The Gatecrasher (5 page)

“For God’s sake, Philippa! Do you think I asked him about her hat? Now, hurry up.” And without waiting for an answer, he left the room.

Philippa gazed silently at her reflection; at her watery blue eyes and pale, mousy hair and slightly flushed cheeks. Through her mind rushed a torrent of imaginary words; words Lambert might have said if he had been a different person. He might have said, “Yes, darling, I expect that’s the one” . . . or he might have said, “Philippa, my love, I only had eyes for you at the memorial service” . . . or he might have said, “The one with the lovely hat? You had the loveliest hat of all.” And then she would have said, in the confident, teasing tones she could never re-create in real life, “Come on, sweetheart. Even you must have noticed that hat!” And then he would have said, “Oh
that
hat!” And then they both would have laughed. And then . . . and then he would have kissed her on the forehead, and then . . .

“Philippa!” Lambert’s voice came ringing sharply through the flat. “Philippa, are you ready?” Philippa jumped.

“I’ll be five minutes!” she called back, hearing the wobble in her voice and despising it.

“Well, get on with it!”

Philippa began to search confusedly through her makeup bag for the right shade of lipstick. If Lambert had been a different person, perhaps he would have called back, “Take your time,” or “No hurry, dearest,” or maybe he would have come back into the room, and smiled at her, and fiddled with her hair, and she would have laughed, and said, “You’re holding me up!” and he would have said, “I can’t help it when you’re so gorgeous!” And then he would have kissed her fingertips . . . and then . . .

In the corner of the room, the phone began to ring in a muted electronic burble. Lost in her own private dream-world, Philippa didn’t even hear it.

In the study, Lambert picked up the phone.

“Lambert Chester here.”

“Good morning, Mr. Chester. It’s Erica Fortescue from First Bank here. I wonder if I might have a quick word?”

“I’m about to go out. Is it important?”

“It’s about your overdraft, Mr. Chester.”

“Oh.” Lambert looked cautiously towards the door of the study—then, to make sure, kicked it shut. “What’s the problem?”

“You seem to have exceeded your limit. Quite substantially.”

“Rubbish.” Lambert leaned back, reached inside his mouth and began to pick his teeth.

“The balance on that account is currently a debit of over three hundred thousand pounds. Whereas the agreed limit was two hundred and fifty.”

“I think you’ll find,” said Lambert, “it was raised again last month. To three hundred and fifty thousand.”

“Was that confirmed in writing?”

“Larry Collins fixed it up for me.”

“Larry Collins has left the bank.” Erica Fortescue’s voice came smoothly down the line.

Fuck, thought Lambert. Larry’s been sacked. Stupid bugger.

“Well, he confirmed it in writing before he left,” he said quickly. He could easily knock up some letter.

“There’s nothing in our files.”

“Well I expect he forgot.” Lambert paused, and his face twisted into a complacent sneer. “Maybe he also forgot to tell you that in two years’ time I’ll be coming into more money than either of you has ever seen.” That’ll sort you, he thought, you stupid officious bitch.

“Your wife’s trust fund? Yes, he did tell me about it. Has that been confirmed?”

“Of course it has. It’s all set up.”

“I see.”

“And you’re still worried about my pathetic little overdraft?”

“Yes, Mr. Chester, I am. We don’t generally accept spouses’ assets as collateral on sole accounts.” Lambert stared at the phone in anger. Who did this tart think she was? “Another thing . . .”

“What?” He was beginning to feel rattled.

“I was interested to see that there’s no mention of the trust fund in your wife’s file here. Only in your own file. Is there a reason for that?”

“Yes there is,” snapped Lambert, his guard down. “It’s not mentioned in my wife’s file because she doesn’t know about it.”

The files were empty. All empty. Fleur stared at them in disbelief, flicking a few of them open, checking for stray documents, bank statements, anything. Then, hearing a noise, she quickly pushed the drawers of the metal cabinet shut and hurried over to the window. When Richard came into the room, she was leaning out, breathing in the London fumes rapturously.

“Such a wonderful view,” she exclaimed. “I adore Regent’s Park. Do you often visit the Zoo?”

“Never,” said Richard, laughing. “Not since Antony was little.”

“We must go,” said Fleur. “While you’re still in London.”

“This afternoon, perhaps?”

“This afternoon we’re going to Hyde Park,” said Fleur firmly. “It’s all arranged.”

“If you say so.” Richard grinned. “But now we’d better get going if we’re not going to be late for Philippa and Lambert.”

“OK.” Fleur smiled charmingly at Richard and allowed herself to be led from the room. At the door she glanced fleetingly around, wondering if she’d missed something. But the only businesslike piece of furniture she could see was the filing cabinet. No desk; no bureau. His paperwork must all be somewhere else. At the office. Or at the house in Surrey.

On the way to the restaurant, she allowed her hand to fall easily into Richard’s, and as their fingers linked she saw a tiny flush spread across his neck. He was such a buttoned-up English gentleman, she thought, trying not to laugh. After four weeks, he had progressed no further than kissing her, with dry, diffident, out-of-practice lips. Not
like brutish Sakis, who had dragged her off to a hotel room after their very first lunch date. Fleur winced at the memory of Sakis’s thick, hairy thighs; his barked commands. Much better this way. And to her surprise, she rather liked being treated like a high-school virgin. She walked along beside Richard with a smile on her face, feeling wrapped up and protected and smug, as though she really did have a virtue to protect; as though she were saving herself for that special moment.

Whether she could wait that long was another matter. Four weeks of lunches, dinners, films and art galleries—and she still had no hard evidence that Richard Favour had serious money. So he had a few nice suits; a London flat; a Surrey mansion; a reputation of wealth. That didn’t mean anything. The houses might be mortgaged up to the hilt. He might be about to go bust. He might be about to ask
her
for money. It had happened to her once before—and ever since, Fleur had been wary. If she couldn’t find hard proof of money, she was wasting her time. Really, she should have been off by now. On to the next funeral; the next sucker. But . . .

Fleur paused in her thoughts, and tucked Richard’s arm more firmly under her own. If she was honest with herself, she had to admit that her self-confidence had slightly fallen since she’d left Sakis. In the last few weeks she had attended three funerals and five memorial services—but so far Richard Favour was her only promising catch. Meanwhile Johnny and Felix, sweet as they were, had begun to get fidgety at the sight of her luggage littering their spare room. She didn’t usually spend so long between men (“resting,” as Felix put it); usually it was straight out of one bed and into another.

If only, thought Fleur, she could speed Richard up a bit: secure a place in his bed; work her way into his household. Then she’d be able to assess his finances properly and at the same time solve the problem of a place to stay. Otherwise—if things didn’t work out soon—she would be forced to take the sort of steps she’d vowed she’d never stoop to. She would have to find a flat of her own. Maybe even look for a job. Fleur shuddered, and her jaw tightened in determination. She would just have to get Richard into bed. Once that had happened, everything would become easy.

As they turned into Great Portland Street, Richard felt Fleur nudge him.

“Look!” she said in a low voice. “Look at that!”

Richard turned his head. On the other side of the road were two nuns standing on the pavement, apparently engaged in a bitter dispute.

“I’ve never seen nuns arguing before,” said Fleur, giggling.

“I don’t think I have either.”

“I’m going to talk to them,” said Fleur suddenly. “Wait here.”

Richard watched in astonishment as Fleur strode across the road. For a few moments she stood on the pavement opposite, a vibrant figure in her scarlet coat, talking to the black-habited nuns. They seemed to be nodding and smiling. Then all of a sudden she was coming back across the road towards him, and the nuns were walking away in apparent harmony.

“What happened?” exclaimed Richard. “What on earth did you say?”

“I told them the Blessed Virgin Mary was grieved by discord.” Fleur grinned at Richard’s incredulous expression. “Actually, I told them how to get to the tube station.”

Richard gave a sudden laugh.

“You’re a remarkable woman!” he said.

“I know,” said Fleur complacently. She tucked her hand under his arm again, and they began to walk.

Richard stared at the pale spring sunlight dappling the pavement, and felt a bubbling exhilaration rise through his body. He had known this woman for a mere four weeks, and already he couldn’t imagine life without her. When he was with her, drab everyday events seemed transformed into a series of shiny moments to relish; when he wasn’t with her, he was wishing that he was. Fleur seemed to turn life into a game—not the rigid maze of rules and conventions to which Emily had so tirelessly adhered, but a game of chance; of who dares wins. He found himself waiting with a childish excitement to hear what she would say next; what plan she would surprise him with. He had seen more of London over the last four weeks than ever before; laughed more than ever before; spent more money than he had for a long time.

Often his mind would return to Emily, and he would feel a pang of guilt—guilt that he was spending such a lot of time with Fleur, that he was enjoying himself so much, that he had kissed her. And guilt that his original motivation for pursuing Fleur—to discover as much about Emily’s hidden character as he could—seemed to have taken second place to that of simply being with her. Sometimes in his dreams he would see Emily’s face, pale and reproachful; he would wake in the night, curled up in grief
and sweating with shame. But by morning Emily’s image had always faded, and all he could think about was Fleur.

“She’s stunning!” said Lambert in outraged tones.

“I
told
you,” said Philippa. “Didn’t you notice her at the memorial service?”

Lambert shrugged.

“I suppose I thought she was quite attractive. But . . . just look at her!” Just look at her next to your father! he wanted to say.

They watched in silence as Fleur took off her scarlet coat. Underneath she was wearing a clinging black dress; she gave a little wriggle and smoothed it down over her hips. Lambert felt a sudden stab of angry desire. What the hell was a woman like that doing with Richard, when he was stuck with Philippa?

“They’re coming,” said Philippa. “Hello, Daddy!”

“Hello darling,” said Richard, kissing her. “Lambert.”

“Richard.”

“And this is Fleur.” Richard couldn’t stop the smirk of pride spreading across his face.

“I’m so glad to meet you,” said Fleur, smiling warmly at Philippa and holding out her hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Philippa took it. “And Lambert, of course, I’ve already met.”

“Very briefly,” said Lambert, in discouraging tones. Fleur gave him a curious look, then smiled again at Philippa. Slightly unnerved, Philippa smiled back.

“I’m sorry we’re a little late,” said Richard, shaking out his napkin. “We ahm . . . we got into a contretemps with a
pair of nuns. Nuns on the run.” He glanced at Fleur and with no warning they both began to laugh.

Philippa looked uneasily at Lambert, who raised his eyebrows.

“I’m sorry,” said Richard, still chuckling. “It’s too long to explain. But it was terribly funny.”

“I expect it was,” said Lambert. “Have you ordered drinks?”

“I’ll have a Manhattan,” said Richard.

“A what?” Philippa stared at him.

“A Manhattan,” repeated Richard. “Surely you’ve heard of a Manhattan?”

“Richard was a Manhattan virgin until last week,” said Fleur. “I just adore cocktails. Don’t you?”