Almost a crime, p.22
Almost a Crime, page 22
‘Oh, really!’ she said. ‘You didn’t want me to be hurt? Well, why did you bloody well start it, then? Did it not occur to you that it was just possible that I’d be hurt, when you first arranged the first meeting? When was that, by the way?’
He was silent.
‘Well, what did you think that day? Or night? That you’d get away with it? That there was no danger? Or did you want her so much it was worth the risk?’
He was silent.
‘Who was it?’ she said, and the words were like a whiplash.
‘I won’t tell you. I am not going to tell you. Ever. It wouldn’t help.’
Ritz and Annabel had stepped out on to the catwalk, raised their hands. The music had stopped, the talking stopped. There were a lot of people there, Romilly thought, far more than she had expected.
‘Thank you all for coming this evening,’ Annabel was saying. ‘I hope you’ve enjoyed it. We certainly have. And I think you’ll agree the girls – our girls, as we think of them – are an incredibly high standard. As always. Alive! will be dedicating at least four pages to tonight, in our October issue – which of course is the biggie, as far as advertising is concerned – book your space now, if you haven’t already—’ much laughter – ‘so you can see all of them again then. That’s one of the prizes: along with an outfit, and the pictures from today’s session. The first prize, of course, is five thousand pounds, and the biggest, as far as the girls are concerned, I hope, is being on the cover of Alive! in the November issue.’
‘Enough of Alive!,’ said Ritz, cutting in. ‘The real biggie is a contract with us, Choice Agency, for a year, and the chance to get into the modelling world from the best possible position. As well as representation, of course, Choice offers financial and legal advice, and a tie-up with our agencies in Milan and New York. Now then, I won’t keep you in suspense any longer; you or the girls. In reverse order, the third place goes to . . .’
I might get this, thought Romilly, crossing her figners, I might get third, that’s just possible.
‘The third place goes to Jade Morgan. Jade, can we have you out here, please?’
Well, that was that. Jade’s disappointment cut into her rather mean prettiness just for a second, then she rallied, smiled brilliantly, sashayed out on to the catwalk.
Romilly felt suddenly violently sick.
‘Second place goes to . . . Tiffany. Tiffany, can we have you, please?’
‘This is agony,’ hissed Zoë in Marianne’s ear. ‘Poor little Rom.’
Tiffany was gliding down the catwalk, her great brown eyes roaming the room; Marianne looked up at her, thinking how sexy she was, wondering how Romilly could possibly have even been asked to compete with this lot.
‘Well done, Tiffany. I’m sure this won’t be the last time you’re seen on a catwalk,’ Annabel was saying, smiling, kissing her.
A long silence then: a roll of drums.
‘And the winner, the outright winner is – Romilly Muirhead. The baby of the class, only fifteen, but an absolutely unanimous decision.’
‘Oh, my God,’ said Marianne. ‘Oh, Zoë, what have I done?’
‘Tom, I have to know. You’ve got to tell me. Who was it?’
‘I meant it, Octavia. I’m not going to tell you.’
‘You make me feel sick,’ she said. ‘So sick, I can’t even stand being in the same room as you. Ever again. I want you out of here, out of this house. I suppose you’ll say that it didn’t mean anything. That’s what men always say, the lie they always tell. I was drunk, it didn’t mean anything.’
‘No,’ he said, very quietly. ‘I wasn’t going to say that.’
‘Have you ever done it before?’
He stared at her, clearly shocked himself by the question. She felt comforted, however faintly, by that shock.
‘No. Never. I swear.’
‘I’m not terribly impressed by your swearing, Tom. You swore to be faithful to me until death did us part. Forsaking all others. I remember it very well. It’s sort of stuck in my head. For some reason.’
There was another long silence. He got up, poured himself another whisky. ‘I have never, ever done it before,’ he said. ‘You have got to believe that.’
‘Even if I did,’ she said, ‘how do think I feel? Knowing other people must have known, were watching me, laughing at me, sorry for me. And all the time, all that garbage in the papers, about our bloody perfect, successful marriage. What do you think that does to me? Word gets around, doesn’t it? Barbara knew, I suppose, and—’
‘How did you find out?’ he said abruptly. ‘Did anyone tell you? Because if—’
‘Nobody told me. It was quite a sweet story, actually. It would have done well in a book. It was all because of a handkerchief, Tom. Like Desdemona’s. It got caught up in your things, and tipped into the laundry. And I started putting two and two together. It was a very pretty handkerchief. But you’d know that of course. You’d have seen it.’
‘Oh, my God, Octavia, I – when was that, how long have you known?’
‘It doesn’t matter how long. Tom, who was it? Who did the handkerchief belong to?’
‘I’m not going to tell you,’ he said. ‘I can’t and I won’t.’ His eyes were very steady, very determined.
‘I shall find out,’ she said. ‘Be sure of that.’
‘I hope you never will,’ he said.
It seemed to her, even then, an odd thing to say.
‘Mrs Muirhead, more champagne?’
They were having dinner in Langan’s, Ritz, Annabel and the Muirheads: nobody else. Just a quiet, family evening, Ritz had said, after all the excitement.
‘I still can’t believe it. I made so many mistakes, like smiling at Zoë when you said not to.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Ritz, remembering that moment, that wonderful, radiant moment when the sun had come up, so unexpectedly, so sweetly: when the whole room had smiled back. ‘Well, it didn’t really matter. As it turned out.’
‘What am I going to do about my braces?’ said Romilly suddenly.
‘Nothing,’ said Marianne quickly. ‘Nothing whatsoever. They stay.’ She saw Ritz turn to look at her quickly, half open her mouth, then shut it again. Good. Let the ground rules be laid down now. She was in charge; Romilly was a minor.
‘When’s your birthday, Romilly?’ said Annabel, right on cue.
‘So what do you want to do?’ said Tom quietly.
‘I want a divorce,’ she said.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I’m quite sure.’
‘Well,’ he said, his voice heavy, ‘if you’re sure, then you must have it. I certainly can’t stop you. I wouldn’t try.’
‘Don’t you want one?’
‘No,’ he said.
She was astonished. ‘Why not?’
He looked at her levelly for a long time, then said, ‘I can hardly bear to say it. Knowing how you’ll react. But I still – love you.’
Octavia felt disgust, physical disgust, rising in her throat, sharply acid. ‘Oh, please,’ she said, ‘spare me that.’
‘I can’t spare you. I have to say it. It’s true. You shouldn’t ask questions if you don’t want the answers.’
‘How can you say such a thing?’ she said, her voice shaking violently with anger. ‘How can you even think such a thing? It degrades you. It degrades me. Love me! Of course you don’t love me. If you loved me you wouldn’t have fucked someone else. Don’t talk about loving. You don’t know what it is.’
‘I do know what it is for me,’ he said, ‘but I won’t insult you by spelling it out. Octavia, I know I’m a shit. A feeble, frightful shit. I do realise that.’
She was crying harder now, sobbing, wiping her eyes and her nose on the back of her hand; he got up, went out of the room, came back with a box of Kleenex.
‘Don’t talk about loving me,’ she said. ‘Please. I can’t bear it.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you can’t possibly love me. Having affairs, sleeping with other people, lying to me, deceiving me, making me a laughing stock—’
‘You really are obsessed with with people laughing at you, aren’t you?’ It really matters to you.’
‘Of course it does. For God’s sake, Tom, think about it. Put yourself in my place; imagine walking into rooms, restaurants, people saying look, there’s poor old Tom, his wife’s having an affair, he has no idea, isn’t it pathetic . . . Are you trying to tell me it wouldn’t matter?’
‘Of course it would matter. But—’
‘Tom, you’ve got to tell me who it is! I need to know. I needa – a face. A person. Who is it Tom, who?’
‘Octavia, you don’t need to know. You’re not going to know.’
She got up then, went over to him, started hitting him round the head with her fists, sobbing, shouting at him. ‘Tell me! Tell me who it is. You’ve no right not to, you owe me that at least!’
He caught her wrists, held her from him, his face such a terrible study in remorse and something else – what? fear, yes, it was fear, raw, pitiless fear – that she stopped abruptly, stopped crying, stared at him.
‘Don’t,’ he said, ‘please don’t. It won’t help.’
‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Why is it so important that I don’t know?’
He said nothing; just stood up, picked up his glass and walked out of the room.
CHAPTER 15
‘Tom. Everything all right?’
‘Morning, Aubrey. Sorry I’m late. Bit of a tough night.’
‘You look like that, I must say. Anyway, I’m afraid we’ve got a serious problem on our hands.’
‘Oh, God, what?’
‘You haven’t seen the Mail, then?’
‘No. Why?’
Aubrey ignored the question. ‘I’m afraid we’ve lost Michael Carlton.’
‘What? Why? What the fuck’s happened?’
‘Read this.’
Tom read it. ‘Oh, God,’ he said. ‘Dear God in heaven.’
‘Pattie, how did they get all this stuff? How could you have done this to me? I know I said I’d support you openly now, but that didn’t extend to talking about my husband.’
‘Octavia, I didn’t! I had no idea about that, anyway. And I talked to the Mail before the meeting, I didn’t even mention you.’
‘Well, who did? My God, it must have been Bingham. The bastard! I wonder if I can get hold of him. Where’s his card?’
‘Of course I haven’t talked to the Mail,’ said Gabriel Bingham. ‘I have my principles. And, no, I haven’t seen it. And I haven’t talked to a single journalist since we last met.’
‘Oh. Well, I’m sorry I misjudged you, but who else would have talked about my speech?’
‘Anyone who was at the meeting – a local stringer who knew about the interview with Pattie David, I suppose.’
‘Yes, maybe!’
‘I’m about to go to the House. I shall go to the press gallery and study this article which has caused you such distress. I can’t imagine what it might say. I’ll phone you if I can throw some light on the matter, having read it.’
‘Octavia, if this is some kind of revenge, it’s extremely destructive. To us all.’
‘Tom, it’s not supposed to be anything. It’s simply an attempt to stop something terrible from happening.’
‘Well, you might well have dealt a body blow to Fleming Cotterill in the process. I’d call that fairly terrible in its own way. I’ve got to go, I’ll speak to you later.’
‘I won’t be—’ she said, but he had put the phone down.
It was not even mid-morning when Gabriel Bingham walked up to the press gallery at the House of Commons. There was nobody there; it looked, he thought, rather like a stage set before the actors arrived, the long row of phone boxes empty, the desks bare, the whole place utterly silent. He went over to the newspapers, found the Daily Mail, flicked over the first few pages, and then found it. And read it. Twice.
‘Well,’ he said aloud and finally, ‘well, well, well.’
There has been a reprieve (one Jeni Thomas informed him) for North Somerset beauty spot, Bartles Wood, first reported in the Mail three weeks ago. The local council has refused planning permission for a housing development complete with shopping mall and community centre, thanks to the efforts of local protestors.
‘We will not be resting on our laurels, though,’ said Patricia David (photographed right, with other supporters). ‘The battle isn’t over yet. We understand the developer is going to appeal, so we are establishing a fund to fight this and will take it to the European courts if need be. Nothing can be allowed to steal our precious countryside from us.’
The developer, Michael Carlton, who is behind the project, has already announced his intention to appeal.
A surprise intervention came from charity consultant Octavia Fleming. She has pledged her support to the protestors and attended a meeting where she made an impassioned speech, declaring that England and what she called its ‘tender beauty’ must be saved from the rapist tendencies of developers. Her consultancy, Capital C, advises the charity Foothold, of which Mrs David is the local chair. Ironically, Octavia Fleming’s husband, Tom, has a public affairs consultancy, of which Michael Carlton is a client.
The newly elected MP for North Somerset, Gabriel Bingham, was also at the meeting. ‘I am not necessarily on the side of the protestors,’ he said, ‘but they invited me to this meeting and I wanted to hear their views.’
Octavia phoned the Mail, and asked to speak to Jeni Thomas. ‘She doesn’t actually work here,’ said the girl on the newsdesk. ‘She’s a stringer from the West Country, works at a news agency in Bristol.’
Jeni Thomas was friendly. She hadn’t been at the meeting herself, had sent someone to cover it. ‘I was furious he didn’t get a quote from you. I’m against the development myself,’ she said. ‘I live near there.’
‘And who gave you the information about my husband, and Michael Carlton being a client? Slightly embarrassing, to put it mildly.’
‘That didn’t come from me. Apparently it was an anonymous tip-off, direct to the Mail.’
Octavia suddenly felt rather sick.
‘My word,’ said Nico Cadogan, putting down his copy of the Daily Mail. ‘Silly girl.’ His observation, at Ascot, that Octavia was dangerously overwrought, seemed to have been correct. But he wouldn’t have expected her to be quite this reckless. Not to mention professionally destructive, both to her husband and herself. Slightly worrying altogether. He wondered what Marianne thought of Octavia Fleming . . .
‘Well,’ said Gabriel Bingham, ‘I’ve read the piece now. Carlton’s your husband’s client, is he? No wonder you were careful to conceal your connections with the project. Public affairs consultant, eh? Not just – how did you describe your husband to me? oh, yes – interested in politics. He can’t be very pleased.’
‘He isn’t,’ said Octavia. ‘Not that I care.’
‘I think it’s very brave, what you’re doing,’ he said suddenly. ‘I wanted to tell you that.’
She felt absurdly pleased that he should say such a thing. He hadn’t seemed to her the sort of man to dole out compliments in any form.
‘Thank you.’
‘Do you want to come and have a steadying glass of bitter at the House at lunchtime? Or even a thimbleful of Bollinger?’
‘No,’ she said, although the temptation was considerable. ‘I’m off to see a friend. In the country. But thank you anyway.’
‘Oh, well. Another time, maybe.’
‘Yes, maybe. Thank you.’
‘You think I’m crazy, don’t you?’ said Octavia to Melanie.
‘Fairly crazy, yes. And we’ve lost a patron too, which is a pity. We’d better talk about that. You haven’t heard from Mr Carlton?’
‘Not yet, no. I’m sorry, Melanie.’
‘That’s okay. I must say I think it’s very clever.’
‘Clever?’
‘Yes. Don’t get mad, get even, that’s what the lady said. You’ve certainly got pretty even today.’
‘It wasn’t actually to get even,’ said Octavia. ‘I know it looks like it, but it wasn’t, though I suppose Tom’s behaviour made it easier. I just suddenly felt I wanted to do what I thought was right, and that I was, well, free to do it. I do care about the countryside so much and—’
‘Honey,’ said Melanie, ‘I don’t think you’re going to find many people who’ll believe that. If they do, they’ll probably be members of the Flat Earth Society.’
‘Octavia,’ Sarah Jane’s face was concerned as she looked round the door, ‘I’ve got The Times’ features pages on the phone. They want to do an interview with you, round the theme of conflicting loyalties. I told them you probably wouldn’t, but—’
‘You were right,’ said Octavia. ‘Thanks.’
‘And the Express phoned earlier, before you came in. They wanted to interview you on much the same thing. Shall I say no to that as well?’
‘Just tell ’em all no,’ said Melanie. ‘Octavia, why don’t you get out of London, go and see your friend now? I’ll see you in the morning. I’ll just tell our friend Mr Carlton, and everyone else, you’re unavailable. You can pick up the baton tomorrow.’
‘Thanks, Melanie. For everything.’
Melanie seemed to be proving a more reliable friend than she would ever have expected. Better in some ways than Louise . . .
She was just leaving when Tom phoned.
‘Octavia, I beg of you, please phone Michael Carlton. It might help. And it’s so important to me.’
‘I’m really sorry, Tom,’ she said, ‘but I don’t see why I should. Or what good it would do. There’s nothing I could tell him that would reassure him. Now you must excuse me. I’m going to see Anna Madison.’
‘Octavia, I cannot tell you how much I feel that’s a mistake. To go there today. You should stay in London. For the next few days. It’s very important.’
