Almost a Crime (25 page)

dinner with the Bartletts? Or drinks? Another time?’

‘If you really want to, but God knows when I could

make it. And I would feel bound to make it clear to Lauren

there wasn’t much I could do. Look, talk to Barbara about

it, I’ve got to go.’ He put the phone down.

Octavia sat staring at it. Her power marriage seemed to

be becoming rather impotent.

‘How was today, then? The all-important exams?’ Ian

Edwards grinned at Zoe. They were sitting in a pub just off

the Fulham Road. ‘I don’t know why you’re bothering.

Gorgeous girl like you. You could make a fortune

modelling, you don’t need to bother with all that rubbish.’

This was a sore point; so sore it even pervaded the weak

kneed lightheadedness that Ian Edwards’ company

induced.

‘Oh, no thanks,’ she said. ‘Seriously boring, modelling is.

I’ve got loads of friends who do it, I’d really hate it.’

‘Anyway, you don’t have to worry about getting a job,

do you? Daddy and Mummy’ll see you all right.’

‘In your dreams! They spend their life telling me I’ve got

to make my own way, stand on my own feet,’ said Zoe

gloomily.

‘Yeah? Well, I’ve been standing on mine for four years.

Can’t see there’s a lot to be said for it, personally.’

‘You’re not sorry you left school when you did, though,

are you?’ said Zoe casually. She was fascinated by everything

to do with Ian. He could have come from another

planet, so alien was he to all the boys she had grown up

with. She had met working-class boys before, but never got

close to one. They were so much more attractive than the

public school wallies she knew; sexier, sharper, funnier,

more glamorous.

‘You kidding?’ ‘Course not. Here, come over here,

Zo…’

He leaned forward, started kissing her. Zoe responded

enthusiastically. She liked the way he did it anywhere, in the pub, on the Tube, not caring about anyone seeing.

‘What you doing tonight, then?’ he said when he had

finally released her.

‘Revising. And I’ve promised to help my little sister do

her hair. She’s going somewhere important tomorrow.’

‘That’s nice, Zoe. You’re a really nice girl, you know.

Not how I thought you’d be at all.’

‘How did you think that I might be?’ said Zoe.

‘Oh, you know. Spoilt, up yourself. But you’re not.

You’re a bit like my sister.’

‘Really?’ She couldn’t have had a nicer compliment.

‘How old is your sister? What’s her name?’

‘Jade. She’s twenty. She’s a hairdresser. She wanted to

stay on at college, do some A-levels, but my dad wouldn’t

let her.’

‘Why not?’ said Zoe, and then wished she hadn’t. Ian

was looking at her with a mixture of amusement and

disdain.

‘It’s called money. He didn’t want to keep her no longer.

You know? No, you probably wouldn’t. Nobody in your

house would be told they couldn’t do anything, would

they? Not because of money. What is it your dad does?’

‘He’s a lawyer. ,He doesn’t live in London. I told you.

He’s in New York. They’re divorced.’

‘Yeah, I remember that. Well, I’d better be getting off If

you won’t come out tonight, what about tomorrow?’

‘No, I can’t, Ian, I’m really sorry. Not till Friday. More

than my life’s worth.’

‘Dear oh dear.’ He shook his head at her sorrowfully.

‘What a good little girl you are. Here, let’s have another

kiss.’

They walked down the road together; his arm round her

shoulders, his hand occasionally moving down on to her

breast. Zoe looked at him. He was incredibly sexy, she

thought; he was very dark, with close-cropped hair and

thick black eyebrows, quite tall and very muscular and

tanned from working out of doors; he was wearing a black sleeveless T-shirt and black jeans, and she wondered how he’d look without anything on, and felt quite weak.

He grinned at her, nibbled at her ear. ‘What you

thinking about, Zo?’

‘Oh, what we might do on Friday.’

‘Want to go clubbing? And after that - who knows?’

He had already hinted at that; that they might have sex.

She couldn’t wait. Zoe hadn’t had a lot of sex, but what she

had, she had enjoyed, and she was sure she would enjoy it

with Ian Edwards. The only thing was, where? All the

opportunities that life in her circle usually provided — parties, parents away, weekend cottages — were hardly going to apply to Ian.

Ritz Franklyn didn’t often get the thud in her guts that told

her this was a big one, but she had it now, looking at

Romilly Muirhead, standing there with her mother,

politely nervous, huge green eyes looking round the

magazine offices, great mass of gleaming, silver-blonde hair

falling from a high forehead, tiny heart-shaped face, wide

lovely smile, its radiance quite undimmed by the thick

braces on her teeth. God, it was all eyes and mouth, that

face, virginal sex incarnate, she was, and she had no idea, no

idea at all …

‘Hi,’ she said, carefully casual, ‘you must be Romilly.

And Mrs Muirhead, how do you do. I’m Ritz Franklyn.

We’re so glad you’re here. Now what we’re going to do

today is take some polaroids of you, see how you move,

have a bit of a chat, and then we’ll let you go. If you’re

lucky, we’ll want you back next week, for a real photo

session, and then the judging. Now here’s Annabel Brown,

she’s the fashion editor, and this is Frannie Spencer, the

beauty editor. They’re the other judges, together with

Jonty Jacobson, the photographer. Want a drink, Coke or

something? And Mrs Muirhead, would you like a cup of

tea?’

‘It was wonderful,’ said Romilly to Fenella, ‘honestly, I

can’t tell you. They were so nice, all of them, really down to earth, not a bit stuck up, just really kind and encouraging.

I had to walk up and down a bit, pretend I was on a

catwalk, I felt a bit silly, but they said just relax, they’d put

on some music, so that helped, and then they did this

picture and—’

‘What were the others like?’

‘Oh, fantastic,’ said Romilly, her voice drooping slightly.

‘Much older than me, more Zoe’s age. One of them had

already done some modelling and another had been in a

commercial with her mum when she was small, so they

knew what they were doing. And there was another, she

was gorgeous, she looked just like Naomi Campbell. So

there’s no way I’ll win. Or even get in the last six probably.

But it was a fantastic afternoon, and I get to keep some of

the pictures.’

‘Well, that’s an easy one,’ said Ritz.

‘Yeah. Absolutely no contest. It’s a farce going through

the final selection, really. She’s gorgeous. And the legs! My

God, those legs.’

‘Only thing about her is,’ said Ritz, ‘how much we’ll get

out of her. Mum’s no fool. She’ll keep a very tight watch

on things.’

‘Yes, but she’ll be sixteen by then. She’ll learn to look

out for herself, fight back. And once she’s done her GCSEs,

the mother’ll probably give in as well. I mean, I reckon

Christie’s might well want her. For their new young line.

They’re desperate for a face — and what a story for a

cosmetic house. Made for each other, the new girl and the

new line. I mean think about it, Ritz, that is half a million

smackeroonies. Not many people could resist that. Not

even mothers with attitude.’

Michael Carlton phoned Fleming Cotterill later that

afternoon; Tom was in a meeting, his secretary said, and she

didn’t think—‘I don’t want you to think,’ said Carlton, ‘I want you to

put me through. It’s urgent.’

Tom, called from the meeting, listened to what he had to

say with a sinking heart. The council had turned down his

application to develop at Battles Park. It would mean an

appeal, a long delay and considerable expense. Carlton

clearly felt Tom was largely to blame.

‘You said this was unlikely. That the council wouldn’t

risk the cost of an appeal, in case they got lumbered with

costs. What went wrong?’

‘I don’t know, Michael,’ said Tom carefully, ‘it happens

sometimes. Obviously there is strong local opposition.

Look, you’ll get it in the end. I know you will. It’s just a

question of time and—’

‘It was all those bloody editorials, wasn’t it? Those

wretched women and their placards. Put them up all over

the place, they have, all over the countryside down there, I

went to have another look last week.’

‘Did you?’ said Tom, surprised.

‘Yes, I did. You might have found the time to do that

yourself, if I might say so. Know your enemy, it’s the first

rule of war. And that piece in the Mail. I spoke to some

woman on the local paper, asked her if no one was

interested in the community centre. She said she didn’t

know anything about it. That doesn’t say a great deal for

your public relations, Tom.’

‘People hear what they want to hear, Michael.’

‘They do indeed. And I want them to hear about the

community centre. I’m fed up. Octavia hasn’t been much

help down there either, has she? So what happens next?’

‘I told you, we’ll appeal. We can do it in writing or at a

public hearing. Or go for a full public inquiry. I would

advise the public hearing. Quickest and cheapest.’

Carlton glared at the phone. ‘You just do what you

think’s going to work,’ said Carlton. ‘That’s what I’m

paying you for. Rather a lot, I seem to remember. Right

now it doesn’t seem entirely worth it. Afternoon, Tom.’

‘Oh, God,’ said Romilly and burst into tears.

‘Darling, what is it?’

‘This!’ said Romilly, holding out a letter. ‘Alive! want me

for the final! For the last six. Oh, Mummy! I can’t believe

it. I must phone Fen!’

‘Romilly, darling, you’ll see her in half an hour—’ But

Romilly had gone.

Zoe came in. ‘What was that all about?’

‘She got into the final of this model competition,’ said

Marianne, trying to sound cool and relaxed and, to her own

ears, failing.

‘Oh, Mum. Told you. Well, it’s too late now. See you!’

‘Yes. Good luck today, darling. What is it?’

‘French Lit.’

‘You’ll be fine. Are you in tonight?’

‘No. ‘Bye.’

She was up to something, Marianne could tell; going out

with someone unsuitable. She knew the signs: a greater

than normal cloak of mystery thrown over her movements;

a reluctance to talk at all. Last time it had been the older

brother of a schoolfriend: much older. Twenty-four to be

precise. Zoe looked and seemed older than she was, with

her rather sultry beauty, her rich, sulky mouth, her heavily

lidded green eyes, her ultra-cool manner; but she had been

completely out of her depth. Marianne had literally offered a prayer of gratitude when she had found Zoe sobbing over the affair’s demise. This couldn’t be worse. Could it?

Maybe it could. She sighed.

Romilly reappeared. “Bye, Mummy. I’m so excited!’

‘Me too, darling, but you really must practise your

saxophone tonight — you haven’t got to grips with that

piece.’

‘Oh, there’s plenty of time. I can’t think about that now.

‘Bye!’

It was only a tiny thing; but it was a change. A change if

not for the worse, then certainly not the better. Marianne

sighed.

The phone rang: it was Felix. ‘Good morning. Are you

well?’

‘Yes, thank you. Nice dinner last night. I enjoyed it.’

‘Me too. Now look, I’ve been thinking. I want you to

speak to Octavia.’

‘What about?’

‘About whatever it is that’s troubling her. I did ask her

what the matter was, and she gave me some cock and bull

story about it being hormonal. I really would like you to

talk to her. See what you can get out of her.’

‘Felix,’ said Marianne, ‘I have enough problems with my

own family at the moment. Romilly seems to be in danger

of winning this wretched model competition, Zoe’s up to

something or other, and I haven’t heard from Marc for

literally weeks.’

‘Well, I’m sorry to hear that,’ he said, ‘but you do know,

don’t you, it’s largely your own fault? You’ve spoilt those

children, over-indulged them, and now—’

‘Felix,’ said Marianne, ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t need this. I

really don’t. And I have absolutely no intention of speaking

to Octavia about her quite possibly nonexistent traumas.

The whole idea is absurd. Good morning.’

She put the phone down on him and sat, shaking slightly.

It rang again, sharply. She picked it up, said ‘Yes?’ furiously,

thinking it would be Felix.

‘Marianne? You don’t sound very pleased to hear from me.’

It was Nico Cadogan.

‘I’m terribly pleased to hear from you,’ she said and meant

it. ‘More pleased than you could possibly imagine.’

‘Octavia, isn’t it wonderful? We’ve won!’ Patricia David’s

voice was ecstatic.

Octavia smiled down the phone. ‘It is wonderful news.

Yes. But you do realise—’

‘Yes, of course. He’s already said he’s going to appeal.

But that gives us time. Lots of time. Our MP says it could