The Gatecrasher

by Madeleine Wickham

  “Why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday this week?”

  “I don’t have to tell you everything.”

  “Didn’t you want me to know how old you were?” He risked a little smile.

  “I’m thirteen,” said Zara flatly. “Next birthday, I’ll be fourteen.”

  “This Wednesday, you’ll be fourteen,” corrected Antony.

  “Whatever.”

  “So, what do you want as a present?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Come on. There must be something.”

  “Nope.” Antony sighed.

  “Zara, most people look forward to their birthday.”

  “Well I don’t.” There was a short silence. Antony peered at Zara’s face, trying to elicit some response. There was none. He felt as though he had been catapulted back to the beginning again: that he didn’t really know Zara at all.

  Then it occurred to him that this silent treatment might all be tied up with her dad and . . . and all that business. He swallowed, feeling suddenly mature and understanding.

  “If you ever want to talk,” he said, “about your dad. I’m here.” He stopped, and felt foolish. Of course he was here—where else could he be? “I’m here for you,” he amended.

  “What’s there to talk about?”

  “Well, you know . . .”

  “I don’t. That’s the problem. I don’t know anything about him.”

  Antony sighed.

  “Zara, you have to face up to the truth.”

  “What truth? You think I won’t find him?”

  “Zara . . .” She turned her head, finally, and looked at him.

  “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Your mother told us.”

  “Told you what?”

  “That your father’s dead.”

  “What!” Her screech rose high into the wood; a crow flapped noisily out of the treetops. Antony stared at her in alarm. Her face was white, her nostrils flared, her chin taut and disbelieving. “Fleur said what?”

  “She just told us about your father. Zara, I’m really sorry. I know what it’s like when—”

  “He isn’t dead!”

  “Oh God. Look, I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “He’s not dead, all right?” To Antony’s dismay, a tear sprang from Zara’s eye.

  “Zara! I didn’t mean . . .”

  “I know you didn’t.” She stared down at the ground. “Look, it’s not your fault. This is just something that . . . I have to deal with.”

  “Right,” said Antony uncertainly. He didn’t feel mature and understanding any more. On the contrary, he felt as though he’d cocked things up completely.

  Fleur arrived back from Guildford laden with presents not only for Zara, but also for Richard, Antony and Gillian.

  “Zara has to wait until Wednesday,” she said gaily to Richard, pulling out a flamboyant silk tie. “But you don’t. Put it on! See how it looks. I spent quite a lot,” she added, as Richard put the tie around his neck. “I hope your card can take it. Some credit companies get jumpy whenever you spend more than fifty pounds.”

  “I wouldn’t worry,” said Richard, knotting the tie. “That’s beautiful, Fleur! Thank you.” He glanced at the plastic bags littering the hall. “So, a successful trip, I take it?”

  “Wonderful,” beamed Fleur. “I got a present for the whole family too.” She pointed to a box which had been carried in by the taxi driver. “It’s a video camera.”

  “Fleur! How extraordinarily generous of you!”

  “That’s why I asked about the credit card,” said Fleur, grinning at him. “It cost quite a lot.”

  “I bet it did,” said Richard. “Goodness me . . .”

  “But don’t worry. I’ve already asked my bank in the Cayman Islands to transfer some funds to your account. They can do that overnight, apparently, even though sending me a chequebook seems beyond their capabilities.” Fleur rolled her eyes, then grinned. “Won’t we have fun with this? I’ve never used a video camera before.” She began to rip at the packaging.

  “Neither have I,” replied Richard, watching her. “I haven’t the first idea how to use one.”

  “Antony will know. Or Zara.”

  “I expect you’re right.” Richard frowned slightly. “Fleur, we’ve never talked about money, have we?”

  “No,” said Fleur. “We haven’t. Which reminds me.” She glanced up at him. “Would you mind terribly if I made a credit payment to your Gold Card account? I’ve got some money coming through, and believe it or not, for me at the moment, that would be the most convenient place to deposit it.” She rolled her eyes, then tugged some more at the wrapping of the video camera.

  “Oh,” said Richard. “No. Of course I wouldn’t mind. How much?”

  “Not very much,” said Fleur carelessly. “About twenty thousand pounds. I don’t know if your card is used to transactions like that.”

  “Well, not every day of the week,” said Richard, starting to laugh. “But I think it could probably cope. Are you sure you don’t have somewhere else more orthodox?”

  “It would just be for a bit,” said Fleur. “While I sort out my banking arrangements generally. You don’t mind, do you?” She gave a final tug, and lifted the video camera out of its box. “Oh my God, look at all these buttons! They told me it was easy to use!”

  “Perhaps it’s easier than it looks. Where are the instructions?”

  “They must be in here somewhere. The thing is,” she added, starting to root through the packaging, “this money’s come through rather unexpectedly. From a trust. You know what these family trusts are like.”

  “I’m learning,” said Richard.

  “And I haven’t decided what to use it for yet. I could pay a load of Zara’s school fees in advance, in which case I want to keep it ready. Or I could do something else. Invest it, maybe. Here we are! User’s Manual.” They both stared at the thick, glossy paperback. “And this is the Upgrade Supplement,” added Fleur, picking up a further volume. She began to giggle.

  “I think I was imagining more of a leaflet,” said Richard. “A slim pamphlet.” He reached for the manual and flipped through it a couple of times. “So you pay Zara’s school fees yourself?”

  “But of course,” said Fleur. “Who else did you think might pay them?”

  “I thought perhaps Zara’s father’s family might have offered . . .”

  “No,” said Fleur. “We don’t really speak.”

  “Oh dear. I didn’t realize.”

  “But I have some money of my own. Enough for Zara and me.”

  She looked at him with luminous eyes, and suddenly Richard felt as though he were trespassing on very private ground. What right did he have to quiz her on matters of money, when he hadn’t yet proposed marriage to her? What could she think of him?

  “Forgive my curiosity,” he said hastily. “It’s none of my business.”

  “Look!” Fleur beamed back at him. “I think I’ve found the zoom!”

  Antony and Zara arrived back from swimming to find Fleur and Richard still sitting in the hall, poring over the instructions.

  “Excellent,” Antony said immediately. “We’ve got one of these at school. Shall I have a go?” He picked the video up, took a few steps back and pointed it at the others. “Now smile. Smile, Dad! Smile, Zara!”

  “I don’t feel like smiling,” she said, and stumped up the stairs.

  “I think she’s a bit upset,” Antony said apologetically to Fleur, “about her dad.”

  “I see,” said Fleur. “Maybe I’d better go up and have a little talk with her.”

  “OK,” said Antony, already peering through the view-finder again. “Dad, you’ve got to look natural.”

  Zara was in her room, sitting on the bed, with her arms clasped round her knees.

  “So my father’s dead, is he?” she said as Fleur entered the room. “Fleur, you’re a bitch.”

  “Don’t talk to me like that!
”

  “Or what?”

  Fleur stared at her for a moment. Then, unexpectedly, she gave Zara a sympathetic smile.

  “I know things are difficult for you at the moment, darling. It’s perfectly normal to be a little moody at your age.”

  “I’m not moody! And it’s not my fucking birthday on Wednesday, either.”

  “Surely you’re not going to complain about that! Extra presents, a party . . . It’s not even as if it’s the first time.” Fleur peered at her reflection in the mirror and smoothed an eyebrow with her thumb. “You didn’t complain when you were ten twice.”

  “That’s because I was ten,” said Zara. “I was young. I was dumb. I didn’t think it mattered.”

  “It doesn’t.”

  “It does! I just want a regular birthday like everyone else.”

  “Yes, well, we all want things we can’t have, I’m afraid.”

  “And what do you want?” Zara’s voice was dry and hostile. She met Fleur’s eyes in the mirror. “What do you want, Fleur? A big house? A big car?”

  “Darling . . .”

  “Because what I want is for us to stay here. With Richard and Gillian and Antony. I want to stay.” Her voice cracked slightly. “Why can’t we stay?”

  “It’s all very complex, poppet.” Fleur took out a lipstick and began to apply it carefully.

  “No it’s not! We could stay here if you wanted to! Richard loves you. I know he does. You two could get married.”

  “You’re such a child still.” Fleur put down the lipstick and smiled at Zara affectionately. “I know you’ve always wanted to be a bridesmaid. When was it that we bought that sweet pink dress for you?”

  “It was when I was nine! Jesus!” Zara sprang to her feet in frustration.

  “Darling, keep your voice down.”

  “Don’t you understand?” Suddenly two fat tears sprang onto Zara’s cheeks, and she brushed them away impatiently. “Now I just want . . . I just want a house where I live. You know, like when people say ‘Where do you live?’ And I always have to say ‘Sometimes in London and sometimes in other places.’ ”

  “What’s wrong with that? It sounds very glamorous!”

  “No-one else lives in ‘other places.’ They all have a home!”

  “Poppet, I know it’s hard for you.”

  “It’s hard for me because you make it hard!” cried Zara. “If you wanted to, we could just stay somewhere. We could have a home.”

  “One day we will, darling. I promise. When we’re really comfortably off, we’ll set up home somewhere, just the two of us.”

  “No we won’t,” said Zara bitterly. “You told me we’d be settled by the time I was ten. And look, now I’m thirteen—oops, sorry, fourteen. And we still live with whoever you happen to be fucking.”

  “That’s enough!” hissed Fleur angrily. “Now you just listen to me! Quite apart from your atrocious language, which we’ll ignore for now, might I point out that you are still a very young girl who doesn’t know what’s best for her? That I am your mother? That life hasn’t been easy for me, either? And that as far as I’m concerned, you’ve had a wonderful life, full of opportunities and excitements which most girls your age would kill for?”

  “Fuck your opportunities!” cried Zara. More tears began to stream down her face. “I want to stay here. And I don’t want you telling people my father’s dead!”

  “That was unfortunate,” said Fleur, frowning slightly. “I am sorry about that.”

  “But not about the rest,” shuddered Zara. “You’re not sorry about the rest.”

  “Darling.” Fleur came over and tenderly wiped away Zara’s tears. “Come on, little one! How about you and I have lunch tomorrow? And have manicures? Just the two of us. We’ll have fun.”

  Zara gave a silent, shaking shrug. Tears were now coursing down her face onto her neck, dripping in spots onto her T-shirt.

  “I can’t believe you’re really a teenager,” said Fleur fondly. “Sometimes you only look about ten years old.” She pulled Zara close and kissed the top of her head. “Don’t you worry, poppet. It’ll all come right in the end. We’ll sort our lives out.” A fresh stream of tears ran down Zara’s face; she was struggling to speak.

  “You’re tired,” said Fleur. “You’ve probably been overdoing it. I think the best thing is if I leave you to get some rest. Have a nice hot bath, and I’ll see you downstairs later.” Affectionately she took one of Zara’s long blond tresses in her fingers, held it up to the light and let it drop again. Then, without giving Zara another glance, she picked up her lipstick, glanced at her reflection and left the room.

  Chapter 12

  Philippa was becoming worried about Lambert. Over the last few weeks he had seemed permanently in a sullen mood; permanently irritated with her. And now his mood was descending from surliness to a snappish anger. Nothing she said was right; nothing she did could please him.

  It had all begun with the Briggs & Co. fiasco. The day of the golf game had been bad enough. Then his friend had been exposed in the press as a crook, and Lambert had exploded with a savage anger which seemed primarily directed at Fleur. Philippa suspected that her father had probably had a few words with Lambert at work, which couldn’t have helped matters. And now he greeted every morning with a miserable gloom, arrived home from work each evening frowning and snarled at her if she tried to cheer him up.

  To begin with, she hadn’t minded. She’d almost welcomed the challenge of Helping her Husband Through a Difficult Time. “For better for worse, for richer for poorer,” she’d muttered to herself several times a day. “To love and to cherish.” Except that Lambert didn’t particularly seem to want her love or her cherishing. He didn’t seem to want her around at all.

  She’d consulted magazine articles on the subject of relationships, and leafed through books at the library, then tried to implement some of the suggestions. She’d tried new recipes for dinner, she’d tried suggesting that the two of them took up a new hobby together, she’d tried asking him seriously if he’d like to discuss things, she’d tried instigating sex. And to each of her attempts she’d received the same frown of displeasure.

  There was no-one she could talk to about it. The girls at work talked freely enough about their husbands and boyfriends, but Philippa had always refrained from joining in. For one thing, she had a natural modesty which stopped her from confiding bedroom secrets over the coffee machine. For another—and if she were honest, this was the real reason—Lambert seemed so different from everyone else’s husband that she felt embarrassed to tell the others the truth. They all seemed to be married to cheery chaps who liked football, the pub and sex; who appeared at office parties and, even if complete strangers to one another, immediately found a common, joky blokes’ footing. But Lambert wasn’t like that. He didn’t follow football, nor did he go to the pub. Sometimes he liked sex; sometimes it almost seemed to disgust him. And at office functions he always sat apart from everyone else, smoking a cigar, looking bored. Afterwards, in the car, he would mock the accents of everyone she worked with, and Philippa would find herself sadly abandoning her scheme of inviting a few nice couples home for dinner.

  They hadn’t been back to The Maples since the day of the golf débâcle. Every time she suggested it, Lambert scowled and said he hadn’t got time. And although she could have gone home on her own, she didn’t want to. She didn’t want anyone guessing anything was wrong. And so she sat in with Lambert, night after night, watching the television and reading novels. At the weekends, when every other couple seemed to have plans, she and Lambert had none. They got up, and Lambert went to his study and read the paper, and then it was lunchtime, and then sometimes Philippa went out and wandered round the shops. And every day she felt more lonely.

  Then, with no warning whatsoever, Fleur rang Philippa up.

  “Philippa, it’s Fleur. I’m up in London on Friday for a memorial service. How about a spot of lunch?”

  “Lunch? Gosh!” Philippa felt h
erself blushing and her heart beginning to thud, as though she were being asked on a date. “I’d love to!”

  “I know you’ll be at work,” Fleur said, “otherwise I’d suggest meeting earlier and doing some shopping.”

  “I’ll take the day off,” Philippa found herself saying. “I’ve loads of spare holiday.”

  “Lucky you! Well, why don’t you meet my train? I’ll let you know which one. And we can take it from there.”

  As Philippa rang off, she was filled with elated lightness. Fleur wanted to be her friend. Immediately a picture came into her mind of the two of them, giggling together as they ordered a meal in an expensive restaurant; daring each other to try on outlandish outfits. Arranging another meeting. Philippa hugged herself with excitement. Fleur was her friend!

  “I’m having lunch with Fleur on Friday,” she called to Lambert, trying to sound casual. “She’s up in London.”

  “Bully for her.”

  “She’s going to a memorial service,” said Philippa, unable to stop a flow of happy words from spilling out of her. “I wonder whose? Someone from her family, I expect. Or a friend maybe. She’ll probably look quite smart. I wonder what I should wear? Shall I buy something new?”

  As Philippa’s voice babbled on, Lambert’s mind was elsewhere. In front of him was another tightly worded letter from the bank, requiring solid assurance that he was going to be able to pay off his substantial, unapproved overdraft. He had to lay his hands on some money and soon. Which meant going down to The Maples again and getting into Richard’s office. But it was risky. Particularly since he wasn’t in Richard’s good books at the moment. Lambert scowled. The old fool had called him into his office at work and ticked him off for insulting Fleur. Ticked him off! Never mind that Fleur had completely fucked up their game; that she had no idea how to behave on a golf course. But of course there was no point talking sense to Richard at the moment. He’d fallen under the spell of Fleur and there was nothing to be done about it except wait for it to pass and, preferably, avoid The Maples until Richard had snapped out of it.