Almost a crime, p.19
Almost a Crime, page 19
The lovely voice became heavier. ‘She’s very bad. I can’t believe how fast it’s happening.’
‘I’d like to see her again. When could I come?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. You say. You’re the busy one.’
She sounded slightly hostile; Octavia was stung. ‘Not that busy. How about—’ she looked at her diary – ‘Thursday afternoon? I could easily do that.’
‘If it’s easy.’ Again the note of hostility in the voice; Octavia struggled not to mind. It was understandable.
‘It is. I’ll see you then. ’Bye, Lulu.’
The children did want to stay; she drove Tom to Warminster, in silence. He got out and kissed her briefly. She wondered suddenly if he was going to see Her. She hadn’t thought of that. She turned her head away from him, and drove off ignoring his wave.
After lunch, eaten in the garden, she said brightly to the children, ‘I want to show you something.’
‘What? A bird’s nest or something?’ said Poppy, her voice heavy with sarcasm.
‘It’s about half an hour away, and it’s something very important to me.’
‘It will be a bird’s nest,’ said Gideon to Poppy.
She had been afraid there would lots of people at Bartles Wood, picnicking, tramping through it, but it was almost deserted. One small happy-looking little family was standing on the small stone bridge, playing pooh sticks, and as they walked into the wood itself, Octavia carrying Minty, for it was too bumpy to push the buggy, a young couple came out, holding hands. Her dress was very creased.
‘They’ve been snogging,’ said Gideon, with all the worldly wisdom of the nearly nine. ‘Come on, Mum, where’s this exciting thing, then?’
‘This is it,’ said Octavia, smiling into the dim sunlight. ‘This is Bartles Wood. Look, did you see that dragonfly? And there’s a whole duck family, look.’
‘Great,’ said Poppy. ‘Oh my God. Wow. Ducks.’
‘Poppy, don’t be silly. It is a lovely place and what’s exciting is that they were trying to build shops and houses on it and now they’re not. Well, hopefully not.’
‘What, here?’ Even Gideon sounded shocked.
‘Yes. Here. Cut the wood down, knock a big house down that’s just up the hill, divert the stream, build a housing estate.’
‘That’s awful,’ said Poppy.
‘Let’s go in a bit further. There’s a little clearing there, look, we can sit down and Minty can crawl about. She’s getting very heavy.’
They walked under the trees, out into the clearing. The news that the wood might have disappeared endowed it with interest, and the twins began looking around them, arguing about where the houses might be and where the shops.
The sun was very hot; Octavia put suncream on Minty, argued briefly with the twins about whether they should have some too, then watched them disappear towards the stream and the shade with some relief. They wouldn’t get burned there. Minty crawled towards some bracken fronds, pulled at their curls tentatively, smiling with pleasure as they curled back again.
Tall foxgloves grew amongst the bracken; a large bee buzzed lazily in and out of the bells. Octavia suddenly felt very happy and at peace.
The twins were building a dam on a small tributary of the stream, arguing about techniques; Minty sat looking round with large dark eyes, then reached up and stuffed a piece of bracken into her face.
‘I wouldn’t eat that if I were you,’ said a voice, and a young man came into the clearing. He smiled at Octavia and she smiled back. He was rather attractive, in an untidy way, with wild brown curls and large hazel eyes. His mouth was wide, and his teeth slightly crooked; it was somehow engaging, a welcome change from rigid orthodontic perfection. He was tall and thin, and was wearing corduroy trousers and a check shirt and heavy black farmers’ Wellingtons: obviously a local.
‘It’s lovely here, isn’t it?’ she said, smiling at him.
‘Very lovely.’
‘Let’s hope it stays this way.’
‘Ah! You mean the development. You’ve read about it in the papers, I suppose,’ he said, studying her (horribly townie-looking, she thought, in her Armani jeans, her Cutler & Gross sunglasses, Minty in her Baby Gap dungarees).
‘Yes. And I saw the signs,’ she said quickly. ‘Back by the bridge and the entrance.’
‘And did you see what had been written on them? Saved!’
‘Which it has been, I believe?’
‘For now. We shall have to see what happens.’
‘I presume you’re in favour of keeping it. Not developing it.’
‘Well – yes and no,’ he said carefully. ‘It would be a shame to build on it, but we do need housing round here, quite badly.’
‘Of course you don’t,’ said Octavia briskly. ‘There’s far too much housing already, empty buildings everywhere in the city centres.’
‘I hadn’t noticed many of those in Bath,’ he said.
‘Well, maybe not Bath. But Bristol and Frome and Warminster. The town centres are dying.’
‘And you’d like to live in one of those empty buildings, would you?’ he said. ‘In the town centres?’
‘Well . . .’ She hesitated.
‘Where do you live?’
‘London.’
‘And we’ve got a cottage, near Bath,’ said Poppy, who had come over to view this stranger, ‘where we come for wekeends.’
‘How very nice for you,’ he said, and the hazel eyes were just slightly contemptuous as he looked at Octavia. ‘You must know all about the area, then. And its needs.’
‘Look,’ she said, longing to tell him, not daring, of her involvement in the fight, ‘I’m not really like that.’
‘No?’
‘No. Of course I think people should be be decently housed. But why can’t the brownfield sites be developed, why can’t the city centres be improved, the houses that are already there refurbished? It would cost no more. Probably less.’
‘You sound rather well informed. And there may be some truth in what you say. But people want to live in the countryside, want to bring up their children in the countryside. And I think they should have a choice. Not be told where they’ve got to live. And they can’t all afford country cottages,’ he added heavily.
‘But there won’t be any country left soon,’ she said heatedly. ‘Surely it’s better for there to be some left, so people can visit it, than every inch covered in – in executive homes.’
‘And what’s wrong with executive homes?’ he said, sitting down beside her, looking at her intently.
‘Well, they’re pretentious. And hideous.’
‘According to you’
She felt herself beginning to lose her temper, then suddenly smiled. ‘This is silly. We only met because we both like it here’
‘True.’ He held out his hand. ‘Gabriel Bingham.’
‘Oh, my goodness,’ said Octavia. ‘Now I understand. You’re the MP here, aren’t you?’
‘I am indeed. How do you know that?’
‘Oh, local friends. Anyway, I’m Octavia Fleming.’
‘Nice name. And do you work for your living, Octavia Fleming?’
The question was just faintly patronising. Clearly he saw her as spending her life and her husband’s money in idle self-indulgence.
‘Yes. I run my own company,’ she said firmly.
‘Do you?’ He was clearly surprised. ‘And what does it do, your company?’
‘Er, marketing,’ she said hastily. This was getting rather close to home.
‘Marketing! Very trendy. Well, it’s been very nice meeting you. I’d like to continue our discussion, but I have to get back.’ He gently removed Minty, who was trying to climb on to his legs, and stood up, towering above her.
Octavia looked up at him, then stood up herself. ‘To your own family?’
‘No, no. Nearest to that is a putative fiancée.’
‘Only putative?’
‘Yes, she’s not quite sure about me yet. Well, not quite sure enough. But I do have work to do. Good day to you.’
He smiled, held out his hand again. Octavia looked down at it: a strong, brown, very large hand. She took it, and it folded round her own. For some reason she felt quite literally weak at the knees.
CHAPTER 12
Anna was being sedated now, needed stronger painkillers; but for most of the time she was blithely brave, pretending for them all that she would soon be better.
Charles looked at her over his teacup, smiled at her. ‘Shall I tell you something? Something nice? I think Louise might be pregnant again.’
Anna’s eyes were puzzled, watchful suddenly. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Oh, call it masculine intuition. When she was here last week she had that pale, dark-eyed look. And Dickon told me they had to stop for her to be sick coming over. I just think she might be, and it would be the best possible thing,’
‘I’m not sure that it would,’ said Anna slowly. ‘And anyway, she – well, it’s very unlikely. Very. Darling, I’m hurting a bit, is it time for me to have a pill yet?’
‘Of course it is. More than time. You’re doing well.’
She took the pill, sat looking at him, smiling. ‘I love you, Charlie.’
‘I love you, too. Now, why do you think it’s so unlikely? About Louise being pregnant?’
But she was asleep again, drifting off into her drug-induced peace.
Tom was at home for breakfast on Tuesday morning. He seemed edgy, nervous, making a great performance of reading and opening letters.
‘You do know I’ve got a late meeting tonight?’ he said finally, looking up.
‘I’d forgotten,’ Octavia said coolly. ‘What is it you’re doing? Exactly?’
‘Oh, meeting a group of environmentalists who are trying to form an all-party committee. Asked me to join them.’
‘It doesn’t sound quite your style,’ she said, briskly. ‘Tom, have you seen Bartles Wood?’
‘Yes, of course I have. But Carlton’s development – as you would see if you took the trouble to look at the plans – will blend in extremely well with the surrounding countryside.’
‘Tom, don’t talk such total garbage!’ said Octavia, and then, after a pause, ‘I suppose you met the local MP down there?’
‘Gabriel Bingham? Yes. He came to one of Carlton’s meetings. Bit of a Bollinger Socialist.’
‘You mean he went to public school? Dear oh dear, Tom, are we ever going to see that particular chip fall off your shoulder? Terrible sign of insecurity, you know.’
He flushed, but didn’t respond. ‘So what are you doing today?’ he asked, making a clear effort to keep the conversation on a positive level.
‘Oh, endless meetings. Including one with Lauren Bartlett. Look, I must go, I have to take the twins to school.’
‘By the way, if you want to fix that drink with the Bartletts, if it would help, that’s fine by me. Thursday would be okay, or Tuesday next week.’
‘Right. Thank you.’ He must be feeling guilty. Very guilty. ‘And will you be back tonight?’
A pause, then, ‘Possibly. I’ll see how the day goes. I’ll let you know.’
‘Fine,’ she said, keeping her voice carefully level. ‘Goodbye, Tom.’
‘Goodbye, Octavia.’
‘Good news, Pattie.’ Meg Browning, one of the Save Bartles Wood committee, put the down the telephone and looked across her kitchen at Patricia David. ‘That was Gabriel Bingham. He says he’ll come tonight. To our follow-up meeting.’
‘Really? Marvellous.’ Patricia’s thin face flushed with pleasure. ‘I never thought he would.’
‘He says he doesn’t want us to think he’s automatically on our side, merely that he wants to be as well informed as possible on all the issues, and to inform us on party policy in the light of Mr Carlton’s determination to appeal.’
‘I see. Well, that’s terrific. Golly, I don’t suppose Octavia would come to this meeting, would she?’
‘You could ask her.’
Patricia David phoned, and Octavia said that, much as she’d love to, it would be very unwise.
Lauren had brought her sidekick to the meeting at Capital C, an appalling woman called Fiona Mills who argued with every point Octavia and Melanie made. She was wearing her husband’s money on every inch of her, including, Octavia decided, her very tautly lifted jawline.
‘We are fairly confident of a certain person’s involvement, aren’t we, Lauren?’ she said. ‘If not officially, then unofficially. You know who I mean?’
Melanie said she presumed she meant Princess Diana and Fiona Mills said possibly, discretion was everything in these matters.
‘Well, that’s marvellous,’ said Melanie. ‘Simply marvellous.’
‘Now, on the question of your fee,’ said Lauren. ‘I’m afraid we can’t see our way to paying the quoted rate. It’s really very high. What would you suggest on that?’
‘I told Lauren we couldn’t—’ said Octavia.
Melanie flashed a brilliant, warning look at her and said, ‘Lauren, we can meet you on the fee, of course. We want to help and you are a friend of Octavia’s. Tell us your budget and we’ll work something out.’
Octavia felt a flash of anger and humiliation; Melanie’s concession had diminished her in Lauren’s eyes at a stroke. I’m the boss round here, that statement had said, I make the crucial decisions, it’s my word that counts.
‘Marvellous,’ said Lauren, smiling briefly in her direction. ‘I had hoped Octavia might be wrong on that one. Now, as to the details of the day, what would you suggest?’
After they left, Octavia walked back into her own office and shut the door. Melanie followed her in without knocking.
‘Well done, bringing that one in, Octavia.’
‘Melanie, why did you do that? Agree that she could pay whatever she liked, really, without consulting me at all? I’d already told her we couldn’t do anything about our fee, I felt extremely silly.’
‘Octavia, I’d do that job for absolutely nothing, just to get Next Generation. It’s one of the highest-profile charities there is, a huge notch in our gun. I’m going to do a release to the papers right now.’
‘Melanie, I don’t need a lecture on our position in the league table. We’re partners, or so I understood. I’m not some pathetic little assistant, however much you like to give that impression.’
Melanie’s face became very hard suddenly. ‘Don’t be so fucking stupid, Octavia. And don’t let your personal insecurities colour your professional ones.’
Octavia stared at her. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I would have thought it was perfectly clear.’
‘Well, it’s not. Clearly I am fucking stupid, as you put it so attractively.’
‘Octavia, you’ve been in a highly neurotic state for days now. Impossible to work with. I don’t know what’s the matter with you, but—’
‘Nothing’s the matter,’ said Octavia and burst into tears.
Melanie was silent for a moment, then she said, quietly, ‘Is it Tom?’
‘What do you mean? Why should it be Tom?’
‘Octavia, I’m not a complete idiot. Something’s happened to you. Most likely explanation is it’s Tom. Come on, you’ll feel better if you talk about it.’
‘Yes,’ said Octavia, after a long silence. ‘It’s Tom. He’s – well, having an affair.’
‘I thought he might be,’ said Melanie.
Octavia stared at her. ‘Why did you think that?’ she said, trying not to betray her panic. This was what she had most feared: people knowing, talking about it, laughing at her. ‘How long have you been thinking it, does anyone else know?’
‘Octavia, calm down. Of course I thought it. It was inevitable that—’
‘Oh, was it really? Inevitable he should have an affair? Why, because I’m so unattractive, so unsexy, so fucking naive?’
‘No! None of those things. Oh, God – excuse me a moment.’
She went out of the room, came back with her cigarettes and a bottle of whisky.
‘Here, have a drop of this,’ she said, pouring some of it into Octavia’s water glass.
‘Melanie, I don’t need alcohol. I don’t need nicotine. Come on, tell me for fuck’s sake. What did you mean?’ Tears of fright stood in her eyes; she had shocked herself, she never swore.
Melanie looked at her, blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘I meant that when a woman is as upset as you are, it’s almost always because of a man. In your case your husband. That’s all, for Christ’s sake. That’s all I meant.’
Octavia stared at her in silence, then she reached out for her glass. ‘But you didn’t suspect before?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Oh, I see.’ It was strangely comforting.
‘When did you find out?’ said Melanie.
‘Last Tuesday. The day we went to Ascot.’
‘And there’s no doubt? You couldn’t be mistaken?’
‘No. No doubt at all.’
‘Have you confronted him with it?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Why the hell not?’
‘Melanie,’ said Octavia, a stab of violent irritation over-riding her misery, ‘just leave me to run my own . . .’ Marriage, she had been going to say, then realised it was the last thing she could be trusted to run and her voice tailed off. She sipped at the whisky.
‘Bastard,’ said Melanie. ‘Bastard. Do you know who it is?’
‘No. I’ve no idea.’
‘God, I hate men,’ said Melanie savagely, blowing out a great cloud of smoke. ‘They’re all the fucking same.’
‘All fucking the same,’ said Octavia and giggled. Then she couldn’t stop giggling, and then she was laughing hysterically, and then she was crying again, wailing almost, really quite loudly.
In the middle of the noise, her direct line rang; Melanie picked it up. ‘Yes? Oh, hi, Mr Miller, it’s Melanie Faulks. Sorry, she can’t talk to you now. She’s a bit upset. No, nothing serious. Yes, sure, I’ll get her to call you.’
‘Oh, God,’ said Octavia. Hertears stopped abruptly, her father’s name as effective as the traditional hard slap. ‘Did he hear me? Crying, I mean?’
