Almost a Crime (28 page)

on the question of your fee,’ said Lauren. ‘I’m

afraid we can’t see our way to paying the quoted rate. It’s

really very high. What would you suggest on that?’

‘I told Lauren we couldn’t—’ said Octavia.

Melanie flashed a brilliant, warning look at her and said, ‘Lauren, we can meet you on the fee, of course. We want to help and you are a friend of Octavia’s. Tell us your

budget and we’ll work something out.’

Octavia felt a flash of anger and humiliation; Melanie’s

concession had diminished her in Lauren’s eyes at a stroke.

I’m the boss round here, that statement had said, ‘I make the

crucial decisions, it’s my word that counts.

‘Marvellous,’ said Lauren, smiling briefly in her direction.

‘I had hoped Octavia might be wrong on that one. Now, as

to the details of the day, what would you suggest?’

After they left, Octavia walked back into her own office

and shut the door. Melanie followed her in without

knocking.

‘Well done, bringing that one in, Octavia.’

‘Melanie, why did you do that? Agree that she could pay

whatever she liked, really, without consulting me at all? I’d

already told her we couldn’t do anything about our fee, I

felt extremely silly.’

‘Octavia, I’d do that job for absolutely nothing, just to

get Next Generation. It’s one of the highest-profile

charities there is, a huge notch in our gun. I’m going to do

a release to the papers right now.’

‘Melanie, I don’t need a lecture on our position in the

league table. We’re partners, or so I understood. I’m not

some pathetic little assistant, however much you like to give

that impression.’

Melanie’s face became very hard suddenly. ‘Don’t be so

fucking stupid, Octavia. And don’t let your personal

insecurities colour your professional ones.’

Octavia stared at her. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I would have thought it was perfectly clear.’

‘Well, it’s not. Clearly I am fucking stupid, as you put it

so attractively.’

‘Octavia, you’ve been in a highly neurotic state for days

now. Impossible to work with. I don’t know what’s the

matter with you, but—’

‘Nothing’s the matter,’ said Octavia and burst into tears.

Melanie was silent for a moment, then she said, quietly, ‘Is it Tom?’

‘What do you mean? Why should it be Tom?’

‘Octavia, I’m not a complete idiot. Something’s happened

to you. Most likely explanation is it’s Tom. Come

on, you’ll feel better if you talk about it.’

‘Yes,’ said Octavia, after a long silence. ‘It’s Tom. He’s

well, having an affair.’

‘I thought he might be,’ said Melanie.

Octavia stared at her. ‘Why did you think that?’ she said,

trying not to betray her panic. This was what she had most feared: people knowing, talking about it, laughing at her.

‘How long have you been thinking it, does anyone else

know?’

‘Octavia, calm down. Of course I thought it. It was

inevitable that—’

‘Oh, was it really? Inevitable he should have an affair?

Why, because I’m so unattractive, so unsexy, so fucking

naive?’

‘No! None of those things. Oh, God — excuse me a

moment.’

She went out of the room, came back with her cigarettes

and a bottle of whisky.

‘Here, have a drop of this,’ she said, pouring some of it

into Octavia’s water glass.

‘Melanie, I don’t need alcohol. I don’t need nicotine.

Come on, tell me for fuck’s sake. What did you mean?’

Tears of fright stood in her eyes; she had shocked herself,

she never swore.

Melanie looked at her, blew out a cloud of smoke. ‘I

meant that when a woman is as upset as you are, it’s almost

always because of a man. In your case your husband. That’s

all, for Christ’s sake. That’s all I meant.’

Octavia stared at her in silence, then she reached out for

her glass. ‘But you didn’t suspect before?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Oh, I see.’ It was strangely comforting.

‘When did you find out?’ said Melanie.

‘Last Tuesday. The day we went to Ascot.’

‘And there’s no doubt? You couldn’t be mistaken?’

‘No. No doubt at all.’

‘Have you confronted him with it?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Why the hell not?’

‘Melanie,’ said Octavia, a stab of violent irritation overriding

her misery, ‘just leave me to run my own

Marriage, she had been going to say, then realised it was the

last thing she could be trusted to run and her voice tailed

off. She sipped at the whisky.

‘Bastard,’ said Melanie. ‘Bastard. Do you know who it

is?’

‘No. I’ve no idea.’

‘God, I hate men,’ said Melanie savagely, blowing out a

great cloud of smoke. ‘They’re all the fucking same.’

‘All fucking the same,’ said Octavia and giggled. Then

she couldn’t stop giggling, and then she was laughing

hysterically, and then she was crying again, wailing almost,

really quite loudly.

In the middle of the noise, her direct line rang; Melanie

picked it up. ‘Yes? Oh, hi, Mr Miller, it’s Melanie Faulks.

Sony, she can’t talk to you now. She’s a bit upset. No,

nothing serious. Yes, sure, I’ll get her to call you.’

‘Oh, God,’ said Octavia. Her tears stopped abruptly, her

father’s name as effective as the traditional hard slap. ‘Did he

hear me? Crying, I mean?’

‘Shouldn’t think so,’ said Melanie cheerfully, who had

actually had some trouble hearing Felix Miller herself above

the noise. ‘Anyway, what if he did? So what are you going

to do? Divorce the bugger, I hope.’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know anything any more. I’m just

trying to get by. For the moment.’

‘I’m very sorry,’ said Melanie. ‘Sorry I said what I

did. About you being insecure and neurotic. It was unforgivable.’

‘It

wasn’t, but thank you, Melanie,’ said Octavia. She sat

there, sipping her whisky, wondering what she would feel next. There didn’t seem very much left. But the conversation

had done one thing for her; had made her decide it was

time to talk to Tom.

Octavia was surprised at the calm of her voice. ‘Tom?’ she

said.

‘Yes?’ His voice was wary, cautious.

‘Tom, will you be back tonight?’

‘I’m afraid not. I’ve just spoken to the chap, he’s booked

me into a hotel.’

‘Which one?’

‘He didn’t say. You can get me on my mobile if you—’

‘Oxford isn’t so terribly far. I’d appreciate it if you did

get back. However late. There’s something I really want to

discuss with you.’

A long, long silence. Then he said, rather heavily, ‘No,

I’m sorry. I really can’t get back tonight. We can talk

tomorrow maybe. I’ll be back quite early, nothing on in the

evening.’

‘Sure,’ she said and put the phone down. And picked it

up again almost immediately.

Patricia David was massaging Megan’s legs when the

telephone rang. She went to answer it, and came back

smiling.

‘That was Mrs Fleming. You know, you met her once,

she helps us run Foothold. And now she’s helping us to save

the wood. She’s coming to a rather important meeting

down here tonight. I’m so pleased.’

‘From London?’ said Megan. ‘That’s a long way to come

for a meeting.’

‘Yes, all the way from London. She says it’ll only take her

about two hours. I expect she’s got a very powerful car.’

‘Is she rich?’ said Megan.

‘Yes, I’m sure she is,’ said Patricia. ‘I don’t think there’s

very much that Octavia Fleming hasn’t got.’

After the meeting, Octavia thought, she might go and see

Louise.

The thought of Battles Wood and the havoc that her

future and very public outward involvement in it would

cause at Fleming Cotterill was cheering her up considerably.

She felt only a little sorry for Aubrey — he must have

known what was going on, must have. Every time she

thought about the people who must have known about

Tom, who would have known about other, earlier liaisons,

and kept it from her, people she saw and dealt with almost

every day — Aubrey, Barbara, everyone probably at Fleming

Cotterill — she felt like screaming very loudly and shrilly, for

a very long time. The conversation with Tom, his refusal to

come home even when she specifically requested it, had

had a very odd effect on her. Something had closed down

in her heart, and for the moment at least she felt no pain:

merely a fierce, clear rage. She knew it would come back,

the pain, but the respite was very sweet.

Hex father had phoned three times; she had not spoken to

him, couldn’t risk herself, simply let him leave messages on

her voice mail.

Each one was the same. ‘Octavia darling? It’s Daddy. I

know you’re upset. Let me know what I can do to help.’

She knew if she spoke to him today, she’d have to tell

him. And she couldn’t cope with that. Not today.

‘Tom? This is Barbara. Is it okay to talk?’

‘Yeah, sure. Go ahead.’

‘Have you got time to speak to Felix Miller? He phoned

in a state of great agitation, said it was terribly important.’

‘Oh, Christ,’ said Tom. ‘It’ll be some bloody nonsense

about Cadogan. I can’t face it. You’d better say you

couldn’t contact me.’

‘He’s got your mobile number, hasn’t he?’

‘Yes. Look, I’ll put it on to Divert. Get the calls put back

to the office. That okay?’

‘Ye-es. Until I go home at seven.’

‘I’ll switch it back then,’ said Tom.

Octavia started calling the Madison number as soon as she

was clear of Heathrow; it was engaged. After the third try,

she gave up. Probably some crisis with Anna, and they were

trying to get hold of the doctor. She hoped it wasn’t

anything too serious. Every time she thought of Anna

dying, she felt a great slick of fear. She was so brave, Louise,

but she was vulnerable too: how would she cope with this

second, awful loss? She would ring her later: after the

meeting. Plenty of time.

‘Oh, dear,’ said Barbara.

She was listening to Tom’s voice mail.

‘Tom, this is Felix Miller. I need to talk to you urgently,

about Octavia. I phoned her at the office today and she was

hysterical. I could hear her screaming down the phone.

There’s obviously something very wrong, and if you don’t

know what it is, you ought to. Would you ring me, please,

most urgently.’

Barbara decided she should pass this message on to Tom,

but she couldn’t contact him. His mobile appeared to be

switched off.

‘Tom Fleming,’ she said aloud, ‘you really are an absolute

bloody idiot.’

Gabriel Bingham was beginning to wish he hadn’t said he’d

come to this meeting. The women who were organising it

clearly saw it as an indication of his support. He felt

genuinely torn about the whole issue; he had moved to the

area five years earlier, when he had been adopted as Labour

candidate for the constituency, and had fallen in love with

its beauty. He had been born and brought up in Suffolk,

and had studied estate management at university. While

there, he had become involved in the political scene, first,

and ironically, rather actively with the Conservative Party,

and then, after some impressively fierce debates with them,

the Socialists. By the end of his three years, driven as much

by a conviction that Socialism was the only way forward for

the country as by a genuine passion for social change and a

strong distaste for unearned privilege, he was president of

the university Labour Party, and a committed party

member. After ten years’ hard graft in local politics he

began to apply for seats. Two turned him down, then

Somerset North became vacant. He won the nomination by

one vote. At the ‘92 election he was hopelessly beaten, but

that magical Tony Blair’s May, he turned an 8,000 Tory

majority into a 2,000 Labour one. His philosophy, like

Blair’s, was totally pragmatic. ‘We’ve got to get in,’ he

would say, at meeting after meeting, in the face of

opposition from the old-school Socialists. ‘Once we’re in, we can do something. Trust us.’

They trusted him; he was popular, despite being young,

having no wife, no family, a public school accent, a posh

name, was seen as genuine, thoughtfully idealistic. He

worked tirelessly, his surgeries often continuing until late

into the night, had a reputation for getting things done, for

cutting through officialdom; and he was not predictable,

outspoken against the worst excesses of the Welfare State,

the workshy, the black economy. For this reason he was

popular with some of the old-guard Tories as well as the

new-style Socialists; for this reason also, Patricia David and

her cohorts felt at least hopeful in looking to him for

support.

‘Mr Bingham, a cup of tea?’

‘Oh, thank you, Mrs David. That would be very nice.’

‘Please call me Pattie.’

Gabriel looked at Pattie David, looked at her rather faded

face, at her faded fair hair, her middle-class uniform of neat

skirt, white shirt, navy blazer, absorbed the slightly high