Almost a crime, p.42
Almost a Crime, page 42
‘The – baby?’
‘Yes. To be honest with you, I think it might be better. In the long run. A lot of drugs at this stage in the pregnancy could well have harmed the foetus. It’s no comfort perhaps at the moment, but – well, there it is. You can go and see her if you like. We’re about to send her up to the gynae ward.’
Sandy sat down; he felt as if he was isolated in some kind of sealed capsule, everything outside seemed rather hazy and muffled. So she had been pregnant; he hadn’t been entirely mad. But—
Tom Fleming suddenly appeared through the swing doors; he saw Sandy, and hesitated. Only for a moment, but it was enough. Few people would have recognised that hesitation; Sandy, trained in observing the enemy, did. He looked at Tom for a long moment in silence. Then, ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he said.
That was that, then: the end of it. The end of the baby, the end of the affair. Louise lay in her bed and stared at the nurse who was telling her she really couldn’t have anything more for the pain, that her system simply could not tolerate any more drugs at the moment, and said politely no, she quite understood, and then, ‘What was it?’
‘What was what?’
‘The baby. Was it a girl or a boy?’
The nurse was very young; she stared at Louise. ‘Oh, you don’t want to be worrying about that,’ she said.
‘What do you mean, I don’t want to be worrying about it?’ She could hear her own voice, loud and rather angry. ‘Of course I’m worried about it. I have to know, I have a right to know.’
‘Mrs Trelawny—’
Louise put out her hand, gripped the nurse’s arm. ‘You just go and find out what my baby was. A girl or a boy. Don’t come back until you know. And don’t tell me what I want or don’t want either.’
The nurse shook her arm free, hurried out of the cubicle; Louise heard her talking in a low voice to someone at the end of the ward.
Another, clearly more senior nurse appeared; she looked at Louise rather sternly.
‘Mrs Trelawny—’
Louise interrupted her. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘all I want to know is whether my baby was a boy or a girl. You must know. It was quite old enough.’
‘We – that is, it’s impossible to—’
‘Where is it?’ she said. ‘Where is the baby?’
‘Mrs Trelawny—’
‘You’ve thrown it away, haven’t you?’ she said, rage making her suddenly strong. ‘Put it down the sluice. I know you have, don’t lie to me. You had absolutely no right to do that, no right at all, it wasn’t just a mess, you know, it was my baby. It’s wicked what you’ve done, and what’s more, illegal . . .’
And then she heard a strange, horrible, high-pitched sound, that she realised after a moment or two was her own screaming, and then a doctor appeared, and gave her an injection and she sank into a blank darkness that she hoped more fervently than ever might be death.
Sandy sat holding Dickon on his knee, smoothing his dark hair, trying to hush his sobs; he felt like crying himself. And so utterly weary, he could not imagine ever moving again. Just as well, probably; given the strength to match the violence of his rage, he would have gone out to find Tom Fleming and killed him. Or at least beaten him to pulp.
He had known at once, of course, hadn’t actually needed his brutally frank confession at all, he’d known the minute he had seen him there. It had all made sense suddenly. Tom, brilliant, charming, good-looking Tom who made Louise laugh, who led the sort of life she would have loved, who spent his life in her old haunts, the smart restaurants and nightclubs of London, Tom who had money and style, Tom who could still have children . . .
‘Daddy,’ said Dickon, turning his small face up to him, ‘Daddy, please don’t cry. Mummy’s better, you just said so.’
‘Louise has had a complete breakdown,’ said Tom. ‘There’s talk of a psychiatric nursing home. Some place in Bath.’
They were sitting in the drawing room in Phillimore Gardens; both more than slightly surprised to find themselves there, set back within the boundaries of normal life, so totally had the world appeared, during the past twenty-four hours, to have spun on its axis. They had even had supper together, pizzas brought in from the Pizza Express; Octavia, able suddenly to observe them all detachedly, arguing over whether a Neptune was more or less interesting than an American Hot, and passing round bits from plate to plate as they always did, wondered at the extraordinary resilience of the human spirit, and its capacity to dissemble.
‘We’ll come and tuck you up,’ said Tom, patting the twins’ bottoms gently as they started up the stairs. ‘Half an hour, Okay?’
‘Okay. And don’t disappear again, all right?’
‘They didn’t both disappear,’ said Gideon, ‘only Mummy.’
‘They did really.’
‘Twins, please. Go on, see you later.’
‘You must have been relieved,’ said Octavia now, icily polite, ‘about the baby.’
‘Yes, I was. Of course.’
Charles had told her when she had finally spoken to him, asked after Louise, forced herself to, for his sake: ‘You’d want to know, my dear. So that when you see her . . .’ and ‘Yes, of course.’
She had said, thinking of that last lie, that last act of treachery, ‘I’m not pregnant,’ adding politely careful, ‘I’m so sorry,’ and wondering how much more she was going to be asked to endure.
‘That was clever of her,’ she said now to Tom, ‘very clever. I suppose she thought you’d have to stay with her, leave me if she was pregnant.’
‘I think it was more complex than that,’ he said, ‘given that she knew about your baby.’
‘Our baby,’ she said, looking at him very steadily. ‘Tom, it was. It was yours.’
‘Was it? Was it really?’
‘Yes. Yes! I so much want you to understand. The baby was – would have been – handicapped, it had spina bifida. You were away, terribly busy, I – well, I decided to – I’m so sorry.’ It was strange suddenly, to find herself in the wrong, the one who had done damage, the one apologising.
He stared at her for a long time in silence, his face very drawn, quite colourless. Then ‘Oh, I see,’ he said. ‘But whatever you felt, whatever the situation, you had no right to do what you did. It was dreadful. Not the abortion itself, I might have agreed to that, I probably would; but taking it upon yourself to make that decision. With no recourse to me whatsoever. It was very wrong.’
There was a long silence; then she said: ‘I know. I can see that now. I’m sorry. Very, very sorry. I thought it would be for the best.’
‘But you didn’t consider what I might think?’ He stopped again, looking at her as if from a long distance. ‘The fact that it was my baby too?’
‘No,’ she said, very quietly, ‘no, I didn’t. I just thought you wouldn’t – wouldn’t want it.’ ‘You are very like your father,’ he said, ‘in some ways. I’m sorry to have to say it, but it’s true.’
She was silent: hating him for saying it, knowing she deserved it.
‘Did he know about it?’
‘No, of course not,’ she said, shocked that he should think such a thing, while recognising that he easily could. ‘Only Anna knew, she – well, she gave me the advice. She was wonderful. It helped.’
‘A pity you couldn’t have turned to me.’
‘Tom, I couldn’t. Well, I thought I couldn’t. You were away, terribly distracted, it would have been so difficult on the phone.’
‘Do you really think I wouldn’t have come home? For such a reason? Dear God, how did we come to this?’ he said.
‘If it’s any comfort,’ she said, with difficulty, ‘I thought I would go mad with the misery and the guilt.’
‘Now there is an interesting remark. Do you think it is? A comfort to me? Don’t you think I feel the same misery, the same guilt? About what I have done to you? Ask yourself that question, Octavia, see if it helps.’
She looked at him, struggling to accept it. ‘I don’t know how you feel. I don’t know what I feel either. About any of it, any of it at all.’
‘I think,’ he said carefully, ‘you have to try and accept that Louise is – well, almost mad.’
‘Almost mad? Or completely? Or then again not at all? Just bad. Wicked.’
‘No. Not wicked. I really don’t think so.’
‘She’s been very clever. For someone mad.’
‘Mad people are clever.’
‘And she’s done some terrible things. Sending those letters, wrecking your business, that was almost a crime.’
‘Yes, it was,’ he said slowly, ‘you’re right. It was. Almost a crime.’
Another silence, then, ‘Louise told me something else,’ he said. ‘I would like to know if it’s true.’
She knew what that was: Gabriel. And of course Louise would have told Tom. Looking back now, she recognised the last in a long line of probing, of innocent questions, of outraged loyalty. Against all logic, she felt guilt.
‘Yes?’
‘I’m sure you can imagine what it was.’
‘I – yes, I suppose I can.’
‘Is it true? That you’re involved? With this man?’
‘If you mean have I slept with him,’ she said, anger and a desire to hurt him suddenly striking her, ‘yes, I have.’
‘I see.’
He looked at her; she saw shock, hurt, anger, and – most pleasing of all – jealousy. All of them illogical, outrageous even: but most recognisably there, a source of sweet, sure revenge.
‘Well, I can hardly complain. I suppose,’ was all he said.
And ‘No,’ she had said, ‘no, you can’t.’
Shock and jealousy apart, he was, quite clearly, less concerned about her relationship with Gabriel Bingham than about the termination. Grudgingly, unwillingly, she liked him for that.
‘Do you still want a divorce?’ he said, and she said yes, most certainly she did, but she really couldn’t think about it at the moment, there were enough complexities in both their lives, both professional and personal, not least the children, they must take their time, work out the best route.
‘So – is it – serious? With this man?’ he said, and she said she didn’t want to discuss it; later lying in bed, she found herself wondering if it was, indeed, serious with Gabriel.
CHAPTER 31
‘Right. That’s all absolutely wonderful.’ Serena Fox smiled at Marianne and Romilly, drew back the contract, replaced the cap of her Mont Blanc pen. ‘Let’s drink, shall we, to a very happy association. Josie, bring in the champagne!’
‘Goodness!’ said Romilly. ‘Champagne, how exciting.’
‘I won’t,’ said Marianne. ‘I’m afraid I never drink in the middle of the day.’
She didn’t look very happy, Romilly thought. That was mean of her, casting a sort of shadow over things. ‘Mummy!’ she said. ‘Come on. Don’t be a spoilsport.’
‘Oh, well, all right.’ Marianne accepted the glass, smiled, clearly with an effort, sipped it over-cautiously. Romilly felt irritated with her.
‘Now,’ said Serena. ‘Donna Hanson is coming over again in ten days. With the photographer. He’s going to do some preliminary shots of Romilly over here, for publicity and so on. They’re arriving on Monday the eleventh, so how would the Tuesday be? Or the Wednesday. For the session?’
‘Wonderful!’ said Romilly. ‘I’ll wash my hair.’ They all laughed. She looked round Serena’s office at them all, smiling at her, her, Romilly, the centre of attention, laughing at her jokes, eager to fit in with her holiday dates. It was all so nice, she thought: so nice to be important, the one who mattered. Every day now she felt less shy, less unsure of herself.
It wasn’t until Romilly got home to her diary that she realised that her period would be due again by the twelfth of August. Or possibly overdue. But she would know what to do this time . . .
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ said Tom. ‘Sorry to have deserted the sinking ship.’
He smiled carefully at Aubrey; Aubrey, the least demonstrative of men, felt an urge to go over to him and put his arms round him, so white faced, so drawn, so patently and literally shaken was he. Well, it had been an appalling thirty-six hours for him; poor old Tom. He must have truly glimpsed hell.
As it was (being the least demonstrative of men), he did get up and put his hand on Tom’s shoulder, refilled his coffee cup, said, ‘I think you’ve been bloody good about it all.’
‘Not a lot of choice. And I certainly don’t deserve any sympathy,’ said Tom. ‘Now let’s talk about Fleming Cotterill. Much more important.’
‘Well, basically we have three choices. We can do nothing, muddle along for a bit longer, try to persuade the bank to meet the salary cheques, leave the rent and so on: that’ll give us a week at the most. Or we can go down the merger route. Or petition to have ourselves declared bankrupt. That might be best. Cleanest. Get it over and done with.’
‘I suppose we ought to try for the merger,’ said Tom, ‘but I cannot tell you how wretched it makes me feel.’
‘Maybe not as wretched as the staff will feel if their salary cheques bounce,’ said Aubrey.
‘Aubrey, I think we have to pay them this month somehow. Out of our own assets. I could sell a painting or two, raise the money that way. Before we get everything seized. How about you?’
‘I might sell my ex-wife’s engagement ring,’ said Aubrey thoughtfully, ‘I made her give it back, you know. It was my grandmother’s. I was keeping it for the next Mrs Cotterill, but she doesn’t seem to be in too much of a hurry to materialise. The staff are a more deserving cause.’
‘Fine. Well, let’s do that. And let’s wait till Monday, make our final decision then.’
‘It’s going to be a long weekend.’
‘Ian, can we go to the house tonight?’ said Zoë.
She had rung him on his mobile at midday. She had got the cash out of the bank and was longing to be rid of it. It had practically cleaned her out again, but it was worth it.
‘Not tonight, darlin’, no. I’m having a drink with the lads. Sorry. Tomorrow be okay?’
‘Oh – yes. Yes, fine.’
‘We’ll go to the Ministry first. Have a really good night. See you, babe.’
She wished they could have gone that night, but it couldn’t be helped. And one more day wasn’t really going to make any difference ...
Somehow, perversely that day, Octavia felt better: rather as if she had been suffering from some near fatal illness that had reached and passed its crisis, the fever broken, the pain easing. She felt exhausted, weak and yet mildly euphoric; she had, after all, survived. And the worst was surely over.
Lying weak and wretched in her hospital bed, hazy with drugs and pain, contemplating all that she had lost, and the life that she had tried to leave, Louise became slowly aware of something other than despair. It was anger: white-hot, blinding anger. She clung to it; it gave her strength and it gave her hope. That she could still get what she wanted. That she would get what she wanted. Somehow. Whatever she had to do. It wasn’t finished yet.
Octavia went to see her father, to reassure him that she was all right, for his distress and anxiety over her had been intense, and told him, amongst other things, about Gabriel Bingham. She was quite surprised to find herself doing so, but decided it was because she wanted him to stop being so sorry for her, wanted to stop being the deceived, wronged wife. It wasn’t exactly a glamorous role. She didn’t tell him everything, merely that she was seeing a man she liked very much, an MP, and he was making her feel a great deal better.
Felix Miller had been disconcertingly benign in his reaction. ‘My darling, you deserve a little happiness.’
Gabriel had sent her a dozen red roses that day, with a card that said, ‘From Mr Bingham, with considerable admiration.’ She had been astonished at the unexpectedness both of the gesture and the form it had taken; in her overwrought state, she had burst into tears and then felt absurdly pleased.
‘Tell me about him, this young man. Would I like him?’
She told him: as little as possible.
‘He sounds very interesting. Very interesting indeed. Well, I shall look forward to meeting him.’
‘Daddy, it’s not that sort of thing.’
‘What sort of thing? You know I like to meet your friends. Well, there’s no hurry. If ever you feel like bringing him, he’ll be welcome. I suppose I should ask after Louise,’ he added, his face very cold.
‘She’s going to be all right. Yes.’
He nodded. ‘I hope Tom appreciates the full extent of the damage he’s done, and to a great many people. I have to say I rather doubt it.’
‘Daddy, of course he does. Very much so.’ Why was she defending him, for God’s sake?
‘Well, let’s talk about something else. You need a holiday. You look exhausted. How about my offer of the cottage?’
‘I really can’t go away just now,’ she said. ‘I’ve not been fulfilling my commitments at work. I’ve upset clients, let people down, I have to put some really long hours in.’
‘Hard on the children.’
‘Yes, but there’s the weekends. We’re going down to the cottage this weekend.’
‘Seeing the new boyfriend?’
‘No, I’m not.’ Gabriel had wanted to see her, but she had told him he couldn’t: that the children should have her to themselves for the weekend at least.
‘What about Tom, has he moved out yet? He should. And we should have a chat about the divorce. I’ve alerted Bernard Moss that we want to see him, told him why.’
She felt a surge of surprisingly strong anger, heard Tom’s voice saying, ‘I’m afraid there is a lot of your father in you.’
‘You shouldn’t have,’ she said sharply. ‘It’s absolutely no business of yours.’
‘Octavia!’
‘Sorry, Daddy. Sorry. But I really do want to do this in my own way. In my own time. And I don’t want it all talked about publicly before I’m ready.’
