Almost a crime, p.58
Almost a Crime, page 58
‘Only because of the heat,’ he said hastily.
‘I hoped that was what you meant. Now this menu is wonderful, a perfect blend of Caribbean and smart London. My advice is ignore the smart London bit, stick to the Caribbean.’
‘I’m not actually very familiar with smart London menus,’ he said. He had meant to sound lighthearted but it didn’t quite come off.
‘Oh, Gabriel,’ said Octavia, ‘you do run on about your humble lifestyle. It could get boring.’ He hoped that, too, was meant to be a joke, but there was something approaching an edge to her voice. He knew her well enough now to recognise that edge; he hadn’t heard it much out here, it belonged to the other Octavia. He had wondered when she might come back.
He smiled at her, picked up the menu. It really was very near perfect. The moon was just rising, reflecting in the water; the stars were brilliant. The waves – gentle, foamy, quite unlike the pounding surf of Crane – were drifting on to the shore. Just the sound was cooling. It was all a cliché. A luxurious cliché. But really very very nice. He was very lucky: only a fool would knock it. He’d have the crab, he thought, and after that—
‘Octavia! Hallo, my dear, how are you?’
‘Bertie! What a lovely surprise. I’m very well.’
Bertie was sixtyish, tall, handsome, white haired, very tanned. Gabriel hated him on sight. ‘And your father? How is the old rogue? He’s not here, I suppose?’
‘No, he’s not. He’s fine. Coming over later in the year.’
‘Hope he’ll bring the lovely Marianne. I could use a decent golf partner. Got the children with you? Look, why don’t you join us? We’d love some company. Clem, darling, look, it’s Octavia.’
And then Clem joined them: also tall, also good looking, blonde, very slim, beautifully dressed. She bent and kissed Octavia. ‘Darling girl. How lovely.’ She looked rather uncertainly at Gabriel.
Octavia kissed her, then said, ‘This is Gabriel Bingham. A friend of mine from England. Gabriel, this is Bertie and Clem Richardson. Old friends of my father’s. They live here, in the most wonderful house.’
Gabriel stood up, shook their hands dutifully. He felt unreasonably outraged by their arrival.
‘Now, do join us, won’t you?’ said Clem and Gabriel was almost prepared for Octavia to say that would be lovely, saw her glance at him, was overwhelmingly relieved to hear her say, ‘Well – just for a drink. But I think we might stay on our own, if that wouldn’t seem terribly rude. We’re a bit – tired. Long day.’
‘Oh, nonsense. Tired! Young things like you,’ said Bertie, but Clem cut in and said, ‘Bertie, do use your head. They want to be alone. Not spending the evening with a pair of old geriatrics.’ Gabriel could have kissed her. ‘Tell you what, though,’ she said, smiling a dazzling smile at them, ‘why don’t you both come to lunch on Thursday? At the house. We’re having a small party.’
‘That would be heavenly,’ said Octavia. ‘Wouldn’t it, Gabriel? Their house is glorious, one of the old plantation houses, I’d love you to see it.’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that sounds very nice.’ His desire to kiss Clem had died.
He felt instinctively that even a new shirt would hardly cover a lunch party with the Richardsons. His headache had come back; beating right through him, down his neck and his back. As he got up to follow the Richardsons to their table, he saw Bertie turn, take in his baggy flannel trousers and distinctly crumpled white shirt, saw his expression of slight disdain.
Bertie saw that he had seen, adjusted his expression hastily, clapped him heavily on the back to make amends, said, ‘After you, dear boy.’
The last thing in the world Gabriel wanted was to be Bertie’s dear boy. And the clap had hurt his sore shoulders terribly.
‘I simply cannot understand it,’ said Alec. They hadn’t gone to Martha’s. Alec was sitting in the drawing room in Eaton Square. Marianne had decided he should know everything, that she owed it to her children that there should not be the slightest necessity for deceit or connivance. It had taken great courage, but she had done it. Had asked him to come to London, saying there were problems with the girls, had met him off the first available flight and told him what the problems were on the drive from the airport. At least she was able to tell him Zoë had been let off with a caution.
He had listened in silence, his jaw taut and set, his mouth downturned and supercilious, physical manifestations of the mental superiority he had always assumed over her. The intense dread that seeing them induced in her had been one of the major reasons for finally deciding to leave him.
When they got back to the flat, he saw the girls separately; Zoë first. She never told her mother what he had said to her, but she emerged from the drawing room white faced and shaking, and ran up the stairs to her room. When Marianne went up, asked if she was all right, she told her to go away.
‘Zoë! Please! Let me come in.’
‘Mum, I’m all right. I just can’t take any more, okay?’
Romilly emerged from her interview brilliant eyed and defiant, less subdued than Zoë. She smiled at her mother, kissed her briefly, said, ‘I told him none of it was your fault. None of it. But he does seem to think it was. I can’t understand it.’
Marianne, who could, but who was none the less outraged that Alec should express such a view to Romilly, went into the drawing room. Alec gestured to her to sit down.
‘I’ll stand, thank you, Alec.’
That was when he told her he couldn’t understand it.
‘Leaving the two of them, Romilly still a child, and at the mercy of those dreadful people. You knew I was opposed to it, Marianne, I’m appalled you should have allowed it to go ahead at all, let alone without your being there with her. I really can’t remember when I felt so – shocked.’
She was silent.
‘As for Zoë, I am completely defeated. It seems she has no moral code of her own, she clearly needs constant guidance.’
‘Alec, she was led astray. That’s all.’
‘And how was that, Marianne? How did that happen, that you allowed such a thing?’
‘I can’t watch her every minute of the day, know where she is, what she’s doing . . .’
‘Well, I’m afraid it seems that is what she needs. If she’s not properly and constantly supervised, she’ll end up in prison.’
‘Oh, Alec, really.’
‘Marianne, she’s been arrested, caught in possession of drugs—’
‘Two Ecstasy tablets!’
He stood up then, stalked over to her; his face literally livid with rage. ‘How dare you talk like that! You, her mother, supposed to be responsible for her, granted custody of her. Dear God, I wonder why. Only two Ecstasy tablets, was it, Marianne? I can hardly believe I’m hearing you correctly. It’s that sort of attitude that has allowed her to fall into this situation. Next you’ll be saying only a hundred pounds.’
‘No,’ said Marianne quietly, ‘no, I won’t be saying that.’
God, she felt terrible about that hundred pounds. If only she’d had the time, time and attention to spare for Zoë, she might have noticed how distressed she was, might have got the whole story out of her.
‘How long has she known this boy?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t know he was – well, he was in her life at all.’
‘You didn’t know! How is that possible, Marianne, how can you not know what sort of boys your daughter is spending her time with? What have you been busying yourself with for the past few weeks, for God’s sake? Your golf?’
The withering contempt with which he said that hurt Marianne so much that tears stung her eyes. She blinked them away. She couldn’t start crying. Not now. She’d never stop.
‘Does Felix Miller know about any of this?’
‘No, of course not. Anyway, I haven’t seen much of Felix lately.’
‘Oh, really? So who were you in Glasgow with, then?’
‘A – friend.’
‘A man friend?’
‘Alec, I really don’t think that is anything to do with you.’
‘I disagree. I think everything in your life is to do with me. Insofar as it affects the way you are looking after, or rather failing to look after, our children.’
‘Yes, all right, Alec. I get the idea. Yes, it was a man.’
‘I see. So you were in Glasgow, with a man, while one of our children, underage, was left alone to fend for herself in a situation which any fool could see was potentially dangerous. Who was looking after her, in God’s name?’
Useless to go into the explanation: to travel down the sad series of coincidences that had left Romilly alone. As useless to try to explain how it was that Zoë could have been allowed to have had a boyfriend who was so dangerously influential. She was silent.
Alec stood up. ‘Well, I think I should still take them to Martha’s anyway. It will do Romilly good to get away, and although Zoë doesn’t deserve a holiday, I can keep a very close eye on her, and sailing and so on will be a lot better for her than dragging round the nightclubs of London. I’ll just phone my secretary, see if she can organise their flights.’
‘I can do that,’ said Marianne.
‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ he said. ‘I’d rather you didn’t have anything to do with the girls for a few weeks at least. You’re clearly very busy with your own life. You’d better confine your energies to that, I think. It would benefit everyone.’
At which point she really did have to hurry out of the room and shut herself in the downstairs cloakroom where she sat on the lavatory and cried, like a naughty child ticked off by her headmaster.
They left at four that afternoon, Zoë sullen and miserable, Romilly quietly excited. Alec had been right about that at least: getting away was exactly what she had needed. He had made a curt phone call to Serena Fox, telling her that she should consider any contract with Romilly terminated, and that it would be followed by a letter. She could see that Romilly was actually relieved to have matters taken so totally out of her hands.
I should have seen that myself, Marianne thought, I should have known how frightened and threatened she felt. Her only comfort was that Zoë had flung herself into her arms at the last minute, and said how sorry she was, and how she mustn’t blame herself for a moment.
But Marianne blamed herself totally. She, who prided herself above all in being a good mother, had sacrificed her children and their welfare on the altar of her own vanity and emotional requirements. She wasn’t fit to have the care of those children. She couldn’t ever remember feeling so wretched.
Few things were able to shake Nico Cadogan’s self-confidence; the interview with his ex-wife that morning did so. For at least five minutes after she had left, he sat staring at the space she had occupied opposite his desk; then he picked up the phone and rang Tom Fleming.
‘I think we have a problem,’ he said.
‘I feel so much better,’ said Louise. She smiled at the doctor. ‘Really so much better.’
‘Good. I’m delighted. And the nurse in charge tells me you’re sleeping better too, with less medication.’
‘Yes.’ She wasn’t; but she wanted to go home, and she knew the insomnia worried them. It was the Prozac apparently; a little-known side effect. They were afraid they’d have to take her off it. And that would mean, possibly, staying at the Cloisters longer. So she lied. It was quite easy. Well, the lying was easy. Not sleeping was very difficult. It meant less escape, less oblivion. But if she could get home it would be worth it.
‘At this rate,’ he was saying, ‘you’ll be home in a few weeks.’
A few weeks. That wasn’t soon enough. She needed to be out by Sunday, 7 September. It was essential.
She smiled at him. ‘I do miss them so much, you know, my husband and my little boy. They don’t – that is, they can’t come to see me very often. And then it upsets Dickon, terribly, seeing me here. And of course that upsets me . . .’
‘Well, let’s see how you are in a few days. Are you getting more physical exercise now?’
‘Oh, yes. I went for a long walk yesterday, with Alice, you know?’
Alice was one of the nurses; Louise hated her. ‘She’s so kind and she seemed happy to come with me. We must have walked miles. I love the outdoors so much. I always feel better there.’
‘Yes, well, it’s important you do the things you enjoy. You certainly look better.’
She felt better: in spite of being so tired. It was having the plan: that was what was getting her through.
Pattie David was lost in Ambridge when the phone rang: she jumped.
‘Hallo?’
‘Pattie? It’s Sandy Trelawny. You all right? You sound a bit – odd.’
‘Oh – yes, I’m fine. Sorry. Listening to the radio.’
‘Look, we’re coming over to see Louise on Saturday again. I wondered if Megan needed any help with her application. To get the house listed? I have to tell you, I’m not very hopeful. But don’t let her know that.’
‘Of course not. It’s been so good for her, all this. Actually, she’s sent the application off. Did it on Monday. But I’m sure she’d like to see you. And, Sandy, stay to lunch, won’t you? Megan would love it.’
‘Well—’ he hesitated – ‘we don’t want to intrude . . .’
‘You wouldn’t be. I’d like it too,’ she added, surprising herself.
Octavia looked at Gabriel and had to try very hard not to laugh. He was wearing his baggy Boy Scout shorts, a T-shirt that was just slightly too small, and a panama hat that was more than slightly too big. It slithered down over his forehead, almost meeting his eyebrows: the combination of that and his pink, peeling nose and slightly pained expression was very funny indeed.
‘I think the hat’s a bit big,’ she said finally.
‘So what, if it’s comfortable?’
‘Fine. Of course. But we might try and get you one the right size. In Cave Shepherd.’
‘Octavia,’ said Gabriel, and there was a distinctly raw note to his voice, ‘I have no intention of buying another panama hat. This one is brand new, it cost me twenty-five pounds, I like it, all right?’
‘Yes,’ she said hastily, ‘yes, all right.’ His temper was not as equable as she had imagined; she was learning to respect it. ‘Well, let’s go. Got your swimming things? We pick the boat up in Bridgetown.’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘It’s a gorgeous day. Last time I did this trip was with Dad and it rained all day. We were warmer in the water than out of it.’
‘It sounds rather nice to me,’ he said.
She felt a stab of irritation. He didn’t make much effort to hide his antipathy to the sun. Or to people, come to that. He’d been less than charming to Clem and Bertie Richardson the night before; on the other hand, he had apologised on the way back, pleaded a bad headache. She’d made some joke about his avoiding sex, but he hadn’t laughed. He hadn’t made love to her either . . .
‘While we’re here, I have to go and see my father’s lawyers,’ she said. ‘There’s some change in regulation about property ownership here. He wants the records and so on.’
He shrugged. ‘Fine.’
‘Right. Let’s go.’
She liked Bridgetown, it was so alive, swarming with people; liked the central square by the big bridge, with its statue of Nelson; liked particularly the toytown dense suburbs edging it, street after street of little wooden houses, all painted different colours, perfectly kept. She drove Gabriel through it now.
‘Isn’t it amazing? Families of ten or more live here. When they were first built, the houses had no water or anything, just one big room. The children slept under the bed, the parents slept in it, with possibly a couple more children. Often, even now, the sink’s outside at the back and there might be a gas ring on a shelf. Yet they’re very happy, close families. There’s very little violent crime here.’
‘You’ll be telling me next they’re happy with their lot,’ he said.
‘They are,’ she said. ‘Really happy.’
‘Octavia, please don’t insult me with that nonsense.’
‘It’s not nonsense, and you don’t know anything about it,’ she said, and was silent. He didn’t speak either, sat glaring out of the window. A little later, anxious to improve matters, she said, ‘We might go and see Elvira’s daughter tonight, on our way back. She lives here.’
‘No more socialising, Octavia, please.’
‘Gabriel, it’s hardly socialising,’ she said without thinking.
‘Oh, really? And why would that be? Because she’s black? Because she’s the daughter of a servant?’
‘Oh, don’t be so bloody ridiculous,’ she said, suddenly sharply angry with him.
They went into Cave Shepherd and she felt him making an effort, aware of her mood; picking out hideous shirts, asking her opinion. His taste really was terrible.
She struggled to be tactful, allowed him one of the hideous ones – brilliantly patterned, short sleeved – and then steered him towards a striped Ralph Lauren, in pink and white. ‘This is nice too. And there’s the same in blue. And while we’re here, shall we look at trousers?’
‘Octavia, I really don’t want to—’ He stopped.
‘Don’t want to what?’
‘To spend a fortune. On bloody silly clothes I’ll never wear again.’
‘Of course you’ll wear them again. Why on earth shouldn’t you?’
‘Well – I won’t. And they’re terribly expensive. It’s ridiculous.’
‘Everything is here. It’s the import tax. Anyway, the rest of the holiday hasn’t cost you anything,’ she said lightly and then stared at him appalled, realising what she had said.
He stared back, his pink face bright red suddenly.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘very, very sorry. I didn’t mean – that is, that came out wrong.’
‘It certainly did,’ he said.
‘I’m really sorry. Please forgive me, Gabriel.’
‘Oh, forget it,’ he said. ‘Let’s just go, shall we?’
