Fleur was sitting in the clubhouse bar, watching as the competitors and their wives milled about, greeting one another, joshing each other on their form, breaking off mid-conversation to shriek to new arrivals. She felt at home here, she thought comfortably, leaning back and sipping her drink. The ambience here reminded her of her childhood; of the expatriate club in Dubai. These shrieking Surrey women could equally well have been the expat wives who had sat in clusters at the bar, drinking gin and admiring one another’s shoes and complaining in low voices about their husbands’ bosses. Those jovial chaps with their pints of beer could equally well have been the business acquaintances of her father: successful, tanned, obsessively competitive. In Dubai the golf courses had been sand-coloured, not green, but that was the only difference. That was the atmosphere in which she’d grown up; that was the atmosphere which felt, to her, most like home.
“Fleur!” A voice interrupted her thoughts, and she looked up to see Philippa. She was dressed in a white trouser suit and was gazing at Fleur with an intense, almost frightening expression.
“Philippa,” said Fleur lightly. “How nice to see you again. Is Lambert playing in the Club Cup?”
“Yes, he is.” Philippa began to fiddle with her bag, tugging awkwardly at the zip until it stuck. “And I wanted to talk to you.”
“Good,” said Fleur. “That will be nice. But first let me get you a drink.”
“Drink!” said Philippa obscurely. “My God, if you knew.” She sat down with a huge sigh. “If you only knew.”
“Yes,” said Fleur doubtfully. “Well, you just sit there, and I’ll be back in a second.”
At the bar she found Lambert pushing his way to the head of the queue.
“Oh, hello,” he said unenthusiastically.
“I’ve come to buy your wife a drink,” said Fleur. “Or perhaps you were planning to buy her one yourself?” Lambert sighed.
“What does she want?”
“I’ve no idea. A glass of white wine, I should think. Or a Manhattan.”
“She can have wine.”
“Good.” Fleur glanced back at Philippa, who was frantically searching through her handbag for something; a tissue, judging by the redness of her nose. Could the girl not invest in some decent face-powder? Fleur gave a little shudder and turned back to the bar. Suddenly it occurred to her that if she returned to Philippa’s table she would probably be stuck with her all afternoon.
“Right,” she said slowly. “Well, I think I’ll go and find Richard, to wish him good luck. Philippa’s over there by the window.”
She waited for Lambert to grunt in response, then swiftly moved off, threading her way through the throng, keeping her head firmly averted from Philippa’s until she was safely out of the bar.
On the steps of the clubhouse she found Richard, Antony and Zara.
“All set?” she said cheerfully. “Who tees off first?”
“Dad,” said Antony. “And I’m soon after.”
“We’re soon after,” corrected Zara. “I’m Antony’s caddy,” she informed Richard. “I tell him which club to use. The big one or the little one.”
“Yeah, right,” said Antony. “You don’t even know what the clubs are called.”
“Sure I do!”
Richard met Fleur’s eye and smiled.
“And tonight we have a nice celebration supper,” he said.
“There may not be anything to celebrate,” said Antony.
“Oh, I hope there will,” said Richard.
“So do I,” said Zara, looking at Antony. “I don’t want to hang around with a loser.” Fleur laughed.
“That’s my girl.”
“Right,” said Richard. “Well, I’d better start getting ready.”
“Who’s that?” said Antony, interrupting him. “That man. He’s waving at us!”
“Where?” said Fleur.
“He’s just come in through the gate. I’ve no idea who he is.”
“Is he a member?” said Richard, and they all turned to look, squinting in the sunshine.
The man was dapper and tanned and had nut-brown hair. He was dressed in immaculate pale linen and gazing with slight dismay at the pink culottes of the woman who was striding along in front of him. As they stared at him, he looked up and waved again. Fleur and Zara gasped in unison. Then Zara gave a huge whoop and began running towards him.
“Who on earth is it?” exclaimed Richard, watching as the strange man caught Zara in a huge hug. “Is it a friend of yours?”
“I don’t believe it,” said Fleur in a faint voice. “It’s Johnny.”
The Gatecrasher
Chapter 16
“I should have called,” said Fleur. She stretched her legs down the grassy bank on which she and Johnny were sitting. In the distance was the fourteenth hole; a man in a red shirt was lining up to putt. “I’m sorry. I thought you were still cross with me.”
“I was. And I’m even crosser with you now!” exclaimed Johnny. “Do you know what an effort it’s been for me to come down here? You know I never leave London if I can help it.”
“I know,” said Fleur. “But you’re here now. I’m so glad we’re still friends . . .”
“I had to battle to find out what time the train left. Then I realized I didn’t know which station I should catch it from and I had to ring up again and the person I’d spoken to before had gone on a tea-break!” Johnny shook his head. “The inefficiency of the system! And as for the train itself . . .”
“Well, it’s lovely to see you,” said Fleur soothingly. “How long are you staying?”
“I’m not staying! Good God, there are limits!”
“That’ll be a pound in the swear box,” said Fleur idly. She lay back and felt the sun beat down on her face. It would be nice to be back in London with Johnny and Felix, she thought. Shopping, gossiping, the odd funeral . . .
“You seem very at home here,” said Johnny, looking around. “Quite the little Surrey wife. Have you taken up golf?”
“Of course not.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Such a deeply suburban game.”
“It’s not so bad,” said Fleur defensively. “Zara’s been learning to play, you know.”
“Ah well,” said Johnny fondly. “Zara never did have any taste.”
“It’s a shame she had to go off and caddy.”
“Well, it’s you I wanted to speak to,” said Johnny. “That’s why I’ve come down here. Since you wouldn’t return my calls, you left me no other choice.”
“What do you want to speak to me about?” asked Fleur. Johnny was silent. Fleur abruptly sat up. “Johnny, this isn’t going to be about Hal Winters, is it?”
“Yes it is.”
“But you were going to get rid of him for me!”
“No I wasn’t! Fleur, he’s not some sort of household pest. He’s your daughter’s father. You told me you would prepare her for meeting him. Which you clearly haven’t.”
“Zara doesn’t need a father,” said Fleur sulkily.
“Of course she does.”
“She’s got you.”
“Darling, it’s hardly the same,” said Johnny, “is it?” Fleur gave a little shrug, feeling her mouth twitching into a smile, in spite of herself.
“Perhaps not,” she said.
“Zara deserves the real thing,” said Johnny. “And I can tell you, she’s going to get it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Hal Winters is coming down here next Saturday. To meet Zara, ready or not.”
“What?” Fleur felt her face pale in shock. “He’s what?”
“It’s all fixed up.”
“How dare you fix it up! It’s got nothing to do with you!”
“It’s got everything to do with us! If you abdicate responsibility, someone has to take over. I’ll tell you, Felix was all for bringing him straight down in a taxi! But I said no, it’s only fair to warn Fleur.” Johnny took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. “Believe it or not
, I’m on your side, Fleur.”
“Well thanks very much!” spat Fleur. She felt slightly panicky and out of control. “I don’t want to see him!” she found herself saying. “I don’t want to see him.”
“You needn’t see him. This is between him and Zara.”
“What, and I have nothing to do with it?”
“Of course you do. But you don’t need him. Zara does.”
“She’s fine!”
“She’s not fine. She’s on the telephone to me constantly about America; about her father. Fleur, she’s obsessed!”
For a moment, Fleur stared at him, her face taut; her mouth thin. Then suddenly she relaxed.
“OK,” she said. “Fine. You’re absolutely right. Bring Mr. Winters down next Saturday. But don’t tell Zara yet. I’ll prepare her myself.”
“Fleur . . .”
“I promise! This time I really will.” Johnny looked at her suspiciously.
“And you’ll make sure she’s here to meet him?”
“Of course I will, darling,” said Fleur lightly, and, closing her eyes, she leaned back again in the sun.
Philippa was sitting alone at a table in the garden. In front of her was a pot of tea, several huge scones, and a bottle of wine which she’d won on the tombola. In the corner of the garden, the band was playing “Strangers in the Night,” and several children were attempting to dance with one another in front of the bandstand. A tear fell from Philippa’s eye into her tea. She was all alone. Fleur had completely deserted her; Gillian was on the other side of the garden, chatting merrily to some woman Philippa had never met before. No-one had even asked her how she was, or why she looked so pale; no-one was interested in her. She took a sip of tea and looked wanly around. But everybody was laughing or talking or enjoying the music.
Suddenly she saw Zara and Antony coming towards her table. She gazed into the middle distance and pushed the plate of scones very slightly away from her to indicate her loss of appetite.
“Hi, Philippa!” Antony’s voice was exuberant. “Is there enough tea for us?”
“Plenty,” whispered Philippa.
“Cool,” said Zara. She beamed at Philippa. “You won’t guess how well Antony played. Tell her, Antony.”
“I went round in sixty-eight,” said Antony, blushing red. A huge smile spread across his face.
“Sixty-eight!” echoed Zara.
“Is that good?” said Philippa dully.
“Of course it’s good! It’s the best!”
“Because of my handicap,” put in Antony quickly. “My handicap’s still pretty high, so I should do quite well.”
“You should win, you mean,” said Zara. “Antony’s the champion!”
“Sssh!” said Antony awkwardly. “I’m not! Not yet.”
“Wait till we see your dad! You did better than him, you know!”
“I know,” said Antony. “I feel a bit bad about that.”
Zara rolled her eyes.
“That’s so typical. If I could ever beat Fleur at anything, I’d never let her forget it.”
“Where is Fleur?” said Philippa in a high-pitched voice.
“With Johnny, I guess.”
“Johnny?”
“This friend of ours,” said Zara casually. “He came down on a surprise visit. He’s, like, her closest friend.”
“I see,” said Philippa.
“Oh, and guess what,” said Antony. “Xanthe Forrester’s asked us to her parents’ cottage in Cornwall. Just for a few days. D’you think Dad’ll let us go?”
“I’ve no idea,” said Philippa dully. Jealousy was rising sickeningly inside her. Fleur’s closest friend was a man named Johnny; a man Philippa had never heard of. She had rushed off to be with him and she hadn’t given Philippa another thought.
“I bloody well hope he does,” said Antony. He looked at Zara. “Shall we have a quick look at the scoreboard?”
“Absolutely,” said Zara, grinning at him. “Let’s look at all those other losers’ scores and gloat.”
“No!” protested Antony. “Just look.”
“You can just look if you like,” said Zara. “I’m going to gloat.”
By six o’clock the final scores were in, and Antony was officially declared the winner of the Club Cup. As the result was announced, a cheer went up and Antony blushed bright scarlet.
“Well done!” exclaimed Richard. “Antony, I’m so proud of you!” He patted Antony on the shoulder, and Antony blushed even deeper.
“I knew he was going to win!” said Zara to Richard. “I just knew it!”
“So did I,” said Gillian, beaming. “I made pavlova especially.”
“Cool,” said Antony.
“How lovely this all is,” said Fleur. “Have I said well done yet? Say well done, Johnny.”
“Congratulations, young man,” said Johnny. “I despise the game of golf and everything associated with it, but congratulations nevertheless.”
“Are you staying for supper?” said Gillian.
“Alas, no,” said Johnny. “London calls. But I do hope to visit again in a week’s time. You’ll be back from Cornwall by then?” he said to Zara.
“Sure.”
“Good,” said Johnny. “Because I’m going to bring you a present.”
Philippa and Lambert joined the group, and a slight pall fell over the atmosphere.
“You’re starting early, Lambert,” said Fleur brightly, looking at the brandy glass in Lambert’s hand.
“Well played, Antony,” said Lambert, ignoring Fleur and shaking Antony’s hand a little too firmly. “I played like shit.” He took a swig from his glass. “Like complete shit.”
“I had no idea you were any good at golf, Antony,” said Philippa feebly. She tried to move closer to Fleur. “Did you know, Fleur?”
“Of course I knew,” said Fleur warmly.
“Well, of course, I’ve been a bit distracted lately,” began Philippa, in a low voice. But she was interrupted by Johnny.
“My train! It leaves in fifteen minutes! I must call a taxi.”
“Someone will drive you,” said Fleur. “Who’s got a car? Lambert. Would you mind driving Johnny to the station?”
“I don’t suppose so,” said Lambert grudgingly.
“Yes, you drive him, Lambert,” said Philippa at once. “We’ll see you back at the house.”
“Excellent,” said Fleur. “And there’ll be room for me too, in your nice big car.” Before Philippa could say anything the three of them rushed off. She stared after them in dismay, and felt a hurt anger growing in her chest. Fleur was behaving as though she wasn’t there. As though she just didn’t exist; as though she didn’t matter.
“Are you all right, Philippa?” said Gillian.
“I’m fine,” snapped Philippa, and turned away. She didn’t want Gillian’s attention; Gillian was no good. She had to have Fleur.
As the others walked back to The Maples, Zara fell into step with Richard.
“Antony played so well today,” she said. “You should be really proud of him.”
“I am,” said Richard, smiling at her.
“He was really . . .” Zara screwed up her face to think of the word. “He was really confident,” she said eventually. “Really masterful. You should have seen him.”
“He’s come on a lot this summer,” said Richard.
“And it’s like, he forgot all that birthmark stuff. He just played.”
“What did you say?” Richard frowned at her.
“You know. All that grief with the birthmark.”
“What exactly do you mean?” said Richard carefully. Zara lowered her voice.
“He told me how his mother hated it.” She shrugged. “You know, the thing with the eyepatch and everything. But I guess he’s put it behind him. And I think it really made a difference.”
“Zara, what—” Richard could barely speak. He swallowed, and took a deep breath. “What thing with the eyepatch?”
“Oh.” Zara looked up at
him and bit her lip. “You don’t know? I guess neither of them ever told you.”
In the car, on the way back from the station, Fleur took out a compact. Ignoring Lambert, she began to paint her lips with a long golden brush. Out of the corner of his eye Lambert watched, mesmerized, as she smoothed on the deep glossy colour. With his eyes off the road, he swerved erratically a couple of times into the next lane, and the car behind hooted angrily.
“Lambert!” exclaimed Fleur. “Are you all right to drive?” She leaned towards him, and sniffed. “How many brandies did you have at the club?”
“I’m fine,” said Lambert shortly. He pulled up at a set of traffic lights and the car began to throb gently. He could smell Fleur’s scent; could see her legs, stretched out in front of him. Long, pale, expensive legs.
“So, Fleur,” he said. “You’re enjoying living with Richard, are you?”
“Of course,” said Fleur. “Richard’s such a wonderful man.”
“A wealthy man, too,” said Lambert.
“Really?” said Fleur innocently.
“He’s a fucking wealthy man,” said Lambert. He turned to look at Fleur, and she gave a slight shrug. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know he was wealthy,” he said, scowling.
“I hadn’t really thought about it.”
“Oh come on!”
“Lambert, let’s just get home, shall we?”
“Home,” said Lambert mockingly. “Yes, I suppose it is your home now, isn’t it. Lady consort of Mr. Filthy Fucking Rich.”
“Lambert,” said Fleur, in steely tones, “you’re drunk. You shouldn’t be driving.”
“Crap.”
The lights turned to amber and Lambert thrust his foot down on the accelerator.
“So you’re not interested in money, is that it?” he said, above the noise of the engine. “You must be the only person in the whole fucking world who isn’t.”
“You are a sordid man, aren’t you?” said Fleur quietly.
“What’s that?”
“You’re sordid! A nasty, sordid man!”
“I live in the real world, all right?” Lambert was breathing heavily; his face was growing pink.
“We all live in the real world.”
Madeleine Wickham - The Gatecrasher (mobi).mobi Page 22
