The Gatecrasher

by Madeleine Wickham

  “What I really need is some shorts,” Philippa was saying, next door, as though she thought he was still listening. “For the weekends. Kind of tailored, but not too smart . . .”

  The problem was that he couldn’t wait until Richard had snapped out of it. He needed money quickly. Lambert took a sip of beer from the heavy silver tankard on his desk and stared at the letter again. Fifty thousand would keep the bank quiet. He was sure it would. And it was waiting for him at The Maples. If he could be certain that he wouldn’t cock things up; that he wouldn’t be discovered . . . A sudden unwanted memory came to him of Fleur’s voice behind him, startling him as he leafed through Richard’s files, and he felt again a prickling of cold sweat on the back of his neck. Of course she hadn’t suspected anything, why should she? But if that had been Richard . . .

  Suddenly Philippa’s voice pierced his consciousness.

  “Apparently Daddy’ll be away at a meeting that day,” she was saying, “and Gillian’s got her bridge lesson.” Lambert’s head twitched up. “Otherwise Fleur would have suggested they came along too. But I think it’s quite nice, don’t you? Just the two of us? Like a kind of, you know, bonding thing?”

  Lambert stood up and stalked into the next room.

  “What did you say? Your father’s got a meeting on Friday?”

  “Yes. He’s got to go to Newcastle, apparently.”

  “First I’ve heard of it.”

  “Oh dear. Hasn’t he asked you to go too?” Philippa bit her lip. “You could come to lunch with Fleur and me,” she said doubtfully. “If you want to.”

  “Don’t be stupid. Me have lunch with a pair of gigglers like you?”

  Philippa tittered, pleased by the notion of herself and Fleur as a pair of gigglers. Feeling suddenly generous, Lambert grinned back at her.

  “You two ladies have your lunch together,” he said. “I’ve more important things to do that day.”

  Wednesday dawned bright and hot and blue. By the time Zara arrived downstairs, the breakfast table had been laid in the garden. A huge posy of flowers was arranged beside her place, a silver helium balloon rose shimmering from the back of her chair, and her plate was covered in cards and packages.

  “Happy birthday!” cried Antony as soon as he saw her stepping out of the conservatory. “Gillian, Zara’s here! Get the Buck’s Fizz! That was my idea,” he said to Zara. “Buck’s Fizz for breakfast. And pancakes.”

  Zara said nothing. She was staring at the decorated table as though she’d never seen anything like it before.

  “Is this all for me?” she said at last, in a husky voice.

  “Well, of course it is! It’s your birthday! Sit yourself down,” he added, in a host-like voice. “Have some strawberries.”

  Fleur appeared on the lawn holding a cafetière, and smiled prettily at Zara.

  “Happy birthday, darling. Would you like some coffee?”

  “No,” said Zara.

  “Suit yourself.” Fleur shrugged.

  “You must have a strawberry, though,” insisted Antony. “They’re delicious.”

  Zara sat down and looked at the cards piled on her plate. She seemed slightly dazed.

  “Cool balloon, huh?” said Antony happily. “It’s from Xanthe and Mex.”

  “What?” She looked up to see if he was joking.

  “They heard it was your birthday. I think there’s a card from them too. And I said we might meet them for a drink later. But it depends what you want to do.”

  “They sent me a balloon,” said Zara in stupefaction. She tugged at the string and watched it float back up. “But I hardly know them.” She looked up at him. “And I thought you hated them.”

  “Xanthe’s not so bad.” Antony grinned sheepishly at her. “Now, go on, open some of your presents.”

  “Wait!” called Richard from the conservatory. “I want to get this on video!”

  “Oh for God’s sake,” said Antony. “We’ll be here all day.”

  Gillian arrived in the garden, bearing a tray of glasses filled with orange juice and champagne bubbles.

  “Happy birthday, Zara!” she exclaimed. “What a lovely day!”

  “Thank you,” muttered Zara.

  “OK?” called Richard. “I’m filming. You can start opening your presents.”

  “Open mine first,” said Antony excitedly. “That red stripy one.”

  Zara picked up the parcel and looked at it for a few moments without saying anything.

  “That looks lovely,” said Fleur gaily. Zara’s gaze shot towards Fleur and away again. Then, biting her lip, she began to tug at the wrapping. Onto her lap fell a small framed print.

  “It’s America,” said Antony. “It’s a map of America. For when you . . . when you go there.” Zara looked up at him. Her chin was shaking.

  “Thank you, Antony,” she said, and burst into tears.

  “Zara!”

  “What’s wrong, poppet?”

  “Don’t you like it?” asked Antony anxiously.

  “I love it,” whispered Zara. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . .”

  “It’s just that you need a good sip of Buck’s Fizz and some pancakes inside you,” said Gillian briskly. “You know, it’s not easy, turning fourteen. I remember it well. Come on, Zara.” She patted Zara’s bare, thin shoulder. “You come and help me bring out the breakfast, and we’ll have the rest of the presents in a little while.”

  “Aren’t you enjoying your birthday, then?” asked Antony later on. They were sitting at the bottom of the garden in a hidden sun-trap, listening to the pounding of Zara’s new portable ghetto blaster.

  “Sure.”

  “You don’t look very happy.”

  “I’m fine, all right?” she snapped.

  Antony waited for a few minutes. Then he said, casually, “Zara, what’s your star sign?”

  “Sagi—” she began, then stopped. “I don’t believe in all that phooey.”

  “Yes you do. You were reading your horoscope the other day.”

  “That doesn’t mean I believe it. Jesus, if every time you read a horoscope—”

  “You still know what your sign is though, don’t you?” he interrupted. “It isn’t Sagittarius. It can’t be. So what is it?”

  “Why do you want to know?” She sat up, knocking her diet lemonade onto her jacket. “Fuck,” she said. “I’ll go and get a cloth.”

  “No you won’t! Don’t change the subject! Zara, what’s your star sign?”

  “Look, you asshole, my jacket’s drenched.”

  “So what? You drenched it on purpose. God, you must think I’m really stupid.” She began to move, and he shot out a strong hand, pinning her wrist to the ground. “Zara, what’s your star sign? Tell me!”

  “For Christ’s sake!” She gave him a scornful look and tossed back her hair. “OK,” she said. “It’s Scorpio.”

  “Wrong.” He leaned back. “It’s Leo.”

  “So what?” snapped Zara. “Scorpio, Leo. Who gives a shit?”

  “Zara, what’s going on?”

  “Don’t ask me. You’re the one behaving like an asshole.”

  “It’s not really your birthday today, is it?”

  “Of course it is.” She looked away and took a piece of gum from her pocket.

  “It’s not! Your birthday is between the 22nd of November and the 21st of December. I looked up Sagittarius.” He shuffled round on the grass until he could see her face, and gazed pleadingly at her. “Zara, what’s going on? Whatever it is, I won’t tell anyone, I promise. Zara, I’m your friend, aren’t I?”

  She shrugged silently and put the gum in her mouth.

  Antony looked at her for a while. Then he said, “I don’t think your father’s dead, either.” He spoke slowly, not taking his eyes from her face. “I think he’s still alive. I think your mother was lying about that too.”

  Zara was chewing quickly, almost desperately, staring away from him at the trees.

  “Tell me,” begged Antony. “I won’
t tell anyone. Who would I tell, anyway? I don’t know anyone to tell.”

  Zara gave a short laugh.

  “You know plenty of people to tell,” she said. “Your father . . . Gillian . . .”

  “But I wouldn’t!” exclaimed Antony. He lowered his voice. “Whatever it is, I won’t tell them. But I want to know the truth. I want to know when your real birthday is. And why you’re pretending it’s today. And . . . and everything.”

  There was a long pause. Then Zara turned to him.

  “OK, listen,” she said in a low voice. “If you tell anyone else what I’m about to tell you, I’ll say that you tried to rape me.”

  “What?” Antony stared at her in horror.

  “I’ll say you asked me to come down to the bottom of the garden and you held me to the ground. By the wrists.” She stopped and looked at Antony’s hand—the hand which, a few minutes before, had pinned her down on the grass. A fiery red colour came to his cheeks. “And then I’ll say you tried to rape me.”

  “You little . . .”

  “They probably won’t press charges. But they’ll interview you. That won’t be nice. And some people will think you did it. Some people always do.”

  “I just don’t believe . . .” He was staring at her, panting slightly.

  “You see, I mean it,” said Zara deliberately. “You’re not allowed to tell. If you say anything to your father or Gillian, or anyone—I’ll go to the police. And you’ll be in shit.” She spat her gum out. “Now, do you want to know or don’t you?”

  Richard felt as though his life was finally falling into place. He sat in his chair watching Fleur leaf through a book of wallpaper patterns, and wondered how he could have mistaken what he had with Emily for true love. He could hardly bear to think of all the wasted years; years spent living in sombre shades of charcoal. Now he was living in bright, solid colour; in splashes of vibrant hues that jumped off the page and took the eye by surprise.

  “You’ll have to decide if you want painted walls or wallpaper in your office,” said Fleur. She looked at him over her sunglasses. “And give me a budget.”

  “I’ll give you whatever you like,” said Richard. He met her eye and she gave him a delicious, secretive smile. In response, he felt his skin tingle slightly under his shirt, as though in anticipation of another night of pleasure.

  Fleur no longer occupied her own bedroom. She now slept with him every night, her body curving up against his, her hair falling across his pillow. Every morning her smile was waiting for him; every morning his heart gave a leap as he saw her again. And they talked more now than they had ever done, and Richard felt happier than he had ever done, and Fleur’s eyes sparkled even more than they had before. She seemed to glow with happiness and excitement at the moment, thought Richard, and there was a spring in her step which hadn’t been there before. A spring—his mouth twisted into a small, embarrassed smile—which he had put there.

  And when he asked her to marry him, everything would be complete. When Oliver had returned from holiday, when he had sorted out the trust, when he had finally closed the chapter on Emily. He would choose a suitable moment, a suitable place, a suitable ring . . . A quiet, suitable wedding. And then an exuberant, noisy, joyful honeymoon. The honeymoon he’d been waiting for all his life.

  When Zara had finished telling him, Antony flopped down onto the grass and stared up at the blue sky.

  “I don’t believe it,” he said. “She goes to all that trouble just to get hold of a Gold Card?”

  “You can do a lot of damage with a Gold Card,” said Zara.

  “But I mean . . .” He broke off, and frowned. “I don’t understand. How does your dad being dead fit into it?”

  “She told your father she was a widow. I guess she thought it made her seem more appealing.”

  For a few moments Antony was silent. Then he said slowly, “So all the time, she’s just been after him for his money.” He sat up. “It’s crazy! I mean, we’re not that rich.”

  “Maybe she made a mistake. Or maybe you’re richer than you think.”

  “God, poor Dad. And he hasn’t got a clue! Zara, I’ve got to tell him.”

  “Then he pinned me down on the grass, Your Honour,” Zara started to recite tonelessly. “I tried to struggle, but he was stronger than me.”

  “All right!” said Antony irritably. “I won’t say anything. But I mean, bloody hell! My dad can’t afford to lose loads of money!”

  “Think of it as payment,” said Zara. “Fleur always does.”

  “What, so she’s done this before?” Antony stared at Zara. “Gone out with men just for their money?”

  Zara shrugged, and looked away. It had been easy to feed Antony a limited, edited version of the truth, a truth which, even if he did blab, wouldn’t ruin everything for Fleur. She’d painted Fleur as a silly spendthrift, who was desperate for a Gold Card, who would fritter Richard’s money on high heels and haircuts. And he was shocked by that. What would happen if she told him the real facts? Told him that her mother was a cynical, heartless confidence trickster? Who entered people’s lives because of their vulnerability and desperation; who escaped freely because of their embarrassment and wounded pride?

  The truth was there, inside her; she felt as though there was only a thin curtain hiding it from the rest of the world. If he stretched out a hand and tugged, the thin material would come tumbling down and he would see all the deceits, the ugly lies and stories, curled up in her brain like snakes. But he wouldn’t stretch out his hand. He thought he’d prised the truth out of her already. It would never occur to him that there was more.

  “So basically, she’s just a prostitute!” he was saying.

  “She takes what she’s worth,” snapped back Zara. “Hasn’t your dad had a good time over the last few months?” Antony stared at her.

  “But he really thinks she loves him. I did too. I thought she loved him!”

  “Well, maybe she does.”

  “People who love each other aren’t interested in money!”

  “Of course they are,” said Zara scornfully. “Wouldn’t you rather have a girlfriend who could buy you a Porsche? And if you say no, you’re lying.”

  “Yeah, but real love is different!” protested Antony. “It’s about the person inside.”

  “It’s about everything,” retorted Zara. “It’s about money first, looks second, and personality if you’re desperate.”

  “God, you’re twisted! Money doesn’t come into it! I mean . . . suppose you marry someone really rich and there’s a stockmarket crash and they lose all their money?”

  “Suppose you marry someone really nice and there’s a car crash and they lose all their personality? What’s the difference?”

  “It isn’t the same! You know it’s not the same.” He peered at her. “Why are you defending your mother?”

  “I don’t know!” cried Zara jerkily. “Because she’s my mother, I guess! I’ve never talked to anyone about her before. I never realized—” She broke off. “Oh, for God’s sake! I wish I’d never told you!”

  “So do I! What a bloody mess.”

  They stared at each other in fury.

  “Look,” said Zara eventually. “Your dad’s not stupid. He’s not going to let her rip him off completely, is he?” She forced herself to meet his eye unwaveringly.

  “No,” said Antony. He exhaled slowly. “I suppose not.”

  “And you like having her around, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do! I love having her around. And I like . . . I like having you around.”

  “Good,” said Zara. She slowly smiled at him. “ ’Cause I like being around.”

  Later on they wandered back up to the house to find Fleur and Richard arguing good-humouredly about wallpaper.

  “Antony!” exclaimed Fleur. “Talk some sense into your father. First he gives me carte blanche to redecorate his office, then he says he won’t have anything but stripes or fleur-de-lis.”

  “I don’t know wha
t fleur-de-lis is,” said Antony. He stared at Fleur. His image of her in his mind had changed now that he knew the truth; as they’d walked towards her he’d honestly expected that she would look different. More . . . monster-like. He’d found himself dreading the moment of meeting her eye. But there she was, just the same, warm and pretty and friendly. And now she was smiling at him, and he was grinning back, and suddenly he found himself wondering if everything Zara had said about her could really be true.

  “Tell you what,” said Richard to Fleur. “Why not get some more wallpaper books when you’re in London? I’m sure we can reach a compromise. Just remember, I’m the one who has to sit in the room and try to work.” He grinned at Antony and Zara. “Fleur is very keen on orange walls.”

  “Not orange. Terracotta.”

  “When are you going to London?” asked Zara.

  “On Friday,” said Fleur. “The day after tomorrow.”

  “Your mother has to go to a memorial service,” said Richard.

  Zara froze; her face turned pale.

  “You’re going to a memorial service?” she said.

  “That’s right,” said Fleur.

  “A memorial service?” repeated Zara disbelievingly. “You’re going to a memorial service?”

  “Yes, darling,” said Fleur impatiently. “And please stop making such a fuss.” Her eyes bored into Zara’s. “I’ll only be gone a day. It’s for poor Hattie Fairbrother,” she added casually. “You remember Hattie, don’t you, darling?” Zara flinched, and turned away.

  “Zara!” They were interrupted by Gillian. “You’ve got a phone call. Someone called Johnny.”

  “Johnny?” Zara’s head shot up. “Johnny’s on the phone? OK, I’m coming! I’m coming! Don’t let him hang up!” And without looking back, she bounded into the house.

  “Do you want a Diet Coke?” Antony called, but she wasn’t listening. “I’ll just . . . see if she wants a Diet Coke,” he said to the others, and disappeared after her.

  Richard looked at Fleur.

  “Zara seemed very upset at the idea of you going to a memorial service,” he said.