“Gillian said something very similar to me,” he said at last.
“Gillian,” said Fleur, “is a wise woman.”
“Where’s Zara?” said Antony, bored with obscure adult talk. He looked around. “Zara?”
“Zara, sweetie,” said Fleur impatiently. “Get out of the car.”
Slowly, cautiously, Zara climbed out of the Rolls-Royce. She stood still for a moment like a hostile cat, looking around as though suddenly unsure of her surroundings. Antony was reminded of the first time he’d seen her.
“OK,” she said, catching his eye. “Well, we’re back.” She scuffed her foot on the ground. “You know. If you want us.”
“Of course we want you!” said Antony. “Don’t we, Dad?”
“Of course we do,” said Richard.
He gently let go of Fleur’s hands and went over to Zara.
“Come on, Zara,” he said kindly. “There’s someone inside who very much wants to meet you.”
“Who?” said Fleur at once.
“I think you know who, Fleur,” said Richard, looking straight at her.
For a moment they gazed challengingly at each other. Then, as if in acquiescence, Fleur gave a tiny shrug. Richard nodded, a satisfied expression on his face, and turned back to Zara.
“Come on,” he said. “Come on, little Zara. We’ve had our turn. It’s your turn now.” And putting his arm tenderly round Zara’s narrow, bony shoulders, he led her slowly into the house.
THE END
The Gatecrasher
Keep reading for a sneak peek of more Madeleine
Wickham novels you won’t want to miss!
THE WEDDING GIRL
Available in hardcover from Thomas Dunne Books
At the age of eighteen, in that first golden Oxford summer, Milly was up for anything. Now, ten years later, Milly is a very different person. Engaged to a man who is wealthy, serious, and believes her to be perfect—she is facing the biggest and most elaborate wedding imaginable. Milly’s past is locked away so securely she has almost persuaded herself that it doesn’t exist—until, with only four days to go, her secret catches up with her . . . And when “I do” gives you déjà vu, it could be a problem.
SLEEPING ARRANGEMENTS
Available in Griffin Trade Paperback edition
When two families arrive at a villa in Spain for their vacation, they get a shock—it has been double-booked. An uneasy week of sharing begins, and tensions soon mount in the soaring heat. But the temperature isn’t solely to blame: There’s a secret history between the families—and as tempers fray, an old passion begins to resurface . . . With her trademark style of keen insight and razor-sharp wit, Madeleine Wickham will keep you on the edge of your seat. So sit back, grab a cool drink, and get ready for a wonderfully wicked trip you’ll not soon forget!
COCKTAILS FOR THREE
Available in Griffin Mass Market edition
Each month, three staffers of The Londoner gather at a nearby lounge for a night of cocktails and gossip. But the events of one April evening will have permanent repercussions for the trio. Madeleine Wickham combines her trademark humor with poignant insight to create an edgy, romantic tale of secrets, strangers, and a splash of scandal.
The Gatecrasher
The Wedding Girl
A group of tourists had stopped to gawp at Milly as she stood in her wedding dress on the registry office steps. They clogged up the pavement opposite while Oxford shoppers, accustomed to the yearly influx, stepped round them into the road, not even bothering to complain. A few glanced up towards the steps of the registry office to see what all the fuss was about, and tacitly acknowledged that the young couple on the steps did make a very striking pair.
One or two of the tourists had even brought out cameras, and Milly beamed joyously at them, revelling in their attention; trying to imagine the picture she and Allan made together. Her spiky, white-blond hair was growing hot in the afternoon sun, the hired veil was scratchy against her neck, the nylon lace of her dress felt uncomfortably damp wherever it touched her body. But still she felt light-hearted and full of a euphoric energy. And whenever she glanced up at Allan—at her husband—a new, hot thrill of excitement coursed through her body, obliterating all other sensation.
She had only arrived in Oxford three weeks ago. School had finished in July—and while all her friends had planned trips to Ibiza and Spain and Amsterdam, Milly had been packed off to a secretarial college in Oxford. “Much more useful than some silly holiday,” her mother had announced firmly. “And just think what an advantage you’ll have over the others when it comes to job-hunting.” But Milly didn’t want an advantage over the others. She wanted a suntan and a boyfriend, and beyond that, she didn’t really care.
So on the second day of the typing course, she’d slipped off after lunch. She’d found a cheap hairdresser and, with a surge of exhilaration, told him to chop her hair short and bleach it. Then, feeling light and happy, she’d wandered around the dry, sun-drenched streets of Oxford, dipping into cool cloisters and chapels, peering behind stone arches, wondering where she might sunbathe. It was pure coincidence that she’d eventually chosen a patch of lawn in Corpus Christi College; that Rupert’s rooms should have been directly opposite; that he and Allan should have decided to spend that afternoon doing nothing but lying on the grass, drinking Pimm’s.
She’d watched, surreptitiously, as they sauntered onto the lawn, clinked glasses, and lit up cigarettes; gazed harder as one of them took off his shirt to reveal a tanned torso. She’d listened to the snatches of their conversation which wafted through the air towards her and found herself longing to know these debonair, good-looking men. When, suddenly, the older one addressed her, she felt her heart leap with excitement.
“Have you got a light?” His voice was dry, American, amused.
“Yes,” she stuttered, feeling in her pocket. “Yes, I have.”
“We’re terribly lazy, I’m afraid.” The younger man’s eyes met hers: shyer, more diffident. “I’ve got a lighter; just inside that window.” He pointed to a stone mullioned arch. “But it’s too hot to move.”
“We’ll repay you with a glass of Pimm’s,” said the American. He’d held out his hand. “Allan.”
“Rupert.”
She’d lolled on the grass with them for the rest of the afternoon, soaking up the sun and alcohol; flirting and giggling; making them both laugh with her descriptions of her fellow secretaries. At the pit of her stomach was a feeling of anticipation which increased as the afternoon wore on: a sexual frisson heightened by the fact that there were two of them and they were both beautiful. Rupert was lithe and golden like a young lion; his hair a shining blond halo; his teeth gleaming white against his smooth brown face. Allan’s face was crinkled and his hair was greying at the temples, but his grey-green eyes made her heart jump when they met hers, and his voice caressed her ears like silk.
When Rupert rolled over onto his back and said to the sky, “Shall we go for something to eat to night?” she’d thought he must be asking her out. An immediate, unbelieving joy had coursed through her; simultaneously she’d recognized that she would have preferred it if it had been Allan.
But then Allan rolled over too, and said, “Sure thing.” And then he leaned over and casually kissed Rupert on the mouth.
The strange thing was, after the initial, heart-stopping shock, Milly hadn’t really minded. In fact, this way was almost better: This way, she had the pair of them to herself. She’d gone to San Antonio’s with them that night and basked in the jealous glances of two fellow secretaries at another table. The next night they’d played jazz on an old wind-up gramophone and drunk mint juleps and taught her how to roll joints. Within a week, they’d become a regular threesome.
And then Allan had asked her to marry him.
The Gatecrasher
The Gatecrasher
Chapter 5
Breakfast had been laid in the conservatory.
“What a lovely room,�
�� said Fleur politely, looking at Gillian’s face, searching for eye contact. But Gillian was looking down at her plate. She had not once met Fleur’s eye since she and Richard had arrived the night before.
“We like it,” said Richard cheerfully. “Especially in the spring. In the summer, it sometimes gets too hot.”
There was another silence. Antony put down his teacup and everyone seemed to listen intently to the little tinkle.
“We built the conservatory about . . . ten years ago,” continued Richard. “Is that right, Gillian?”
“I expect so,” said Gillian. “More tea, anyone?”
“Yes please,” said Fleur.
“Right. Well I’ll make another pot, then,” said Gillian, and she disappeared into the kitchen.
Fleur took a bite of toast. Things were going rather well, she thought, despite the uneaten roast lamb and pavlova. It had been the boy, Antony, who had confronted them the night before, almost as soon as they had got inside the door, and informed them that Gillian had spent all day cooking. Richard had looked horror-struck, and Fleur had put on a most convincing show of dismay. Fortunately, no-one seemed to blame her. Equally fortunately, it was obvious this morning that no-one was going to mention the matter again.
“Here you are.” Gillian had returned with the teapot.
“Wonderful,” said Fleur, smiling into Gillian’s unreceptive face. It was going to be easy, she thought, if all she would have to deal with were awkward silences and a few resentful glares. Glares didn’t bother her at all; neither did raised eyebrows; neither did sidelong comments. That was the blessedness of preying on the reserved British middle classes, she thought, sipping at her tea. They never seemed to talk to one another; they never wanted to rock the boat; they seemed almost more willing to lose all their money than to undergo the embarrassment of a direct confrontation. Which meant that for someone like her, the way was clear.
She looked curiously at Gillian. For someone who presumably had access to funds, Gillian was wearing particularly hideous clothes. Dark green trousers—slacks, Fleur supposed they would be called—and a blue embroidered cotton shirt with short, workmanlike sleeves. As she leaned over with the teapot, Fleur glimpsed Gillian’s upper arms—solid slabs of white, opaque, almost dead-looking skin.
Antony’s clothes were a bit better. Fairly standard jeans and a rather nice red shirt. It was a shame about his birthmark. Had they not been able to treat it? Possibly not, because it stretched right across his eye. If he’d been a girl, of course, he’d have been able to wear makeup . . . Other than that, thought Fleur, he was a handsome boy. He took after his father.
Fleur’s gaze flitted idly over to Richard. He was leaning back in his chair, looking out of the conservatory into the garden, with an apparent look of contentment on his face, as though he were beginning a holiday. As he felt her eyes on him, he glanced up and smiled. Fleur smiled back. It was easy to smile at Richard, she thought. He was a good man, kind and considerate, and not nearly as dull as she had first feared. These last few weeks had been fun.
But it was money she needed, not fun. She hadn’t persevered so hard in order to end up with a limited income and holidays in Majorca. Fleur gave an inward sigh, and took another sip of tea. Sometimes the effort of pursuing money quite exhausted her; sometimes she began to think that Majorca would not be so bad after all. But that was weakness. She hadn’t come so far simply to give up. She would achieve her goal. She had to achieve it. Apart from anything else, it was the only goal she had.
She looked up at Richard and smiled.
“Is this the largest house on the Greyworth estate?”
“I don’t think so,” said Richard. “One of the largest, I suppose.”
“The Tillings have got eight bedrooms,” volunteered Antony. “And a snooker room.”
“There you are.” Richard grinned. “Trust Antony to be on the ball.”
Antony said nothing. He found the sight of Fleur across the table from him unsettling. Was this woman really going out with his dad? She was gorgeous. Gorgeous! And she made his dad look different. When the two of them had arrived the night before, all smart and glamorous looking, they’d looked as if they came from someone else’s family. His dad didn’t look like his dad. And Fleur certainly didn’t look like anyone’s mum. But she wasn’t a floosie, either, thought Antony. She wasn’t a dolly-bird. She was just . . . beautiful.
Reaching for his cup, Richard saw Antony staring at Fleur with undisguised admiration. And in spite of himself, he felt a little dart of pride. That’s right, my boy, he felt like saying. Life’s not over for me yet. At the back of his mind ran guilty thoughts like a train: remembered images of Emily sitting just where Fleur now sat; memories of family breakfasts with Emily’s tinkling laugh rising above the conversation. But he stamped on them every time they surfaced; refused to allow his sentimentality to get the better of him. Life was for living; happiness was for taking; Fleur was a wonderful woman. Sitting in the bright sunshine, there seemed nothing more to it than that.
After breakfast, Richard disappeared to get ready for golf. As he had explained to Fleur, today was the Banting Cup. Any other Saturday, he would have forgone golf to show her around the place. But the Banting Cup . . .
“Don’t worry,” Fleur had said at once. “I’ll be fine.”
“We can meet up for a drink afterwards,” Richard had added. “Gillian will bring you down to the clubhouse.” He’d paused, and his brow had wrinkled. “Do you mind?”
“Of course not,” Fleur had said, laughing. “I’ll have a lovely morning on my own.”
“You won’t be on your own!” Richard had said. “Gillian will look after you.”
Now Fleur eyed Gillian thoughtfully. She was taking clean plates from the dishwasher and stacking them in a pile. Every time she bent down she gave a little sigh; every time she stood up she looked as though the effort might kill her.
“Lovely plates,” said Fleur, getting up. “Simply beautiful. Did you choose them?”
“What, these?” said Gillian. She looked at the plate in her hand as though she hated it. “Oh no. Emily chose them. Richard’s wife.” She paused, and her voice became harsher. “She was my sister.”
“I see,” said Fleur.
Well, it hadn’t taken long to get on to that subject, she thought. The dead, blameless wife. Perhaps she had underestimated this Gillian. Perhaps the attack would begin now. The pursed lips, the hissed threats. You’re not welcome in my kitchen. She stood, watching Gillian and waiting. But Gillian’s face remained impassive; pale and pouchy like an undercooked scone.
“Do you play golf?” said Fleur eventually.
“A little.”
“I don’t play at all, I’m afraid. I must try to learn.”
Gillian didn’t reply. She had begun to put the plates back on the dresser. They were hand-painted pottery plates, each decorated with a different farmyard animal. If they were going to be displayed, thought Fleur, they should at least go the right way up. But Gillian didn’t seem to notice. Each plate went back on the dresser with a crash, until the top shelf and half the second shelf were filled with animals at assorted angles. Then all of a sudden the animals came to an end and she began to fill the rest of the shelves with blue and white patterned china. No! Fleur wanted to exclaim. Can’t you see how ugly that looks? It would take two minutes to make it look nice.
“Lovely,” she said, as Gillian finished. “I adore farmhouse kitchens.”
“It’s difficult to keep clean,” said Gillian glumly. “All these tiles. You chop vegetables and all the bits go in between.”
Fleur looked around vaguely, wondering what she could find to say on the subject of chopped vegetables. The room reminded her uncomfortably of a kitchen in Scotland in which she’d shivered for an entire shooting season, only to discover at the end that her titled host was not only heavily in debt, but had been two-timing her all along. Bloody upper classes, she thought savagely. Waste-of-time losers.
&nb
sp; “Excuse me,” said Gillian. “I’ve got to get to that cupboard.” She reached down, past Fleur, and emerged with a grater.
“Let me help,” said Fleur. “I’m sure there’s something I can do.”
“It’s easier if I do it myself.” Gillian’s shoulders were hunched and her eyes refused to meet Fleur’s. Fleur gave an inward shrug.
“OK,” she said. “Well, I might pop upstairs and do some bits and pieces. What time are we going to the clubhouse?”
“Twelve,” said Gillian, without looking up.
Plenty of time, thought Fleur, as she made her way up the stairs. With Richard and Antony both out and Gillian grating away in the kitchen, now was the perfect opportunity to find out what she needed. She walked slowly down the corridor, mentally valuing as she went. The wallpaper was dull but expensive; the pictures were dull and cheap. All the good paintings had obviously been crammed into the drawing room downstairs, where visitors could see them. Emily Favour, she thought, had probably been the sort of woman to wear expensive dresses and cheap underclothes.
She walked straight past the door to her bedroom and turned down a tiny flight of stairs. The beauty of being new to a house was that one could always claim to be lost. Especially since the guided tour the night before had been so vague. “Down there’s my office,” Richard had said, gesturing towards the stairs. And Fleur had not so much as flickered, but had given a tiny yawn and said, “All that wine’s making me feel snoozy!”
Now she descended the flight of stairs with determination. At last she was starting on the real business in hand. Behind that door she would discover the true extent of Richard’s potential—whether he was worth bothering with, and how much she could take him for. She would quickly work out whether it was worth waiting for a particular time in the year; if there were any unusual factors she should take into account. She suspected not. Most men’s financial affairs were remarkably similar. It was the men themselves who differed.
The thought of a new project filled her with a slight exhilaration, and she felt her heart beat more quickly as she reached for the door handle and pushed. But the door didn’t budge. She tried again—but it was no good. The door to the office was locked.
Madeleine Wickham - The Gatecrasher (mobi).mobi Page 27
