Almost a crime, p.46
Almost a Crime, page 46
Tom sighed, started up the stairs himself; he was in his study when he heard her pass the door.
‘Good night,’ he said. She was silent.
Later, he passed the spare room, on his own way to bed. The light was still on, the door ajar. She was sitting up in bed, reading; she was naked, but the sheet was pulled up, covering her breasts.
He looked in. ‘All right?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ she said.
Upstairs, there was a sudden cry, then another: it was Minty. She looked at him, swung her legs out of bed, pulled on a cotton robe.
‘Excuse me.’
He watched her go up, heard her soothing the baby, heard her talking quietly to Caroline, then silence; he was half undressed himself when he realised he had still not found the book he had wanted earlier. He knocked on the spare room door; she wasn’t there. He went in, was looking through the books when she came in. The robe was unfastened, swinging free; she was exposed to him, her breasts, her stomach, her thighs . . .
Tom could not move or look away. He knew he should, he knew he should say he was sorry, that he should hurry from the room, that at the very least, he should stop staring at her. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t because he wanted her more than at any time he could remember: a violent, sad hunger for her filled him. He stood there like a drowning man observing his own life and saw all the other naked Octavias he had loved; the one he had first seduced, first loved, plumper, younger than now, uncertain, laughing, nervous; the more confident creature she had become by their honeymoon, drunk with pleasure and sunshine and love; the swollen ripe-bodied woman bearing his children, infinitely desirable and lovely; the thin, tautly sensuous one she had become. And now, this new one: hurt by him, damaged by him, still beautiful, still desirable, lost to him irrevocably, and in love, it seemed, with someone else.
He managed it finally, said, ‘I’m sorry,’ hurried from the room. When he turned to close the door, he saw that she had not moved at all herself, but was standing carved into time, utterly still, staring at him in return. And there was an expression in her eyes that he could not begin to read or understand.
Ian had still not rung, and it was Friday. Zoë could feel herself getting very edgy. For two reasons. She couldn’t quite remember when the people were coming back to Cleaver Square, but it had to be soon; and if they found the money missing, Ian would work out pretty fast that it was her. Not that she had any money: she’d spent the lot and done one bit of babysitting which earned precisely fifteen pounds. Ten of which she’d already spent. But maybe she could talk the bank into letting her have just a bit more. Or borrow it from her mother. Or even Romilly. Anyway, she would worry about actually getting the money when she knew she was in a position to put it back. That was the main thing. She could hardly do it without Ian. And anyway, she was missing him. It wasn’t just the sex, he was fun and funny. And it annoyed her that he’d been able to dump her. She was the one who did the dumping: or always had in the past. And she had nothing whatever to do all weekend . . . She dialled, let the number ring.
‘Ian?’
‘Yeah?’ God, even his voice made her feel horny.
‘Look – I lost an earring. You haven’t got it, have you? Silver, big hoop thing.’
There was a silence, then, ‘You know I haven’t got it, Zoë. Don’t you?’
‘No,’ she said determinedly.
‘’Course you do.’ She could hear him smile. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine,’ she said, trying to sound dignified.
‘Good.’
‘I just wondered – well . . .’
‘I got to go away this weekend,’ he said. ‘One of my mates is having a stag do. So I can’t see you. Sorry. But next weekend could be good. Last one in that house, matter of fact. They get back middle of the next week. I’ll give you a bell.’
Now all she had to do was get hold of a hundred pounds.
‘Please can we go and see the twins?’ said Dickon. ‘You said we could, this weekend. Please.’
Sandy hesitated; the thought of facing Octavia was, for some reason he couldn’t quite understand, very difficult. It was absurd; here they were, the two innocent parties in this awful affair. Maybe that was why: the guilt was there, by implication, almost infecting them. Or was it that they were the two fools, the two duped fools? Either way it was almost unbearable. On the other hand, it had to be got over some time. Somehow.
‘Well, if she can have us,’ he said rather weakly.
‘Ring her. Ask her. Please.’
Octavia sounded quite pleased. She said she had a friend coming. ‘And someone else, to do with this wood business. You know? No? It’s a wood down here, really beautiful, under threat from a developer. Well, anyway, I’ll explain. Yes, come to tea, Sandy. The twins will be pleased.’
The twins certainly seemed pleased; Poppy rushed importantly to the car, helped to unbuckle Dickon from his seat.
‘Come on,’ she said to Sandy, ‘Gabriel’s here, he’s playing cricket. Gideon’s having to hop. It’s so funny.’
‘Who’s Gabriel?’
‘A friend. Of Mummy’s.’ Her face was slightly wary as she said it.
‘Your father’s not here?’
‘No. He had to work this weekend. He just might come down tomorrow.’
It was plainly not true; Sandy wondered how much she had managed to interpret for herself from the situation, from the carefully presented version she would have been given.
‘Sandy, hallo. Come in.’ Octavia kissed him; slightly awkward, determinedly bright. ‘How – how are you?’
‘Not too bad considering. You know.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I do know.’ She smiled at him, then suddenly drew him to her and kissed him again, more warmly, more easily. ‘I’m so glad you came. We both need it. Now come on in. This is a friend of mine, Pattie David. And this is her daughter Megan. And that—’ she pointed at a rather odd-looking figure wearing baggy khaki shorts and old-fashioned plimsolls, bowling at Gideon – ‘that is Gabriel Bingham. The local MP. And cricket coach. Come and sit down, we’re all talking about the wood . . .’
Sandy neither knew nor cared about the wood, only that he was grateful for it. He sat down next to Pattie David.
‘Hallo,’ she said, smiling at him. She had a nice smile; it made her look ten years younger. She was rather pretty in a worn, faded sort of way. ‘Will you be able to help us with this, do you think?’
‘What, the wood? Oh, not really my thing, protests and all that.’
‘What is your thing?’
‘I’m in the wine trade. Before that I was in the army. Pretty good at crawling through undergrowth, that’s about all I could manage.’
‘That could be jolly helpful,’ she said, ‘we’re thinking of adopting Swampy-type tactics. You could help us with the tunnels. Only joking! My father was in the army,’ she added.
‘Really? Which regiment?’
‘DCLI.’
‘No! My father was in the Somersets.’
‘Heavens,’ said Pattie, ‘they probably knew one another. When did you leave?’
‘About three years ago. After twelve years.’
‘Do you miss it?’
‘More than I can possibly tell you,’ said Sandy. He didn’t often admit it; most people didn’t understand. He wasn’t quite sure why he had now.
Pattie David smiled at him again. ‘I bet you do,’ she said.
Pattie had had a phone call: from a Mrs Lucilla Sanderson.
‘She lives at Bartles House. Poor old soul, she sounded so upset. She’d read the article in the paper yesterday, and wanted to know if I thought it was true. She said the matron kept saying it wasn’t, but she didn’t believe her.’
‘Quite right,’ said Gabriel, sitting down, chewing on a long stalk of grass. ‘I wouldn’t believe a word that woman said, not even if it was that my name was Gabriel Bingham.’
‘ “This is our home,” she kept saying, “we love it, we don’t want to move.” ’
‘Poor old things. Do you really think it’s true? Or just a rumour?’
‘We pray it’s a rumour, of course,’ said Pattie, ‘but the man from the Advertiser kept saying that he’d heard every objection had been overruled. And most important of all, he said, the developer has offered six more small houses. I don’t know why that’s so important.’
‘Planning gain,’ said Octavia. ‘It’s a sort of trade-off. You have to include ten per cent of what’s called socially affordable housing, along with your executive homes.’
‘You know a lot about this sort of thing, don’t you?’ said Sandy. ‘I’m impressed.’
‘Oh, it’s the sort of thing I’ve picked up, being married to . . .’
‘Married to a sort of politician,’ said Poppy. ‘That’s what Daddy is. Isn’t he, Mummy?’
‘Well, not exactly.’
‘Daddy is terribly clever,’ said Poppy. ‘He knows so much about everything. I wish he was here. Don’t you, Mummy? He could help such a lot.’
‘Yes,’ said Octavia, ‘yes, I expect he could.’
Sandy looked at her thoughtfully; she was flushed. He saw her glance at Gabriel Bingham, saw him raise his eyebrows at her imperceptibly. So that was it. Lucky Octavia; she had someone else to ease her through this awful thing, she wasn’t quite alone – as he was. He sighed. He felt very bleak suddenly.
‘We have to stop them,’ said Megan. ‘We really do.’
She was a dear little thing, Sandy thought, so pretty and frail and quiet, fair like her mother, sitting there in her wheelchair, watching the other boisterous children, smiling at them rather like an elderly maiden aunt.
‘How would you suggest we do that?’ he said to her gently.
‘There are trees for a start. We might be able to get them preserved.’
‘Now that’s worth a try,’ said Octavia. ‘Good thinking, Megan.’
‘And the house. The land’s no good unless they knock that down, is it, Mummy? It’s awfully interesting looking. Maybe it could be listed.’
‘Darling, I don’t think so. It’s not that old or anything.’
‘Doesn’t have to be old,’ said Gabriel, ‘just special. Unique. Well unique-ish.’
‘It’s certainly that,’ said Octavia laughing, ‘’twenties Gothic.’
‘Have you tried that one? Getting it listed?’
‘Only as much as to know it’s almost impossible. In theory. But we can try.’
‘I think you should,’ he said.
Pattie looked at him. ‘Does this mean you’re definitely on our side, Mr Bingham?’
‘Oh, no. Not definitely.’
‘Your backside must be getting quite sore,’ said Octavia briskly, ‘sitting on the fence so long.’
He grinned at her lazily. ‘I have my reputation to consider. My political future. Bartles Wood could come between me and the premiership.’
‘That’s no contest,’ said Octavia.
They agreed that Pattie should go up to the house, try and talk to the Fords, and that someone should investigate the possibility of getting the house listed.
‘I’ll do that,’ said Sandy. ‘I know a bit about it. My parents got their house listed. That stopped a bit of progress, in the form of a supermarket car park.’
They all stared at him.
‘Sandy! Do you really not mind? It’s not exactly on your doorstep,’ said Octavia.
‘I know. But I’ve – well, I’ve got a bit of spare time at the moment. Dickon and I can put our minds to it. Can’t we, old chap?’
‘That’s so very good of you,’ said Pattie David.
‘Thank you for coming,’ said Octavia as Sandy and Dickon left after family tea.
‘No, Octavia, thank you for having us. It was such a help. Dickon hasn’t had much fun lately.’
‘No, I don’t suppose he has. Actually, I’ve been meaning to ask you. We’re having a big charity do in September, at Brands Hatch. It’s a vintage car day, everyone’s dressing up. And bringing their children. I’m taking all mine. If you’d like to come, please do. Dickon would love it.’
‘Yes, he probably would. I’ll let you know, if I may.’ He was strapping Dickon into his car seat; she couldn’t see his face. It was an easy time to ask.
‘Have you seen her yet?’
‘No,’ he said, not turning, and she could see he found it as hard to confront the awful ugly thing that lay between them as she did. ‘No, not yet. Tomorrow.’
‘I hope it goes well.’
‘So do I,’ he said, ‘for Dickon’s sake.’
Octavia felt suddenly awkward when they had all gone; when they were reduced to a family-size group. A false family.
She went upstairs and bathed Minty, gave her a cup of milk, told the twins to kiss her good night; they scarcely looked up from the game of jacks Gabriel had brought with him for Gideon.
She went and tucked Minty up, sat with her for a bit, watching her drift off to sleep, her small face sweetly composed. She looked down on the garden; the sun was still quite strong, but the shadows on the lawn were lengthening. Gabriel was reading the paper, occasionally going off to adjudicate in the game; he looked utterly relaxed, the picture of – what? What was he, for God’s sake, in her new, strange, unfamiliar life, its new unworked-out structure? Something permanent? Or something simply holding it – and her – together while the new, tenuous forms began to grow strong?
Later they all ate some pasta, and watched Noel’s House Party; at nine o’clock the twins went reluctantly up to their room.
She tidied up, poured herself a glass of wine, settled down with a magazine. Gabriel was amazing with the children, so patient and such fun, the children seemed to like him so much.
‘Mummy.’
It was Poppy; her small face oddly taut and wary.
‘Yes, darling?’
‘I can’t sleep.’
Poppy stayed downstairs, sitting sucking her thumb beside Octavia, reverted suddenly to babyhood, while she and Gabriel watched the news. She was half asleep.
‘Come on, darling. I’ll take you up.’
‘I’m watching this.’
‘No, you’re not. Come on. You’re so tired.’
‘When is Gabriel going?’ said Poppy, carefully not addressing him.
‘Oh, pretty soon,’ he said. ‘When this is over.’
She nodded, went rather forlornly upstairs. Octavia went up after her, tucked her in.
‘He’s not staying tonight, is he?’ said Poppy. ‘He doesn’t need to, does he?’
‘No, of course he doesn’t.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said carefully to Gabriel when finally they were alone. ‘I can’t let you stay.’
‘That’s all right,’ he said.
She knew he was disappointed.
‘Could I stay for a bit?’ he said.
‘Well . . .’ Octavia hesitated. Torn between a desire to please him, to thank him, a longing to have the comfort of him, and anxiety about the children, what they might discern if they awoke. It would hardly be an easy, joyful piece of lovemaking.
‘Okay,’ he said, interpreting her silence. ‘I understand. Tell me one thing, though. It will make it easier. Do you – I mean . . .’
Octavia leaned over, kissed him very hard, very deliberately on the mouth. ‘Oh, Gabriel,’ she said. ‘I do. I really do.’
Just the same, when he left an hour later, she sensed a growing impatience, a tension in him. She tried to feel cool, lighthearted even, about it: but it troubled her quite a lot. And it was another pressure; just when she didn’t need it.
‘She’s still quite confused,’ said the matron to Sandy, ‘so don’t expect too much. But she’s looking forward to seeing you.’
He hadn’t known what to expect in himself: coldness, distaste, anger. The sense of total unreality he experienced when he saw her sitting in a chair by the window, smiling at them, very pale and thin, but dressed, in trousers and a pale pink shirt, her hair washed and brushed, Louise again, not some wretched shell, lying on a hospital bed in a paper gown, that took him totally by surprise.
She held out her arms; Dickon flew into them.
‘Mummy, you look so better! When are you coming home?’
Only her voice was changed: somehow slower, rather quiet and weak. ‘Not just yet, darling. I’m feeling a bit wobbly. You look wonderful. Daddy’s obviously looking after you very well.’ She covered his face with kisses. ‘What have you been doing?’
‘Lots of things. Yesterday we went to see the twins.’
‘The twins! Did you? How were they? How was their mummy?’
She was showing no sign of tension, of wariness. Just the rather frail voice.
‘She was all right. Megan was there, a girl in a wheelchair, she was nice. And Gabriel, the man who plays cricket.’
‘Oh, really? Was he?’ She hugged Dickon closer, was silent.
Finally her eyes met Sandy. ‘How are you, Sandy?’ she said.
‘Oh – fine.’
‘Good. Well, sit down.’ She waved her hand towards another chair. ‘They’re bringing tea. I asked for chocolate biscuits, Dickon, for you.’
‘Yeah!’ he said.
It was extraordinary. She had done her nails, was even wearing lipstick. She smiled and made an effort to chat, asked Dickon questions about going swimming, asked Sandy about his business; it was as if she was some close friend, who knew them well, and who was enjoying an afternoon tea party, rather than – rather than what?
She put her hand out, put it on his arm; Sandy looked at it. She had beautiful hands, they were one of the things he had first noticed about her; now it looked ugly to him, that hand, ugly and out of place. He had to struggle not to shake it off.
‘How are you, Sandy?’ she said again.
‘I’m – fine,’ he said. ‘Yes. You know.’
‘It must be very difficult. Managing with Dickon and everything.’
‘Well, I’ve taken a bit of a holiday and your father’s having him next week – I’ve got to get some work done then.’
