“Is she on the line now? Why don’t you just pick up and speak to her?”
“Why don’t you just shut up?” snarled Lambert.
Philippa looked at him. As the afternoon had worn on, she’d begun to think that perhaps her marriage was not the loveless shell she had described; that perhaps there was hope in it. Her determination to leave Lambert had melted away, leaving behind only a familiar, faded disappointment that life had not turned out quite the way she had imagined.
But now, suddenly she felt her resolve return. She took a deep breath, and clenched her fists.
“You’re always so bloody rude to me!” she exclaimed.
“What?” Lambert’s head moved round slowly until he was looking at her in what seemed genuine astonishment.
“I’m sick of it!” Philippa advanced into the room, realized she was still holding two carrier bags, and put them down. “I’m sick of the way you treat me. Like a skivvy! Like an imbecile! I want some respect!” She stamped her foot triumphantly and wished she had a bit more of an audience. Phrases were springing plentifully to her lips; scenes of confrontation from a thousand novels were filling her mind. She felt like a romantic, feisty heroine. “I married you for love, Lambert,” she continued, lowering her voice to a tremble. “I wanted to share your life. Your hopes, your dreams. And yet you cut me out; you ignore me . . .”
“I don’t ignore you!” said Lambert. “What are you talking about?”
“You treat me like shit,” said Philippa, tossing her hair back. “Well, I’ve just about had enough. I want out.”
“You what?” Lambert’s voice rose in an astonished squawk. “Philippa, what the fuck’s wrong with you?”
“Ask yourself the same question,” said Philippa. “I’m going to leave you, Lambert.” She lifted her chin high, picked up her carrier bags and headed for the door. “I’m going to leave you, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”
The Gatecrasher
Chapter 14
Fleur arrived back from London to find Geoffrey Forrester, captain of Greyworth Golf Club, shaking hands with Richard in the hall.
“Aha!” said Geoffrey, as he saw Fleur. “You’re just in time to hear the good news. Shall I tell Fleur, Richard, or do you want to?”
“What is it?” said Fleur.
“Geoffrey’s just informed me that, if I’m willing, I’m to be nominated as captain of the club,” said Richard. Fleur looked at him. He was obviously trying to keep his face sober but his mouth had twisted into a smile, and his eyes were shining with delight.
“As I told Richard, the committee voted unanimously in favour of him,” said Geoffrey. “Which doesn’t always happen, I can tell you.”
“Well done, darling!” said Fleur. “I’m so pleased.”
“Anyway, I’d better shoot off,” said Geoffrey, looking at his watch. “So, Richard, you’ll let me know your decision in the morning?”
“Absolutely,” said Richard. “Good night, Geoffrey.”
“And I hope we’ll be seeing the two of you up at the Club Cup?” said Geoffrey. “No excuses now, Richard!” He gave Fleur a jovial grin. “Tell you what, Fleur, isn’t it about time you took up the game yourself?”
“I’m not sure I’m really a golfer,” said Fleur, smiling back at him.
“It’s never too late to start!” Geoffrey chuckled. “We’ll get you yet, Fleur! Won’t we, Richard?”
“I hope so,” said Richard. He reached for Fleur’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “I certainly hope so.”
They watched as his car roared out of the drive, then walked back inside the house.
“What decision was he talking about?” said Fleur.
“I told Geoffrey that I couldn’t agree to being nominated until I’d consulted you first,” said Richard.
“What?” Fleur stared at him. “But why? You want to be captain, don’t you?” Richard sighed.
“Of course I want to—on one level. But it’s not as simple as that. Being captain is, as well as being a huge honour, a huge commitment.” He lifted a strand of Fleur’s hair and brushed it against his lips. “If I take it on, I’ll have to spend far more time at the club than I have been doing recently. I’ll have to play more, get my game up to form again, attend meetings . . .” He spread his hands. “There’s a lot to it. And all of that will mean I have less time to spend with you.”
“But you’ll be captain! Isn’t that worth it?” Fleur narrowed her eyes. “Isn’t being captain of Greyworth what you’ve always wanted?”
“It’s funny,” said Richard. “I’ve thought for years that it was exactly what I wanted. Being captain of Greyworth was—well, it was my goal. And now I’ve got my goal within my grasp, I can’t quite remember what I wanted it for. The goal posts have shifted.” His nose began to twitch. “Or should I perhaps say, the eighteenth flag has shifted.” He gave a little snuffle of laughter, but Fleur was frowning distractedly.
“You can’t just abandon your goal,” she said suddenly. “If it’s something you’ve been aiming for all your life.”
“I don’t see why not. The question is, why was I aiming for it?” said Richard. “And what happens if I don’t particularly value what it has to offer anymore?” He shrugged. “What if I’d prefer to spend my time with you, rather than going round the course with some bore from a neighbouring golf club?”
“Richard, you can’t just cop out!” exclaimed Fleur. “You can’t just settle for . . . a nice quiet life! You’ve always wanted to be captain of Greyworth and now here’s your chance. People should grasp the opportunities they’re given in life. Even if it means—” She broke off, breathing hard.
“Even if it means they’re unhappy?” Richard laughed.
“Maybe, yes! Better to take the opportunity and be unhappy than pass it up and always regret it.”
“Fleur.” He took both her hands and kissed them. “You’re extraordinary; absolutely extraordinary! I can’t imagine a more encouraging, supportive wife . . .”
There was a sharp silence.
“Except I’m not your wife,” said Fleur slowly. Richard looked down. He took a deep breath, then looked up, straight at her.
“Fleur,” he began.
“Richard, I have to go and shower,” said Fleur, before he could continue. “I’m absolutely filthy from London.” She disentangled herself from his grasp and headed quickly for the stairs.
“Of course,” said Richard quietly. Then he smiled up at her. “You must be exhausted. And I haven’t even asked you how the memorial service went.”
“I didn’t go in the end,” said Fleur. “I was too busy having fun with Philippa.”
“Oh good! I’m very glad you two are making friends.”
“And thank you for the champagne!” added Fleur, from halfway up the stairs. “We were so surprised.”
“Yes,” said Richard. “I hoped you would be.”
Fleur headed straight for the bathroom, turned both bath taps on and locked the door. Her mind felt fuddled; she needed to think. Sighing, she sat down on the bathroom seat—a hideous upholstered affair—and stared at her reflection in the mirror.
What was her own goal in life? The answer came immediately, without her even thinking. Her goal was to acquire a large amount of money. What was a large amount of money? Ten million pounds was a large amount of money. If she married Richard, she would have a large amount of money.
“But not on my own terms,” said Fleur aloud to her reflection. She sighed, and pushed her shoes off. Her feet were aching very slightly from the London streets, despite the soft, expensive leather of her shoes; despite the many taxis.
Could she stand to become Richard’s wife? Mrs. Richard Favour, of Greyworth. Fleur shuddered slightly; the very thought stifled her. Men changed after marriage. Richard would buy her tartan trousers and expect her to take up golf. He would give her an allowance. He would be there every morning when she woke up, smiling at her with that eager, innocent smile. If she planned a trip abroa
d, he would come too.
But at the same time . . . Fleur bit her lip. At the same time, he had a lot of money. He was an opportunity that might not come her way again. She tore off her jacket and tossed it over the towel rail. The sight of the black silk suddenly reminded her of the memorial service she’d missed that afternoon. A chance passed up. Who might have been at that service? What fortunate meeting might have occurred if she’d gone?
“Make up your mind,” said Fleur to her reflection, stepping out of her skirt, undoing her bra. “Either you take what’s going, or you leave.”
She ripped her stockings off, padded over to the bath and swung her feet over the side. As she lowered them into the hot, foamy water she felt her whole body start to relax and her mind blank out.
A knock at the door made her jump.
“It’s me!” came Richard’s voice. “I’ve brought you up a glass of wine.”
“Thanks, darling!” called back Fleur. “I’ll get it in a second.”
“And Philippa’s on the phone. She wants to speak to you.” Fleur rolled her eyes. She’d had enough of Philippa for one day.
“Tell her I’ll call her back.”
“Right you are. I’m leaving the glass here,” came Richard’s voice again. “Just outside the door.”
She imagined him stooping down, carefully placing the glass on the carpet outside the bathroom door; looking at it, wondering whether she might not knock it over by mistake, then bending down again and moving it a few inches further back before tiptoeing away. A careful prudent man. Would he let her spend all his money? Quite possibly not. And then she would have married him for nothing.
Philippa put the telephone receiver down and bit her lip. A fresh flood of tears poured down her red, raw face; she felt as though her insides were being wrenched apart. There was no-one else she could phone. No-one else she could confide in. She had to talk to Fleur, and Fleur was in the bath.
“Oh God,” she said aloud. “Oh God help me.”
She sank off the sofa onto the floor and began to weep frenziedly, clutching her stomach, rocking back and forwards. Her pink suit was crumpled and tear-stained but she didn’t care what she looked like; there was no-one to see her. No-one to hear her.
Lambert had slammed the door half an hour before, leaving her sitting in numb, silent mortification. For a while she’d crouched on the sofa, unable to move without a pain hitting her in the stomach and tears springing to her eyes. Then, as her breathing calmed, she’d somehow managed to get to the phone and dial the number of The Maples and ask for Fleur in a voice that sounded normal. Fleur, she’d thought desperately. Fleur. If only I can talk to Fleur.
But Fleur was in the bath and couldn’t talk to her. And as she’d said good-bye to her father, the tears had once more started to pour down her face, and she’d sunk to the floor, and wondered why a day that had started off so perfectly should have ended up in a mess of humiliation.
He’d laughed at her. To begin with, Lambert had laughed at her. A nasty, mocking laugh which had made her throw her shoulders back and look him in the eyes and say, in an even more feisty voice than before, “I’m leaving you!” A zingy adrenaline had begun to pump round her body, a smile had come to her lips, and it had occurred to her that she should have done this ages ago. “I expect I’ll go to my father’s house,” she’d added in a businesslike way. “Until I get settled in my own place.” And Lambert had looked up and said,
“Philippa, shut up, will you?”
“Lambert, don’t you understand? I’m leaving you!”
“No you’re not.”
“Yes I am!”
“No you’re bloody not.”
“I am! You don’t love me, so what’s the point in carrying on together?”
“The point is, we’re fucking married. All right?”
“Well maybe I don’t want to be fucking married any more!” she’d cried.
“Well maybe I do!”
And Lambert had got to his feet, come over and taken her wrist. “You’re not leaving me, Philippa,” he’d said, in a voice she hardly recognized; a voice which almost frightened her. He was bright red and trembling; he looked as though he was possessed. “You’re not fucking leaving me, all right?”
And she’d felt flattered. She’d gazed up at his desperate face and thought, that’s love. He really does love me. She was about to succumb, to caress his chin and call him darling. When he moved towards her, she’d felt a smile creep across her face and prepared herself for a passionate, reuniting embrace. But suddenly his hands were grasping her roughly about the throat.
“You won’t leave me!” he hissed. “You won’t ever leave me!” And his hands had tightened around her neck until she was hardly able to breathe, until she felt she would retch against the pressure on her throat.
“Tell me you won’t leave me! Say it!”
“I won’t leave you,” Philippa had managed in a hoarse voice.
“That’s more like it.”
Suddenly he’d let her go, dropping her down onto the sofa like a child dropping an unwanted toy. She hadn’t looked up as he’d left; hadn’t asked him where he was going. Her entire body was riveted to the spot in misery. When she’d heard the door slamming, she’d felt tears of relief pouring down her face. Eventually she’d made her way shakily to the phone, jabbed in the number of The Maples and asked for the only person she could possibly tell about this. Somehow she’d managed to talk to her father in the semblance of a normal voice, giving away nothing. Somehow she’d managed to say that of course it didn’t matter, cheerio Daddy, see you soon. But as soon as she’d put the phone down, she’d collapsed onto the carpet, a soggy mess of misery. Because Fleur was unavailable, and there was no-one else she could turn to.
Richard put down the receiver and gazed affectionately at it. He found it rather pleasing that Philippa had phoned wanting to speak to Fleur rather than him. It just showed, he thought, that Fleur was becoming more and more a member of the family: attached not simply to himself, but to all of them. Gillian was certainly very fond of Fleur. Antony seemed to enjoy her company well enough, and—Richard grinned to himself—he certainly liked young Zara.
In the space of a summer, Fleur had become so much part of all their lives that he found it difficult to remember how they’d existed before her. At the beginning she’d seemed a foreign, exotic creature, full of strange ideas, completely at odds with the life he led; with the life they all led. But now . . . Richard frowned. Now she seemed entirely normal. She was just Fleur. Whether she’d changed, or whether they’d changed, he wasn’t entirely sure.
And it wasn’t just within the family that the transformation had taken place, thought Richard, pouring himself a glass of wine. All those looks of disapproval in the clubhouse had, somewhere along the line, vanished. All the gossip had melted away. Now Fleur was as well respected at Greyworth as he was himself. His nomination as captain honoured her as much as it did him.
Richard bit his lip. It was time for him to honour her too. It was time for him to get his affairs in order; time for him to buy an engagement ring; time for him to ask Fleur—properly—to be his wife.
By lunchtime the next day, Fleur had not yet found a moment to call Philippa back.
“She phoned again,” said Gillian, slicing tomatoes for lunch in the kitchen. “While you were out having your fitness assessment. She sounded very upset that she’d missed you for the third time.”
“I’ve got very good stamina,” said Fleur, staring at the sheet of paper in her hand. “But my lung capacity is terrible.” She looked up. “Why should that be, I wonder?”
“Too much smoking,” said Zara.
“I don’t smoke!”
“No, but you used to.”
“Only very briefly,” retorted Fleur. “And I lived in the Swiss Alps for six months. That should have repaired any lung damage, shouldn’t it?”
“You also had another phone call from your friend Johnny,” said Gillian, glancing at the
pad of paper by the kitchen phone. “You know, that’s the fourth time he’s phoned this week.”
“Jesus!” said Zara. “Haven’t you two made it up yet?”
“He was quite adamant that he needed to speak to you,” added Gillian. “I did promise I’d try to persuade you to phone him.”
“I’m not in the mood for Johnny,” said Fleur, frowning. “I’ll call him later.”
“Call him now!” exclaimed Zara. “If he wants you to call, he must have a good reason. What if it’s urgent?”
“Nothing in Johnny’s life is urgent,” said Fleur scathingly. “He hasn’t a care in the world.”
“And I suppose you have?” shot back Zara.
“Zara,” interrupted Gillian diplomatically, “why don’t you go and pick me some strawberries from the garden?” There was a short silence. Zara glared at Fleur.
“OK,” she said at last, and got to her feet.
“And maybe I’ll find time to phone Johnny later,” said Fleur, examining her nails. “But only maybe.”
Lambert was nearing crisis point. He sat in his office, shredding paper between his fingers, staring out of the window, unable to concentrate. Over the last few days he had received no fewer than three messages from Erica Fortescue at First Bank, exhorting him to contact her urgently. So far he’d managed to avoid speaking to her. But he couldn’t run away for ever. What if she came into his office? What if she called Richard?
His overdraft now stood at three hundred and thirty thousand pounds. Lambert felt a cold sweat steal over his forehead. How had it become so large? How had he spent so much? What did he have to show for it? He had a car, some clothes, some watches. He had some friends; chaps and their wives whom he’d bought with bottles of brandy at his club, tickets to the opera, boxes at the cricket. He’d always pretended he was doling out freebies; his friends had always believed him. If they’d ever thought he was paying for everything out of his own pocket they would have been embarrassed; would probably have laughed at him. Now Lambert’s cheeks flushed with an angry humiliation. Who were these friends? Mindless idiots whose names he could barely remember. And it was to show them a good time that he’d got himself into this trouble.
Madeleine Wickham - The Gatecrasher (mobi).mobi Page 20
