, not yet. A familiar resentment ran through Lambert and he felt his teeth begin to grind together. It was unreasonable, treating Philippa like a child who couldn’t be trusted. If she was to have the money anyway, then why not give it to her straight away? And why keep it a secret from her? Neither she nor Antony seemed to have any inkling that they were potentially very rich people: that they would never have to work if they didn’t want to; that life was going to be easy for them. When Philippa sighed and fretted over the price of a new pair of shoes, Lambert felt like shouting, For God’s sake, you could afford twenty pairs if you wanted them! But he never did. He didn’t want his wife planning how to spend her money. He had plans enough of his own.

  He glanced in his rearview mirror at a Lagonda roaring up the fast lane and his grip tightened covetously on the wheel. Two years, he thought. Only two years to go. His only problem at the moment was the bank. Lambert frowned. He had to think of a solution to the bank problem. Fucking morons. Did they want the business of a potentially very rich person, or what? In the last few weeks, one idiot after another had been calling him, asking to arrange a meeting, querying his overdraft again and again. He was going to have to do something, before they got it into their little heads to call Philippa. She didn’t know anything about it. She didn’t even know he had that third account.

  Again, Lambert went over the possibilities in his mind. The first was to ignore the bank completely. The second was to go along and see them, admit he didn’t have the funds to pay off the overdraft and get an extension on it until Philippa came into her money. A two-year extension? It wasn’t inconceivable. But neither was it very likely. They might decide they needed more assurance than that. They might decide to call his employer for a guarantee. Lambert scowled. They’d call Richard. He could just imagine Richard’s sanctimonious attitude. Perfect, organized Richard, who never even had a gas bill outstanding. He would call Lambert into his office. He would talk about living within one’s means. He’d quote fucking Dickens at him.

  No. That wouldn’t do. Lambert paused, and took a deep breath. The third option was somehow to keep the piranhas at the bank happy. Lob a healthy chunk of money at them. Fifty thousand pounds or so. At the same time, he could imply that he considered their lack of trust in him most surprising, bearing in mind his future prospects. He could talk about taking his money elsewhere. Put the wind up them properly. Lambert smiled grimly to himself. That was the best option of the three. By far the best. It had almost no disadvantages—just one. Which was that he didn’t have fifty thousand pounds. Not yet.

  Chapter 7

  As they pulled into the drive of The Maples, Philippa looked up from her romantic novel with bleary eyes.

  “Are we here already?”

  “No, we’re on fucking Mars.”

  “I haven’t finished! Give me two minutes. I must just see what happens. I mean, I know what’s going to happen, but I must just see . . .” She tailed off. Already her eyes were back down on the page, greedily devouring the text like a box of Milk Tray.

  “For God’s sake,” said Lambert. “Well, I’m not sitting around here.” He got out of the car and banged the door shut. Philippa didn’t flicker.

  The front door was open but the house felt empty. Lambert stood in the hall and cautiously looked around. No sign of Gillian. Richard’s car wasn’t there; maybe he and his redhead had gone out together. Maybe no-one was about. Maybe he had the house to himself.

  Lambert felt a thrill of satisfaction. He hadn’t expected this. He’d thought he would have to creep about at night, or maybe even wait until another time. But this was perfect. He could put his plan into action at once.

  Swiftly he mounted the broad staircase. The corridor upstairs was quiet and motionless. He stopped at the top of the stairs, listening for sounds of life. But there were none. Looking behind him to check once more that he wasn’t being observed, Lambert moved cautiously towards Richard’s office. It was a tucked-away room, completely separate from the bedrooms and usually kept locked. If anyone saw him there it would be impossible to pretend that he’d strayed there on the way somewhere else.

  Not that it should matter, thought Lambert, fingering the key in his pocket. Richard trusted him. After all, he’d given him a key to the office—just in case of emergency, he’d said. If questioned, Lambert could always say that he’d been after some piece of information to do with the company. In fact Richard kept very little company information at home. But he would give Lambert the benefit of the doubt. People generally did.

  The office door was closed. But as he tried to turn the key he realized that it was unlocked. Quickly he put the key away in his pocket. This way, if anyone saw him, he would be on safe ground. (“I saw the door was open, Richard, so I thought I’d better just check . . .”) He went inside, and quickly headed for the filing cabinet. Bank statements, he muttered under his breath. Bank statements. He opened a drawer and began to flip through the files.

  Fifty thousand pounds wasn’t a lot of money. Not for someone like Richard, it wasn’t. Richard had so much money, he could easily spare that much. He would never even notice it was missing. Lambert would borrow fifty grand, use it to solve his problems with the bank and then put it back. Five thousand pounds here, ten thousand pounds there—he’d take it out in bits and pieces, then put it back again when he had the chance. As long as the bottom lines added up at the end of the year, no-one would be the wiser.

  Forging Richard’s signature wasn’t a problem. Setting up the transfers wasn’t a problem. Deciding which accounts to go into was more tricky. He didn’t want to find he’d wiped out the housekeeping account, or this year’s holiday fund. Knowing Richard, every bit of money, large or small, was probably allocated to something or other. He would have to be careful.

  Lambert closed the top drawer and opened the second one down. He began to flip through the files. Suddenly a sound made him stop, fingers still poised. Something was behind him. Something—or someone . . .

  He spun round, and felt his face freeze in disbelief. Sitting at Richard’s desk, legs calmly crossed, was Fleur. His mind began to race. Had she been there all the time? Had she seen him . . .

  “Hello Lambert,” said Fleur pleasantly. “What are you doing in here?”

  Philippa finished the last page of her book and leaned back, feeling both satisfied and slightly sick. Words and images jangled in her mind; in her nostrils the aroma of car upholstery mingled uneasily with the lingering smell of Lambert’s driving peppermints. She opened the door and breathed in dazedly, trying to wrench herself away from fiction, into reality. But in her mind she was still on the Swiss Alps with Pierre, the dashing ski instructor. Pierre’s manly mouth was on hers; his hands were in her hair; music was playing in the background . . . When Gillian suddenly banged on the car she gave a little shriek and jumped, bashing her head against the window frame.

  “I’ve been picking strawberries,” said Gillian. “Do you want a drink?”

  “Oh,” said Philippa. “Yes. I could do with a cup of coffee.”

  She got out of the car with stiff, stumbling legs, shook herself down and followed Gillian into the house. Pierre and the Alps began to recede from her mind like an ill-remembered dream.

  “Is Daddy out?” she said, sitting feebly down on a kitchen chair.

  “He’s at a meeting with Oliver Sterndale,�
� said Gillian.

  “Antony’s out too.” She began to run water into the kettle.

  “I suppose we are a bit early. What about . . .” Philippa pulled a tiny face.

  “What about what?”

  “You know. Fleur!”

  “What about her?” said Gillian shortly.

  “Well . . . where is she?”

  “I don’t know,” said Gillian. She paused. “We only got back from Eleanor’s brunch a short while ago.”

  “Eleanor’s brunch?”

  “Yes.”

  “You went to Eleanor Forrester’s brunch?”

  “Yes.” Gillian’s face seemed to close up under Philippa’s astonished gaze. “A lot of nonsense, really,” she added roughly.

  “Did you buy anything?”

  “I did in the end. This.” Gillian pulled aside her blue scarf to reveal a little gold tortoise sitting on her lapel. She frowned. “I don’t know if I’m wearing it right. It’ll probably pull at the fabric and spoil the dress.”

  Philippa stared at the little tortoise. Gillian never bought brooches. Neither did she usually go to Eleanor’s brunches. It had always been Philippa and her mother who went, while Gillian stayed behind. Gillian had always stayed behind. And now, thought Philippa with a sudden jealousy, it was Gillian and Fleur who had gone, and she who had been left behind.

  Fleur did so enjoy shocking men. It was almost worth the inconvenience of being interrupted to see Lambert’s face staring speechlessly at her. Almost, but not quite. For things had been going so well until he’d arrived. She’d found the office door unlocked, had quickly slipped in and begun to look for what she wanted. And she would have found it, too, if she hadn’t been interrupted. Richard was obviously a highly organized person. Everything in his office was filed and listed and paperclipped. She’d headed first of all to his desk, in search of recent correspondence—and had been rooting through his desk drawer when the door opened and Lambert came in.