Almost a Crime (31 page)

imagining it, thought Marianne, or was she walking

differently, more slowly, languidly almost, surely not, not already — she had seen Jonty Jacobson study her in silence, and then, as he bent over his camera, looking at her

through the lens, saw him smile, a small, intent smile into it,

then saw him look up again, meet Romilly’s eyes, saw her

smiling back, less hesitantly than before, and then he told

her to lower her head, just a bit, and stand with her legs just

slightly further apart, ‘Just a tiny bit, Romilly, yes, that’s

right, now still look at the camera, yes, that’s lovely, and

again, yes, great, turn your head sideways just a fraction,

yes, still keep your eyes on the lens, good, very good, yes,

yes, now a bit further, yes, that’s lovely, now just a bit of a

little smile, not too much, yes, yes …’

Marianne couldn’t bear it any longer. She got up and

went out to the lavatory.

‘Yes, I have been having an affair.’

Tom’s eyes meeting Octavia’s were very steady.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said then. ‘Terribly, terribly sorry.’

She had expected denials, justifications, accusations even,

of her own bad behaviour, of selfishness, lack of understanding,

even; was taken aback totally by his reaction.

‘But it’s over. Quite, quite over.’

‘Over? But you were with her last night?’

‘Yes. In order to finish it.’

‘Which you did?’

‘Yes, I did.’ The tone was strange; unfair to call it

complacent, but there was a tinge of satisfaction in it.

‘Well,’ she said, slightly nonplussed, ‘you always were

very good at keeping to an agenda.’

‘That’s why I insisted on — on being away last night. Not

coming home. Because I had to do it. Get it over.’

‘I see. It was an ordeal, was it, something you were

dreading?’

‘Well — yes. In a way, inevitably it was.’

‘And how was it, as an ordeal, Tom? As ordeals go?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘How bad was the ordeal?’

‘Well, it was - that is, I knew that it would be - difficult.’

‘You bastard,’ she said quietly. ‘You fucking bastard.

You’re so devious, aren’t you? Christ, you call my father

manipulative. What do you think you are?’

‘Octavia, I—’

‘You thought that would make it much much better,

didn’t you? All right, even. Combining telling me with

telling me it was over. Like one of the twins, “I did break

the glass, but I’ve brought you a cup of tea.’”

‘Look,’ he said, taking a slug of whisky, ‘you’re taking

this absolutely the wrong way. Of course I didn’t think it

would make it all right. Nothing can ever do that. I was just

hoping against hope I wouldn’t have to tell you at all. That

you wouldn’t find out.’

‘Bad luck, Tom.’

‘No, Octavia, you misunderstand. I was hoping that you

wouldn’t have to be hurt.’

‘Oh, really!’ she said. ‘You didn’t want me to be hurt?

Well, why did you bloody well start it, then? Did it not

occur to you that it was just possible that I’d be hurt, when

you first arranged the first meeting? When was that, by the

way?’

He was silent.

‘Well, what did you think that day? Or night? That

you’d get away with it? That there was no danger? Or did

you want her so much it was worth the risk?’

He was silent.

‘Who was it?’ she said, and the words were like a

whiplash.

‘I won’t tell you. I am not going to tell you. Ever. It

wouldn’t help.’

Ritz and Annabel had stepped out on to the catwalk, raised

their hands. The music had stopped, the talking stopped.

There were a lot of people there, Romilly thought, far

more than she had expected.

‘Thank you all for coming this evening,’ Annabel was

saying. ‘I hope you’ve enjoyed it. We certainly have. And I

think you’ll agree the girls — our girls, as we think of them are an incredibly high standard. As always. Alive! will be dedicating at least four pages to tonight, in our October

issue — which of course is the biggie, as far as advertising is

concerned — book your space now, if you haven’t already—’

much laughter — ‘so you can see all of them again then.

That’s one of the prizes: along with an outfit, and the

pictures from today’s session. The first prize, of course, is

five thousand pounds, and the biggest, as far as the girls are

concerned, I hope, is being on the cover of Alive! in the

November issue.’

‘Enough of Alive!,’ said Ritz, cutting in. ‘The real biggie

is a contract with us, Choice Agency, for a year, and the

chance to get into the modelling world from the best

possible position. As well as representation, of course,

Choice offers financial and legal advice, and a tie-up with

our agencies in Milan and New York. Now then, I won’t

keep you in suspense any longer; you or the girls. In reverse

order, the third place goes to …”

I might get this, thought Romilly, crossing her fingers, I

might get third, that’s just possible.

‘The third place goes to Jade Morgan. Jade, can we have

you out here, please?’

Well, that was that. Jade’s disappointment cut into her

rather mean prettiness just for a second, then she rallied,

smiled brilliantly, sashayed out on to the catwalk.

Romilly felt suddenly violently sick.

‘Second place goes to … Tiffany. Tiffany, can we have

you, please?’

‘This is agony,’ hissed Zoe in Marianne’s ear. ‘Poor little

Rom.’

Tiffany was gliding down the catwalk, her great brown

eyes roaming the room; Marianne looked up at her,

thinking how sexy she was, wondering how Romilly could

possibly have even been asked to compete with this lot.

‘Well done, Tiffany. I’m sure this won’t be the last time

you’re seen on a catwalk,’ Annabel was saying, smiling,

kissing her.

A long silence then: a roll of drums.

‘And the winner, the outright winner is — Romilly

Muirhead. The baby of the class, only fifteen, but an

absolutely unanimous decision.’

‘Oh, my God,’ said Marianne. ‘Oh, Zoe, what have I

done?’

‘Tom, I have to know. You’ve got to tell me. Who was it?’

‘I meant it, Octavia. I’m not going to tell you.’

‘You make me feel sick,’ she said. ‘So sick, I can’t even

stand being in the same room as you. Ever again. I want

you out of here, out of this house. I suppose you’ll say that

it didn’t mean anything. That’s what men always say, the lie

they always tell. I was drunk, it didn’t mean anything.’

‘No,’ he said, very quietly. ‘I wasn’t going to say that.’

‘Have you ever done it before?’

He stared at her, clearly shocked himself by the question.

She felt comforted, however faintly, by that shock.

‘No. Never. I swear.’

‘I’m not terribly impressed by your swearing, Tom. You

swore to be faithful to me until death did us part. Forsaking

all others. I remember it very well. It’s sort of stuck in my

head. For some reason.’

There was another long silence. He got up, poured

himself another whisky. ‘I have never, ever done it before,’

he said. ‘You have got to believe that.’

‘Even if I did,’ she said, ‘how do think I feel? Knowing

other people must have known, were watching me,

laughing at me, sorry for me. And all the time, all that

garbage in the papers, about our bloody perfect, successful

marriage. What do you think that does to me? Word gets

around, doesn’t it? Barbara knew, I suppose, and—’

‘How did you find out?’ he said abruptly. ‘Did anyone

tell you? Because if—’

‘Nobody told me. It was quite a sweet story, actually. It

would have done well in a book. It was all because of a

handkerchief, Tom. Like Desdemona’s. It got caught up in

your things, and tipped into the laundry. And I started

putting two and two together. It was a very pretty

handkerchief. But you’d know that of course. You’d have

seen it.’

‘Oh, my God, Octavia, I — when was that, how long

have you known?’

‘It doesn’t matter how long. Tom, who was it? Who did

the handkerchief belong to?’

‘I’m not going to tell you,’ he said. ‘I can’t and I won’t.’

His eyes were very steady, very determined.

‘I shall find out,’ she said. ‘Be sure of that.’

‘I hope you never will,’ he said.

It seemed to her, even then, an odd thing to say.

‘Mrs Muirhead, more champagne?’

They were having dinner in Langan’s, Ritz, Annabel and

the Muirheads: nobody else. Just a quiet, family evening,

Ritz had said, after all the excitement.

‘I still can’t believe it. I made so many mistakes, like

smiling at Zoe when you said not to.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Ritz, remembering that moment, that

wonderful, radiant moment when the sun had come up, so

unexpectedly, so sweetly: when the whole room had smiled

back. ‘Well, it didn’t really matter. As it turned out.’

‘What am I going to do about my braces?’ said Romilly suddenly.

‘Nothing,’ said Marianne quickly. ‘Nothing whatsoever.

They stay.’ She saw Ritz turn to look at her quickly, half

open her mouth, then shut it again. Good. Let the ground

rules be laid down now. She was in charge; Romilly was a

minor.

‘When’s your birthday, Romilly?’ said Annabel, right on

cue.

‘So what do you want to do?’ said Tom quietly.

‘I want a divorce,’ she said.

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m quite sure.’

‘Well,’ he said, his voice heavy, ‘if you’re sure, then you

must have it. I certainly can’t stop you. I wouldn’t try.’

‘Don’t you want one?’

‘No,’ he said.

She was astonished. ‘Why not?’

He looked at her levelly for a long time, then said, ‘I can

hardly bear to say it. Knowing how you’ll react. But I still

love

you.’

Octavia felt disgust, physical disgust, rising in her throat,

sharply acid. ‘Oh, please,’ she said, ‘spare me that.’

‘I can’t spare you. I have to say it. It’s true. You shouldn’t

ask questions if you don’t want the answers.’

‘How can you say such a thing?’ she said, her voice

shaking violently with anger. ‘How can you even think

such a thing? It degrades you. It degrades me. Love me! Of

course you don’t love me. If you loved me you wouldn’t

have fucked someone else. Don’t talk about loving. You

don’t know what it is.’

‘I do know what it is for me,’ he said, ‘but I won’t insult

you by spelling it out. Octavia, I know I’m a shit. A feeble,

frightful shit. I do realise that.’

She was crying harder now, sobbing, wiping her eyes and

her nose on the back of her hand; he got up, went out of

the room, came back with a box of Kleenex.

‘Don’t talk about loving me,’ she said. ‘Please. I can’t

bear it.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you can’t possibly love me. Having affairs,

sleeping with other people, lying to me, deceiving me,

making me a laughing stock—’

‘You really are obsessed with people laughing at you,

aren’t you? It really matters to you.’

‘Of course it does. For God’s sake, Tom, think about it.

Put yourself in my place; imagine walking into rooms,

restaurants, people saying look, there’s poor old Tom, his

wife’s having an affair, he has no idea, isn’t it pathetic …

Are you trying to tell me it wouldn’t matter?’

‘Of course it would matter. But—’

‘Tom, you’ve got to tell me who it is! I need to know. I need a — a face. A person. Who is it Tom, who?’

‘Octavia, you don’t need to know. You’re not going to

know.’

She got up then, went over to him, started hitting him

round the head with her fists, sobbing, shouting at him.

‘Tell me! Tell me who it is. You’ve no right not to, you

owe me that at least!’

He caught her wrists, held her from him, his face such a

terrible study in remorse and something else — what? fear,

yes, it was fear, raw, pitiless fear — that she stopped abruptly,

stopped crying, stared at him.

‘Don’t,’ he said, ‘please don’t. It won’t help.’

‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Why is it so important that

I don’t know?’

He said nothing; just stood up, picked up his glass and

walked out of the room.

‘Tom. Everything all right?’

‘Morning, Aubrey. Sorry I’m late. Bit of a tough night.’

‘You look like that, I must say. Anyway, I’m afraid we’ve

got a serious problem on our hands.’

‘Oh, God, what?’

‘You haven’t seen the Mail, then?’

‘No. Why?’

Aubrey ignored the question. ‘I’m afraid we’ve lost

Michael Carlton.’

‘What? Why?, What the fuck’s happened?’

‘Read this.’

Tom read it. ‘Oh, God,’ he said. ‘Dear God in heaven.’

‘Pattie, how did they get all this stuff? How could you have

done this to me? I know I said I’d support you openly now,

but that didn’t extend to talking about my husband.’

‘Octavia, I didn’t! I had no idea about that, anyway. And

I talked to the Mail before the meeting, I didn’t even

mention you.’

‘Well, who did? My God, it must have been Bingham.

The bastard! I wonder if I can get hold of him. Where’s his