Almost a Crime (2 page)

suggest, and they would both agree that yes they should,

but there would be no time that day - he with a late dinner,

she with a meeting out of town involving an overnight stay

— nor the next — separate drinks parties, then a dinner, much

too tired after that - maybe the weekend, except they were

going to the country, taking the children but not the nanny,

might be a bit tricky, but Sunday morning should be all

right, yes, they’d try to talk then.

Time to spend together on their own had become a

luxury, traded in for money, success. Most of the time, they

had agreed, it was worth it, and even if one of them had

thought it wasn’t, there had been neither the time nor the

opportunity to discuss that either.

Just the same, their marriage, in all its frantic singularity,

seemed to work.

As Octavia walked out of her office, bracing herself for

what was undoubtedly going to be a difficult lunchtime

meeting, a loud shout of ‘Shit!’ came from the next office.

‘What did you do this time?’ she said, putting her head

round the door.

‘Wiped a whole report. Fuck, I hate these bloody things!’

Melanie Faulks, her business partner, was technophobic,

and shrieked obscenities filled the air throughout the day, as

she deleted her voice mail, wiped crucial information from

reports and saved things under file names which no one

could ever find.

‘Mel, Lucy will have saved it.’

‘I don’t know that she has. And I need it for lunch. Oh,

God—’

‘Who are you having lunch with?’

‘Some bimbo from the Express. Dear God, Lucy, where

are you, please, please come and help me …’

As Octavia pushed through the swing doors on to the

landing, she heard Lucy, Melanie’s wonderfully serene

secretary, saying, ‘Melanie, of course I’ve got it, and I’ve

run it off already, here, look…’

Octavia and Melanie ran a charity consultancy, Capital

C, its claim being that it put client charities ‘into capital

letters’ by advising on the raising of both funds and profile.

It was not a large company - there were two partners,

and a handful of executive and administrative staff — but it

was one of the top ten in the country; the turnover had run

at over two million for the past three years, and looked like

hitting two point five before the millennium.

Octavia had joined Capital C five years earlier. She had a

degree in law, but she had disliked private practice, finding

it at once tedious and stressful, and moved with relief into

the corporate legal world, and thence into corporate

consultancy, where one of her clients had been a large

Third World charity, and another a chain of pharmacists.

Five years later the pharmacy had been running at number

three to Boots; Octavia’s advice, shrewd and creative, was

seen as a considerable factor.

She had met Melanie Faulks at a lunch; Melanie, then on

the staff of a large charity herself, had phoned Octavia later

that day; she was in the process of forming her own

company and wondered if Octavia would like to discuss a

possible involvement. It was love at first sight, Octavia often

said, laughing; two meetings later she and Melanie were engaged, and three months after that married.

Octavia brought to her clients a book of contacts that was

breathtaking in its range, and she networked tirelessly

(‘Octavia does all her best work in the ladies’,’ one of her

rivals had been heard to say rather bitterly). One of the

stronger arms that Capital C had developed as a result of her

input was that of broker, persuading individuals and

institutions to sponsor clients with considerable amounts of

money.

Octavia’s profile was high and she was smoothly skilful at

her job, at handling the odd blend of cynicism and

sentimentality that characterises the charity business. ‘And it

is a business, however much people dislike the fact,’ she

would say at every presentation, every client pitch.

The offices were in a mansion block at the South

Kensington end of the Old Brompton Road; she and

Melanie had chosen them with great care. Not a shiny,

modern ritzy job (bad for the image), not too expensive an

area (same reason, although the consultancy could easily

have sustained a higher rent), sleekly streamlined in design

inside (to avoid any possible connotations of ladies working

at home, playing at business). Octavia and Melanie had

small self-contained offices, the rest was open plan divided

by furniture, smoked-glass screens, and — the only gesture

towards femininity — a great many plants and flowers. There

were white roman blinds at the windows, bleached faux

parquet on the floor, and the furniture was starkly

functional, in black and white.

The charity field was tough and very competitive.

Octavia, also competitive and fairly tough, loved it.

Margaret Piper was already at the table when Octavia

arrived, sipping at a glass of tomato juice and flicking

through a very battered diary.

‘We did say one, didn’t we?’ she asked.

‘We did,’ said Octavia, looking at her watch, managing

to smile at her. ‘So we’re both early. Which is very good, as

we have so much to talk about. I’ll have a mineral water,’

she said to the wine waiter, ‘and shall we order straight

away, Margaret, so we can concentrate on business after

that?’

‘Yes, very well.’

Octavia ordered a green salad and some steamed sole for

herself, listened enviously as Margaret Piper asked for deep

fried mozzarella and rack of lamb, and pulled out some

papers.

‘Now then. I’ve prepared a report on progress so far this

year—’

‘But there hasn’t been very much, has there, Mrs

Fleming?’ said Margaret Piper. ‘Our profile has hardly been

raised at all, and we are very disappointed in your failure to

find us a sponsor.’

‘Well, I can understand that,’ said Octavia, ‘but these

things do take time. You’re competing for a share in a very

overcrowded market.’

‘Overcrowded perhaps, but certain charities continue to

get a great deal of publicity. Every time I pick up the paper

I seem to read about the Macmillan nurses. And Dr

Bamardo’s. And Action Aid—’

‘Yes, of course you do, Mrs Piper, but you have picked

three charities out of the really big league. All those have

incomes of over twenty-five million pounds. They’re

extremely well established, terribly popular, household

words.’

‘All the more reason, surely, for getting some publicity

for Cultivate,’ said Margaret Piper.

‘It isn’t quite that straightforward …’

‘Obviously not. That is why we came to you. Now

there’s some other new charity, what is it called, oh yes,

Network, which is getting a great deal of publicity. How do

you explain that?’

‘Oh, well now—’ Careful, Octavia, not to start justifying

yourself, it won’t help, especially as Network was also one

of Capital C’s charities. ‘Network is in exactly the field I

told you about at the very beginning, that gains high

visibility very quickly. It’s a support organisation bereaved parents and therefore attracts great sympathy.

Everyone can imagine themselves in that situation, most

people know someone in it. Cultivate is outside most

people’s immediate realm of experience. And there are so

many big charities in its field, like Oxfam, Action Aid …

you really are facing some very stiff competition. And you

may remember I said, at our first meeting, public sympathy,

and therefore interest, does go primarily to children,

anything to do with children, particularly sick children and

little children. Now Cultivate is a marvellous charity,

encouraging communities in the Third World to help

themselves, but it isn’t something that gains instant memorability

or appeal. It’s a slow process, do believe me. But we

will get there.’

‘Well,’ said Margaret Piper, buttering her second roll

rather viciously, ‘I suppose we have to believe we are in the hands of experts—’ her tone and expression making it clear she believed nothing of the sort - ‘but our finance director

has said that we really cannot commit ourselves to another

year of expenditure on your services without considerable

results.’

‘Fair enough. And you shall have them,’ said Octavia,

sending up a fervent prayer to the Almighty, who she

hoped was hovering in the area of Draycott Avenue at the

time. ‘I really think I might have a sponsor for you at last,

and we have an excellent chance of a big article in the Guardian next month. They’re doing a supplement on overseas charities and—’

‘I would have hoped for something more exclusive.’

‘Yes, but this would still be very good.’ Octavia raised

her arm, waved at the waiter. ‘Mrs Piper, are you sure you

wouldn’t like a drink while we wait for our food?’

‘Well, perhaps just a small gin and tonic’

That was good. Octavia remembered her mellowing

very swiftly under the influence of alcohol at their last

lunch. ‘Now, if I could just take you through these figures I

think you’ll see that things are much improved on this time

last year, and I have to tell you I’m still wondering about

the name …’

Tom was already in the American Bar at the Savoy when

Octavia rushed in, almost fifteen minutes late, but he was

not looking alternately at his watch and the entrance as she

would have done, he was at one of the prized corner tables

- of course he was at a corner table - reading the Financial

Times, apparently perfectly relaxed. Only a handful of

people, Octavia included, would have known that Tom

was never relaxed, any more than she was, but he was

masterly at appearing so. It was a great part of his charm,

making people feel comfortable and at ease in his company.

He was already in his dinner jacket - he had two, one

kept at the office. He loved clothes and spent a lot of

money on them. His suits were all hand tailored, and his

shoes were handmade; his shirts he bought mostly from

Thomas Pink and other such establishments in Jermyn

Street, or from Brooks Brothers on trips to the States, his

leisure clothes mostly from Ralph Lauren. He often said

that in another life he would like to have been a fashion

editor. Octavia was the reverse. She would spend hours

trying and retrying things on and still often go back to

change or return them. She was thinking of turning the

whole thing over to a style consultant to do her shopping

for her; apart from ridding her of a great deal of indecisive

misery, it would save her time. Precious time …

Tom stood up, kissed her. ‘Hallo, darling, it’s very good

of you to come, I know it was difficult.’

‘Oh, anything for you, Tom,’ said Octavia, returning the

kiss. She sat down opposite him. ‘Anyway, it’s nice to stop

for a bit.’

‘You look tired. Bad day?’

‘Terrible actually.’

‘Have a drink. Can I tempt you, just for once?’

‘No, I’ll just have a mineral water. With lots of ice.’

She hardly ever drank; she hated any loss of control, any

blurring of her clear cool mind.

‘What was so bad about your day?’

‘Oh, the usual. Disgruntled client at lunchtime, useless

sponsor over tea — now where is it you’re going after this,

Tom? I’ve forgotten.’

‘City dinner.’

‘With?’

‘Oh, a couple of captains of industry. Look, I haven’t got

time to discuss that now, Octavia. Luckily the client is late

so I can brief you.’

‘I’m all ears. Who is it?’

‘It’s Michael Carlton. Property developer.’

‘Oh, that one. Opera. Last autumn.’

‘Yes, that one. Anyway, he wants to build on a greenfield

site. Local people don’t like the idea, big protest group

formed. We’ve done all the right things, courted the

planners and councillors, gone to endless meetings with

terrible Nimbys. And it might have just about gone

through, but today there’s a horribly nasty piece in the local

paper, and I fear it’ll make the nationals in no time.’

‘Well, I’m very sorry for you and your Mr Carlton,

Tom,’ she said briskly, ‘but what can I do about it?’

‘I’ll tell— Oh, shit, here he is now. Michael! Hallo, do

come and sit down. You remember my wife, Octavia,

don’t you?’

‘Of course I do. Very nice to see you again.’

Octavia’s hand was pumped over-vigorously. She

remembered Michael Carlton now. He was very large, not

just overweight, but extremely tall, about six foot five. He

had a shock of white hair, rather alarmingly brilliant-green

eyes, and was surprisingly well dressed, in a dark grey three

piece suit, an old-fashioned gold watch chain slung across

his large belly. Sitting beside Tom, he should have looked

gross and vulgar, but for some reason he didn’t.

His voice was booming, his accent neutral, his laugh

loud; she remembered now enjoying his rather determined

vulgarity. The opera had been one of Tom’s rare pieces of