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Exclusives

• Exclusive postscript to An Absolute Scandal
• Background to Lloyd’s of London
• 1980s Facts and Figures
• An exclusive interview with Penny Vincenzi

Exclusive postscript to An Absolute Scandal

To discover what happens next to the characters in An Absolute Scandal, read on and enjoy this exclusive postscript by Penny Vincenzi.

May, 1992

It was very peculiar, Elizabeth thought, to feel so extremely happy and so extraordinarily sad at the same time. But it was something she had become accustomed to over the past year: little slivers of happiness creeping into her. Almost unwelcome at first, for they felt like disloyalty, how could she be happy, properly happy, without Simon, without him being there to see it, to share it? But she was; and the very first time of course had been Tom’s birth, so huge a thing to have survived on her own, just as the pregnancy had been (although there had been very little happiness there, overshadowed as it had been by the inquest, the first and immediate shock of losing Simon, and her anxieties about the baby’s physical wellbeing). But she had survived it; had experienced great joy, had felt almost – but not quite – serene in those first few weeks, cocooned from the world as she had never managed with her other babies. She supposed it was because they were, necessarily, all the world to one another; Tom and she, a particularly intense little unit. Tom (named after Simon’s grandfather) was not an easy baby – that would have been too much to hope for, she supposed – he roared, he woke over-frequently (Elizabeth, normally a stickler for grammar, had found over-frequent the only suitable adjective for Tom’s wake – rather than sleep – patterns), and when sleep threatened to silence him again, he fought it off as if it were some dangerous predator.

And then, after three months, he had changed; it was as if he was weary himself, and without warning he began to sleep through the night. The first time it happened she shot out of bed and rushed over to his crib, terrified of what she might find, but he was lying there, gazing at her rather solemnly and then smiled, Simon’s quick, charming smile, as if to say well, what did you expect, it was night time wasn’t it?

He had remained noisy, remained energetic; he was crawling at six months, standing at nine, kicked off his bedclothes determinedly, drenched everyone in the room at bathtime. He clearly had no intention of being ignored; he would remain a force to be reckoned with, Elizabeth thought, all his life. Simon would have been proud of that.

Today was his first birthday, and Elizabeth had decided that, rather than fill the house with uncomprehending babies, he and she together would entertain everyone who had mattered most to him through his short life.

And so they were gathering in the lovely sun-filled first floor drawing room of the new house: Tom’s brother and sisters, and the other close friends who had helped to see Elizabeth through that first difficult year. The only guest remotely his contemporary was Molly Rose Horton, with whom he had a rather combative relationship. For the time being Molly Rose was winning, being larger and stronger, a state of affairs which, as Blue said, was unlikely to continue beyond a very few more months. He might have been reluctant to concede even this much on behalf of his beloved daughter, but as Lucinda was pregnant again and was convinced that this time it was a boy, Blue felt a little feminine delicacy could now be allowed or even encouraged in Molly Rose.

Blue was Tom’s godfather; Elizabeth had felt he needed a strong, masculine presence in his life and they didn’t come much stronger or more masculine than Blue. As if to reassure her on this, Blue’s birthday present to Tom was Thomas the Tank Engine, with a complete set of rails and signals. Blue himself was away for the day in Manchester on business.

‘He wanted to give him a Scalextric,’ said Lucinda. ‘Can you imagine. He says to tell you he will next year, Elizabeth, so the boys, that’s Tom and this one,’ – she nodded in the direction of her stomach – ‘can play with it together. Honestly, he’s mad. He gave Molly Rose the most ridiculously expensive dolls’ house the other day; she’d ruin it in hours, I’m hiding it until she’s at least six. He’s so sorry he couldn’t come. He’d much prefer to be here, you know. I suppose it means he can relive his own childhood. And of course, as he’s always telling me, he and his brothers were only given one toy between them. Hugely unlikely, I’d say, but it’s easier to nod and say“poor darlings”.’ She paused. ‘How do you feel, Elizabeth, bit of an odd day for you? I was thinking that this morning, how difficult these anniversaries must be.’
‘They are,’ said Elizabeth, ‘but I’m getting used to them. And happy anniversary to you. Is he taking you out to dinner?’
‘Fat chance,’ said Lucinda cheerfully. ‘He’s going straight out with clients when he gets back. He says he’ll make it up to me some time later on. Never was a man less romantic. You look wonderful,’ she added. ‘I love the hair. Suits you shorter. Did Annabel do it?’
‘Absolutely I did,’ said Annabel. ‘You’d have thought I was cutting her head off, the fuss she made.’
‘And the salon’s still going well?’
‘So well. Florian’s coming over later. He loves Tom, it’s really sweet, says he can have a lifetime’s free hairdos.’
‘Yes, I’m not quite sure about that,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I rather think I’ve got a short back and sides chap here.’
‘Like his godfather,’ said Lucinda. ‘Oh Tilly, my darling, I didn’t see you there for a minute. I thought you were still in Wales with Boy. And Flora, of course . . .’
‘No, we both came up last night,’ said Tilly, who had entered and was now lounging on the sofa. ‘Flora and me, that is, not Boy, of course. She and Colin are staying at the Savoy, but they’ll be here any minute.’
‘And how is Boy?’
Tilly’s face glowed. ‘Oh Lucinda, he’s wonderful. He just gets more and more perfect. I’ve got loads of pictures of him, do you want to see them?’
‘Tilly, maybe not now, darling,’ said Elizabeth, who had already admired the hundred or so apparently identical pictures of Boy. But Lucinda said she’d absolutely adore to see them, and had Tilly heard that Blue was already looking out for a pony for Molly Rose.
‘Well, it’s never too early to start,’ said Tilly very seriously. ‘I can ask around if you like.’
‘Lucinda, that can’t be true,’ said Elizabeth laughing.
‘I swear it’s true. He’s convinced she’s going to be Olympic standard, ever since my father plonked her on his old Shetland last month and she sat there totally delighted with herself. That’s if she has time in between dancing at Covent Garden, of course. And winning the Nobel Prize for Literature. Now, where’s Toby? I presume he’s here?’
‘He will be,’ said Tilly and giggled. ‘He’s getting ready for Fallon.’
‘Fallon! Is she here? What a lovely surprise. I can still see her dancing at our wedding.’
‘She’s on her way, shouldn’t be long. Toby’s still hopeful about her, I think. But she really doesn’t like him. Well, she likes him, of course, but she’s got this amazing bloke called Spike. He’s an art student and he has really rainbow-coloured hair. Poor old Tobes can’t compete really.‘
‘No, I can see that,’ said Lucinda.
‘But anyway, she really loves Tom, she comes round to help me babysit sometimes. She wants to go to art school too, but her mum says over her dead body and that artists are a load of layabouts.’
‘Well, I suppose it’s a view,’ said Lucinda carefully. ‘And what about you? What are you going to do?’
‘Well, be a vet, of course,’ said Tilly, as if any other career would be totally unthinkable. ‘Next year Flora’s getting me some work experience with one of the Gower vets. I’m really excited.’
‘Toby darling!’ said Lucinda, as he came rather sheepishly into the room. ‘Lovely to see you. How are you?’
‘OK,’ he said and smiled at her. He found her less embarrassing than most of his mother’s friends. And she was certainly much prettier.
‘We were just talking about Tilly being a vet. You got any ideas yet?’
‘None,’ he said and sighed. ‘I can’t make up my mind at all. I can’t imagine doing anything for the rest of my life.’
‘That’s exactly how I always felt, I used to think it was the most stupid question. That was because I didn’t know half the things I enjoyed existed. You just have to wait a bit, stumble over them, sort of.’
‘There’s the door,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I’ll just go down – oh, it’s Flora,’ she called as she went down the stairs carrying Tom. She flung the door open. ‘Flora, how lovely to see you. And Colin! How are you? That’s a very smart coat.’
The coat was a rather loud black-and-white check; Colin smiled his sweet smile at her and Tom.
‘I’m glad you like it. Flora isn’t too keen. Hallo, young man. Happy birthday. Shall I give this to you or your mother?’
‘To Elizabeth, obviously,’ said Flora briskly. ‘Colin, why don’t you take that coat off, hang it up? That’s better. Elizabeth, I hope you like this. It’s a bit out of date already, I’m afraid, I took it when you came down a couple of months ago, but . . .’
It was a large black-and-white photograph of Tom, held on Boy’s back by a smiling Tilly.
‘Oh Flora, that’s so lovely of Boy,’ said Tilly. ‘Look, everyone, isn’t he beautiful?’
‘The picture is primarily of your brother, Tilly, not your horse,’ said Flora firmly.
‘Yes, I know but – but they suit each other.’
‘They do indeed. And it’s lovely,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Thank you, Flora. He looks – well, he looks so exactly like Simon.’
‘That’s why I chose it,’ said Flora. ‘Of course. I’m glad you like it. Oh, now I have a message from Debbie. She said to give you lots of love and a big kiss to Tom, and she’ll hope to see him when they get back. They’re in Greece, camping. It sounds wonderful. She’s writing an article about it for the Observer. She’s doing terribly well. I’m so proud of her.’ None of them could know what she was most proud of, that Debbie had become happy again, as she had promised her she would.

Catherine and Nigel arrived with Caroline and Freddie; Caroline bearing a teddy bigger than Tom himself. She was Tom’s godmother and hugely proud of it.
‘Isn’t she a bit young?’ Catherine had said when Elizabeth suggested the appointment (she was nine), but Elizabeth had said that by the time Tom needed spiritual guidance, Caroline would be quite old enough to offer it.
‘We thought he could grow into it,’ said Caroline, smiling over the head of the bear, ‘Freddy and I chose together, didn’t we, Fred.’
‘I hope it’s all right,’ said Catherine. ‘He’s a bit – vulgar, I know. But—’
‘Children like vulgarity,’ said Flora. ‘I always longed for a teddy like that. Put him here, Caroline, out of Molly Rose’s reach. That child does look so like you, Lucinda, it’s quite eerie.’
‘Well, better than her looking like Blue, I have to say, given that she’s a girl . . . Oh dear, does that sound terribly conceited?’
‘No, terribly sensible,’ said Flora.
‘Nigel darling, I think you’ve put on a bit of weight,’ said Lucinda, kissing him.
‘It’s contentment,’ he said, smiling at Catherine with such devotion everyone smiled too.
‘Well, that’s very nice,’ said Lucinda. ‘Good cooking too, I’m sure. Mine was always dreadful.’
‘I’m sure it wasn’t,’ said Flora. ‘There’s nothing to cooking. If you can read and move your arms about, you can cook.’
‘People who can cook always say that,’ said Lucinda. ‘I can tell you it’s not true. You ask Blue. He says if he’d married me for my cooking we’d be divorced by now.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Elizabeth. ‘That sounds a little extreme.’
‘I actually like cooking,’ said Toby unexpectedly. ‘I really do.’
‘Well, there you are,’ said Lucinda, ‘you can be a cook.’
‘Men can’t be cooks. Not for a living.’
‘Of course they can,’ said Flora. ‘There’s that Swiss chap, Anton Mosimann, he’s fantastic. And all the great chefs are male.’
‘So – you don’t think mummy’s put on weight?’ said Caroline. Her small face was rather pink.
‘No,’ said Elizabeth, laughing, ‘and we certainly wouldn’t be so rude as to say so.’
‘Well, it wouldn’t be exactly rude,’ said Caroline, ‘because we’ve got some really exciting news.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘Mummy and Nigel are going to have a baby.’
There was a rush of ‘how lovely’s’ and ‘that’s wonderful’s’ and‘congratulations’.
‘Marvellous news,’ said Colin, shaking Nigel by the hand. ‘Jolly well done.’
Nigel’s face was scarlet; he managed to smile round the room and then muttered something about having to find something downstairs.
‘He’s so thrilled and so – well, embarrassed about telling people, in just about equal parts,’ said Catherine, laughing.
‘Why should he be embarrassed?’ said Elizabeth.
‘Oh, you know what he’s like, so shy and everything . . .’
‘Well, I think it’s lovely,’ said Elizabeth. ‘How wonderful. Babies everywhere.’
‘Yes, it is lovely,’ said Lucinda, hugging them both in turn.
‘Congratulations. I am so, so happy for you both. When?’
‘In the spring,’ said Caroline, who had clearly appointed herself spokesperson on the matter. ‘And Nigel has found a lovely house for us all to live, quite near Jane-Anne’s.’
‘Which was the only thing we were really bothered about, obviously,’ said Catherine. ‘But yes, it’s beautiful, a nice little manor house . . .’
‘You can’t have a little manor house can you?’ said Lucinda.
‘We can,’ said Nigel, who had come back into the room.
‘And you’re becoming a country bumpkin are you, Nigel?’
‘I was born a country bumpkin,’ he said, ‘and I much prefer it. I’ve just been pretending to be a townie all these years.’
Florian arrived next; followed by Fallon, who kissed first Tom and then Toby. Toby went scarlet.
‘Jamie sends loads of love to you all,’ Annabel said, when they all had drinks in their hands. ‘I just spoke to him, and he’s bringing Tom a present when he comes back next week.’ At the mention of his name, Tom looked up from the floor, where he was sitting happily, surrounded by presents and stray pieces of wrapping paper.
‘Where’s he been?’ asked Lucinda. ‘Your wonderfully handsome boyfriend. I mean, fiancé.’
‘Summering in Cape Cod,’ said Annabel. ‘It’s an adjective in American,’ she added. ‘ “To summer”.’
‘Wouldn’t you like to be there too?’
‘Well, I would. But the salon seemed more important.
Next year, maybe, after we’re married. Good honeymoon location.’
‘Well, now everyone’s here,’ said Elizabeth, ‘we can have the cake. Come into the kitchen, everyone, and admire it. That includes you, Tom,’ and she scooped up her unprotesting son.
The cake deserved admiration; it was in the shape of a pram with a large ‘one’ written on the hood and a candle standing beside it, set in a model lamppost.
‘Wow, that is one cool cake,’ said Fallon. ‘Where did you get that, Elizabeth?’
‘Well, actually, here,’ said Elizabeth.
‘You didn’t make it. My God, it’s amazing,’ said Lucinda. ‘You’re a genius.’
‘No, I’m not. Toby is. He made it.’
‘Toby!’ said Fallon.
‘Isn’t it great?’ Annabel added proudly.
Toby mumbled something about it being nothing really. ‘Not what I call nothing,’ said Florian. ‘You’re a genius, man.’
‘I’d second that,’ said Fallon.
‘Wow,’ said Tilly, ‘well, that settles it, you obviously have a great future as a cook.’
‘Do you really think so?’ said Toby, looking anxious. ‘Well, maybe, but it’s not strictly speaking a career, is it? Not like being a banker or
something, not like Dad was.’
‘Of course it is,’ said Flora firmly.
‘I agree,’ said Elizabeth. ‘And I’ll tell you something else, Toby. Dad would have been very proud if you’d turned out a successful anything. Only one thing your father didn’t approve of, and that was being second rate.’ There was a murmur of approval, and then silence fell. Elizabeth looked at her children, from Annabel and Tilly to Toby and then down at Tom, whom she was holding in her arms.
‘And you’re certainly never going to settle for that, Toby. Whatever you do.’

Background to Lloyd’s of London

Lloyd’s of London was, and is today, an insurance market. It acts as a market regulator, constructing the rules under which its members operate. It began as a coffee house in around 1688 where shipowners, merchants and sailors met to negotiate insurance deals. Although Lloyd’s has its origins in the shipping industry, its members later moved into other areas of insurance.

In the 1930s, syndicates formed by Lloyd’s members began to provide general insurance coverage, as well as providing reinsurance. Reinsurance is a way for insurance companies to insure themselves against various risks. Members of a syndicate at Lloyd’s would provide the capital for potential claims for a particular insurance scheme and in return, policy holders would pay a premium. At the end of each year, once any claims had been paid for a particular insurance scheme, any remaining profit was shared out between the members of that syndicate. If a loss was made for the year in that insurance scheme, the members of the syndicate involved would have to pay their share of the loss.

The general insurance and reinsurance policies that Lloyd’s began to provide in the 1930s were such that potential claims could be made years after the policy had been written. For example, many workers who were exposed to asbestos in industrial plants during the 1960s didn’t suffer any illness as a consequence until the 1980s. It was at this later date that they made their compensation claims to their employers, who then made their insurance claims to their insurance company, who then made their claim to Lloyd’s. There was a system in place to protect current members of Lloyd’s from these long-term potential claims: before giving members their share of their syndicate’s profit for the year, an estimation of the cost of potential future claims for the policy concerned was made and this amount was deducted from the profit to act as a reserve. However, in the case of asbestosis, the reserves made when the policy was written fell massively short of the amount needed to pay claims in the 1980s, as the dangers of asbestos were not known when the policy was written. This meant that many members of Lloyd’s, in particular the Names who pledged their own personal finances as capital, were bankrupted in the late 1980s and early 1990s, as they were liable to pay the claims.

Asbestos was not the only unforeseen disaster that Lloyd’s was faced with during the late 1980s and early 1990s. Natural disasters, such as hurricanes, and pollution caused by the Exxon Valdez oil spillage, hit Lloyd’s, or rather its members, extremely hard and left many financially ruined.

During this difficult period in Lloyd’s history, which included a spell of bankruptcy and several high-profile court cases, there were times when its survival seemed in question. But after implementing some major structural changes, Lloyd’s has more recently seen an upturn in its fortunes, and continues to trade today.

1980s Facts and Figures

In 1989 there were 34,000 Names at Lloyd’s.

A loss of £8bn was made by Lloyd’s between the years 1988 and 1992.

The average annual salary in Great Britain in 1988 was £11,357 (£24,908 in 2007).

In 1988 £1 = $1.77 (2008 £1 = $2.06).

The UK Christmas Number One in 1988 was ‘Mistletoe and Wine’ by Cliff Richard.

The biggest UK hit singles in 1989 were ‘Ride On Time’ by Black Box, ‘Eternal Flame’ by The Bangles, ‘Swing The Mood’ by Jive Bunny & The Mastermixers, ‘Too Many Broken Hearts’ by Jason Donovan and ‘Back To Life’ by Soul II Soul.

In 1989 the Berlin Wall fell, the Exxon Valdez oil spill occurred, England experienced the hottest summer for thirteen years and Sky TV was launched.

An exclusive interview with Penny Vincenzi

What motivates you to keep writing?

What motivates me is I enjoy it so much. Joining my characters every day, following their lives, finding out what’s going to happen to them – because I truly never know – it’s all really fun and I’d rather do that than go shopping or go out to lunch, or anything I can think of, except being with my family.

How long does it take you to complete a book?

Roughly a year from start to finish. I get the idea much earlier than that and it’s often rolling around in my head while I’m still finishing off the one before. By the time I can actually settle down and do it, it’s a year, and that includes research. Then there’s the process of editing it, when my editor and I knock it into shape, and then there’s all the business of working out a cover design, checking proofs, and promoting it. So that’s the best part of another year; a two-year cycle. I used to do one every year; I can’t imagine how!

Do you ever get writer’s block?

Not the sort that everyone’s really scared of, when you just can’t even start a book, never mind finish it, can’t think of anything, even. I’ve been spared that. I get bad days, of course, when it all goes terribly badly and quite often I delete almost everything I write. Or very slow days, when it takes me all morning to write a paragraph. But I find the only thing to do is just get on with it, and do the best I can. It’s no use saying you’ll go and do something else and then maybe it will all be better tomorrow; it won’t be, in my experience. You just have to keep working at it, bashing your brains out, sorting out what’s gone wrong. These days are usually followed by wonderful ones when the adrenalin’s flying and I write thousands of words; so it’s worth battling on.

Describe your working day.

My working day starts at about 6.30 a.m. when I go out with my dog, whatever the weather, and stomp around plotting. I think about where I got to with the book the night before and although I don’t actually work out the next events, I find that when I get back to work my head is cleared and ready for action. Other dog walkers are very kind; they know me quite well and what I’m doing and don’t try to engage me in conversation! I get home at about 8, do domestic things and hit my desk at about 9, the dog underneath it. She’s there for the long haul! I edit what I wrote the day before, which can take hours if it was a good day, much less if it was a bad one, and then have a really late breakfast at about 10.30. I then go back to work and sit there till about 3, when I have lunch. It’s so much the best time, the morning, that I like to stretch it out as far as I can. Once I’ve had lunch, I do more mundane things: I read the papers, which I find hugely inspiring and a great source of ideas; I go and see people for research purposes; write up notes; maybe write the odd article (I used to be a journalist and still love doing that); or go to the library – I’m a bit old-fashioned, still like books and looking things up in them. I stay in my study till about 7 and then just stop, no matter how well or badly things are going, and cook the supper and listen to The Archers. I always leave my desk in complete chaos: papers piled up on the floor, notebooks open, reference books heaped on top of one another. That’s another morning task, sorting out my study; it helps get my thoughts in order. We eat quite late and then at 9 I watch TV for about ten minutes max before falling fast asleep. If we have friends round, I can stay awake chatting till after midnight; otherwise, I’m not a lot of fun!

What did you want to be when you were a child?

I wanted to be a writer: from the age of about nine. Before that I did rather yearn to be a ballerina, but it was clearly not a very realisable ambition, as I was too tall and, perhaps more relevantly, more or less devoid of talent. But it did leave me with an abiding love of ballet and my husband and I try to see everything that comes to London. Anyway, at nine, I started writing in earnest, including a magazine called Stories which was all serials, which I tried to sell in the school playground (without much success). By the time I was nineteen I was working on magazines and allowed to write humble things like captions to photographs. I just found at a very early age that writing made me feel good; I’ve been so lucky that I’ve been able to do it professionally.

What advice would you give someone who would like to be a novelist?

I think the first bit of advice would be: just start writing. You don’t need fancy equipment, you don’t need special computers or computer programmes, you just need a table and some paper and a few pencils. Truly! And if you feel you don’t have time, make it: I wrote the first chapters of my first novel at the kitchen table from 5 till 7 a.m. while my children were still asleep. You can always squeeze time out of the day if you want to. You need a very strong idea for a novel, it’s got to have a proper hook, as we call it in the trade: something that you can state in one sentence. A what-if, if you like, as in, What if the bride disappeared on the morning of her wedding? (Another Woman); What if your husband asked you to perjure yourself in court? (The Dilemma); What if you were left an enormous amount of money? (Windfall). Working hard on that, day by day (or even night by night) will soon convince if you really have an idea that will support a book, and if you have the stamina and determination to actually do it. Once you’ve finished the book, you will need an agent. A good agent is harder to come by than a publisher even; and he or she won’t take you on unless he thinks he can sell you. He will help you knock your book into shape and will then know which editors at which publishing houses might work with you. You can find an agent through the Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook (held in good libraries) and be prepared to try many of them before you even get to see one. So, the message is – it’s a hard slog, but if you really want to do it, you will!

What would you do if faced with the same financial loss that the characters in An Absolute Scandal faced?

I’d be totally terrified. Money doesn’t matter until you don’t have it. I’d try to be very positive, start on a new book immediately, or finish the one I was writing and hope that one of the four daughters would take us in for a while until we got back on our feet!

What research did you do for An Absolute Scandal?

I did what I always do: talked to people. I found many people who’d been Lloyd’s Names and who’d suffered horribly; I talked to lawyers, and to people who’d worked in the City at that time; I even talked to someone who’d worked at Lloyd’s. You can’t beat talking to real people when it comes to research. It’s far better than anything and certainly much, much better than using the Internet, which I try never to do, as it wouldn’t be original.

Are any of the characters in your books based on real people?

They absolutely are not. Characters have to be completely believable; they have to be as real to the reader as anyone they might have met, because that way they will care about them (which is the secret of fiction writing) and therefore you, their creator, have to know them really intimately And you can’t ever know anyone else that well. Your characters are part of you; not anyone else. Of course there are elements of people you might have met, or know, but nothing more than that.

And finally, who are your heroes?

My heroes are people who go for it, and go on going for it; who don’t take no for an answer and don’t give up, however old they might be. They are also perfectionists. And originals. And life-enhancers. So a few are: Richard Branson, Jilly Cooper, Lady Thatcher, Vanessa Redgrave, Maggie Smith, Boris Johnson, Ewan McGregor, Anna Wintour, Sylvie Guillem, Paula Radcliffe, Zara Phillips and Jane Tomlinson (wonderful girl who had cancer and went on running across deserts and mountains). A mixed bag, but how I’d love to meet them all. Maybe not all in one room at once, though . . .

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