Fortified now by anti-depressants and sleeping-tablets, William remained closeted in his bedroom where his past became his focus. There had been around forty mourners at his father’s funeral from the bars and clubs at which he had virtually lived. They all told funny anecdotes about him, what a character he had been, what bad luck he’d always had in his business ventures, how near he had been to doing well, and how many times he had tried to earn a decent living. Hidden among various drawers at home, William had found the remnants of his father’s so-called ‘business ventures’. Most were unpaid bills, but astonishingly he found a life assurance policy worth four thousand pounds. William sold the family house and made a further three thousand. Throughout his university life he hardly touched the money; his grant was sufficient to live on, and he was too scared to mention his nest-egg in case it was taken away. Not until he graduated, with a double first in mathematics and electronic studies, and moved to London, did he begin to utilize it.
In 1968, seven thousand pounds was a lot of money. Today it would have been worth almost ten times as much. William began to study the Financial Times share index as meticulously as his father had studied the dogs and, still only twenty-three, he began to accumulate a small fortune. He invested it in a small factory to make a computer circuit board he’d worked on at university. In those days the most elementary computer filled a room, but William’s circuit board was set to change that. By the time he was twenty-eight he was a millionaire — not in the same league as Bill Gates, but rich none the less. By thirty he was one of the most eligible bachelors in Britain.
But William wasn’t very interested in women. He preferred a brief fling, usually with one of his employees. It was easier, because all he really thought about was work. It had been Angela Nicholls, one of his secretaries, who had first encouraged him to attend social events, go to the theatre or the opera. On her advice William bought an apartment in Knightsbridge and joined a golf club, a tennis club and a luncheon club, and soon had a wide circle of friends. Angela gave him a confidence in himself that he had previously lacked. She was an attractive girl from a good family, the sex was easy and comfortable, and William was fond of her. When Angela fell ill with glandular fever and was forced to take time off work, he was caring and considerate, sent flowers and paid for the best medical attention. He had imagined when she recovered that they would pick up where they had left off. But hadn’t reckoned on Harriet Forbes, the willowy blonde sent by the agency to fill in.
William remembered Harriet clearly. Only twenty years old, she had an insatiable sex drive and represented all the girls he had lusted after when he was a teenager but was too shy to date. Harriet was the youth he had lost in making himself rich. He was quickly and foolishly besotted with her; Angela was forgotten. He was surprised to discover how well connected and wealthy Harriet’s family was. One evening, as they strolled home arm in arm, they stumbled upon Angela. Harriet made some stinging remark about how plain she was, and Angela ran up the street in tears. William did not follow her. He was too intoxicated by Harriet. Too intoxicated to see his relationship with Harriet for what it really was.
One day Harriet arrived at William’s apartment with an astonishing collection of ballgowns from some of the most exclusive boutiques in London. ‘For the Berkeley Square Ball tonight,’ she gasped, tugging at a zip.
‘But you know I’ve got dinner with the Japanese.’
She looked up at him with amazement. ‘Don’t be ridiculous! I couldn’t take you with me — it’s a society do.’
So he was good enough to fuck and pay for endless champagne, meals and clothes, but even with all his millions he was not good enough for her precious aristocrats! ‘I don’t want to go to some tin-pot ball with a load of overdressed slags cavorting round with a bunch of chinless twats anyway,’ he snapped petulantly.
Harriet laughed, picked up her purchases and made for the door. ‘You obviously do or you wouldn’t be getting so uptight,’ she said, over her shoulder. Then she flounced out, banging the door behind her.
He remembered how he had smarted with anger, and then how he had told himself that it was time he straightened out and got back to work. For the first time in months, he called Angela, but was told she had gone to Yorkshire to stay with her family. A month later he saw her at the opera, a few seats in front of him. He was alone, and during the interval asked if she would have a glass of champagne with him. She introduced him to her party of friends, one of whom was Margaret Pettigrew. That evening they all dined together: he was attentive to Angela, but intrigued by Margaret. As he helped Margaret into a taxi she slipped him her phone number.
Two months later William and Margaret were married. William paid for the wedding, an elaborate affair that made all the society columns, even ‘Jennifer’s Diary’. Margaret’s family, it turned out, owned a stately home and acres of Hertfordshire, but didn’t have two pennies to rub together, so it was an advantageous union on both sides. The Pettigrews needed the money; William desired the social status. Again Angela was dismissed from his thoughts. In a moment of madness, William invited Harriet to the wedding, thinking she would never come, but she did, in an overlarge hat and tiny dress in skin-pink. She strode up to him, kissed him on the lips, and whispered, ‘She looks like a fucking horse!’
He smiled down at her. ‘Do you think so? She reminded me of you.’
Harriet shrieked with laughter. She was later seen leaving hand in hand with one of the waiters.
Apart from William’s business associates and staff, the rest of the guests had been from Margaret’s side: dukes, earls, judges and Members of Parliament. Everyone knew William as a business tycoon, a multi-millionaire IT magnate, and he relished the attention. During the wedding luncheon he bought his first racehorse, and was invited to the Dunhill polo match. Later as they boarded his private jet, bound for St Lucia, William was convinced that marrying Margaret had been the best business and social move he had ever made. On the plane she made a toast: ‘To Angela, for introducing us.’ William raised his glass but felt a dreadful pang of guilt. Angela had been at the wedding, but he had not even spoken to her. He knew he had hurt her badly, but she gave no indication of this, just a shy smile when their eyes met over lunch. ‘To Angela,’ he had said, and quaffed the glass in one.
During the honeymoon, after their brief consummation, Margaret suffered a bout of cystitis. William slept in another bed for the entire two weeks. During the days, while Margaret stayed inside ‘in the cool’, William remained at the bar, wondering now if he had just made one of the biggest mistakes of his life.
Back in London, Margaret devoted herself to the marital home, lavishly decorating it to the tune of nearly a million pounds. She also found a country house in Berkshire with stables and twenty-two acres of land. The cystitis recurred virtually every time they had fumbling, dutiful sex. After a year they were sleeping in separate rooms.
Gradually William spent more time away from home, and this was when he began to pay high-class prostitutes for what he neither got nor wanted at home. At Royal Ascot he saw Harriet again. As usual he was alone: Margaret had a headache. Harriet was wearing a novelty hat and the usual short, tight skirt, her pregnancy visible to all. She was not in the Royal Enclosure, and was accompanied by a rather seedy-looking young man. William spent a considerable time with his binoculars trained on her. The sight of her made him wonder if theirs might have been a long-term relationship, but that was foolish.
‘William, come and join us!’ It was Cedric, Lord Hangerford, making drinking gestures with his hand. As he entered the private box William was struck by a beautiful woman sitting alone in a corner, studying form. ‘What do I get for twenty to one?’ she called, pen poised over her card.