The Gatecrasher (14 page)

Lambert came downstairs to find Fleur and Richard arm in arm in the hall.

“Fleur’s decided to come with us round the golf course,” said Richard. “Isn’t that a splendid idea?” Lambert looked at him, aghast.

“What do you mean?” he exclaimed. “She can’t come with us! This is a business game.”

“I won’t get in your way,” said Fleur.

“We’ll be having confidential business discussions.”

“On a golf course?” said Fleur. “They can’t be that confidential. Anyway, I won’t be listening.”

“Fleur very much wants to see the course,” said Richard. “I don’t think there’s any harm.”

“You don’t mind, do you Lambert?” said Fleur. “I’ve been here four weeks, and all I’ve seen is the eighteenth green.” She smiled at him from under her lashes. “I’ll be as quiet as a little mouse.”

“Perhaps Philippa could come along too,” suggested Richard.

“She’s already fixed up to have tea with Tricia Tilling,” said Lambert at once. God help us, he thought, they didn’t want a gaggle of women trailing around after them.

“Dear Tricia Tilling,” said Fleur. “We had a lovely chat this morning.”

“Fleur’s becoming quite a regular fixture at the club!” said Richard, beaming fondly at her.

“I bet she is,” said Lambert.

There was a sound on the stairs and they all looked up. Philippa was descending, looking rather flushed.

“Hello Fleur,” she said breathlessly. “I was going to say, how about coming with me to Tricia’s this afternoon? I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.”

“I’m otherwise engaged,” said Fleur. “Unfortunately.”

“Fleur’s accompanying us around the golf course,” said Richard with a smile. “A most unexpected treat.”

Philippa looked at Lambert. Why didn’t he ask her to come round the golf course too? If he’d asked her, she would have cancelled tea with Tricia Tilling. She began to imagine the phone call she’d make. “Sorry, Tricia, Lambert says I’ve simply got to go along . . . something about bringing him good luck!” An easy laugh. “I know . . . these men of ours—aren’t they something else?”

“Philippa!” She jumped, and the relaxed, laughing
voices in her head vanished. Lambert was looking impatiently at her. “I said would you look in at the pro shop and ask if they’ve mended that club yet.”

“Oh, all right,” said Philippa. She watched as the three of them left—Richard laughing at something Fleur had said; Lambert swinging his cashmere sweater over his shoulders. They were off to have a good time, and she was consigned to an afternoon with Tricia Tilling. She gave a gusty sigh of resentment. Even Gillian had more fun than her.

Gillian sat in the conservatory shelling peas and watching as Antony mended a cricket bat. He’d always been good with his hands, she thought. Careful, methodical, reliable. At the age of three, his nursery school teachers had been bemused at his paintings—always a single colour, completely covering the sheet of paper. Never more than one colour; never a single missed spot. Bordering on the obsessive. Perhaps these days, she thought, they would worry that he was too tidy for a three-year-old; take him off for counselling or workshops. Even back then, she’d sometimes detected a note of concern in the teachers’ eyes. But no-one had said anything. For it had been obvious that Antony was a well-loved, well-cared-for child.

Well loved. Gillian stared fiercely out of the window. Well loved by everyone except his own mother. His own shallow selfish mother. A woman who’d recoiled with dismay at the sight of her own baby. Who had peered at the tiny disfigurement as though she could see nothing else, as though she weren’t holding a perfect, healthy baby for whom she and everyone else ought to have been eternally grateful.

Of course, Emily had never said anything to the outside world. But Gillian had known. She’d watched as Antony had grown into a chuckling, beaming toddler, running around the house, arms outstretched, ready to embrace the world—confident that it must love him as much as he loved all of it. And then she’d watched as the little boy had gradually become aware that his mother’s face perpetually held an expression of slight disapproval towards him; that she occasionally shrank from him when no-one else was watching; that she only fully relaxed when his face was averted and she couldn’t see the tiny lizard leaping across his eye. The first day Antony had raised his little hand to his eye, concealing his birthmark from the world, Gillian had waited until the evening and confronted Emily. All her frustrations and anger had erupted in a tearful tirade, while Emily sat at her dressing table, brushing her hair; waiting. Then, when Gillian had finished, she’d looked round with a cold, contemptuous stare. “You’re just jealous,” she’d said. “It’s unhealthy! You wish Antony were your baby. Well, he’s not yours, he’s mine.”

Gillian had stared at Emily in shock, suddenly less sure of herself. Did she really wish Antony were hers? Was she unhealthy?

“You know I love Antony,” Emily had continued. “Everyone knows I love him.” She’d paused. “Richard’s always saying how wonderful I am with him. And who cares about a birthmark? We never even notice it.” Her eyes had narrowed. “In fact I’m surprised at you, Gillian, mentioning it all the time. We think the best thing is to ignore it.”

Somehow she’d twisted and reversed Gillian’s words
until Gillian had felt confused and unsure of her own motives. Was she becoming a frustrated, jealous spinster? Did her love for Antony border on possessiveness? It was Emily, after all, who was his natural mother. And so she’d backed down and said nothing more. And, after all, Antony had grown up a pleasant, problem-free child.

“There!” Antony held out the cricket bat.

“Well done,” said Gillian. She watched as he stood up and tried the bat out. He was tall now; an adult, practically. But sometimes as she caught a glimpse of his sturdy arms or smooth neck, she saw again in him that happy, chunky baby who had laughed up at her from his cot; whose hands she’d held as he took his first few steps; whom she’d loved from the moment he was born.

“Careful,” she said gruffly, as he swung the bat towards a large, painted plant pot.

“I
am
being careful,” he said irritably. “You always fuss.”

He took a few imaginary swings. Gillian silently shelled a few more peas.

“What are you going to do this afternoon?” she asked at last.

“Dunno,” said Antony. “I might get a video out. Or even a couple. It’s so
boring
, with Will away.”

“What about the others? Xanthe. And that new boy, Mex. You could organize something with them.”

“Yeah, maybe.” His face closed up and he turned away, swinging the bat viciously through the air.

“Careful!” exclaimed Gillian. But it was too late. As he swung back, there was a crack and then a crash as he hit a terracotta pot off its stand and onto the tiled floor.

“Look what you’ve done!” Her voice snapped roughly through the air. “I told you to be careful!”

“I’m sorry, OK?”

“It’s all over the floor!” Gillian stood up and gazed despairingly at the pieces of terracotta, the clumps of earth, the fleshy leaves.

“Honestly. It’s not such a disaster.” He bent down and picked up a piece of terracotta. A clod of earth fell onto his shoe.

“I’d better get a brush.” Gillian sighed heavily and put down the peas.

“I’ll do it,” said Antony. “It’s no big deal.”

“You won’t do it properly.”

“I will! Isn’t there a broom around here somewhere?” Antony’s eyes swept the conservatory and suddenly stopped as his gaze reached the door. “Jesus Christ!” he exclaimed. The piece of terracotta fell out of his hand, smashing on the floor.

“Antony! I’ve told you before—”

“Look!” he interrupted. “Who’s that?”

Gillian turned and followed his gaze. Standing on the other side of the door was a girl with long, white-blond hair, dark eyebrows and a suspicious expression.

“Hi,” she said through the glass. Her voice was high-pitched and had an American accent. “I guess you weren’t expecting me. I’ve come to stay. I’m Zara. I’m Fleur’s daughter.”

By the time they came off the eighteenth green, Lambert was bright red, sweating and grimacing with frustration. Fleur had dominated the attention all the way round the course, sashaying along beside Richard as though she were at a tea party, interrupting the discussion to ask endless questions, behaving as though she had as much right to be there as Lambert did himself. Bloody impertinent bitch.

A remark made by his old housemaster suddenly came into Lambert’s mind.
I’m all for equality in women . . . they’re all equally inferior to men!
A little chuckle had gone around the select group of sixth-formers whom Old Smithers had been entertaining with sherry. Lambert had chortled particularly loudly, acknowledging the fact that he and Old Smithers had always shared the same sense of humour. Now his frown softened slightly; a reminiscent look passed over his features. For a few moments he found himself wishing he was a sixth-former once again.

It was a fact which Lambert rarely admitted to himself that the happiest and most successful years of his life
had, so far, been those spent at school. He had attended Creighton—a minor public school in the Midlands—and had soon found himself one of the brightest, strongest and most powerful boys in the school. A natural bully, he had soon established around himself a sycophantic entourage, mildly terrorizing younger boys and sneering in packs at the local lads in the town. The boys at Creighton were for the most part third-rate plodders who would never again in their lives achieve the superior status which was accorded to them in this little town; therefore they made the most of it, striding around the streets in their distinctive greatcoats and flamboyant ties, braying loudly and picking fights with what were known as the townies. Lambert had rarely actually fought himself but had become known as the author of a great number of disparaging remarks about the “plebs” which had eventually given him the reputation of a wit. The masters—themselves insular, bored and discouraged with life—had not reprimanded him but tacitly encouraged him in this role; had fed his pompous, superior manner with winks and chortles and snobbish asides. Lambert’s timid mother had delighted in her tall, confident son with his loud voice and forthright views, which by the time he reached the sixth form, were dismissive of almost everyone at Creighton and almost everyone outside of Creighton too.

The exception was his father. Lambert had always idolized his father—a tall, swaggering man with an overbearing manner which Lambert still unconsciously emulated. His father’s moods had been violent and unpredictable, and Lambert had grown up desperate for his approval. When his father made fun of the young Lambert’s rubbery-looking face or clipped him too vigorously round the head, Lambert would force himself to grin back and laugh; when he
spent whole evenings bellowing at Lambert’s mother, Lambert would creep upstairs to his bedroom, telling himself furiously that his father was right; his father was always right.

It had been Lambert’s father who insisted he attend Creighton School, as he had done. Who taught him to mock the other boys in the village; who took him to Cambridge for the day and proudly pointed out his old college. It was his father, Lambert believed, who knew about the world; who cared about his future; who would guide him in life.

And then, when Lambert was fifteen, his father announced that he had a mistress, that he loved her and that he was leaving. He said he’d come back and visit Lambert; he never did. Later they heard that he’d only lasted six months with the mistress; that he’d gone abroad; that no-one knew where he was.

Filled with a desperate, adolescent grief, Lambert had taken his anger out on his mother. It was her fault his father had left. It was her fault that there was now no money for holidays; that letters had to be written to the headmaster of Creighton, pleading for a reduction in the fees. As their situation grew more and more wretched, Lambert’s swagger grew more pronounced; his contempt for the town plebs grew fiercer—and his idolatry for his absent father grew even stronger.

Against the advice of his masters, he tried for Cambridge—for his father’s old college. He was granted an interview but on the strength of his interview he was turned down. The sense of failure was almost more than he could bear. Abruptly he announced that he was not going to waste his time with university. The masters remonstrated with
him, but only mildly; he was on the way out of their lives and therefore of waning interest. Their attention was now focusing on the boys lower down the school; the boys Lambert had used to beat for burning his toast. What Lambert did with his life, they didn’t really care. His mother, who did care, was roundly ignored.

And so Lambert had gone straight to London, straight into a job in computing. The pompous manner which might have been rubbed off by Cambridge remained, as did his feeling of innate superiority. When others of inferior schooling were promoted above him, he retaliated by wearing his OC tie to work. When his flat mates organized weekend gatherings without him, he retaliated by driving back up to Creighton and displaying his latest car to anyone who would look. It was unthinkable to Lambert that those around him should not admire him and defer to him. Those who didn’t, he dismissed as being too ignorant to bother with. Those who did, he secretly despised. He was unable to make friends; unable even to understand any relationship based on equality. Those who would tolerate his company for even a couple of hours had been few and were becoming fewer when he moved to Richard’s company. And at that point his life had been transformed. He had married the boss’s daughter and moved on to a new level and his status had become, in his own mind, assured for good.