The Gatecrasher (18 page)

“Well,” said Richard, “no, it’s not. I’m only too happy to help. But I don’t think we need to go to all the trouble of another Gold Card. Why don’t I just lend you some money?”

“Cash?” Fleur shuddered. “I never carry cash when I’m shopping. Never! It makes me feel as though I’m asking to be attacked.”

“Well, then, why don’t I come shopping with you for Zara’s presents? I’d enjoy doing that. You know,” Richard’s face softened, “I’ve become very fond of Zara. Although I do wish she’d eat more.”

“What?” Fleur stared at him, temporarily diverted.

“All these salads and glasses of water! Each time I watch her picking at her food like a little bird, I have an overwhelming urge to cook her a plate of bacon and eggs and force her to eat them!” Richard shrugged. “I’m sure you’re
doing the right thing, not drawing attention to her eating habits. And I’m sure there isn’t really a problem there. But she is so terribly thin.” He smiled. “Knowing Zara, I don’t suppose she’d take kindly to being told what to eat!”

“No,” said Fleur. “I don’t suppose she would.”

“But she’ll have a birthday cake, at any rate!” Richard’s eyes began to shine. “We’ll plan a party for her. Perhaps we could make it a surprise!”

“When can you get me on your Gold Card? By Saturday?”

“Fleur, I’m not sure about this Gold Card scheme.”

“Oh.” Fleur stared at him. “Why not?”

“It’s just . . . something I’ve never done. Put someone else on my card. It doesn’t seem necessary.”

“Oh. I see.” Fleur thought for a moment. “Wasn’t Emily on your card?”

“No, she had her own. We always kept money affairs separate. It seemed sensible.”

“Separate?” Fleur stared at Richard with features which she hoped displayed surprise, rather than the irritation which had begun to spark inside her. How dare he balk at putting her on his Gold Card? she thought furiously. What was happening to her? Was she losing her touch? “But that’s not natural!” she said out loud. “You were married! Didn’t you want to . . . to share everything?” Richard rubbed his nose.

“I wanted to,” he said, “at first. I liked the idea of a joint bank account. I wanted to pool everything. But Emily didn’t. She wanted everything more cut and dried. So she had her own account and her own credit cards and—” He broke off and smiled sheepishly. “I’m not sure how we got on to this subject. It’s very boring.”

“Zara’s birthday,” said Fleur.

“Oh yes,” said Richard. “Don’t worry—we’ll give Zara a wonderful birthday.”

“And you don’t think it would be more sensible for me to put my name on your card? Just to whiz round the shops with.”

“Not really,” said Richard. “But, if you like, we can apply for one for you in your own name.”

“OK,” said Fleur lightly. Her jaw tightened imperceptibly and she stared at her nails. Richard turned to the sports section of
The Times
. For a few minutes there was silence. Then suddenly without looking up, Fleur said, “I might be going to a funeral soon.”

“Oh dear!” Richard looked up.

“A friend in London has asked me to call him. We’ve been expecting bad news for a while. I’ve got a feeling this might be it.”

“I know what it’s like,” said Richard soberly. “These things can drag on and on. You know, I sometimes think it’s better—”

“Yes,” said Fleur, reaching for
The Times
and turning to the announcements column. “Yes, so do I.”

“How long are you going to stay with us?” asked Antony. He was sitting with Zara in a secluded corner of the garden, idly plucking strawberries from the patch and eating them, while she pored intently over a thick, glossy magazine. Zara looked up at him. She was wearing opaque black sunglasses and he couldn’t read her expression.

“I don’t know,” she said, and looked down at her magazine again.

“It would be great if you were still here when Will gets back,” said Antony. He waited for Zara to ask who Will was or where he was. But all she did was chew a few times on her gum, and turn the page. Antony ate another strawberry and wondered why he didn’t just go off and play golf or something. Zara didn’t need looking after; she hardly ever said anything; she never smiled or laughed. It wasn’t as if they were having a riotous time together. And yet something about her fascinated him. He would actually be quite happy, he admitted to himself, to sit staring at Zara all day and do nothing else. But at the same time it felt wrong, to sit alone with someone and not at least try to talk to them.

“Where do you normally live?” he said.

“We move around,” said Zara.

“But you must have a home.” Zara shrugged. Antony thought for a moment.

“Like . . . where were you last holidays?”

“Staying with a friend,” said Zara. “On his yacht.”

“Oh right.” Antony shifted on the grass. Yachts were outside his experience. All he knew, from people at school, was that you had to be bloody rich to have one. He looked at Zara with new respect, wondering if she would elaborate. But her attention was still fixed on her magazine. Antony looked over her shoulder at the pictures. They were all of girls like Zara, thin and young, with bony shoulders and hollow chests, staring with huge sad eyes at the camera. None of them looked any older than Zara. He wondered if she recognized herself in the pictures or whether she was just looking at the clothes. Personally he thought every outfit more frightful than the one before.

“Do you like designer clothes?” he tried. He looked at the T-shirt she was wearing. Might that be by some famous designer? He couldn’t tell. “Your mother wears lovely clothes,” he added politely. An image popped into his mind of Fleur in her red dress, all curves and shiny hair and bubbling laughter. Zara couldn’t have been more different from her mother if she’d tried. Then it occurred to him that perhaps she did try.

“What’s your star sign?” Her raspy voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Oh. Aries.” Without looking up, she began to read aloud.

“ ‘Planetary activity in Pluto is transforming your direction in life. After the 18th, you will enter a more purposeful phase.’ ” She turned the page.

“Do you really believe in all that stuff?” said Antony, before she could continue.

“It depends what it says. When it’s good, I believe it.” She glanced up at him and a little grin appeared at the corner of her mouth.

“So what does yours say? What are you?”

“Sagittarius.” She threw the magazine down. “Mine says get a life and stop reading crappy horoscopes.” She threw her head back and breathed in deeply. Antony thought fast. Now was the moment to get a conversation going.

“Do you ever go out clubbing?” he said.

“Sure,” said Zara. “When we’re in London. When I have someone to go with.”

“Oh, right.” Antony thought again. “Is London where your dad lives?”

“No. He lives in the States.”

“Oh right! Is he American?”

“Yes.”

“Cool! Whereabouts does he live?” This was great, thought Antony. They could start talking about where they’d been in the States. He could tell her about his school trip to California. Maybe he could even get out his photos.

“I don’t know.” Zara looked away. “I’ve never seen him. I don’t even know his name.”

“What?” Antony, who had been poised to display his knowledge of San Francisco, found himself exhaling sharply instead. Had he heard her right? “You don’t know your dad’s name?” he said, trying to sound interested rather than shaken.

“No.”

“Hasn’t your . . .” Whatever he said, it was going to sound stupid. “Hasn’t your mother told you?”

“She says it doesn’t matter what he’s called.”

“Do you know anything about him?”

“Nope.”

“So how do you know he lives in the States?”

“That’s the only thing she’s ever told me. Ages ago, when I was a little kid.” She hunched her knees to her chest. “I always used to think . . .” She raised her head and sunlight flashed off her shades. “I always used to think he was a cowboy.”

“Maybe he is,” said Antony. He stared at Zara, all scrunched up and bony, and imagined her relaxed and laughing, sitting on a horse, in front of a tanned, heroic cowboy. It seemed as likely as anything else.

“Why won’t your mother tell you?” he said bluntly. “Isn’t that against the law or something?”

“Maybe,” said Zara. “That wouldn’t worry Fleur.” She
sighed. “She won’t tell me because she doesn’t want me trying to find him. It’s like . . . he’s her past, not mine.”

“But he’s your father!”

“I know,” said Zara. “He’s my father.” She pushed her shades up, off her face and looked straight at Antony. “Don’t worry. I am going to find him,” she said.

“How?”

“When I’m sixteen,” said Zara. “Then she’s going to tell me who he is. She’s promised.” Antony stared at her. Her eyes were faintly gleaming. “Two and a half years to go. Then I’ll be off to the States. She can’t stop me.”

“I’ll have left school by then,” said Antony eagerly. “I could come with you!”

“OK,” said Zara. She met his eyes and, for the first time, she smiled properly at him. “We’ll both go.”

Later on, they both wandered in, hot and sunburned, to find Richard sitting alone in the kitchen, a glass of beer in front of him. It was quiet and still and the light of early evening streamed in through the window and across his face. Antony opened the fridge and got out a couple of cans.

“Did you play golf today?” he asked his father.

“No. Did you?”

“No.”

“I thought you guys were golf addicts,” said Zara. Richard smiled.

“Is that what your mother told you?”

“It’s obvious,” said Zara. “You live on a golf course, for Christ’s sake.”

“Well, I do enjoy a game of golf,” said Richard. “But it’s not the only thing in the world.”

“Where’s Fleur?” said Zara.

“I don’t know,” said Richard. “She must have popped out somewhere.”

Richard no longer winced when he heard Zara refer to her mother as “Fleur.” Sometimes he even found it faintly endearing. He watched as Antony and Zara settled themselves on the windowseat with drinks; comfortably, like a pair of cats. Zara’s was a low-calorie drink, he noticed—and he wondered again how much she weighed. Then he chided himself. She wasn’t his daughter; he mustn’t start behaving as though she were.

But still. Oliver Sterndale’s words rang again through his mind. What would happen if you were, say, to remarry?

“What indeed?” said Richard aloud. Antony and Zara looked up. “Don’t mind me,” he added.

“Oh right,” said Antony politely. “Do you mind if we have the telly on?”

“Not at all,” said Richard. “Go ahead.”

As the kitchen filled with chattering sound, he took a sip of beer. The money was all still on deposit, waiting for him to make up his mind. A small fortune, to be split between his two children. It had seemed such an obvious step when he’d discussed it with Emily. The picture had seemed complete; the cast of players had seemed finite.

But now there were two more players in the scene. There was Fleur. And there was little Zara. Richard leaned back and closed his eyes. Had Emily ever thought that he might marry after her death? Or had she, like him, believed that their love could never be supplanted? The possibility of remarriage had never, not once, crossed his mind. His grief had seemed too huge; his love too strong.
And then he’d met Fleur, and everything had started to change.

Did he want to marry Fleur? He didn’t know. At the moment he was still enjoying the fluid, day-to-day nature of their existence together. Nothing was defined, there were no outside pressures, the days were floating by agreeably.

But it was not in Richard’s nature to float indefinitely; it was not in his nature to ignore problems in the hope that they would go away. Problems must be addressed. In particular, the problem of . . . the problem of . . . Richard squirmed awkwardly in his seat. As usual, his thoughts wanted to shy away from the subject. But this time he forced them back; this time he confronted the very word in his thoughts. Of sex. The problem of sex.

Fleur was an understanding woman, but she would not understand for ever. Why should she, when Richard didn’t understand himself? He adored Fleur. She was beautiful and desirable and every other man envied him. Yet whenever he came to her bedroom and saw her lying in bed, staring at him with those mesmerizing eyes, inviting him in, a guilty fear came over him, subsuming his desire and leaving him pale and shaking with frustration.

He had thought until now that this factor alone would prove the obstacle to his marrying Fleur; had resigned himself to the fact that before long she would make her excuses and move off, like an exotic insect, to another, more fruitful flower. But she seemed in no hurry to leave. She almost seemed to know something he didn’t. And so Richard had begun to wonder whether he weren’t looking at the problem in the wrong way. He had been telling himself that the lack of sex came in the way of a marriage. But might it not be that the lack of a marriage was coming
in the way of sex? Might it not be that until he fully committed himself to Fleur, he would feel unable to cast off the shadow of Emily? And had Fleur—perceptive Fleur—already realized this? Did she understand him better than he understood himself?