Almost a crime, p.17
Almost a Crime, page 17
‘So she probably might get better, then?’ he said now, looking up at his father, his voice more hopeful.
‘She probably might.’ That wasn’t actually a lie; extraordinary things happened to cancer patients. You heard about them all the time. ‘So don’t you worry about her, old chap. Just be nice and brave and cheerful for her and Mummy, and that’ll help a lot.’
‘I will.’ Dickon’s eyes were closing. ‘’Night, Daddy. You go and look after Mummy. She hasn’t been very well on the way home. She told me not to tell you.’
‘Really?’ said Sandy. ‘What sort of not very well?’
‘She was sick. She—’
‘Dickon—’ it was Louise’s voice, speaking from the door – ‘you promised, I didn’t want to tell Daddy, make him more worried. Sandy, I’m fine. Honestly. Good night, darling one, give Mummy a kiss . . .’
‘What sort of not very well?’ said Sandy again, as they went downstairs.
‘Oh, hideous sore throat. Had it all day. Nothing to worry about, honestly. But they make you feel rotten all over, those things.’
‘Poor old you. I’ll find you the Lemsip.’
‘Would you, darling? Thank you.’
She did look rotten, he thought; it undoubtedly added to the exhaustion. The familiar old raw panic gripped him; then he pulled himself together. She absolutely could not be pregnant. It still haunted him, that – despite everything he had done, despite her passionate avowals that she would never, ever even consider it. He thanked God, or the power that he imagined to be God, not to mention medical science, every day, every week, every month, most fervently every month, that she couldn’t be pregnant, that they weren’t ever going to have to go through that again.
When Octavia was getting dressed next day, she pulled the handkerchief out of her drawer by mistake. It made her feel very odd; she threw it down on the bed as if it was something obscene, something she couldn’t bear to touch, and stood staring at it for quite a long time, her eyes boring into it, as if it could tell her something, trying to summon up some kind of image from it: almost as if, she thought, and had to laugh at herself, it was a latterday Turin Shroud. It stopped seeming funny quite quickly.
She folded it up again and wrapped it very carefully in some tissues and put it in her briefcase to take to the office. She didn’t want it at home, but she felt she had to keep it; it was important, central to her strange new life. Then she went and washed her hands, several times. Like Lady Macbeth, she thought distractedly.
She felt very tired that day; she had slept badly the night before. Tom had been very late, and, until she heard his car, she’d tortured herself with visions of him in Her bed, wondering what She was like in bed and how She behaved, and in the end began to feel she was watching some porn movie. She had finally taken a sleeping pill at three, had found waking up almost impossible, struggling out of a thick, drymouthed fog, had taken a taxi to work early, not daring to drive.
She was drinking a strong coffee when her phone went. It was Tom, Tom sounding slightly distant, and she heard her voice, not tearful at all, saying, ‘Yes?’
‘Just to let you know,’ he said, ‘that I’ve just had a call from Michael Carlton. He said the meeting with you went well. He seemed pleased. I just thought I should thank you.’
‘That’s all right,’ she said, and put the phone down quite gently. Only the thought of what she was going to do for Patricia David and Bartles Wood kept her from slamming it viciously enough for him to hear.
‘I saw Michael Matthews last night,’ said Tom, ‘MP for Romford North. He’s very interested in this takeover of yours, going to table a few questions for us.’
‘Good. I’ve balloted the shareholders,’ said Nico Cadogan, ‘and presented the streamlined new company to them, as you said. All we can do now is pray, I suppose.’
‘I think you’re paying me to do a bit more than that,’ said Tom, laughing.
‘Maybe. Very good day at Ascot, by the way. I enjoyed it. Thank you. You must let me take you and Octavia to dinner one evening soon.’
‘That would be very nice,’ said Tom, ‘thank you.’
‘She’s very bright, your wife, as well as beautiful. You’re a lucky man.’
‘I hope so,’ said Tom.
It seemed to Cadogan an intriguing reply.
‘This is marvellous, Octavia!’ Patricia David’s voice was breathless with pleasure. ‘We could never have done anything as good as this. Thank you so much.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Octavia. ‘It was quite easy, really. I went there, you know, to the wood, and it can’t be allowed. But you really will have to do much more than issue that press release, and put up a few of those notices. Now, as long as it’s turned down at local level, you’ve got time on your side. They’ll appeal, it’ll take months, with luck. But if it’s true, the rumour, that it’s going to be passed – well, that’s more difficult.’
‘What should we do?’
‘I’ll try and find out for you. I’m better informed on getting planning permission than fighting it. But let’s see. You should hear this week, I understand.’
‘Yes. After the planning meeting. Two days’ time. Anyway, I’m going to whack this release of yours out to the local papers right now.’
‘Yes, do. And no reason why you shouldn’t try the nationals. The Guardian would be a good idea, and the Independent. They’re the greenest papers.’
‘Thank you. Octavia, we’re so lucky to have you on our side.’
‘Yes, well, remember, just keep quiet about it,’ said Octavia. ‘I really mean it, Patricia. It would do you, never mind me, huge harm if it got out I was involved in all this.’
God, she thought, putting the phone down. This really was playing with fire. The funny thing was, it was making her feel so much better.
Melanie came in. ‘Hi. Everything okay? Look, we’ve had a call from your friend Lauren Bartlett. She wants us to call her. Next Generation, I presume. Do you think we’ve got a chance there after all? It would be marvellous to get it, such high profile, a real honeypot account, and Diana’s rumoured to be very interested.’
‘I really don’t know,’ said Octavia.
Lauren Bartlett was in a hurry. ‘Big dinner party for Drew. I’m frantic. I’ve got to get the flowers and my hair done before the cook arrives. Now look. We’ve decided we might like your firm to help us with our day at Brands Hatch. We really are just slightly out of our depth, so providing we can meet on the fee—’
‘Lauren,’ said Octavia firmly, ‘our fee is fixed. We don’t work for less, for anyone.’
‘Not even friends?’
‘Well—’ She knew Melanie could bend the rules to get this one. ‘Well, we could talk about it.’
‘Oh, I see. I have to say, if it’s not possible, there could be a problem. Anyway, there’s something else. There’s a children’s hospice we make a grant to each year, which is under threat. Basically it needs rehousing, and a lot more money than we can possibly supply. We’ve applied for lottery money, of course, but we’re not hopeful. Needless to say, our old friends the cuts are to blame. Tom knows all those MPs, do you think he could help?’
‘I really don’t know,’ said Octavia.
‘This is what I thought. We’d like to come in to your company and have a meeting; if we made it towards the end of the working day, I thought Tom could join us, you and me, that is, afterwards. Discuss what he might be able to do.’
The arrogance was breathtaking. ‘I will ask,’ she said, ‘see if he has any ideas.’
That was usually enough; people felt soothed into a sense of security, usually false, by the notion that Tom Fleming, who famously spent half of his working life at the House – or so he encouraged people think – would address his brain and contacts to their problems.
Lauren was not most people.
‘No, I’m afraid that’s not good enough, Octavia. I want to discuss it with him personally. Could you put it to him?’
‘Yes, of course, but I can’t promise—’
‘No, I realise that. Now how about next week for the meeting, Tuesday, say? Tuesday afternoon. That would suit me very well. I’ve another dinner party on Monday and the theatre on Wednesday, so – yes, Tuesday. We could come in at four thirty?’
Octavia looked at her diary; it was enragingly empty. ‘All right by me. Let me just check with my partner, Melanie Faulks.’ Melanie was also free; Octavia gritted her teeth, went back to the phone. ‘Yes, that’s fine.’
‘Good. And you’ll speak to Tom?’
I try not to these days, Octavia thought, a sudden sadness sweeping over her, but, ‘Yes, I will ask him of course.’
Tom said he couldn’t possibly meet anyone anywhere next Tuesday; he had to attend a meeting with Nico Cadogan and his bankers in London, and then had a late meeting in Oxford. ‘I probably won’t be back that night.’
‘Any other day next week?’ said Octavia. She hated this, but Lauren Bartlett’s account probably hung on Tom’s association with it.
‘No, sorry,’ he said shortly.
‘Well,’ she said with an enormous effort, ‘could I suggest dinner with the Bartletts? Or drinks? Another time?’
‘If you really want to, but God knows when I could make it. And I would feel bound to make it clear to Lauren there wasn’t much I could do. Look, talk to Barbara about it, I’ve got to go.’ He put the phone down.
Octavia sat staring at it. Her power marriage seemed to be becoming rather impotent.
‘How was today, then? The all-important exams?’ Ian Edwards grinned at Zoë. They were sitting in a pub just off the Fulham Road. ‘I don’t know why you’re bothering. Gorgeous girl like you. You could make a fortune modelling, you don’t need to bother with all that rubbish.’
This was a sore point; so sore it even pervaded the week-kneed lightheadedness that Ian Edwards’ company reduced.
‘Oh, no thanks,’ she said. ‘Seriously boring, modelling is. I’ve got loads of friends who do it, I’d really hate it.’
‘Anyway, you don’t have to worry about getting a job, do you? Daddy and Mummy’ll see you all right.’
‘In your dreams! They spend their life telling me I’ve got to make my own way, stand on my own feet,’ said Zoë gloomily.
‘Yeah? Well, I’ve been standing on mine for four years. Can’t see there’s a lot to be said for it, personally.’
‘You’re not sorry you left school when you did, though, are you?’ said Zoë casually. She was fascinated by everything to do with Ian. He could have come from another planet, so alien was he to all the boys she had grown up with. She had met working-class boys before, but never got close to one. They were so much more attractive than the public school wallies she knew; sexier, sharper, funnier, more glamorous.
‘You kidding?’ ’Course not. Here, come over here, Zo . . .’
He leaned forward, started kissing her. Zoë responded enthusiastically. She liked the way he did it anywhere, in the pub, on the Tube, not caring about anyone seeing.
‘What you doing tonight, then?’ he said when he had finally released her.
‘Revising. And I’ve promised to help my little sister do her hair. She’s going somewhere important tomorrow.’
‘That’s nice, Zoë. You’re a really nice girl, you know. Not how I thought you’d be at all.’
‘How did you think that I might be?’ said Zoë.
‘Oh, you know. Spoilt, up yourself. But you’re not. You’re a bit like my sister.’
‘Really?’ She couldn’t have had a nicer compliment. ‘How old is your sister? What’s her name?’
‘Jade. She’s twenty. She’s a hairdresser. She wanted to stay on at college, do some A-levels, but my dad wouldn’t let her.’
‘Why not?’ said Zoë, and then wished she hadn’t. Ian was looking at her with a mixture of amusement and disdain.
‘It’s called money. He didn’t want to keep her no longer. You know? No, you probably wouldn’t. Nobody in your house would be told they couldn’t do anything, would they? Not because of money. What is it your dad does?’
‘He’s a lawyer. He doesn’t live in London. I told you. He’s in New York. They’re divorced.’
‘Yeah, I remember that. Well, I’d better be getting off. If you won’t come out tonight, what about tomorrow?’
‘No, I can’t, Ian, I’m really sorry. Not till Friday. More than my life’s worth.’
‘Dear, oh dear.’ He shook his head at her sorrowfully. ‘What a good little girl you are. Here, let’s have another kiss.’
They walked down the road together; his arm round her shoulders, his hand occasionally moving down on to her breast. Zoë looked at him. He was incredibly sexy she thought; he was very dark, with close-cropped hair and thick black eyebrows, quite tall and very muscular and tanned from working out of doors; he was wearing a black sleeveless T-shirt and black jeans, and she wondered how he’d look without anything on, and felt quite weak.
He grinned at her, nibbled at her ear. ‘What you thinking about, Zo?’
‘Oh, what we might do on Friday.’
‘Want to go clubbing? And after that – who knows?’
He had already hinted at that; that they might have sex. She couldn’t wait. Zoë hadn’t had a lot of sex, but what she had, she had enjoyed, and she was sure she would enjoy it with Ian Edwards. The only thing was, where? All the opportunities that life in her circle usually provided – parties, parents away, weekend cottages – were hardly going to apply to Ian.
Ritz Franklyn didn’t often get the thud in her guts that told her this was a big one, but she had it now, looking at Romilly Muirhead, standing there with her mother, politely nervous, huge green eyes looking round the magazine offices, great mass of gleaming, silver-blonde hair falling from a high forehead, tiny heart-shaped face, wide lovely smile, its radiance quite undimmed by the thick braces on her teeth. God, it was all eyes and mouth, that face, virginal sex incarnate, she was, and she had no idea, no idea at all . . .
‘Hi,’ she said, carefully casual, ‘you must be Romilly. And Mrs Muirhead, how do you do. I’m Ritz Franklyn. We’re so glad you’re here. Now what we’re going to do today is take some polaroids of you, see how you move, have a bit of a chat, and then we’ll let you go. If you’re lucky, we’ll want you back next week, for a real photo session, and then the judging. Now here’s Annabel Brown, she’s the fashion editor, and this is Frannie Spencer, the beauty editor. They’re the other judges, together with Jonty Jacobson, the photographer. Want a drink, Coke or something? And Mrs Muirhead, would you like a cup of tea?’
‘It was wonderful,’ said Romilly to Fenella, ‘honestly, I can’t tell you. They were so nice, all of them, really down to earth, not a bit stuck up, just really kind and encouraging. I had to walk up and down a bit, pretend I was on a catwalk, I felt a bit silly, but they said just relax, they’d put on some music, so that helped, and then they did this picture and—’
‘What were the others like?’
‘Oh, fantastic,’ said Romilly, her voice drooping slightly. ‘Much older than me, more Zoë’s age. One of them had already done some modelling and another had been in a commercial with her mum when she was small, so they knew what they were doing. And there was another, she was gorgeous, she looked just like Naomi Campbell. So there’s no way I’ll win. Or even get in the last six probably. But it was a fantastic afternoon, and I get to keep some of the pictures.’
‘Well, that’s an easy one,’ said Ritz.
‘Yeah. Absolutely no contest. It’s a farce going through the final selection, really. She’s gorgeous. And the legs! My God, those legs.’
‘Only thing about her is,’ said Ritz, ‘how much we’ll get out of her. Mum’s no fool. She’ll keep a very tight watch on things.’
‘Yes, but she’ll be sixteen by then. She’ll learn to look out for herself, fight back. And once she’s done her GCSEs, the mother’ll probably give in as well. I mean, I reckon Christie’s might well want her. For their new young line. They’re desperate for a face – and what a story for a cosmetic house. Made for each other, the new girl and the new line. I mean think about it, Ritz, that is half a million smackeroonies. Not many people could resist that. Not even mothers with attitude.’
Michael Carlton phoned Fleming Cotterill later that afternoon; Tom was in a meeting, his secretary said, and she didn’t think—
‘I don’t want you to think,’ said Carlton, ‘I want you to put me through. It’s urgent.’
Tom called from the meeting, listened to what he had to say with a sinking heart. The council had turned down his application to develop at Bartles Park. It would mean an appeal, a long delay and considerable expense. Carlton clearly felt Tom was largely to blame.
‘You said this was unlikely. That the council wouldn’t risk the cost of an appeal, in case they got lumbered with costs. What went wrong?’
‘I don’t know, Michael,’ said Tom carefully, ‘it happens sometimes. Obviously there is strong local opposition. Look, you’ll get it in the end. I know you will. It’s just a question of time and—’
‘It was all those bloody editorials, wasn’t it? Those wretched women and their placards. Put them up all over the place, they have, all over the countryside down there, I went to have another look last week.’
