The Gatecrasher

by Madeleine Wickham

  “Don’t worry,” said Philippa. “I’m fine, really.” She gave another sniff, and smiled at her father, and allowed him to put an arm round her shoulder and lead her out of the room. Everyone was silent; everyone was looking at her tear-stained face with concern. As she neared Zara, Philippa glanced up, ready to meet another sympathetic face, stare bravely ahead and then lower her eyes. But as soon as Zara’s dispassionate gaze met hers, Philippa felt a shiver go through her and her expression begin to slip. In front of this girl she felt foolish and transparent, as though Zara somehow knew exactly what she was thinking.

  “I’m sorry for you,” said Zara quietly.

  “What do you mean?” said Philippa, feeling rattled.

  Zara’s expression didn’t flicker.

  “Losing your mother.”

  “Oh. Thank you.” Philippa exhaled sharply, and tried to reform her features into the brave stare. But she didn’t feel brave any more. Her tears had dried; no-one was looking at her; Lambert had started discussing cricket with Antony. The moment was gone and it was Zara who had spoiled it all for her.

  Chapter 9

  Two weeks later, Richard looked up from his copy of The Times and chortled.

  “Look at that!” he said, pointing to a tiny item on the business pages entitled “Accountant Suspended.” Fleur’s eyes ran down the few lines of text and a smile appeared on her face.

  “I told you!” she said. “I knew those people were crooks.”

  “What’s happened?” said Gillian, coming into the room. Richard looked up delightedly.

  “The people we played golf with the other week. Briggs & Co. One of them’s been caught fiddling the books of another company. It’s in the paper.”

  “Gracious,” said Gillian confusedly. “Is that a good thing?”

  “No. The good thing is that we decided not to hire them. The good thing is that Fleur cottoned onto them.” Richard reached for Fleur’s hand and squeezed it affectionately. “Fleur’s the good thing around here,” he said. “As I think we all agree.” He glanced up at Gillian. “You look nice.”

  “I’m off to my bridge lesson,” said Gillian. She looked at Fleur. “Are you sure you won’t come?”

  “Darling, I got quite lost last week. I still can’t remember how many tricks in a suit. Or is it the other way round?” Fleur wrinkled her nose at Gillian, who laughed. “And Tricia was very keen to find a partner. So off you go. Have a lovely time.”

  “Well . . .” Gillian paused, smoothing her jacket down over her hips. It was a new, pale-blue linen jacket, bought during a shopping trip with Fleur the week before. She was wearing with it a long, cream-coloured skirt, also new, and the blue scarf which Fleur had given her. “If you’re really sure.”

  “I’m positive,” said Fleur. “And remember I’m doing the supper tonight. So no hurrying back.”

  “All right, then.” A little smile came to Gillian’s face. “I am enjoying these lessons, you know. I never thought a card game could be so invigorating!”

  “I always used to enjoy a game of bridge,” said Richard, “but Emily was never keen.”

  “You have to concentrate quite hard,” said Gillian, “but that’s what I enjoy about it.”

  “I’m glad,” said Richard, smiling at her. “It’s nice to see you taking up a hobby.” Gillian flushed slightly.

  “It’s just a bit of fun,” she said. She looked at Fleur. “I’ll probably be back in time to get supper. There’s no need for you to do it.”

  “I want to do it!” said Fleur. “Now go, or you’ll be late!”

  “All right,” said Gillian. She hovered for a moment more, then hitched up her bag and walked as far as the door. There she stopped, and looked back.

  “Everything should be in the fridge, I think,” she began. Richard started to laugh.

  “Gillian, just go!”

  When she had finally managed to leave, they relapsed into a companionable silence.

  “I’m surprised Lambert hasn’t telephoned,” said Richard suddenly. “He must have seen the papers this morning.”

  “He’s probably embarrassed,” said Fleur.

  “He may well be,” said Richard, “but he also owes you an apology.” He sighed and put down his paper. “I’m afraid to confess that the better I know Lambert, the less I like him. I suppose Philippa must love him, but . . .” He tailed away and shrugged.

  “Were you surprised when they got married?” said Fleur.

  “Yes, I was,” said Richard. “I thought possibly they were hurrying into it. But they seemed very keen on the idea. And Emily was terribly pleased. She didn’t seem surprised at all.” He paused. “A mother’s intuition, I suppose.”

  “What about a father’s intuition?”

  “Temporarily out of order, I should think.” He grinned. “I mean, they seem very happy now. Don’t you think?”

  “Oh yes,” said Fleur. “Very happy.” She paused, then added, “But I agree with you about Lambert. I was quite taken aback at the way he seemed so hostile towards me. Almost . . . distrustful.” She looked at Richard with a hurt expression. “I was only giving my opinion.”

  “Of course you were!” said Richard hotly. “And your opinion was absolutely spot on! That Lambert’s got a lot to answer for. If it weren’t for you—” He broke off and gazed across the table at Fleur with more love in his face than she’d ever seen there before.

  Fleur stared at him for an instant, thinking quickly. Then suddenly she exclaimed, “Oh no!” and clasped her hand to her mouth.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” said Fleur. “It doesn’t matter.” She sighed. “It’s just my purse. You remember I lost it last week?”

  “Did you?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? Yes, I lost it out shopping. I reported it to some policeman or other but you know what they’re like . . .”

  “I had no idea!” said Richard. “Did you cancel your cards?”

  “Oh yes,” said Fleur. “In fact, that’s the problem. I haven’t got any replacements.”

  “Do you need some money?” Richard began to feel in his pocket. “Darling, you should have said!”

  “The trouble is, the replacements will take a while,” said Fleur. She frowned. “It’s all a bit complicated. You know I bank in the Cayman Islands. And Switzerland, of course.”

  “I didn’t,” said Richard, “but nothing surprises me about you any more.”

  “They’re very good generally,” said Fleur, “but they’re hopeless about issuing new cards.”

  “You should try a normal bank, like the rest of us,” said Richard.

  “I know,” said Fleur, “but my accountants recommended I go offshore for some reason . . .” She spread her hands vaguely.

  “Here’s a hundred pounds,” said Richard, holding out some notes.

  “I’ve got cash,” said Fleur distractedly. “It’s just that . . . I’ve only just remembered it’s Zara’s birthday next week. I’d completely forgotten!”

  “Zara’s birthday!” said Richard. “I had no idea.”

  “I really want to buy her something nice.” She tapped her nails urgently on the arm of her chair. “What I really need is my replacement Gold Card. But quickly.”

  “Let me give them a ring,” said Richard.

  “I’m telling you,” said Fleur, “they’re hopeless.”

  She tapped her nails on the chair a few more times. Then suddenly she looked up.

  “Richard, you’ve got a Gold Card, haven’t you? Could you get me on it quickly? In the next couple of days? Then I could whiz over to Guildford and get Zara something nice—and by then my replacements might just have come through. If I’m lucky.” She looked seriously at him. “I know it’s a lot to ask you . . .”

  “Well,” said Richard, “no, it’s not. I’m only too happy to help. But I don’t think we need to go to all the trouble of another Gold Card. Why don’t I just lend you some money?”

  “Cash?” Fleur shuddered. “I never carry
cash when I’m shopping. Never! It makes me feel as though I’m asking to be attacked.”

  “Well, then, why don’t I come shopping with you for Zara’s presents? I’d enjoy doing that. You know,” Richard’s face softened, “I’ve become very fond of Zara. Although I do wish she’d eat more.”

  “What?” Fleur stared at him, temporarily diverted.

  “All these salads and glasses of water! Each time I watch her picking at her food like a little bird, I have an overwhelming urge to cook her a plate of bacon and eggs and force her to eat them!” Richard shrugged. “I’m sure you’re doing the right thing, not drawing attention to her eating habits. And I’m sure there isn’t really a problem there. But she is so terribly thin.” He smiled. “Knowing Zara, I don’t suppose she’d take kindly to being told what to eat!”

  “No,” said Fleur. “I don’t suppose she would.”

  “But she’ll have a birthday cake, at any rate!” Richard’s eyes began to shine. “We’ll plan a party for her. Perhaps we could make it a surprise!”

  “When can you get me on your Gold Card? By Saturday?”

  “Fleur, I’m not sure about this Gold Card scheme.”

  “Oh.” Fleur stared at him. “Why not?”

  “It’s just . . . something I’ve never done. Put someone else on my card. It doesn’t seem necessary.”

  “Oh. I see.” Fleur thought for a moment. “Wasn’t Emily on your card?”

  “No, she had her own. We always kept money affairs separate. It seemed sensible.”

  “Separate?” Fleur stared at Richard with features which she hoped displayed surprise, rather than the irritation which had begun to spark inside her. How dare he balk at putting her on his Gold Card? she thought furiously. What was happening to her? Was she losing her touch? “But that’s not natural!” she said out loud. “You were married! Didn’t you want to . . . to share everything?” Richard rubbed his nose.

  “I wanted to,” he said, “at first. I liked the idea of a joint bank account. I wanted to pool everything. But Emily didn’t. She wanted everything more cut and dried. So she had her own account and her own credit cards and—” He broke off and smiled sheepishly. “I’m not sure how we got on to this subject. It’s very boring.”

  “Zara’s birthday,” said Fleur.

  “Oh yes,” said Richard. “Don’t worry—we’ll give Zara a wonderful birthday.”

  “And you don’t think it would be more sensible for me to put my name on your card? Just to whiz round the shops with.”

  “Not really,” said Richard. “But, if you like, we can apply for one for you in your own name.”

  “OK,” said Fleur lightly. Her jaw tightened imperceptibly and she stared at her nails. Richard turned to the sports section of The Times. For a few minutes there was silence. Then suddenly without looking up, Fleur said, “I might be going to a funeral soon.”

  “Oh dear!” Richard looked up.

  “A friend in London has asked me to call him. We’ve been expecting bad news for a while. I’ve got a feeling this might be it.”

  “I know what it’s like,” said Richard soberly. “These things can drag on and on. You know, I sometimes think it’s better—”

  “Yes,” said Fleur, reaching for The Times and turning to the announcements column. “Yes, so do I.”

  “How long are you going to stay with us?” asked Antony. He was sitting with Zara in a secluded corner of the garden, idly plucking strawberries from the patch and eating them, while she pored intently over a thick, glossy magazine. Zara looked up at him. She was wearing opaque black sunglasses and he couldn’t read her expression.

  “I don’t know,” she said, and looked down at her magazine again.

  “It would be great if you were still here when Will gets back,” said Antony. He waited for Zara to ask who Will was or where he was. But all she did was chew a few times on her gum, and turn the page. Antony ate another strawberry and wondered why he didn’t just go off and play golf or something. Zara didn’t need looking after; she hardly ever said anything; she never smiled or laughed. It wasn’t as if they were having a riotous time together. And yet something about her fascinated him. He would actually be quite happy, he admitted to himself, to sit staring at Zara all day and do nothing else. But at the same time it felt wrong, to sit alone with someone and not at least try to talk to them.

  “Where do you normally live?” he said.

  “We move around,” said Zara.

  “But you must have a home.” Zara shrugged. Antony thought for a moment.

  “Like . . . where were you last holidays?”

  “Staying with a friend,” said Zara. “On his yacht.”

  “Oh right.” Antony shifted on the grass. Yachts were outside his experience. All he knew, from people at school, was that you had to be bloody rich to have one. He looked at Zara with new respect, wondering if she would elaborate. But her attention was still fixed on her magazine. Antony looked over her shoulder at the pictures. They were all of girls like Zara, thin and young, with bony shoulders and hollow chests, staring with huge sad eyes at the camera. None of them looked any older than Zara. He wondered if she recognized herself in the pictures or whether she was just looking at the clothes. Personally he thought every outfit more frightful than the one before.

  “Do you like designer clothes?” he tried. He looked at the T-shirt she was wearing. Might that be by some famous designer? He couldn’t tell. “Your mother wears lovely clothes,” he added politely. An image popped into his mind of Fleur in her red dress, all curves and shiny hair and bubbling laughter. Zara couldn’t have been more different from her mother if she’d tried. Then it occurred to him that perhaps she did try.

  “What’s your star sign?” Her raspy voice interrupted his thoughts.

  “Oh. Aries.” Without looking up, she began to read aloud.

  “ ‘Planetary activity in Pluto is transforming your direction in life. After the 18th, you will enter a more purposeful phase.’ ” She turned the page.

  “Do you really believe in all that stuff?” said Antony, before she could continue.

  “It depends what it says. When it’s good, I believe it.” She glanced up at him and a little grin appeared at the corner of her mouth.

  “So what does yours say? What are you?”

  “Sagittarius.” She threw the magazine down. “Mine says get a life and stop reading crappy horoscopes.” She threw her head back and breathed in deeply. Antony thought fast. Now was the moment to get a conversation going.

  “Do you ever go out clubbing?” he said.

  “Sure,” said Zara. “When we’re in London. When I have someone to go with.”

  “Oh, right.” Antony thought again. “Is London where your dad lives?”

  “No. He lives in the States.”

  “Oh right! Is he American?”

  “Yes.”

  “Cool! Whereabouts does he live?” This was great, thought Antony. They could start talking about where they’d been in the States. He could tell her about his school trip to California. Maybe he could even get out his photos.

  “I don’t know.” Zara looked away. “I’ve never seen him. I don’t even know his name.”

  “What?” Antony, who had been poised to display his knowledge of San Francisco, found himself exhaling sharply instead. Had he heard her right? “You don’t know your dad’s name?” he said, trying to sound interested rather than shaken.

  “No.”

  “Hasn’t your . . .” Whatever he said, it was going to sound stupid. “Hasn’t your mother told you?”

  “She says it doesn’t matter what he’s called.”

  “Do you know anything about him?”

  “Nope.”

  “So how do you know he lives in the States?”

  “That’s the only thing she’s ever told me. Ages ago, when I was a little kid.” She hunched her knees to her chest. “I always used to think . . .” She raised her head and sunlight flashed off her shades. “
I always used to think he was a cowboy.”

  “Maybe he is,” said Antony. He stared at Zara, all scrunched up and bony, and imagined her relaxed and laughing, sitting on a horse, in front of a tanned, heroic cowboy. It seemed as likely as anything else.

  “Why won’t your mother tell you?” he said bluntly. “Isn’t that against the law or something?”

  “Maybe,” said Zara. “That wouldn’t worry Fleur.” She sighed. “She won’t tell me because she doesn’t want me trying to find him. It’s like . . . he’s her past, not mine.”

  “But he’s your father!”

  “I know,” said Zara. “He’s my father.” She pushed her shades up, off her face and looked straight at Antony. “Don’t worry. I am going to find him,” she said.

  “How?”

  “When I’m sixteen,” said Zara. “Then she’s going to tell me who he is. She’s promised.” Antony stared at her. Her eyes were faintly gleaming. “Two and a half years to go. Then I’ll be off to the States. She can’t stop me.”

  “I’ll have left school by then,” said Antony eagerly. “I could come with you!”

  “OK,” said Zara. She met his eyes and, for the first time, she smiled properly at him. “We’ll both go.”

  Later on, they both wandered in, hot and sunburned, to find Richard sitting alone in the kitchen, a glass of beer in front of him. It was quiet and still and the light of early evening streamed in through the window and across his face. Antony opened the fridge and got out a couple of cans.

  “Did you play golf today?” he asked his father.

  “No. Did you?”

  “No.”

  “I thought you guys were golf addicts,” said Zara. Richard smiled.

  “Is that what your mother told you?”

  “It’s obvious,” said Zara. “You live on a golf course, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Well, I do enjoy a game of golf,” said Richard. “But it’s not the only thing in the world.”

  “Where’s Fleur?” said Zara.

  “I don’t know,” said Richard. “She must have popped out somewhere.”

  Richard no longer winced when he heard Zara refer to her mother as “Fleur.” Sometimes he even found it faintly endearing. He watched as Antony and Zara settled themselves on the windowseat with drinks; comfortably, like a pair of cats. Zara’s was a low-calorie drink, he noticed—and he wondered again how much she weighed. Then he chided himself. She wasn’t his daughter; he mustn’t start behaving as though she were.