Almost a crime, p.70
Almost a Crime, page 70
‘Not now, Octavia, no. I’ve promised Oliver Nicholas I’ll be there, and Nico Cadogan’s coming. I really can’t.’
‘No, all right, all right.’
‘Mrs Donaldson?’
‘She can’t come. I’ve already tried. Obviously.’
‘What about Marianne’s girls? They’re pretty reliable. Minty knows them.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Suppose she got worse?’
‘If she got worse, they could phone us and one of us could go back. It’s only a tooth, for God’s sake.’
‘Well, I’ll see what they’re doing. I suppose if she’s better, just cranky . . .’
Zoë wasn’t doing anything next day; she said she’d be happy to look after Minty.
‘I’m only going to ask you if she’s pretty well all right,’ said Octavia.
‘All right. But I coped when your friend’s little boy had chickenpox. You can check with her.’
‘Yes, of course. I’d forgotten that. All right, Zoë, you’re probably on. I’ll ring you first thing in the morning, just confirm it. Could you be here by eight?’
There was a groan the other end of phone. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Octavia, could you spare me a minute? For a quick chat?’
‘Not now, Tom, I have a million last-minute things to do. And I’ve got to go over to Melanie, to pick up some collecting tins. She just might not be there before the ladies. They’re going to be at the gates by ten.’
‘All right. Well, maybe later?’
‘Maybe. I’m pretty frantic.’
He smiled at her. ‘I hope tomorrow goes well for you, I really do. You certainly deserve it, you’ve worked like a demon.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, quickly. ‘And – and thank you for coming.’
‘Well, as you know, I have to now. Quite like old times, isn’t it?’
‘A bit, I suppose. Yes.’
She smiled at him, carefully distant. It was true; they had been working together that day, discussing the guest list, who would need looking after at the reception, finetuning the table plan: ‘Not her next to him, you’ve forgotten, her husband’s agency lost his account last year, she took it very personally . . . why not put Drew Bartlett next to Veronica Stepford, she’s setting up a sharedealing shop . . . then Nico Cadogan can be on her other side, tell her stories about takeovers . . .’ He had cut her vote of thanks – ‘much too long’ – asked her to decide which of two ties he should wear with his wide-legged, Prince of Wales check suit, she had promised to see that Oliver Nichols’ wife met the New Zealand racing driver . . .
They had a pizza with the children then put the twins to bed. Minty was sleeping peacefully, but only with a generous dose of Calpol.
‘Don’t fuss,’ Tom had said, finding her leaning over the cot, ‘she’s fine. And she’ll be fine with Zoë.’
‘Well – yes, I suppose so. But if she’s really better in the morning, I still want to take her.’
‘Of course.’
‘But then – she’ll still be a worry.’
‘Yes, she will. And you’ll have enough on your plate. Look, why don’t we make a decision now, to leave her. It’ll be one less thing to worry about in the morning.’
Octavia hesitated, then she said, ‘Yes. Yes, all right. I think it would be better. I don’t want to but – yes, I’ll go and call Zoë now.’
Felix Miller went to bed early. He felt terribly tired, and his arm was still painful. He had listened to a concert on Radio Three, eaten (surprisingly hungry) the lasagne Mrs Harrington had made for him, and then two helpings of chocolate mousse, had drunk a couple of large brandies, and then feeling sleep might still elude him, as it had for most of the week, he took a sleeping pill. He had a lot of work to do next day, and there was a meeting of the Music for Children in Hospital committee in the evening. Marianne would have been there, she was Secretary to his Chair: perhaps she still would be, perhaps – Felix felt his painful arm stab once more before the Nitrazepam carried him effectively away . . .
Louise could hardly eat her supper, she was so excited. She felt as she had as a child, when a long-awaited treat was about to happen. Tomorrow! Only one more night. She was as ready as she could be, the car was full of petrol, the boot loaded up. She had drawn lots of cash out – she didn’t want to leave a trail of credit card receipts – transferred all her things, make-up, wallet, hairbrush and, of course, the precious key – how many times had she checked that was there – into an old bag of her mother’s. A large, anonymous-looking, black leather bag. Not her own distinctive Mulberry one. She really did believe she’d thought of everything. She thought of Tom and Octavia, eating their supper, with no idea of what was going to happen to them next day; just planning their stupid event. And then she thought of Minty, sleeping peacefully in her cot, with no idea either. Just for a moment, guilt stabbed Louise; guilt at alarming Minty, disturbing her, taking her away from everyone she knew.
Then she righted herself. She would soon settle down. She was very young. She’d always seemed to like her, and she was a sweet, placid little thing. And it might not even be for that long. She’d be all right. Of course she would.
Tom went into his study while Octavia was fetching the collection tins from Melanie, to make notes for a speech he was giving on Tuesday night. He felt rather cheerful. It had been a good week. What with the new account – Oliver Nichols seemed to be an ideal client, enthusiastic, responsive, accessible – the taming of Felix Miller and the gratitude of Nico Cadogan, he seemed to be able to walk on water. Again. And – he didn’t want to be over-optimistic, but he was at least hopeful that things would work out between him and Octavia. She was, quite apart from her extraordinary performance in bed on Friday night, distinctly less hostile. She was wary of him, which was inevitable; he was not so naive as to think she was going to forgive, let alone forget, for a very long time. But she seemed to be prepared to draw closer to him again. She had said nothing more about wanting a divorce, or even about him moving out of the house. And the holiday with Bingham had clearly not been a success – she hadn’t admitted it, but he knew her so well, knew what a vague, slightly defensive attitude meant. He was pretty sure she hadn’t seen Bingham since; and it had been the very evening of her return that she had first responded to him, sexually, had – almost – returned his kiss, and then rushed upstairs away from him. That had not the behaviour of a woman in the throes of a satisfactory love affair.
God, he hoped he was right. He missed her, in every possible way, more dreadfully than he would have believed.
It had been a very odd day: pooling their knowledge, their instincts, their skills again. Watching her mind work, seeing the odd blend of confidence and nerviness that made her so successful. She was very clever, and not just clever, skilful. He found that skilfulness, that deployment of her own talent and of those who worked for her, intriguing, charming, attractive. It was one of the things that had always attracted him to her: that made her desirable. It was odd the way their relationship had always been so acutely work-based. He could not imagine finding her as sexy if she was simply a housewife, however fervently he wished it at times. He had never thought – until Louise – that he would find any woman without a career properly attractive, that it would be possible for her to engage his mind and his professional admiration as well as his emotions. Louise had broken all the rules: in every way. Please God they were safe from her now.
He decided he needed a quotation for his speech, and looked for his dictionary of quotations; it was missing. Octavia would have taken it; she was always doing that, borrowing his books, not putting them back. He went downstairs and into her study; yes, there it was, sitting on her desk. Six months earlier, he would have berated her for it; now he knew he could not.
He smiled, looking round the small room; everything pin-neat, none of the messy piles of bills and unanswered letters that lay on his own desk. Even on the memory board, everything was perfectly squared up. It spoke so clearly of the real Octavia, that room: not just her efficiency and her neatness, but her fierce pride in her work and her success – the odd award, her degree, a personal letter of congratulation from Lord Denning over some legal charity she had worked for – all carefully framed, alongside endless pictures of the children, the children’s works of art – and pictures of her father. Several of them: Tom stood looking at them. Old bugger; God, he’d worked hard to break up their marriage. If it didn’t survive, it would be as much down to Felix’s machinations as his own.
Well, it was going to survive: he was determined. Determined and beginning to be confident.
The top drawer of Octavia’s desk was slightly open, a piece of paper protruding from it. He smiled, went to close it; it was an outrage in this shrine of neatness. The drawer was slightly stuck: he had to tug it out before closing it again. The piece of paper fell out.
It was only a piece of paper: a photocopy of another piece of paper. Or rather several, neatly – of course – stapled together.
‘Confidential Client Questionnaire’, it said, under the logo ‘Fisher Lewin Frances. Family Law Department’. He knew about Fisher Lewin Frances, they were a very high-profile firm, specialising in matrimonial and family law. The form then required to know a great many things about Octavia and her husband and family; it had been neatly filled in and was dated 1 September, 1997. Very recent. Since the holiday with Gabriel Bingham.
Tom stood staring at it, studying what it said. After a while he found it was blurred and he couldn’t see well enough to read it any more; he put it carefully back and closed the drawer.
CHAPTER 50
Everything had gone so well: so very well. Louise smiled to herself; her careful planning, not something she was normally very good at, had been worthwhile. She had slipped out of the house at five thirty, had left a loving message for her father, saying she’d see him very soon, that she hadn’t been able to sleep and had decided to go home and do some chores before going out for the day; the little car was flying up the M4 by six. She was going to change into her disguise at Reading services, before hitting the M25. There was the faint danger that others on their way to Brands Hatch, stopping at the service station there, might recognise her. Of course there was a danger of that anywhere, but it was less likely at Reading. She would have to fill up with petrol at the last minute, but that would be less dangerous. She had calculated that, with a full tank, she could make Cornwall. She certainly didn’t want to have to stop to buy petrol, with Minty in the car.
She pulled into the car park, went in and had a coffee before going into the ladies’. She was going to need a lot of caffeine to get her through today.
She slipped out of her leggings and T-shirt and into the tunic and trousers. And the wig. The wig wasn’t too bad, short and dark, and cut in the Sassoon pudding basin style Joanna Lumley had made famous in the Avengers; but even in her excitement, she found it hard to look at herself in the mirror in those clothes. So horrible; so absolutely horrible. Well, it wasn’t for long. Just till she’d made her getaway. Then she could change again. In any case, Minty would need to recognise her, to know who she was.
She didn’t feel at all nervous any more: just excited. Excited and confident and rather happy . . . If only they knew, Tom and Octavia. If only . . .
Octavia was already on her way down the M25 by seven o’clock. She knew she would be much too early, but it was better than worrying about being late, getting stuck in a traffic jam. Tom was coming later with the twins and Dickon. She still felt worried about leaving Minty: about whether Zoë would be able to cope. Maybe – she suddenly had an idea, dialled the house on the car phone, listened to it ringing endlessly. Tom must have gone back to sleep.
He had been very odd last night, when she’d got in. Cold. Very detached. He’d been in his study working, and when she put her head in to say she was going to bed, that everything was in place for the morning, the children’s costumes, Zoë’s instructions for the day, he’d looked at her as if he hardly knew who she was. Well, he was sometimes like that when he was working. It wasn’t as if it mattered, as if she cared. In fact, it was quite good, really. She didn’t want him to be friendly. It would be easier to tell him she was filing for divorce if he wasn’t. She would do it tonight. When today was safely over.
His voice now answered the phone: ‘Yes? Tom Fleming here.’
‘Tom, I’ve had an idea . . .’
‘Zoë? This is Tom Fleming.’
‘Oh, hi, Tom. It’s all right, I’m up, dressed, sober. Don’t worry. How is Minty?’
‘She’s much better.’
‘You decided to take her?’
‘Yes, I think so. But I’d like you to come too. Look after her, be nanny for the day. That all right with you?’
‘Yes, fine.’
‘Good. Want me to come and fetch you?’
‘No, it’s all right, Tom. Mum’s booked a cab – she was worried I’d be late. You know what she’s like.’
‘Great. Well, see you in a bit, then.’
Felix Miller woke up feeling much better, apart from a touch of indigestion – his own fault, no doubt, having a second helping of Mrs Harrington’s mousse. But his arm was less painful, clearly the muscle was recovering and he felt refreshed from his long sleep. Just as well: there were a lot of things he wanted to do that day.
Felix decided to do a couple of hours’ work, and then go down to the health club at Swiss Cottage and have a swim before lunch. He often did that on Sunday. Nothing too strenuous: but he always felt better afterwards, and it would probably benefit his arm. He might skip breakfast, though: make up for the lasagne. Anyway, the indigestion wasn’t doing a lot for his appetite.
Octavia stood at the window of the top floor suite of the John Foulston building gazing out at the breathtaking view across the Brands Hatch course. The whole place was empty and orderly; still just a few people walking about, the occasional car zooming round the track. Just for a moment she stopped feeling nervous and jittery about the day, and her responsibility for it, and thought what fun it was going to be. Eighty-five thousand people they got here on a good day; probably they’d get nothing like that because of Diana. But there would still be a large crowd: ‘And because it’s a classic race day,’ the marketing manager had told her, ‘you’ll get what we call the tweed and pearls set. Lot of money: your charity should do very well.’
Certainly virtually all their three hundred guests were still coming: a nervous ring round by Lauren had confirmed that. A champagne reception at twelve thirty, followed by a lunch; races beginning at two. Loads of OTG – opportunities to give – as Melanie had observed – from the raffle at the lunch to buying hot rides – ten per cent to the charity, that was very good of the Brands Hatch people. Ladies with collecting tins were everywhere, and Next Generation had a large stall on the road between the building and the paddock.
The suite looked impressive: the flowers had been done at a knockdown rate by a friend of Melanie’s, in return for a generous plug in the programme, and dear Bob Macintosh had managed somehow to twist the arm of one of his suppliers over the champagne – also for a plug in the programme – and they hadn’t lost nearly as much as they had feared. When she’d phoned to thank him, he’d said, ‘My dear Octavia, it’s a very little thankyou for your input earlier in the year. Invaluable. I don’t know what we’d do without you and Tom.’
She knew what he meant: over the photocall. But he was going to have to settle just for Tom in the future . . .
After Marianne had seen Zoë off, she settled down to the papers; Marc and Romilly were still fast asleep. Probably would be for hours yet. She had been almost envious of Zoë going to Brands Hatch with Minty; had been tempted to go herself. Then she had thought Nico might be there and decided against it. Felix certainly wouldn’t go, he wouldn’t want to see Tom.
Thinking of Felix reminded her of the committee meeting tonight. She had decided to go to that. She mustn’t start neglecting responsibilities, just because of her personal difficulties. It was wrong, she had always tried to instil that into the children. Without much success.
She decided to ring Felix, let him know. He might even decide not to go himself, of course . . . She sighed, and dialled the number.
Felix wasn’t there: Mrs Harrington answered the phone. ‘Oh, hallo, Mrs Muirhead. How nice to hear from you.’
‘Nice to hear you, as well, Mrs Harrington. Is Mr Miller there?’
‘I’m afraid he isn’t, no. He’s at the health club.’
‘Oh, right. Well, look, could you give him a message?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Tell him I will be there tonight. At Sadlers Wells. All right?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course, Mrs Muirhead. I’m sure he’ll be very pleased.’
He probably won’t, thought Marianne, putting the phone down. He probably won’t be pleased at all . . .
‘Mummy! Isn’t it fun! Gosh, what a good view. Is Camilla here?’ It was Poppy, flushed and excited, wearing a smocked flowery dress, a Christopher Robin hat jammed down over her dark curls.
‘Not yet. You look terrific, Poppy! Where’s Daddy?’
‘Talking to Lauren. Over there, look.’
Octavia looked; Tom wasn’t just talking to Lauren. He was standing very close to her, smiling down at her, and she was on tiptoes, pulling his head down, whispering something in his ear. She looked stunning, in wide navy palazzo trousers, a very low-cut cream silk blouse revealing her deep brown cleavage, long pearls and a small tipped hat on her streaky blonde hair. Bitch, thought Octavia, silly bitch, and then wondered why on earth she cared.
