“Of course I’m listening!” said Fleur. “But there’s someone knocking at the door. I’ll just go and see who it is . . .” She waited a couple of seconds, then firmly replaced the receiver. A moment later, she picked it up again.
“Hello? Could you send someone up for my luggage, please?”
Downstairs, the hotel lobby was calm and tranquil. The woman from Take Hat! saw Fleur walking past the boutique, and gave a little wave, but Fleur ignored her.
“I’d like to check out,” she said, as soon as she got to the reception desk. “And to make a withdrawal of money. The account is in the name of Sakis Papandreous.”
“Ah, yes.” The smooth, blond-haired receptionist tapped briefly at her computer, then looked up and smiled at her. “How much money would you like?” Fleur beamed back at her.
“Ten thousand pounds. And could you order me two taxis?” The woman looked up in surprise.
“Two?”
“One for me, one for my luggage. My luggage is going to Chelsea.” Fleur lowered her eyes beneath her gauzy veil. “I’m going to a memorial service.”
“Oh dear, I am sorry,” said the woman, handing Fleur several pages of hotel bill. “Someone close to you?”
“Not yet,” said Fleur, signing the bill without bothering to check it. She watched as the cashier counted thick wads of money into two crested envelopes, then tenderly took them both, placed them in her Osprey bag and snapped it shut. “But you never know.”
Richard Favour sat in the front pew of St. Anselm’s Church with his eyes closed, listening to the sounds of people filling the church—muted whisperings and shufflings, the tapping of heels on the tiled floor, and “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring” being played softly on the organ.
He had always hated “Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring”; it had been the suggestion of the organist at their meeting three weeks previously, after it had become apparent that Richard could not name a single piece of organ music of which Emily had been particularly fond. There had been a slightly embarrassed silence as Richard vainly racked his brains, then the organist had tactfully murmured, ‘Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring’ is always very popular . . .” and Richard had agreed in hasty relief.
Now he gave a dissatisfied frown. Surely he could have thought of something more personal than this turgid, over-popular tune? Emily had certainly been a music-lover, always going to concerts and recitals when her health allowed it. Had she never once turned to him, eyes alight, saying, “I love this piece, don’t you?” He screwed up his eyes and tried
to remember. But the only vision that came to him was of Emily lying in bed, eyes dulled, wan and frail and uncomplaining. A spasm of guilty regret went through him. Why had he never asked his wife what her favourite piece of music was? In thirty-three years of marriage, he had never asked her. And now it was too late. Now he would never know.
He rubbed his forehead wearily, and looked down at the engraved order of service on his lap. The words stared back up at him.
Service of Memorial and Thanksgiving for the life of Emily Millicent Favour
. Simple black lettering, plain white card. He had resisted all attempts by the printers to introduce such prized features as silver borders or embossed angels. Of that, he thought, Emily would have approved. At least . . . he hoped she would.
It had taken Richard several years of marriage to Emily to realize that he didn’t know her very well, and several more for him to realize that he never would. At the beginning, her serene remoteness had been part of her appeal, along with her pale, pretty face and the neat, boyish figure which she kept as resolutely hidden as she did her innermost thoughts. The more she had kept herself hidden, the more tantalized Richard had become; he had approached their wedding day with a longing bordering on desperation. At last, he had thought, he and Emily would be able to reveal their secret selves to each other. He had yearned to explore not only her body but her mind, her person; to discover her most intimate fears and dreams; to become her lifelong soulmate.
They’d been married on a bright, blustery day, in a little village in Kent. Emily had looked composed and serene throughout; Richard had supposed she was simply
better than him at concealing the nervous anticipation that surely burned as intensely within her as it did in him—an anticipation which had become stronger as the day was swallowed up and the beginning of their life together drew near.
Now he closed his eyes, and remembered those first, tingling seconds, as the door had shut behind the porter and he was alone with his wife for the first time in their Eastbourne hotel suite. He’d gazed at her as she took off her hat with the smooth, precise movements she always made, half-longing for her to throw the silly thing down and rush into his arms, and half-longing for this delicious, uncertain waiting to last for ever. It had seemed that Emily was deliberately delaying the moment of their coming together; teasing him with her cool, oblivious manner, as though she knew exactly what was going through his mind.
And then, finally, she’d turned, and met his eye. And he’d taken a breath, not knowing quite where to start; which of his pent-up thoughts to release first. And she’d looked straight at him with remote blue eyes and said, “What time is dinner?”
Even then, he’d thought she was still teasing. He’d thought she was purposely prolonging the sense of anticipation, that she was deliberately stoppering up her emotions until they became too overwhelming to control, when they would flood out in a huge gush to meet and mix with his. And so, patiently, awed by her apparent self-control, he’d waited. Waited for the gush; the breaking of the waters; the tears and the surrender.
But it had never happened. Emily’s love for him had never manifested itself in anything more than a slow drip-drip
of fond affection; she’d responded to his every caress, his every confidence, with the same degree of lukewarm interest. When he tried to spark a more powerful reaction in her, he’d been met first by incomprehension, then, as he grew more strident, by an almost frightened resistance.
Eventually he’d given up trying. And gradually, almost without his realizing, his own love for her had begun to change in character. Over the years, his emotions had stopped pounding at the surface of his soul like a hot, wet tidal wave and had receded and solidified into something firm and dry and sensible. And Richard, too, had become firm and dry and sensible. He’d learned to keep his own counsel, to gather his thoughts dispassionately and say only half of what he was really thinking. He’d learned to smile when he wanted to beam, to click his tongue when he wanted to scream in frustration; to restrain himself and his foolish thoughts as much as possible.
Now, waiting for her memorial service to begin, he blessed Emily for those lessons in self-restraint. Because if it hadn’t been for his ability to keep himself in check, the hot, sentimental tears which bubbled at the back of his eyes would now have been coursing uncontrollably down his cheeks, and the hands which calmly held his order of service would have been clasped over his contorted face, and he would have been swept away by a desperate, immoderate grief.
The church was almost full when Fleur arrived. She stood at the back for a few moments, surveying the faces and clothes and voices in front of her; assessing the quality of the flower arrangements; checking the pews for anyone who might look up and recognize her.
But the people in front of her were an anonymous bunch. Men in dull suits; ladies in uninspired hats. A flicker of doubt crossed Fleur’s mind. Could Johnny have got this one wrong? Was there really any money lurking in this colourless crowd?
“Would you like an order of service?” She looked up to see a long-legged man striding across the marble floor towards her. “It’s about to start,” he added with a frown.
“Of course,” murmured Fleur. She held out her pale, scented hand. “Fleur Daxeny. I’m so glad to meet you . . . Sorry, I’ve forgotten your name . . .”
“Lambert.”
“Lambert. Of course. I remember now.” She paused, and glanced up at his face, still wearing an arrogant frown. “You’re the clever one.”
“I suppose you could say that,” said Lambert, shrugging.
Clever or sexy, thought Fleur. All men want to be one or the other—or both. She looked at Lambert again. His features looked overblown and rubbery, so that even in repose he seemed to be pulling a face. Better just leave it at clever, she thought.
“Well, I’d better sit down,” she said. “I expect I’ll see you later.”
“There’s plenty of room at the back,” Lambert called after her. But Fleur appeared not to hear him. Studying her order of service with an absorbed, solemn expression, she made her way quickly to the front of the church.
“I’m sorry,” she said, pausing by the third row from the front. “Is there any room? It’s a bit crowded at the back.”
She stood impassively while the ten people filling the row huffed and shuffled themselves along; then, with one
elegant movement, took her place. She bowed her head for a moment, then looked up with a stern, brave expression.
“Poor Emily,” she said. “Poor sweet Emily.”
“Who was that?” whispered Philippa Chester as her husband returned to his seat beside her.
“I don’t know,” said Lambert. “One of your mother’s friends, I suppose. She seemed to know all about me.”
“I don’t think I remember her,” said Philippa. “What’s her name?”
“Fleur. Fleur something.”
“Fleur. I’ve never heard of her.”
“Maybe they were at school together or something.”
“Oh yes,” said Philippa. “That could be it. Like that other one. Joan. Do you remember? The one who came to visit out of the blue?”
“No,” said Lambert.
“Yes you do.
Joan
. She gave Mummy that hideous glass bowl.” Philippa squinted at Fleur again. “Except this one looks too young. I like her hat. I wish I could wear little hats like that. But my head’s too big. Or my hair isn’t right. Or something.”
She tailed off. Lambert was staring down at a piece of paper and muttering. Philippa looked around the church again. So many people. All here for Mummy. It almost made her want to cry.
“Does my hat look all right?” she said suddenly.
“It looks great,” said Lambert without looking up.
“It cost a bomb. I couldn’t believe how much it cost. But then, when I put it on this morning, I thought . . .”
“Philippa!” hissed Lambert. “Can you shut up? I’ve got my reading to think about!”
“Oh yes. Yes, of course you have.”
Philippa looked down, chastened. And once again she felt a little pinprick of hurt. No-one had asked her to do a reading. Lambert was doing one, and so was her little brother Antony, but all she had to do was sit still in her hat. And she couldn’t even do that very well.
“When I die,” she said suddenly, “I want
everyone
to do a reading at my memorial service. You, and Antony, and Gillian, and all our children . . .”
“If we have any,” said Lambert, not looking up.
“If we have any,” echoed Philippa morosely. She looked around at the sea of black hats. “I might die before we have any children, mightn’t I? I mean, we don’t know when we’re going to die, do we? I could die tomorrow.” She broke off, overcome by the thought of herself in a coffin, looking pale and waxy and romantic, surrounded by weeping mourners. Her eyes began to prickle. “I could die tomorrow. And then it would be . . .”
“Shut up,” said Lambert, putting away his piece of paper. He stretched his hand down out of sight and casually pinched Philippa’s fleshy calf. “You’re talking rubbish,” he murmured. “What are you talking?”
Philippa was silent. Lambert’s fingers gradually tightened on her skin, until suddenly they nipped so viciously that she gave a sharp intake of breath.
“I’m talking rubbish,” she said, in a quick, low voice.
“Good girl,” said Lambert. He released his fingers. “Now, sit up straight and get a grip.”
“I’m sorry,” said Philippa breathlessly. “It’s just a bit . . .
overwhelming. There are so many people here. I didn’t know Mummy had all these friends.”
“Your mother was a very popular lady,” said Lambert. “Everyone loved her.”
And no-one loves me, Philippa felt like saying. But instead, she prodded helplessly at her hat and tugged a few locks of wispy hair out from under the severe black brim, so that by the time she stood up for the first hymn, she looked even worse than before.
“The day thou gavest, Lord, is ended,” sang Fleur. She forced herself to look down at the hymn-book and pretend that she was reading the words. As though she didn’t know them off by heart; as though she hadn’t sung them at too many funerals and memorial services to count. Why did people always choose the same dreary hymns for funerals? she thought. Didn’t they appreciate how boring it made things for the regular funeral gatecrasher?
The first funeral that Fleur had gatecrashed had been by accident. Wandering down a little Kensington back street one dull morning, wondering if she might be able to get herself a job in an expensive art gallery, she had seen an assembly of smart people milling on the pavement outside a small but distinguished Catholic church. With an aimless curiosity, she had slowed down as she reached them; slowed down, and then stopped. She had stood, not quite in the group but not quite out of it, and listened as hard as she could to as many conversations as possible. And gradually she’d realized, as she heard talk of trusts,
of family diamonds, of Scottish islands, that these people had money. Serious money.