Almost a Crime (18 page)

the affair? Did she book them hotel rooms, put through

bills, order presents, lace handkerchiefs even, from shops,

and did half the staff know, did Aubrey Cotterill? Probably

they all did. A wave of misery swept over her, misery and

humiliation, and she sat down suddenly on the edge of

Sarah Jane’s desk.

‘Octavia, are you sure you’re all right? You look rotten.’

‘Yes, I’m fine. Honestly. Just a bit tired. I’ll be all right.’

‘Good. You always enjoy Ascot so much. Oh, this phone

— yes? Oh, Mrs Piper, can you hold on a minute? Octavia,

can you … ?’

‘Yes, of course. Put her through.’

It all seemed so normal, so absolutely the same: as if

nothing had changed at all.

‘God, you’re a handsome man, Cadogan.’ Nico Cadogan picked up the glass of champagne he had been sipping while he got ready, raised it to his reflection in the mirror.

He was looking forward to the day: he loved race

meetings, or at least the social, flashier variety. He liked the

spectacle, he liked the atmosphere, he liked the heady blend

of well-bred people and horses looking glossy and well

presented: and he very much liked winning money on the

horses. Which he always did.

He was also looking forward to meeting Octavia

Fleming. There was a picture of her and Tom in the paper

that morning — she was extremely pretty — with a silly quote

about how she managed her life. In Nico’s experience

women who thought they knew how to manage their lives

were heading for a fall. It would be amusing to observe this

model liaison in action.

And exactly how did you face your husband, Octavia

wondered, as her car carried her quite fast down the M3,

how did you do that, having made the discovery since you

last met that he was committing adultery? Did you smile,

kiss him, ask him how he was, pretend that all was as it had

been? Or did you go up to him, hit him, throw something

at him, scream at him? And if you did none of those things,

would he know, would he realise that you were pretending,

would he know that you had discovered what he was

doing, doing without you, would he sense a change in you,

would he breathe in the anger, smell the hostility, feel the

fear? And how could he not know, when he had lived with

you, been married to you for so long, when he had shared

every intimacy, had conceived children with you and

watched them born? All that morning the vision of Tom in

bed with someone else had surfaced, obscenely, in her head,

had been buried again with a furious, dark determination.

She had thought for a while she could not possibly face

the day, face everyone; that she would phone to say she was

ill, but that seemed suddenly more difficult than going

through with it. Simpler and indeed easier to go; there

would be so many people there — cheerful, happy, ordinary

people having a good time — her misery would be well camouflaged. She felt in any case totally removed from

reality, rather as if she was watching herself in a bad film.

Ascot, with its well-worn rituals, its requirement to behave

to a well-known, well-rehearsed script, would fit well into

that.

She was actually very glad she was to meet Tom in public,

protected from him, from domestic intimacy, from close

scrutiny, from her own emotions even. She walked into the

courtyard, stood by the bandstand, looked up to the top

floor where their box was, and just for a moment she quite

savoured the challenge of the role she would be playing,

that of loyal, perfect wife, marvelled at her own self-control

and professionalism in being able even to contemplate it.

And then in the next moment she wanted to run away. She

was to become very familiar with this emotional switchback

over the next few months.

‘That’s an extremely nice hat,’ said Nico Cadogan. He held

out his hand to her. ‘Nico Cadogan. And you must be

Octavia.’

‘Yes, I am. How do you do?’

In spite of — or because of — her misery she absorbed a

great deal about him: this was a very attractive man. Dark,

very dark hair, with wings of grey at the temples, that

looked as if they had been painted there, very dark grey

eyes, a long, perfectly straight nose, and an expression of

great good humour. He was very tall, a good two inches

more than Tom, very slim, and superbly dressed.

He took her hand at once, and shook it, while looking at

her intently with his grey eyes, and his hand was very

warm, very smooth — elegant hands, he had, with fine long

fingers, and he wore a signet ring on his little finger, and a

superb classic Piaget watch on his wrist. He smiled at her, a

rather thoughtful smile, and said, ‘You don’t look in the

least like your father, you know.’ His voice was light and quick, almost impatient; everything about him spoke of a desire, indeed an expectation, for instant gratification.

I wouldn’t like to work for this man, Octavia thought — and hoped he would give Tom a very hard time.

Nico Cadogan had arrived in the box last and been

introduced to what seemed like a large number of people

he couldn’t imagine ever wanting to meet again: a huge

man called Carlton, and his wife Betty, a stocky Brummie

called Bob Macintosh and his rather tarty redhead of a wife,

Maureen. Aubrey Cotterill was charming of course, but

Cadogan wasn’t too keen on his companion; finding

Octavia out on the balcony had been a very pleasant relief.

‘You don’t seem to have any champagne. Let me get you

some.

‘No, really, I’m staying with orange juice for now. I’m

pacing myself, it’s a long day.’

She was very attractive, he thought, but in a nervy, oddly

watchful way; she was over-vivacious, laughing too much,

and her rather extraordinary brown eyes, large and very

heavily lashed, had a wary look to them. This was not a

woman comfortable to be with. She was in great contrast to

Tom’s easy, languid style.

Felix appeared on the balcony, put his arm round her.

‘Here you are. Morning, Nico. I see you’ve met my

daughter. Octavia, you don’t have any champagne. Hasn’t

Tom offered you any?’

‘Daddy, of course he has. I’ve already refused several

glasses. Mr Cadogan has offered me some too.’

“That’s all right, then. You look lovely, my darling.

Doesn’t she look marvellous, Nico?’ The dark eyes, so like

Octavia’s own, were fixed on her, thoughtful, tender with

love. ‘Red’s always been her colour. Even when she was

quite small. Lights her up. I used to give her a red dress

every Christmas.’

God, thought Cadogan, he really is in love with her. The

day was going to be even more interesting than he had

expected.

Marianne and Tom came out on to the balcony.

‘What a wonderful day,’ said Marianne, smiling. ‘Aren’t

we lucky?’

‘We are indeed,’ said Tom, ‘and the going is perfect. Got

any tips, Felix?’

‘No,’ said Felix Miller shortly. ‘You know I never bet on

anything.’

Cadogan, watching them both intently, could see this

annoyed Tom intensely; hence, no doubt, the apparently

innocent question. Well, it did amount almost to rudeness,

to take up space in a box at Ascot and then refuse to take

any part in the proceedings.

‘There’s one horse I’d mortgage my house for,’ Cadogan

said, his natural good manners troubled. ‘Filly. Belongs to

the Maktoum brothers. Running in the Queen Elizabeth

Stakes. Can’t fail.’

‘That’s quite an endorsement. Where is your house,

Nico?’ said Marianne, smiling at him.

‘Belgrave Mews. A poor thing, but my own.’

‘Well,’ she said lightly, ‘quite a lot to lose if the horse

doesn’t win. I shall put some of my money on your filly as

well. Although I don’t plan to take out any mortgages.’

‘Excellent. I like decisiveness in a woman. Shall we go

and do it now?’

‘Why not?’

She smiled at him. He smiled back; now she was lovely,

he thought, coolly sexy, with her long legs and her lean

body, and her dress, a slip of black crepe, extremely stylish.

Her hat, wide-brimmed scarlet straw with a huge black

bow, was stylish too, rather more so than Octavia’s tiered

confection. Octavia looked just slightly overdone altogether,

in a red silk dress and red and black spotted jacket,

which was a pity, he thought; not quite chic. Marianne’s

quiet beauty was more agreeable. He had thought a mild flirtation with Mrs Fleming might be fun; he was rapidly changing his mind.

He followed Marianne now out of the box, down to the

mezzanine floor below, to the Tote; the area was filling up fast, with well-dressed, well-heeled and for the most part well-spoken people, although the occasional twang of

London or North Country cut through the braying. This

was a marvellous opportunity for making contacts. He had

already seen three separate people who had wished him

well in his battle with Egerton. Yes, he would enjoy today,

very much: especially in the company of Mrs Marianne

Muirhead. That should prove an unexpected bonus.

‘Darling, are you all right?’ Tom’s face was mildly

concerned as he came over to Octavia.

‘Yes, I’m absolutely fine,’ she said, marvelling at the

complex process of smiling when it was something every

instinct fought against.

He was looking wonderful, almost unbearably handsome and stylish: and would she have seen him in those clothes?

Octavia wondered. Had she admired him in them, done up

his cufflinks for him, told him how nice he looked? Rage

filled her physically, rising in her throat. She felt like ripping

the tie off, tearing at the shirt: until she remembered that he

had changed at the office, had taken his morning suit in

with him the day before, and with a huge effort she smiled

at him again.

‘Now, darling, I do want you to look after Betty Carlton.

She’s a bit nervous, apparently, and—’

‘Tom, I don’t need to be told how to be a hostess, thank

you. Please don’t insult me,’ said Octavia. As she turned

away, she drew a shred of satisfaction from the expression

on his face. It was an interesting mixture of embarrassment

and alarm.

‘So how are you getting on with Tom?’ said Marianne, as

she and Nico made their way back to the box.

‘Professionally? Or personally?’

El ‘Both. He’s hard not to like, though. Don’t you find?’

‘Yes, I like him very much. I get the impression Felix is

rather less keen.’

‘Only because he’s so obsessed with Octavia. He thinks

Tom isn’t nearly good enough for her, doesn’t treat her properly.’

‘And does Tom treat her properly?’

‘What?’ She turned to look at him. ‘That’s a very

personal question.’

‘Well, I want an answer,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘That’s

why I asked it.’

‘I don’t know. That’s the only answer I can give you.

Who does know, outside a marriage, what goes on inside it? I think so, yes. He seems very sweet to me.’

‘But Felix isn’t satisfied with him?’

‘I don’t know. It’s so complex. I sometimes think he’d

welcome a real problem, so that he could use it as an excuse

to tell her to come home. Oh, dear, how very indiscreet of

me. It’s the champagne talking — so early!’

‘You know, Tom said much the same thing to me,’ said

Nico.

‘He did? Oh, dear, he must hate Felix so.’

‘Not hate. I do get the impression he finds him difficult.’

‘Well, we’re all difficult,’ said Marianne lightly.

‘You don’t strike me as being in the least difficult.’

‘You’d be surprised,’ she said.

‘I would, yes. In my experience women are only difficult

because they are not being taken care of properly.’

‘I see. Well, I shall have to tell Felix that.’

‘Probably better not.’

He stood back to let her pass into the box, was borne

down upon by a large woman in yellow patterned silk.

‘Nico, how marvellous to see you. All well with you?’

‘Oh, yes, wonderful. Thank you. And you?’

‘Splendid. You must come round for a drink very soon,

I’ll give you a ring.’ The woman passed on.

He met Marianne’s eyes and grinned slightly shamefacedly.

‘Sorry I couldn’t introduce you, but—’

‘You hadn’t the faintest idea who she was. Don’t worry.

Happens to me all the time. Come along, Tom wants to get

lunch going well before the royals arrive.’

Octavia had been watching Tom; he had been standing just

outside the box, smiling, chatting to people as they passed,

shaking hands, kissing the women. How did he do it,

Octavia thought, how could he do it, with everything

seething beneath the surface of his life?

Was She one of these perhaps? Was it possible that She was someone she knew, that they both knew? Octavia had assumed until that moment that She must be some stranger

to her, someone Tom had met from right outside their

circle; now, watching him with all these pretty women, it

occurred to her that She might actually be someone quite