Almost a crime, p.26
Almost a Crime, page 26
She stopped, shocked. The expression on Louise’s face was not grief stricken at all, but oddly fierce, almost exultant.
‘You must tell Tom about my baby,’ was all she said. ‘He’ll be pleased. I’m sure he will.’
‘Yes,’ said Octavia trying to smile at Louise through her tears, too distressed to wonder at what she was saying. ‘Yes, I’m sure he will too.’
CHAPTER 18
‘Now this is nice,’ said Ian. ‘Lovely proportions, these rooms, aren’t they? Right up your street, I imagine, Zoë. And how do you like them cupboards in the alcoves? These fair hands fitted them only yesterday.’
‘They’re really nice,’ said Zoë. ‘Yes, it’s a – a lovely house.’
It was: a four-storey, perfectly proportioned Georgian terrace house in Cleaver Square, Kennington, but her mother’s perfect taste would have been deeply affronted by the fussy wallpapers, marble flooring, fake-coal gas fires. Well, she was hardly likely to see it, Zoë thought, half horrified, half amused. Ian had lit one of the fires and now he sat back on his heels in front of it, turned and grinned up at her.
‘Come and sit down, Zoë Flinders, and warm your pretty little toes. I’ll fetch us some bubbly in a minute. Plenty here. Now give us a kiss. Relax, Zoë, calm down, for Christ’s sake. Safe as – well, safe as houses, we are here.’
Zoë took a deep breath, forced herself to smile at him.
‘Good.’
But she didn’t feel it; it was more dangerous here, she knew it was . . .
‘Boot? It’s me.’ Her voice sounded raw; raw and weak at the same time.
‘Yes?’ said Octavia. ‘What is it?’ But she knew.
‘She’s gone. Mummy’s gone . . .’
‘Oh, Louise, darling Louise, I’m so sorry.’
‘I’m not,’ said the voice, stronger now, fierce, angry. ‘I’m glad. Glad it’s over. It was so horrible for her.’
‘Was she – was it . . .’
‘Peaceful? Yes, in the end. Very peaceful. Only Daddy was with her. He was just there, loving her, holding her hand. He said – oh, Boot, he said he watched her go, just drift away from him, he said he could see her leave him, and all he wanted was to go with her, follow her. Poor Daddy. Poor poor Daddy, he loved her so.’
‘How is he now?’
‘Fine. In that odd state, you know? Quite calm, almost cheerful. Shock, I suppose. And relief of course.’
‘Would you like me to come down? Come and see you?’
‘No, honestly, I don’t think so. I’ll let you know about the funeral as soon as I can. You will come, won’t you?’
‘Yes, of course I’ll come.’ Octavia felt shocked that Louise should even doubt it, however briefly.
‘Good. I’ll be better if you’re there. I’ll ring you when I know. Thank you for being there.’
‘I’m always here for you. You know that.’
‘Yes, Octavia, I do.’
It was a long, sad, difficult day. Even Minty seemed subdued. After lunch, Tom took the twins cycling and Octavia tried to read the papers. They got back at five and Tom said he had to go to the office.
‘The office. On a Sunday?’ she said.
‘Yes, the office. Aubrey and I have a crisis meeting. There could be a lot of those over the next few weeks.’
‘Oh, dear,’ said Octavia, icily polite.
Early in the evening, Louise phoned again. ‘Wednesday, the funeral, Octavia. At twelve. In the village church.’
‘Fine,’ said Octavia. ‘I’ll be there.’
There was a silence, then Louise said, ‘I know this must sound odd, but – well, could you ask Tom to come too? Mummy was very fond of him, and I do so want everyone to be there for her. And Daddy likes Tom, said he hoped he’d come with you. So – just for me. For all of us. If you could bear it.’
‘I could bear it,’ said Octavia, while thinking it was very odd, when Tom and Louise had so spiky a relationship. ‘Of course I could. For you. Yes, I’ll ask him.’ The idea horrified her; she wasn’t sure why.
‘Thank you. Thank you very much. And, Octavia: when you come to the funeral, don’t say anything about the baby to Sandy, will you? He’s a bit funny about it, very unsure that it’s a good idea. He’ll come round, but at the moment it’s best left. I’ve told Daddy to keep quiet, too.’
‘I won’t,’ said Octavia.
Tom came back soon after ten, looking exhausted.
Octavia was reading. ‘Tom,’ she said, ‘a couple of things.’
He sat down, started loosening his tie. ‘Not a heavy number, Octavia, please. I’m exhausted. I’ve spent the evening trying to work out how to save Fleming Cotterill. You just might like to know that. What your little principled stand has done for us.’
‘Really? Well, I’m sure you will. Save it, I mean.’
‘I envy you your confidence. Which is, of course, based on a serious lack of knowledge. Octavia—’
‘Tom, please. Not now.’
He sighed. ‘All right.’
‘Look, Anna Madison’s funeral is on Wednesday. God knows why, but Louise is very keen that you should go.’
There was a fraction of silence, then he said, ‘I can’t. I’ve got meetings all day.’
‘Well, of course you must go to them,’ she said, anger swiping through her. ‘The funeral of an old friend is neither here nor there, is it, compared to a meeting?’
‘Octavia, Anna wasn’t my friend. You know that.’
‘She was very fond of you. She was saying how much she liked you when I last saw her. And how much Louise liked you. Which did surprise me, considering you’re scarcely even polite to her, most of the time.’
‘Yes, well. She’s your friend – they all are.’
She felt angry suddenly, freshly, fiercely angry. ‘Tom, I really do think you should consider coming. These are people grieving horribly. Louise has only just recovered from the death of her baby, and, Tom, she’s pregnant. She asked me to tell you, God knows why, seemed to want you to know, but anyway, I think it’s very brave of her. She’s obviously feeling appalling. So I really do think—’
‘Pregnant?’ he said, and his voice sounded odd, strained. ‘Louise is pregnant? Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure. She told me, her father told me, she’s being sick every five minutes. Why shouldn’t I be sure?’
‘Sorry,’ he said, and his voice sounded rather quiet, almost shaky. Upset, then. Good. ‘Of course you must be right. I was surprised, that’s all.’ There was a silence, then he said, ‘Maybe you’re right. I will try and come. I’m – I’m going to bed now. Good night.’
‘Good night, Tom,’ she said.
His footsteps as he walked across the room were heavy and very slow; as he reached the door, he turned and looked at her and his face was extraordinarily drawn and seemed to have new, deep lines etched into it.
A thud of fresh fear went through her. Maybe Fleming Cotterill really were in trouble. Guilt, briefly, joined the fear; she crushed it. If losing one client could ruin them, then they could hardly have been on a very sound basis in the first place. She would not and could not be blamed for any of it. It wasn’t fair.
Tom went into Aubrey’s office.
‘We have an angel, or a possible one. Name of Terence Foster. Funny sort of name for an angel, but there you go. Meeting on Thursday morning, eight thirty. That okay with you? I took a flyer, said yes.’
‘Fine,’ said Aubrey. ‘Absolutely fine. Well, let’s hope we like each other.’
‘We’ll need to,’ said Tom heavily. ‘He’ll want a third share in the company.’
‘A third! That’s tough.’
‘We might be able to talk him down. Anyway, not much we can do about it, but at least we’ll be out of our misery by then. One way or another. Right, I must get off to the Savoy. Got a lunch with Cadogan.’
‘That’s working out well, isn’t it?’
‘Seems to be,’ said Tom. ‘Cheers, Aubrey.’
It amazed him how cheerful and normal he managed to appear. Given everything he was having to cope with.
‘Louise, it’s Octavia. How are you?’
‘Oh, not too bad. A bit tired.’
‘You must be. Poor you, all that sickness misery as well. You’re very brave. Anyway, just to let you know that Tom will be coming on Wednesday.’
‘Oh, Boot, I’m so pleased. I know it will be harder for you, but I do appreciate it. Please tell him.’
She’ll be sending him her love in a minute, thought Octavia, half irritable, half amused. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘Any – developments on that one?’ Louise’s voice was cautious, careful. ‘I didn’t ask before. Sorry.’
‘Well – a few. We’ve had it out. Had the conversation.’
‘And?’
‘I can’t talk now. I’m at work. But it’s over. I want out. Or rather, I want him out.’
‘When – when was this conversation?’
‘Louise, what does that matter? Wednesday, I think. Yes, the Wednesday before I came down to you.’
‘And he’s agreed?’
‘He won’t have any choice.’
‘You’ve made it really plain?’
‘Yes, of course I have. What is this?’
‘Oh, nothing. I thought you weren’t sure. About divorce.’
‘Oh, I’m sure now. Very sure indeed.’
There was a silence, then, ‘Good for you. I do admire you, Boot. Being so strong.’
‘Well, I’ve hardly started yet. The worst thing will be telling Daddy. It will be horrendous. I absolutely dread it. The longer I can postpone it, the better. He’ll crucify Tom.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh, yes. Really. Even feeling how I do about Tom, I fear for him. And I fear for the company as well. Daddy will set out to destroy him in every way he can, and that won’t do me any good. I have to present it all quite carefully. Work out a way of telling him.’
‘He wouldn’t like to come on Wednesday, would he?’ said Louise. She sounded wistful. ‘I like your dad. Daddy does, too, and I remember Mummy saying how attractive he was.’
‘Really? Are you sure you want him? He’s hardly a close friend.’
‘Yes,’ said Louise slowly, ‘quite sure. Will you ask him for me, Boot?’
‘Of course,’ said Octavia.
‘And if he wants to bring Marianne, then that would be lovely too. She wrote me the sweetest note when Juliet died.’
Octavia felt rather bemused. Louise seemed to be treating her mother’s funeral like a cocktail party.
‘Romilly,’ said Clementine Wilson, head of the music department at Queen Anne’s, ‘Romilly, I really cannot believe you’ve practised this piece at all since last Thursday.’
Romilly felt like bursting into tears. Her head ached, the period that her spot had heralded had still not arrived, she felt bloated and almost fat, and she was in a state of huge agitation about her father’s arrival the following day and the effect of it upon her modelling future. Her mother had warned her he was very opposed to the whole thing.
‘Well?’ said Clementine Wilson.
‘I haven’t practised very much. No.’
‘Well, Romilly, I can only say I am tempted to withdraw you from the concert and ask Primrose to play instead. Very tempted.’
Had her father not been coming over especially for the concert and his approval so crucial, Romilly would have said that was fine; under the circumstances she burst into tears.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘very sorry, Miss Wilson. I haven’t been very well.’
‘Well, we’ll do the full rehearsal this afternoon and then I shall make my decision in the morning, after I have heard you again.’
Romilly went down to school lunch, found Fenella.
‘Hi, Rom. You look cheerful.’
‘I feel cheerful.’
‘I thought your life was, like, utterly wonderful.’
‘It was. For five minutes. Now my mother is dead set against me doing anything that is remotely worthwhile, and Miss Wilson is threatening to replace me in the concert tomorrow. And my dad is coming over from New York especially to hear me. And he’s against the modelling too. Fen, does my stomach stick out?’
Fenella studied it. ‘Well, maybe compared to a board. Just a bit. Today. I didn’t notice it on Saturday.’
‘Oh, God,’ said Romilly. ‘It’s my period, it’s late, I’ll just get fatter and fatter till it arrives. And I may have to go back to the agency on Wednesday. And then this spot. They’ll cancel the contract. Fen, what’ll I do?’
‘Nothing,’ said Fenella soothingly. ‘You’re often late, it’ll come. Go for a run tonight. That sometimes helps.’
‘Yes, I will. And I won’t eat anything till it does,’ said Romilly.
‘Rom, don’t be silly. You have to eat. They’ll all start thinking you’re anorexic if you’re not careful and then they’ll never let you do it.’
‘No, you’re right. Well, I won’t have any lunch at least. That should help a bit. And – hey, I know what I can do. I could take some kind of laxative, couldn’t I? That’d help. I remember Zoë doing that once, when she was going to a party, said it would make her stomach go flat.’
‘Romilly, I really don’t think this is a good idea,’ said Fenella nervously. ‘You’ll make yourself ill, and compared to most of us your stomach is concave.’
‘No, it isn’t. And it’s only till after Wednesday. I think it’s a really good idea. I’ll get something in Boots on my way home.’
Fenella looked at her friend anxiously; this was exactly what everyone said happened to models. Only it was happening to Romilly with horrible speed. She sighed. ‘At least eat something. An apple, or—’
‘Yes, all right,’ said Romilly, reaching for the smallest apple in the bowl. ‘But I don’t want any more fussing, Fen. You’re supposed to be my friend.’
‘I know,’ said Fenella with a sigh.
In New York, one of Alec Muirhead’s major clients had just phoned him to say that he wanted to press ahead with a deal he had not expected to go through for at least another two months. This would clearly necessitate several days of intense activity, and probably a flight down to Texas where his head office was. He was a very major client indeed; his fee alone covered a third of Muirhead Templeman’s overheads for the year. Alec Muirhead looked at the week ahead and saw that however much disappointment it might cause, there was no way he could take four days out and fly to London. After the briefest hesitation, he lifted the phone to tell Marianne to break the news to Romilly.
The packet of laxatives said to take one or two tablets on retiring; Romilly, her stomach more bloated still, after having a large bowl of spaghetti bolognese practically forced into her by Marianne, took four. She woke at five with appalling cramps and spent the next hour in the lavatory; but as she showered and dressed, having gone through her solo once more, feeling rather shaky, she noticed with great satisfaction that her stomach had become almost concave once more.
‘Romilly darling, I want to talk to you about something. And do eat something, you look very pale.’
‘I’m fine,’ said Romilly, ‘just a bit nervous.’
‘Well, at least drink some nice sweet tea. Look, this is very bad news for you, I know, but—’
‘They don’t want me,’ said Romilly. Her eyes filled with tears. All that agony for nothing.
‘What? Who don’t want you?’
‘The Americans.’
‘Darling, it has nothing to do with the Americans. It’s about today. The concert. Daddy’s desperately sorry, but he has some huge deal going through and can’t come over today. He sends lots of love and—’
‘Oh,’ said Romilly. ‘That’s okay. It’s only a crummy school concert.’
‘Darling, that’s not what you said when you were told you could play your solo. Anyway, it’s very sweet and grown up of you to be so brave about it. Now, go and get your things and I’ll drive you in. Stars shouldn’t have to travel on the Tube.’
When Romilly got to school, she played her solo to Miss Wilson, who said she had certainly improved considerably and that she could play in the concert as arranged. Right in the middle of telling Fenella this, and that her father was unable to come to the concert, or indeed come to London at all, Romilly felt a familiar dull ache in her stomach and back; her recalcitrant period had finally arrived. Glancing at her face in the cloakroom mirror, she noticed that the spot had virtually disappeared. The pain in her stomach, increasing in intensity by the moment, felt almost pleasurable. She would know what to do next time; it had been really really easy.
‘Sandy! What do you think?’
Sandy looked up, surprised at the tone in Louise’s voice. For the first time for weeks, she sounded upbeat, cheerful, her real self.
‘This one?’ she said, putting a large black straw hat on her head. ‘Or maybe—’ removing it, replacing it with a silk turban – ‘this?’
‘Well,’ he said carefully, ‘they’re both very nice. I don’t know. Does it really matter?’
‘Of course it matters! This is Mummy’s last party. Everything’s got to be right for her.’
‘Louise,’ said Sandy, ‘you’re talking about your mother’s funeral. Not a party. She – well, she won’t . . .’
‘Won’t what, Sandy? She won’t what?’
‘Won’t be there,’ he said, very quietly, afraid of saying it, afraid not to.
Louise walked forward, right up to him, stared up at his face; her own, under the black silk turban, was very white, very set. She raised her hand and struck him hard, across the face.
‘Don’t!’ she said. ‘How dare you say such a thing? Of course she’ll be there. She’ll know. She’ll want it to be right.’
And then she stared up at him, horror in her eyes, and burst into tears and said, ‘God, I’m sorry, Sandy. So, so sorry. I’m just so tired. Tired of trying to be brave, to be positive. Please forgive me.’
