The Gatecrasher

by Madeleine Wickham

  She hadn’t thought it would be like this. She’d thought she was committing the ultimate romantic gesture; that she’d wake up to find everyone gathered round her bed, blinking back their tears and stroking her hand and promising to make her life better. Instead of which she’d woken to a series of humiliating assaults on her body, administered by nurses with civil phrases on their lips and contempt in their eyes. When she’d glimpsed her father’s devastated face, something inside her had crumpled, and she’d felt like crying. Except that suddenly she couldn’t cry any more. The ready fountain of tears inside her had dried up; the backdrop of romantic fantasy had fallen, and what was left was cold and dry, like a stone.

  She licked her lips as her father and Gillian drew near, took a breath and carefully said, “Hello.” Her voice sounded strange and tinny to her own ears.

  “Hello darling!”

  “Hello, Philippa.” Gillian smiled cheerfully at her. “How are you doing?”

  “Much better,” said Philippa carefully. She felt as though she were speaking a foreign language.

  “You can come home today,” said her father. “The discharge papers are ready.”

  “That’s good,” said Philippa. From a long way away, a thought occurred to her. “Is Fleur at home?”

  “No,” said her father. “Fleur’s gone to London for a few days.”

  “I see,” said Philippa. A dulled flicker of disappointment ran through her and died almost immediately. “Is she coming back?” she asked politely.

  “Yes,” said Gillian at once, before Richard could answer. “Yes, of course she’s coming back.”

  In the car, very little was said. When they got home, Gillian brought bowls of chicken soup into the conservatory, and Richard sat down opposite Philippa.

  “We need to talk about Lambert,” he said cautiously.

  “Yes.” Philippa’s voice was toneless.

  “Do you . . .”

  “I never want to see him again.”

  Richard looked at Philippa for a long time, then glanced at Gillian.

  “Right,” he said. “Well, as long as you’re sure about that.”

  “I want a divorce,” said Philippa. “Everything between Lambert and me is over.” She spooned chicken soup into her mouth. “This is good.”

  “Real chicken stock,” said Gillian. “Don’t tell me they use that in those handy cardboard cartons.”

  “And you’re sure you won’t change your mind?” persisted Richard.

  “Yes,” said Philippa calmly. “I’m quite sure.” She felt liberated; as though she were shedding a pile of unwanted clutter. Her mind felt clean and fresh; her life was free; she could begin again.

  Later that day Lambert arrived by taxi at The Maples, holding a bunch of pink carnations. Richard met him at the front door and led him into the drawing room.

  “Philippa’s resting upstairs,” he said. “She doesn’t want to see you.”

  “That’s a shame,” said Lambert. “I brought these for her.” He put the flowers on a side table, sat down on the sofa and began to polish the face of his watch with his sleeve. “I expect she’s still a bit upset,” he added.

  “She is more than a bit upset,” said Richard, trying to keep his voice steady. “I should tell you straight away that she will be filing for divorce.”

  “Divorce?” Without looking up, Lambert ran an unsteady hand through his hair. “You’re joking, aren’t you?”

  “I’m not joking,” said Richard. “This is not a subject for jokes.”

  Lambert raised his eyes and was taken aback at Richard’s tight mouth, the hostility in his gaze. Well, Lambert, he thought, you’ve fucked this one up, haven’t you? What are you going to do now? He thought for a moment, then abruptly stood up.

  “Richard, I’d like to apologize,” he said, looking at Richard as sincerely as he could. “I don’t know what came over me yesterday. Too much to drink, probably.” He risked a little smile. “I never meant to abuse your trust, sir.”

  “Lambert,” began Richard wearily.

  “Philippa’s a very highly strung girl,” continued Lambert. “We’ve had rows before, but they’ve always blown over. And I’m sure this will too, if you give us a chance . . .”

  “You had your chance!” spat Richard. “You had your chance, when you stood up in church and vowed to love and cherish my daughter!” His voice increased in volume. “Did you love her? Did you cherish her? Or did you always see her simply as a source of wealth?”

  He broke off, breathing hard, and Lambert stared at him in slight panic, weighing up responses in his mind. Would Richard believe him if he declared undying love for Philippa?

  “I’ll be honest with you, Richard,” he said at last. “I’m only human. And man cannot live on bread alone.”

  “How dare you quote the Bible at me!” shouted Richard. “How dare you use my daughter!”

  “I didn’t use her!” exclaimed Lambert. “We’ve had a very happy marriage!”

  “You’ve degraded her, you’ve exploited her, you’ve turned her from a happy girl into an emotional wreck.”

  “For Christ’s sake, she was always an emotional wreck!” snapped Lambert, feeling a sudden sense of injustice. “Philippa was fucked up well before I knew her! So don’t lay that on me too.”

  For a moment, Richard gazed speechlessly at him, then suddenly he turned away.

  “I never want to see you again,” he said quietly. “Your employment is hereby terminated under the terms of your contract.”

  “What terms?”

  “Gross misconduct,” said Richard coolly. “Abuse of trust and forgery.”

  “I’ll fight it!”

  “If you fight, you will certainly lose; however, it’s your choice. As regards the divorce,” continued Richard, “you will be hearing from Philippa’s lawyer in due course.” He paused. “And as for the money . . .”

  There was a moment of stillness; Lambert found himself leaning forward slightly, filled with sudden hope.

  “I will reimburse your debt by a total of two hundred and fifty thousand pounds. No more than that. In return, you will give me a signed guarantee that you will not attempt to make contact with Philippa except through your lawyer, and you will consider the sum to be a full and final divorce settlement.”

  “Two hundred and fifty?” said Lambert. “What about the rest of my overdraft?”

  “The rest of your overdraft, Lambert,” said Richard, in a voice that shook slightly, “is your problem.”

  “Two-seventy-five,” said Lambert.

  “Two hundred and fifty. Absolutely no more.”

  There was a long pause.

  “All right,” said Lambert eventually. “All right, I’ll take it. It’s a deal.” He held out his hand, then, as Richard made no attempt to take it, dropped it again. He looked with unwilling admiration at Richard. “You’re a tough man, aren’t you?”

  “I asked your taxi to wait in the drive,” replied Richard. He looked at his watch. “There’s a train at three.” He felt in his pocket. “Here’s the money for your ticket.” He handed an envelope to Lambert, who hesitated, shrugged, then took it.

  They walked in silence to the front door.

  “I also suggest,” said Richard, opening the door, “that you resign your membership of Greyworth. Before you find yourself asked to leave.”

  “You’re setting out to ruin my life!” said Lambert angrily. “I’ll be a broken man!”

  “I doubt it,” said Richard. “People like you are never broken. It’s others who are broken. Those who have the misfortune to come in contact with you; those who take you into their lives; who are foolish enough to trust you.”

  Lambert looked at him silently for a minute, then got into the taxi and leaned back. The taxi driver started the engine.

  “Tell me,” said Richard suddenly. “Did you ever really care for Philippa? Or was it all a sham?” Lambert screwed up his face thoughtfully.

  “Sometimes I quite fancied he
r,” he said. “If she dolled herself up a bit.”

  “I see,” said Richard. He took a deep breath. “Please leave. Immediately.”

  He watched as the taxi swung round to the entrance of the drive and disappeared.

  “Has he gone, then?” Richard turned, to see Gillian standing at the front door. “I heard you talking to him,” she continued. “For what it’s worth, I thought you were marvellous.”

  “Hardly marvellous,” said Richard. He rubbed his face wearily. “You know, he wasn’t even sorry for the way he’d behaved.”

  “There’s no point expecting people like that to be sorry,” said Gillian surprisingly. “You just have to get them out of your life as quickly as you can and forget about them. You mustn’t brood.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” said Richard. “But at the moment I can’t help brooding. I feel very bitter.” He shook his head soberly, and walked slowly back towards the house. “How is Philippa?”

  “Oh, fine,” said Gillian, talking a few steps forward to meet him. “She’s going to be fine.” She put a hand on his arm and for a few moments they were both silent.

  “I miss Fleur,” said Richard. “I miss Fleur.” He sighed. “She only left this morning, and already I miss her.”

  “So do I,” said Gillian. She squeezed his arm comfortingly. “But she’ll be back soon. Perhaps she’ll phone tonight.”

  “She won’t phone,” said Richard. He swallowed. “I asked Fleur to marry me last night. That’s why she went to London. She wanted to think about it.”

  “I see,” said Gillian.

  “Now I wish I hadn’t said anything,” said Richard. He raised his head. “Gillian, what if she says no?”

  “She won’t say no,” said Gillian. “I’m sure she won’t say no.”

  “But she might do!”

  “And she might say yes,” said Gillian. “Think about that instead. She might say yes.”

  Later on that evening, when Philippa had gone to bed, and the two of them were sitting with their coffee in the drawing room, Gillian suddenly said to Richard,

  “Don’t put Fleur on a pedestal.”

  “What?” Richard looked up at Gillian in amazement, and she blushed.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t say things like that to you.”

  “Nonsense,” said Richard. “You can say whatever you like to me.” He wrinkled his brow in thought. “But I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Gillian.

  “It does! Gillian, we’ve known each other long enough to be honest.” He leaned forward and looked at her seriously. “Tell me what you think. What do you mean by a pedestal?”

  “You thought Emily was perfect,” said Gillian bluntly. “Now you think Fleur’s perfect.” Richard laughed.

  “I don’t think Fleur’s perfect! I think . . .” He hesitated, and coloured slightly.

  “You do!” said Gillian. “You think she’s perfect! But nobody’s perfect.” She thought for a second. “One day you’ll discover something about Fleur that you didn’t know. Or that you hadn’t noticed. Just like you did with Emily.” She bit her lip. “And it may not be a good thing. But that doesn’t mean Fleur isn’t a good person.” Richard stared at her.

  “Gillian, is there something you’re trying to tell me? Something about Fleur?”

  “No!” said Gillian. “Don’t be silly.” She gazed earnestly at Richard. “It’s just that I don’t want to see you disappointed again. And if you start off with realistic expectations then maybe—” She cleared her throat awkwardly. “Maybe you’ve got a better chance of happiness.”

  “You’re saying I’m an idealist,” said Richard slowly.

  “Well, yes. I suppose I am.” Gillian frowned with embarrassment. “But then, what do I know about it?” She put her coffee cup down with a clatter and stood up. “It’s been a long day.”

  “You’re right,” exclaimed Richard suddenly. “Gillian, you understand me completely.”

  “I’ve known you a long time,” said Gillian.

  “But we’ve never spoken to each other like this before! You’ve never given me advice before!”

  “I didn’t feel it was appropriate,” said Gillian, flushing. Richard gazed at her as she made her way to the door.

  “I wish you had.”

  “Things were different then. Everything was different.”

  “Before Fleur.” Gillian nodded, smiling slightly.

  “Exactly.”

  By Friday, Fleur still had not telephoned. Gillian and Richard paced the house like two nervous dogs while outside the sky hung above them in a grey, humid mass. Mid-morning it began to rain; a few minutes later the white Jeep pulled up in the drive, discharging Antony and Zara in a flurry of shrieks and giggles.

  “Tell us all about it!” exclaimed Richard, longing for a diversion from his thoughts. “Did you have a good time?”

  “Excellent,” said Zara. “Even though Xanthe Forrester has approximately one brain cell.”

  “We went on this walk,” said Antony, “and got completely lost . . .” He caught Zara’s eye and they both dissolved into giggles.

  “And we drank cider,” said Zara, when she’d recovered herself.

  “You drank cider,” retorted Antony. “The rest of us drank beer.” He began to laugh again. “Zara, do your Cornish accent!”

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes you can!”

  “I don’t have context,” said Zara. “I need context.”

  Richard met Gillian’s eye.

  “Well, it all sounds lovely,” he said. “I think I’ll be having a chat with Mrs. Forrester a bit later on.”

  “Where’s Fleur?” said Zara, dropping her bag to the floor with a thump.

  “Gone to London for a few days,” said Richard lightly. “But she should be back tomorrow.”

  “London?” said Zara sharply. “What’s she doing in London?”

  “Oh, nothing much. I’m not really sure, to be honest.”

  “She didn’t tell you?”

  “Not in so many words.” Richard smiled at her. “Now, how about some hot chocolate?”

  “OK,” said Zara distractedly. “Just let me have a look at something.”

  Without looking back, she hurried up the stairs, along the corridor and into Fleur’s room. There she paused, took a deep breath and, with a thudding heart, pulled opened the wardrobe doors.

  All Fleur’s black suits were gone.

  “Oh no,” said Zara aloud. “Oh no, please.” A pain hit her in the chest like a hammer blow. “Please, no.” Her legs began to shake, and she sank down onto the floor.

  “No, please,” she muttered, burying her head in her hands. “Please don’t. Please don’t. Not this time. Fleur, please don’t. Please.”

  By supper, the tension in the house had risen to screaming pitch. Zara sat staring at her plate, eating nothing; Richard tried to hide his nerves with a series of jokes at which nobody laughed; Gillian clattered plates briskly and snapped at Antony when he dropped a spoon on the floor. Philippa ate three mouthfuls, then announced she would finish the rest in her room.

  Afterwards, the others sat in the drawing room, watching a film on television which they had all seen before. When it finished, no-one spoke; no-one made a move for bed. The next programme began, and everyone’s eyes remained transfixed by the screen. We don’t want to leave one another, thought Zara. We don’t want to go to bed; we don’t want to be on our own. When Antony yawned, and began to shift his legs in his chair, she felt a throb of panic.

  “I’m off to bed,” he said eventually. “Good night everyone.”

  “Me too,” said Zara, and followed him out of the room.

  On the stairs, she pulled him close.

  “Let me sleep in your bed tonight,” she whispered.

  “What, swap?” said Antony, puzzled.

  “No,” said Zara fiercely. “With you. I just want . . .” She swallowed. “I just don’t want to be o
n my own, all right?”

  “Well, OK,” said Antony slowly. “OK!” His eyes began to gleam. “But what if someone finds out?”

  “Don’t worry,” said Zara. “No-one’ll come near us.”

  Chapter 19

  “Zara! Zara!” A voice kept hissing in Zara’s ear, kept hissing and hissing. Eventually she thought she might tell it to go away and pester someone else. She rubbed her eyes sleepily, opened them, and gasped.

  “You may well gasp!” Fleur was standing next to the bed, dressed smartly in a red suit which Zara didn’t recognize, looking down at her with a mixture of triumph and anger on her face. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

  Zara gaped at her through the dim light of the curtained room. Suddenly she became aware that she was lying in bed next to Antony; that his bare arm was lying across her chest.

  “It’s not what it looks like, OK?” she said quickly.

  “Darling, you’re in bed with a fifteen-year-old boy. Don’t start pretending you stumbled into it by mistake.”

  “It wasn’t by mistake! But it wasn’t, I mean, he wasn’t . . .”

  “I haven’t got time for this,” interrupted Fleur. “Get up, and get dressed. We’re going.” Zara stared blankly at her, and an ominous pounding began in her chest.

  “What do you mean, going?” she faltered.

  “Leaving, darling. There’s a car waiting for us downstairs. I met a very nice man this week. He’s called Ernest. We’re going to join him at his villa.”

  “We can’t leave,” interrupted Zara. “I won’t!”

  “Don’t be silly, Zara.” A note of impatience crept into Fleur’s voice. “We are leaving, and that’s final.”

  “I’ll scream!” said Zara. “I’ll wake everyone up!”

  “And they’ll all come running,” said Fleur. “And then they’ll discover exactly what you and young Master Favour have been up to. How will that look to his father?”

  “We weren’t up to anything!” hissed Zara. “We weren’t sleeping together! We were just . . . sleeping together.”