Almost a Crime (94 page)

more full of energy even than usual, at one and the same

time happy to be reunited with them and querulous at the

loss of freedom, the pool, and several other children to play

with. Minty, having recovered from her first intense joy at

seeing them, was fractious and restless with the heat. Tom,

cautiously relaxed, was cooking a barbecue; Octavia jumpy,

wary, watched him and wondered and worried at how she

could have allowed herself to do what she had done, how

much it might affect the final outcome of her divorce petition,

whether anyone actually needed to know about it, and when

and how she was going to break the news of that divorce

petition to Tom. For, of course, that was still what she wanted.

Louise Trelawny was packing, reflecting upon her escape

from the Cloisters, now little more than twelve hours ahead, remembering with something approaching savage rage her final interview with Dr Brandon when he told her

he thought she seemed so very much better — how could he

think that, a doctor, how could he not see still how much

she hurt, how angry she was — but grateful at the same

time that he should think it. At least she would be away

from this horrible place; at least she could begin to take her

revenge. Indeed, in little more than a week, in eight days’

time, she would have taken it; or rather be in the very midst

of the pleasure of taking it. Then she really would feel

better.

Every so often she opened her bag, checked the zipped

pocket, just to make sure it hadn’t fallen out. It was still

there; she could go ahead.

Sandy Trelawny was sitting in the garden with Dickon and

Megan and Pattie David, eating a very nice lasagne Pattie

had cooked, and thinking this was the last time for many

weeks, or even months, that he would be able to see her or

rather them - and that he would be feeling calm and at

peace. Tomorrow he would be at home with Louise, trying

to suppress his anger, his distaste, trying at the same time to

care for her, because, until she was quite, quite better, there

was nothing he could do to get away from her. Pattie had

already said how much she would miss seeing him and

Dickon, and that he must let her know if there was

anything she could do to help over the next few weeks, but

he knew there was no prospect even of seeing her, let alone

her being able to help him.

But as they left, finally and reluctantly, he did allow

himself to kiss her lightly — only on the cheek — and to say

that he was more grateful than she would ever know for all

her help, and that he hoped very much that he would see

her and Megan again before too long.

He had thought he could say no more than that; but

somehow, when she said, ‘You must be so much looking

forward to having Louise back home,’ he heard his voice,

harsh and raw, saying that actually, no, he wasn’t, not at all.

Pattie then said (her pale face slightly pink) that it would obviously be a great strain for him, and he had actually been

about to try and tell her that was not quite the reason, when

Dickon ran up and said to come and see — Megan’s rabbit

had just had babies.

And after that, there was no more opportunity and it was

time to set out on the long drive home.

Lucilla Sanderson sat watching her friends the bats swooping

through the twilight, and wondering what she should

do next; she had phoned the Davids and they were coming

to see her the next day, and she had also spoken to her MP,

Gabriel Bingham, who seemed a very nice young man, and

didn’t sound at all like a Socialist, but you never knew these

days, look at Tony Blair. He had said there was very little

that could be done, if planning permission had definitely

been given, but that he had no idea if that was the case. If it

was, he said, then the democratic process must take its

course, and he very much hoped Mrs Sanderson was not

going to take to living in the trees or in a burrow

underground. This was intended as a joke, but Lucilla told

him that that was precisely what she would do if and when

the bulldozers arrived at Barries Park.

‘I’m very old you know,’ she said, ‘and I would see that

as quite a good way to go. Actually.’

Gabriel Bingham had laughed and said he would be in

touch with her as soon as he had some definite news.

Suddenly, across the valley, a rush of wind heralded the

beginning of a storm. The bats disappeared.

In London, Marianne Muirhead sat alone in her house,

working her way through a bottle of Sancerre and thinking

about Nico Cadogan and Felix Miller and the incredible

mess she had made of her relationships with both of them.

And about being checkmated and how there really was

nothing at all she could do about it. Upstairs, Marc was

playing some appalling music rather loudly; it was amazing how the young managed to sleep, talk and even work against the background of that noise.

Suddenly he appeared in the doorway; he looked

different today, cleaner and a bit paler, but still very thin

and extraordinarily beautiful. Marianne would have died

rather than admit it, but she did know that, deep down, at

the bottom of her heart, Marc was her favourite. She had

once heard a friend say, ‘I love my daughters more than

anything in the world, but I love my son more than more

than anything in the world.’ That described her own

feelings about Marc.

‘I can’t sleep,’ he said. ‘I’ve come for a chat, if that’s all

right. We did a lot of chatting at night in Nepal. Under the

stars. The stars were amazing. Huge.’

Marc was a great chatterer: more than either of the girls.

It was one of the things that she most loved about him,

made him so easy to talk to.

‘Did you do anything else?’ she said.

‘Yeah, played cards a lot. And chess.’

‘Ah,’ she said, ‘chess. It’s been much on my mind at the

moment, chess has.’

‘I didn’t think you played.’

‘I don’t. But I find myself in a situation that I can only

describe as checkmate.’

‘Oh, really? Want to tell me about it?’

She hesitated, then said, ‘No. No, it’s a bit - personal.’

He shrugged. ‘Okay. That’s cool. But I won’t tell

anyone. If you want to talk.’

Over a third glass of Sancerre, Marianne started to talk.

When she had finished, Marc was silent for a while; then he

said, ‘That’s not quite checkmate, Mum. Checkmate’s

when you can’t do anything at all. I’d call it check.’

‘And how do you get out of check?’

‘You do something of a defensive nature.’

‘Marc, I did that. When I went to see Felix. It didn’t

work.’

He stared at her. ‘And this Cadogan guy. How do you

feel about him?’

‘I just can’t tell you,’ said Marianne fretfully. ‘If it wasn’t for Felix, I suppose I’d be—’ she hesitated — ‘in love with

him. As there is Felix, I — well, I just can’t be.’

Marc looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Yeah,’ he said slowly.

‘Yeah, maybe it is checkmate.’

In Bath, Gabriel Bingham sat in his tiny courtyard of a

garden and thought rather sadly of Octavia, and also how

thankful he was that the day which had been so extremely

hot — although not nearly as bad as Barbados — was cooling

down now with the help of a wind that was rather strong

for August. The sky was growing stormy, too; it looked as if

it might even rain. That really would be extremely nice.

The whole week had been rather too hot.

He was missing Octavia; but he had come round quite

swiftly to her pragmatic point of view, that it was as well

they had discovered their incompatibility so soon. For that

alone, the week in Barbados had been worthwhile. He

hoped he wouldn’t lose her from his life entirely; he

enjoyed her company, her clear, incisive mind, her rather

engaging seriousness. He wondered if her inevitable reunion

with her husband had yet been accomplished; he

genuinely hoped so (and admired himself at the same time

for hoping it). He might phone her during the week, on the

pretext of checking whether she had heard from the poor

old soul at Bartles House. He had very little hope that

Bartles Park could be saved — from the beginning it had

seemed a foregone conclusion to him. And from his

viewpoint, there was much to be said for it; much-needed

housing, local employment, and whatever they all said, the

community centre and its facilities for the disabled would be

extremely valuable. These Nimbys were all the same. They

would never admit it, but it was true. If Michael Carlton

had wanted to put up his development on the other side of

Bath, none of them would have made a murmur…

Sailing off Martha’s Vineyard, Zoe Muirhead lay on the

deck of a dinghy, watching the clouds scudding above her, and occasionally smiling at the immensely good-looking boy at the helm. The holiday hadn’t been nearly as bad as

she had feared. One big abasement session with her father

and he’d been sweet as a pie, let her out every night so long

as he knew her escorts’ parents - God, adults were naive and

Romilly had had a ball, getting off with half the

sixteen-year-olds on the island, cured of the worst of her

shyness by her foray into modelling. Zoe had even told her

father she might like to go to an American university when

the time came: that had been a very smart move, and Ian

and Cleaver Square and the police station all seemed like

nothing more than an extremely bad dream …

In Edinburgh, Felix Miller sat morosely alone in his hotel

room, having left the friends with whom he had been

having dinner, after attending the wedding of another

friend’s son, drinking whisky and mourning the death of his

relationship with Marianne. For it was undoubtedly dead.

He knew that. And it was his fault. He had forfeited for

ever any chance of getting her back. Even as a friend. She

had come to him, swallowing her pride, concerned, anxious

even for him, and he had rejected her, harshly, horribly. He

was a fool: a complete fool. He missed her more and more

painfully every day; physically, emotionally, intellectually.

He felt very alone. And he was also somehow frightened.

That he had come so close to being caught out, shown up,

to Octavia, to the person he loved most, by far the most in

the world, had shaken him badly. He had thought himself

inviolate and now knew that he was very much the reverse;

it had been an extremely salutary experience.

But there was something else, something equally disturbing.

The encounter in the house over Nico Cadogan that

night had another result: one that Tom could certainly

never have envisaged, that Felix would not have believed

possible. It had changed his opinion, just very slightly, of

Tom Fleming, nudged him just a very little near respect. Of

course, Tom had been very clever, very devious. But he

had also wished to spare Octavia pain. It would have been

very easy for him to tell her, to say look what your father did to me, to you, to disillusion her about him. But he had

not; he had kept his counsel. Even before he discovered the

need for a bargaining point. For that Felix had to admit

Tom was not all bad.

In Paris, Diana, Princess of Wales had arrived at the Ritz

Hotel in the company of Dodi Fayed; the gang of paparazzi

who had pursued them there from Le Bourget airport were

now pitched up outside the entrance to the hotel in the

Place Vendome waiting to see where their quarry might

lead them next.

Whether she’d enjoyed it or not, she’d given them a

wonderful summer …

Louise went into the dining room for breakfast singing

under her breath. Her last meal there: her last day. It was

too good to be true.

It seemed very quiet; everyone was hushed, bent over

their papers. She poured herself some orange juice and

some coffee and went over to one of the empty tables. She

didn’t need to pretend to be friendly any more.

The woman at the next table, whom she’d always

particularly disliked, looked up. ‘Isn’t it dreadful?’ she said.

‘What?’ said Louise carelessly.

‘About Diana.’

‘Diana who?’

‘Princess Diana, of course. Didn’t you know? She’s been

killed. In a car crash.’

Louise felt as if she had been struck by a very heavy

weight in her solar plexus; she was shocked at how shocked

she was. She felt as if she had lost not a friend, but an

essential part of her life. She had grown up with the

Princess; she was almost the same age. She had watched her

change from pudgy, pretty teenager into first princess, then

goddess and finally neurotic divorcee; she had been

influenced by her appearance, fascinated by her power over

the media, sympathetic with her patent loneliness. She had

always been there, it seemed; an endless focus for gossip,

interest and admiration. And now she was gone; it simply didn’t seem possible.