Almost a Crime (54 page)

firmly.

‘Why, is my foot going to dry up or something and drop

off?’ He was greatly amused by his own wit; Octavia left

him giggling and zapping through the TV controls.

It was a small package, sent recorded delivery, the

envelope hand written and addressed to her. She didn’t

recognise the writing.

‘Mum! Can I have a drink after all? Coke?’

‘Wouldn’t some nice orange juice be better? I’ll put ice

in it.’

‘Okay,’ said Gideon, his voice resonant with martyrdom.

Octavia got out a glass, filled it with juice, reached into

the fridge for the ice tray. She decided she’d like a drink

herself, and filled the kettle; while it was boiling, she picked

up the package, started opening it with a knife. She reached

into the envelope, pulled out a note from — of course,

Charles Madison, she recognised his neat, rather old

fashioned writing now. A charming, slightly sad little

missive, telling her he hoped the enclosed would give her

pleasure and remind her of Anna — and then she pulled the

handkerchiefs out of their tissue paper. The handkerchiefs.

Six of them. Pretty handkerchiefs, some lacy, some

embroidered, a couple obviously very old, antiques in their

own way, worn quite thin. Handkerchiefs. Lying there, on

the kitchen table, Anna’s handkerchiefs. Anna’s. Anna, who

was, who had been—

‘Mum! I’m thirsty.’

Gideon called her again and then again; but even then

she didn’t move, she just went on standing there, quite still,

looking at Louise’s mother’s handkerchiefs. And thinking of

the one in her filing cabinet at the office, so very like them,

telling herself over and over again that they didn’t, they

couldn’t, mean anything at all …

Dickon was miserable. His mother had promised to take

him to Legoland that day: ‘I know it would be more fun

with Daddy, but he’s not back till Sunday, and it will stop

us being bored and lonesome.’

He’d been really pleased and excited, she’d been talking

about it for ages, and he’d begun to get ready, fetched his

rucksack for sandwiches like she’d said; and then the phone

had rung, and she’d been out in the garden hanging out the

washing, so he’d answered it. It had been Tom, the twins’

daddy, and he’d said could he speak to her, and so he’d

gone to fetch her, and then she’d come upstairs looking a

bit funny, with her face all red, and said she was terribly

sorry, but they couldn’t go that day after all. ‘Uncle Tom

wants me to do a few business things for him. It’s

important. But I promise, word of honour, we’ll go tomorrow. Is that all right, darling?’

‘Yes, all right,’ said Dickon miserably.

‘Now, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to take you over

to Mark for a bit, to play there. His mummy said she’d take

you to the swings.’

‘I’m bored of the swings,’ said Dickon. ‘And I don’t like

Mark.’

Octavia found getting to the office a great relief. Normal,

orderly, with its own set of rules; and she was inevitably

behind with her work, a great pile of papers stacked on her

desk, mostly with explanatory notes from Sarah Jane. No

time to think about handkerchiefs, no time to fret over her

father, no time to so much as cast her mind in the direction

of Gabriel Bingham …

Sarah Jane put her head round the door. ‘It’s Patricia

David. She sounds upset.’

Pattie David was very upset. Michael Carlton had

managed to get an interview with the local paper, and was

making much of his community centre in general, and the

facilities for the disabled within it in particular. The reporter

in question had then gone out to visit Bartles House rest

home and found the house rundown, a roomful of old

people stuck in front of the television; and the grounds

sadly neglected, the gardens overgrown with weeds, the

lawns covered with plantains and ragwort. There was also,

she pointed out to her readers, much local unemployment

in the area, and the Carlton development would create, she

estimated, hundreds of jobs.

‘And then she finishes by saying, “It is natural that there

should be local support for saving Bartles Wood, an

undeniable beauty spot, but for the rest of the estate, little

can be said. The money which would be brought into the

area by Mr Carlton’s development would enrich it in more

ways than one.” Octavia, what are we going to do? This is

the sort of thing that really influences people, swings public

opinion.’

‘I know. Well, we’ll just have to have another interview

with someone else.’

‘Yes, but who? Do you think Gabriel Bingham would do

it? You and he seem to be quite good friends now.’

‘Quite good,’ said Octavia cautiously, remembering with

a stab of sudden white-hot pleasure Gabriel’s mouth on

hers, his hands exploring her body, his voice speaking of quite other delights than those of Bartles Wood. ‘I could ask him.’

‘Would you mind, Octavia? That’s terribly good of you.’

It was a good pretext to ring him; but for some reason

she was reluctant. She couldn’t quite work out why.

Anyway, all she could think about was handkerchiefs. She

sat at her desk, staring out of the window. Of course it was

absolutely ridiculous. Everyone had handkerchiefs. She was

just going crazy. Deceived wives did go crazy. Looking for

clues in pockets, wallets, car ashtrays, if simply didn’t mean

anything. She was getting obsessed.

If Louise knew she was even thinking all this, she’d never

speak to her again …

‘Octavia, Barbara Dawson is on the phone. She says do

you know where Tom is?’

‘No,’ said Octavia wearily. ‘I have no idea. If he calls me

I’ll make sure he gets in touch with her.’

Marianne had woken with a strong sense of foreboding. She

lay in bed, raking the Octavia and Tom affair over in her

mind. She really had to try and do something to help.

Starting with cancelling her appointments with Nico. Apart

from anything else, Felix was going to need her in the

weeks ahead. Both for comfort and restraint. She shuddered

at the thought of what harm he might do, unchecked. She

might not be able to achieve much, but she could at least

try. Starting now.

Nico was out; she left a message for him to ring her, and

then decided to go and see Octavia. She rang her office; the

secretary said Octavia was in back-to-back meetings all day,

and right through lunch, but she’d certainly get the message to her; and yes, she would of course stress it was urgent.

Two hours later, Octavia hadn’t phoned. Clearly she

didn’t consider Marianne as important as her back-to-back

meetings. Having also been rebuffed by Felix that morning

when she had phoned holding a rather puny olive branch ‘I’m

sorry, Marianne, I really can’t possibly talk to you now’

- Marianne was feeling rather out of sorts altogether with

the Miller family. And guiltily relieved that she had been

unable to cancel her arrangements with Nico.

She finished what must have been her fourth cup of

coffee and went down to make some more. Zoe was in the

kitchen. She looked tired, Marianne thought, but a lot

more cheerful than she had for some time.

‘Hi, Mum.’

‘Hallo, darling. Got any plans for today?’

‘Not really. Might do a bit of shopping.’

‘Zoe! I thought you didn’t have any money.’

‘Mum, we’re not talking mega expense here, just a top or

something. Anyway, I got some money from that bar job I

did.’

‘Oh, I see. Well, darling, don’t go mad.’

‘Mummy, hi.’ It was Romilly. ‘I just spoke to Serena

Fox. She said had you had a chance to look at the contract

yet, that it would be nice if maybe the four of us could have

a meeting on Friday, get everything tied up. I would like

to, Mummy, I haven’t got any other work yet and—’

‘Romilly, there’s no earthly need for you to work,

darling,’ said Marianne. ‘You don’t exactly need the money

and—’ She saw Romilly’s face, quickly adjusted what she

was going to say. ‘But I can see it’s frustrating for you. Er why

were you speaking to Serena?’

‘I got a card from her this morning. Look, isn’t it sweet?’

Marianne looked at it: a black-and-white postcard of a

famous vintage fashion shot. On the back, Serena had

written, ‘You’ll be on one of these one day. Good luck and

happy hunting. The hot chocolate session was fun. Serena.’

‘Yes, I see. Very — sweet.’ Marianne felt a chill of unease.

‘What hot chocolate session was that, Romilly?’

‘Oh, I met her in the street the other day. As I was

coming out of some advertising agency. I was a bit down

and she said come and have a drink. She was really, really

lovely.’

‘I’m sure she was.’

‘Anyway, I phoned to thank her and she said can we set

this meeting up? You must have had it back from your

lawyers by now.’

‘Well …’

‘Mummy, what is this? I’m not going into a drugs ring or

something. Please can we get it settled? I’d really really like

to. If we’re not careful they’ll find someone else!’

Romilly looked at her, and not for the first time in the

past few weeks, the expression in her eyes was not entirely

pleasant to see. Suspicious, impatient, almost hard: more

like Zoe. Marianne felt panicked, as if she was losing her; it

was horrible.

‘I’m off,’ said Zoe hastily. ‘See you later. If that’s all right,

of course, Mum.’

Her voice was also hard, sarcastic; suddenly Alec’s voice,

equally so, came into Marianne’s head.

She looked at Romilly. ‘Darling, I—’

The phone rang. It was Felix. ‘Marianne? Look, we were

having dinner tonight. I’ll have to cancel it. I’m talking to

my lawyer, getting some advice over Octavia.’

‘Felix, please, please don’t get too involved.’

‘Marianne, I’m sorry, but I am becoming extremely tired

of your attitude to all this. I have yet to hear any clear

expression of sympathy with or loyalty to Octavia from

you. I find that rather shocking.’

‘Felix—’

But he had cut her off. Marianne felt horribly, disproportionately

hurt. She looked at Romilly again; her expression

was still impatient, fretful. Romilly, whom she had always

been able to rely on for a ceaseless uncritical outpouring of

love. She hadn’t realised until now how much it had meant to her.

‘Yes, darling, you’re right,’ she heard herself saying. ‘Of

course we must have that meeting. Friday, did you say? Let

me just look in my diary — yes, fine. Now how would you

like us to go out and buy something new to wear for it?’

Octavia felt she had lived through a week by five o’clock;

she had entirely failed to come up with any further

suggestions for sponsorship for Margaret Piper, the work

she had done for Foothold looked pretty puny, set down on

paper, and Lauren Bartlett had phoned with a long list of

suggestions about the day at Brands Hatch, a very few of

which were sound, and all of which would need careful

attention.

Before she went home, she decided to phone Louise. Just

to assuage her conscience: silly really, Louise had no idea of

the heinous crime she’d been suspected of. But it would

make her feel better. She’d tried to phone Marianne back,

and she’d been out, in spite of leaving a message saying it

was urgent she spoke to her. It clearly wasn’t.

Louise sounded odd: rather overexcited.

‘Boot, hallo. I’m glad you phoned. I’m going away for a

few days.’

‘Yes? Where?’

‘Oh, just over to France with Dickon. The Loire Valley.

Sandy just phoned, asked us. I thought why not?’

it’s probably just what you need,’ said Octavia, ‘to get

away for a bit.’

‘Yes, I do feel that. Away from all the pressures. And the

phone. Are you all right?’

‘Yes. Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.’

‘How are things for Tom?’

‘Terrible.’

‘Good,’ said Louise briefly.

It was an oddly chilling little word. Octavia frowned

briefly.

‘And you, darling Boot, how are you? Any more news of

the Angel Gabriel?’

‘Oh - not really.’

‘You in love, do you think?’

‘Louise, I don’t know,’ said Octavia. ‘I’m not ready to be

in love with anyone, I don’t think. Last night, talking to

Tom about his troubles, I felt terrible suddenly. So guilty.

At what I’d done to him.’

‘You haven’t done anything to him.’

‘Yes, I have. I’ve helped to scupper his company pretty

effectively, haven’t I?’

‘What, with the Battles Wood business, you mean?’

‘Yes. And it’s worse now. I mean if he knew, if anyone

knew, I’d actually — well, you know …’

‘Slept with the local MP! Who you met there! Great

story, Boot.’

‘Louise, I didn’t actually say that I’d—’ ‘But you have, haven’t you? Come on, you can’t deceive me. Me of all people.’

‘Louise, I—’ Oh, for heaven’s sake, what harm would it

do? ‘Yes, I have. But look, that’s very — well, you know.

Between us.’ Why was she saying that? Why?