Almost a Crime (66 page)

‘Well, I’ve taken a bit of a holiday and your father’s

having him next week — I’ve got to get some work done

then.’

‘Of course. Daddy’s coming tomorrow. Have you seen

him?’

‘No. Not yet.’

‘I’ll be home soon,’ she said quite firmly. ‘I told the

doctor I needed to get back. To look after you both. But he

said - well, not for a week or two.’

Sandy looked at her; he didn’t know what to do or say.

What could he say? That he didn’t want her at home, ever

again, didn’t want her near him, ever again? Simply to get

her hand off his arm, he stood up, went over to the

window.

‘I think I might go outside for a bit,’ he said, ‘leave you

and Dickon to have a chat.’

Outside was reality; the nightmare receded. He walked about the grounds rather briskly, avoiding people’s eyes.

Then he made for the gate, walked down the road a few

yards. The nursing home was on the outskirts of Bath, in a

wide tree-lined road. That was even better: there were

ordinary people walking about, leading proper ordered,

ordinary lives, not mad, lying fantasies. He found a

newsagent, bought some peppermints, ate his way through

the whole packet. They were oddly refreshing. He turned

back to the gates, walked purposefully towards them; but

when he got there, he stopped, had to make a huge effort of

will to go through them. Back into the madness.

‘Mrs Trelawny is very tired.’ The nurse’s face was

reproachful. ‘You shouldn’t have left her with the little boy.

Not really. You weren’t to know, of course. But another

time …’

‘No,’ Sandy said, ‘I’m sorry, I thought she and he well.

. .’

Louise was lying on the bed again, smiling drowsily.

‘Sorry, darling. So sorry. Come again very soon.’

‘We will.’

Dickon gave her a kiss, walked over to Sandy, took his

hand. ‘You’re all right, aren’t you, Mummy?’

‘Of course I’m all right. Just tired. Sandy, come and kiss

me goodbye.’

He managed it; but it was the hardest thing he had ever

done.

‘Oh, God! Oh, no. What am I going to do?’

Loud sobs came out of the girls’ bathroom; racked,

anguished, deeply distressed.

Zoe banged on the door. ‘Romilly.‘what is it? What’s

the matter?’

Very slowly the door opened; a tear-stained, white face

looked round it. ‘Look …’ She pointed to her chin; there

beneath the fine translucent skin, silky smooth, was an

undeniable ripple.

Zoe gazed at it very seriously. ‘Spot?’

‘Yes. Coming. Isn’t it? In two days it’ll be huge.’

It wouldn’t be huge; but it would be there. Zoe

understood. And sympathised. ‘And you’ve got your

session? Oh, Rom, what a shame. Is it your period?’

‘Yes. It’s just about due. Can’t you tell? Look at my

stomach, it’s huge.’

‘Yeah, right,’ said Zoe, glancing at the concave flatness

that was Romilly’s stomach. ‘Really huge. Rom, you’re

getting obsessed.’

‘I’m not! I’m not obsessed.’

‘It would hardly be surprising if you were,’ said Zoe.

‘Well, you have to say something, I think. Would you like

me to call Ritz?’

Romilly stared at her. ‘But what would you say?’

‘I’d tell them the truth. I’d say you were getting a spot, and did it matter?’

‘And then what?’

‘Well, then it’s up to them. It’s hardly your fault.’

‘No, but I’m still letting them down.’

“Course you’re not. In all probability they can retouch

the picture, so the spot won’t show anyway. But you should

tell them.’

Ritz was very good; she said of course she understood,

that it was nice of Zoe to let them know, and also helpful.

‘Is it her period?’

‘Yes. Yes, it is.’

‘It’s often a problem with very young girls. We should

have asked her, really.’

‘God, she’d have died.’

‘I’m afraid she’ll have to get used to that,’ said Ritz, and

her voice was harsher suddenly.

‘I see,’ said Zoe.

Her own voice must have sounded different, because

Ritz said hastily, ‘Sorry. That came out wrong. What I

mean is, she’ll have to get used to anticipating it, letting us

know — she can say she’s going to be away or something if

that makes her feel better. Anyway, it’s only Monday,

maybe by Friday …’

‘Yup. Thanks, Ritz.’

‘That’s okay.’

Romilly received the news that she was to go in for some

test shots on the Wednesday, ‘so they can decide for

themselves’, in a state approaching total anguish. She sat

down with her diary and spent the next half hour counting

not only days, but hours. Finally, she decided that it must be

all right, she was always a bit early, and tomorrow was the

full four weeks. And her back did ache a bit: and she did

have the swollen stomach. That had to go as well, though.

Maybe she should play it safe.

She reached into the back of the large dolls’ house that

still sat in the corner of her bedroom and pulled out the hidden stack of laxatives. She swallowed four; and then she could take four more at bedtime. That should work. God, it had to work. She had read in a magazine somewhere that the girls who swallowed laxatives to lose weight took a lot

of exercise to increase their efficiency; she put on her

cycling shorts and running shoes and set out along the street

in the direction of the park.

Felix Miller was unaccustomed to feeling unsure of himself.

He had always known precisely not only what he was

doing, but also that he was absolutely right in doing it.

From the earliest days at the bank, as one small piece of

shrewd judgment followed another and earned him the

gravitas to make larger ones: as his client list, carefully

harvested and still more carefully pruned, grew in stature

and status: as he married the right girl — rich, well

connected, dutiful: as he watched Octavia grow up into

beauty and brilliance and success: as his relationship with

Marianne proved emotionally fulfilling and sexually pleasurable:

as his own fortune grew beyond his wildest dreams

and his collection of fine paintings and sculpture soared in

value: as his own health and vigour continued unabated

into his late fifties: all these things he put down entirely to

his own ability to take hold of and run his life with skill and

intelligence.

The dark things contained within it — the death of the

perfect wife, the loss of a child, Octavia’s marriage to Tom

Fleming — he could set at the door of a malevolent chance,

unforeseeable, unpreventable.

Until now. He was being forced to recognise that the loss

of Marianne was actually very painful; and he was also, with

greater difficulty, beginning to accept that it was, if not

exactly within his control, then certainly not entirely

outside it. He had treated her badly, he knew. He had neglected her over the previous few weeks, he had been distracted from her needs, thoughtless of her concerns,

hostile to her unhappiness. He told himself that he had been

driven to it: that some of it at least was justified, that she had

seemed less than sympathetic to his anguish over Octavia, that she been less than forceful in her own response to the

situation. But he also knew that those things could be put

down to her own gentleness of spirit and her own rather

non-directional style of parenting.

And now, at least for a while, he had lost her.

That she should have left him for Cadogan, a man who

had betrayed a friendship in so many ways, he found doubly

painful. Cadogan had made his move on Marianne quite

ruthlessly at a time when she was vulnerable and unhappy,

and no possible excuse could be made for him. None the

less, it was he, Felix, who had made her unhappy in the first

place; and the sense that he could blame himself added to

his misery, his sense of panic. And casting about for a

scapegoat, as he had done all his life, one was very easily to

be found. A person who had caused him certainly indirectly

to be neglectful, blind to Marianne’s needs, and who had

made her receptive to the approaches of Cadogan. Tom

Fleming. The dislike he had always felt for Tom now

became a loathing that he felt physically, a putrid,

suppurating presence somewhere deep within him. He

could not bear it; it could not go on.

‘I’m having lunch with Tom Fleming tomorrow,’ said

Lauren Bartlett.

Drew Bartlett glanced up at her. He knew that hyper

casual tone very well. ‘Oh, yes? What on earth for?’

‘I think I might have persuaded Oliver Nichols to

consider appointing him after all. He’s joining us. And he’s

really up against it, poor old Tom. Company’s right back

on the ropes.’

‘Good Lord. Poor old Tom. And didn’t you say the

marriage wasn’t too hot either?’

‘Yes, I did. Poor old Tom,’ said Lauren.

She was meeting Tom and Oliver Nichols at the Pont de la

Tour. She had planned with great care: Tom at twelve

thirty, Nichols at one fifteen. In theory so that she could brief Tom, actually to try and find out how things really were between him and Octavia. She had always wondered why he didn’t have affairs: she had heard the occasional rumour, but generally he seemed to lead a blameless life. Too busy making money, she supposed. Like Drew. Lauren was totally confident of her husband’s sexual loyalty to her.

He talked big, he flirted loudly, but that was all. Out of the

social arena, he worked seven days a week, ten hours a day.

His company consumed his energy, on all levels. On their

increasingly rare couplings, he displayed less and less

confidence and skill; time and again recently, he had rolled

off her, saying he was sorry, and gone straight to sleep. It

suited Lauren well; in spite of her overt sexiness, the

pleasure she took in pursuit, she didn’t actually like sex very

much. It bored her. Few men had made her come; and

when she did she only enjoyed that for a short moment. It was a release, no more, quite removed from actual pleasure.

She preferred to fake it, and then lie there, clenching and

unclenching her taut, well-exercised pelvic floor, observing

dispassionately what seemed to her the rather pathetic and

unseemly spectacle of the male orgasm. She would enjoy

observing that in Tom Fleming.

He looked terrible, she thought, when he arrived. He had

lost weight, he looked drawn and pale; there were more

grey hairs amongst the dark brown. But he was beautifully

dressed as always, in a cream linen suit and black silk shirt;

he smiled at her, bent to kiss her.

‘You look lovely,’ he said.

‘Oh, please! I’ve put on about five pounds since I saw

you last week. Drew and I were staying with friends in the

country, nothing to do all weekend but eat and drink.

Anyway, I’ve been at the gym ever since. Diana was there

this morning. She looked fabulous.’

‘Diana who?’

‘Tom! The Princess.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yes. I really do think this man is making her happy.

Dodi Fayed, I mean. And she deserves it. She’s had a lousy

time. Now then, what do you want to drink? Champagne?’

‘I’ll stick to water, thanks. For now.’

‘How very disappointing. I was planning on getting you

deliciously drunk.’

‘Not at lunchtime, Lauren. Sorry.’

He smiled at her. She took it as encouragement. ‘Well, I

shall have to take you to dinner instead, then. How’s

Octavia?’

‘She’s fine. Thanks.’

Not prepared to admit anything, then.

‘She and her partner are doing marvellous things for our

charity day. I expect you’ve heard about it.’

‘No. I haven’t had much time even to talk to Octavia

recently.’

That was encouraging. ‘Well, it’s at Brands Hatch. In

early September. I’m hoping Diana will be there. With the

boys. They’re such fun, those two, especially little Harry.

What a charmer. Anyway, I hope you’ll be there.’

‘I don’t think so.’ He smiled at her, sipped at his water.

‘Tell me about your friend, Lauren.’

‘Oh, yes.’ The intimate chat was clearly not going to

materialise. ‘Well, he has just bought this chain of chemist’s

shops. He owns among other things a pharmaceutical

company. And I don’t need to tell you, that’s a minefield.’

‘Yes,’ said Tom slowly, ‘I can see that.’

‘He just needs a lot of advice. About presentation,

legislation, all that sort of thing.’

‘But I thought he’d appointed someone else.’

‘Well, nothing’s actually signed. Apparently. And he is

having second thoughts. So — over to you. But he can’t get

here till one fifteen. I did tell you that, didn’t I?’

‘No,’ said Tom, ‘no, I don’t think you did.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. Well, we’ll have to fill in the time

somehow. Are you going away this summer … ?’

‘Mrs Trelawny doesn’t really take part in the group therapy

at all,’ said the nurse.

‘Oh, really?’ Dr Brandon frowned. ‘I thought she was

attending now. She’s become slightly more communicative

now the Prozac is beginning to take effect.’