Madeleine Wickham - The Gatecrasher (mobi).mobi Read online

  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 Gatecrasher

  Chapter 2

  “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.

  Then, suddenly, the spattering rain had turned into a drenching pour, and the people on the pavement had unfurled twenty-five umbrellas in unison, like a flock of blackbirds taking off. And it had seemed entirely natural for Fleur to choose a benevolent looking elderly man, and to meet his eye tentatively, and to creep, with a grateful smile, under the shelter of his Swaine Adeney Brigg dome of black silk. It hadn’t been easy to talk, above the rain and the chatter, and the cars swooshing by, so they’d simply smiled at each other, and nodded. And by the time the choir had stopped rehearsing, and the church doors had opened, they’d assumed the companionship of old friends. He’d ushered her into the church, and handed her an order of service, and they’d taken seats together near the back.

  “I didn’t know Benjy awfully well,” the elderly man had confided as they sat down. “But he was a dear friend of my late wife’s.”

  “He was a friend of my father’s,” Fleur had replied, glancing down at the order of service, and quickly comm
itting the name “Benjamin St. John Gregory” to memory. “I didn’t know him at all. But it’s nice to show respect.”

  “I agree,” the elderly man had said, beaming at her and extending his hand. “Now let me introduce myself. My name’s Maurice Snowfield.”

  Maurice Snowfield had lasted for three months. He hadn’t been quite as rich as Fleur had hoped, and his gentle, absentminded manner had nearly driven her crazy. But by the time she left his Wiltshire house, she had enough of his money to pay two terms of her daughter Zara’s school fees in advance, and a brand-new wardrobe of black suits.

  “. . . till all thy creatures own thy sway.” There was a rustling sound around the church, as everyone closed their hymn-books, sat down, and consulted the order of service. Fleur took the opportunity to open her bag and look again at the little note which Johnny had sent her, clipped to a cutting from a newspaper announcements column. The announcement was of the memorial service of Emily Favour, at St. Anselm’s Church on 20 April. “A good bet,” Johnny had scribbled. “Richard Favour very rich, very quiet.”

  Fleur peered at the front pew. She could see the man with the rubbery face, who had given the first reading, and, next to him, a mousy blonde woman in a terrible hat. Then there was a teenaged boy, and an older woman in an even more terrible hat . . . Fleur’s eyes passed quickly along and then stopped. Sitting at the other end of the pew was an unobtrusive, greying man. He was leaning forward, with his shoulders hunched, his head resting on the wooden panel in front of him.

  She stared critically at him for a few seconds. No, he wasn’t pretending—he had loved his wife. He missed her. And, judging by his body language, he didn’t talk to his family about it.

  Which made things so much easier. The truly grief-stricken were the easiest targets—the men who couldn’t imagine ever falling in love again; who vowed to remain faithful to their dead wives. In Fleur’s experience, all that meant was that when they did fall for her they were convinced that it must be real love.

  They’d asked Richard if he wanted to give the eulogy.

  “You must be used to giving speeches,” the vicar had said, “business speeches. This would be much the same—just a description of your wife’s character, maybe an anecdote or two, some mention of the charities she was involved with, anything that reminds the congregation of the real Emily . . .” And then he’d tailed away at Richard’s sudden bleak expression, and added gently, “You don’t have to—perhaps you’d find it too upsetting?”

  And Richard had nodded.

  “I think I would,” he’d muttered.

  “Quite understandable,” the vicar had said briskly. “You’re not alone.”

  But he was alone, Richard had thought. He was alone in his misery; isolated in the knowledge that his wife had died and no-one but him would ever realize just how little he’d known her. The loneliness which he’d felt throughout his marriage now seemed unbearably intensified; distilled into a bitterness not unlike anger. The real Emily! he felt like shouting. What did I ever know of the real Emily?

  And so the job of giving the eulogy had fallen to their old friend, Alec Kershaw. Richard sat up straight as Alec approached the lectern, patted together the little white cards in front of him, and looked up over his rimless half-moon spectacles at the congregation.

  “Emily Favour was a brave, charming and generous woman,” he began, in raised, formal tones. “Her sense of duty was matched only by her sense of compassion and her devotion to helping others.”

  Alec paused, and glanced at Richard. And as he saw Alec’s expression, Richard felt a jolt of understanding pass through him. Alec hadn’t really known Emily, either. These words were hollow; conventional—designed to do the job rather than speak the truth.

  Richard began to feel a ridiculous sensation of alarm—panic, almost. Once this eulogy had been heard, once the service was over and the congregation had left the church, then that would be it. That would be the official version of Emily Favour’s character. Story finished; file closed; nothing more to learn. Could he bear it? Could he bear to live with the final assessment of his wife as nothing more than a collection of well-meaning clichés?

  “Her charity work was unparalleled—in particular her work for the Rainbow Fund and St. Bride’s Hospice. I think many of us will remember the first Greyworth Golf Club Christmas auction, an event which has become a regular fixture in all our diaries.”

  Fleur felt a yawn creeping through her body. Was this man never going to stop?

  “And, of course, mention of Greyworth Golf Club brings us to another most important aspect of Emily Favour’s life. What some might describe as a hobby . . . a game. Of course, the rest of us know that it’s a far more serious matter than that.”

  Several members of the congregation tittered obligingly, and Fleur looked up. What was he talking about?

  “When she married Richard, Emily had the choice of becoming golf widow or golf partner. Golf partner she became. And despite the ill health which dogged her, she developed an enviably steady game, as all of us who witnessed her fine winning performance in the Ladies’ Foursome can verify.”

  Golf widow or golf partner, thought Fleur idly. Widow or partner. Well, that’s easy—widow wins, every time.

  After the service, Richard made his way to the west door, as the vicar had suggested, in order to greet friends and family. “People appreciate an opportunity to show their condolences personally,” the vicar had said. Now Richard wondered whether this was really true. Most of the congregation scuttled past him, throwing hurried, indistinct phrases of sympathy at him like superstitious charms. A few stopped, met his gaze directly, shook his hand; even embraced him. But these were, surprisingly often, the people he barely knew: the representatives from law firms and private banks; the wives of business acquaintances.

  “On to the Lanesborough,” Lambert was saying self-importantly on the other side of the door. “Drinks at the Lanesborough.”

  An elegant woman with red hair stopped in front of Richard and held out a pale hand. Weary of shaking hands, Richard took it.

  “The thing is,” the woman said, as though carrying on a conversation they’d already begun, “the loneliness won’t last for ever.” Richard gave a little start, and felt the drooping eyelids of his mind jerk open.

  “What did you say?” he began. But the woman was gone. Richard turned to his fifteen-year-old son, Antony, who was standing beside him.

  “Who was that?” he said. Antony shrugged.

  “Dunno. Lambert and Philippa were talking about her. I think she might have known Mum at school.”

  “How did she know . . .” began Richard, and stopped. He had been going to say, How did she know I was lonely? But instead, he turned and smiled at Antony, and said, “You read very well.” Antony shrugged.

  “I s’pose.” In the unconscious movement which he repeated every three minutes or so, Antony put a hand up to his face and rubbed his brow—and for a few moments the dark red birthmark which leapt across his eye like a small lizard was masked. Every three minutes of his waking life, without even knowing that he did it, Antony hid his birthmark from view. As far as Richard knew he’d never been teased because of the birthmark; certainly at home, everybody had always behaved as though it wasn’t there. Nevertheless, Antony’s hand shot up to his face with almost desperate regularity, and occasionally hovered there for longer, for hours at a time, protecting the little red lizard from scrutiny like a watchful guardian angel.

  “Well,” said Richard.

  “Yeah,” said Antony.

  “Perhaps we should be going.”

  “Yeah.”

  And that was it. Conversation over. When had he stopped talking to Antony? Richard wondered. How had those adoring, unembarrassed soliloquies addressed to his infant son managed to turn, over the years, into such empty, public exchanges?

  “Right,” he said. “Well. Let’s go, then.”

  The Belgravia Room at the Lanesborough was nicely full when Fleu
r arrived. She accepted a glass of Buck’s Fizz from a tanned Australian waiter and made her way directly towards Richard Favour. When she got near, she changed path very slightly, as though to walk straight past him.

  “Excuse me.” His voice hit the back of her head, and Fleur felt a small dart of triumph. Sometimes she could spend half an hour walking back and forth before the object of her attention spoke to her.

  She turned, as quickly as possible without looking rushed, and gave Richard Favour the warmest, widest smile she could muster. Playing hard to get with widowers was, she had come to realize, a complete waste of time. Some lacked the energy for pursuit; some lacked confidence; some began to grow suspicious during the very process of winning her. Better to leap straight into their lives; to become part of the status quo as quickly as possible.

  “Hello again,” said Fleur. She took a sip of Buck’s Fizz and waited for him to speak. If any beady-eyed family members were watching, they would see him chatting her up—not the other way round.

  “I wanted to say thank you,” said Richard, “for your kind words. I thought you spoke—as though you knew what this process is like.”

  Fleur looked tenderly down at her drink for a few moments, deciding which story to choose. Eventually she looked up, and gave him a brave smile.

  “I’m afraid I do. I’ve been through it myself. A while ago now.”

  “And you survived it.”

  “I survived it,” echoed Fleur. “But it wasn’t easy. It can be hard just knowing who to talk to. Often one’s family is simply too close.”