Almost a Crime (49 page)

mean. It amused me.’

‘I knew it would be exactly right for you. And it is.

That’s what I’m smug about. Does your other boyfriend

never bring you here?’

‘No. He goes for the more conventional places.’

‘How foolish of him. When that is clearly not right for

you. Never mind, I shall do much better, so let’s order. I

recommend the feuillettes of salmon and the veal, but you

must make your up own mind. Now, did I see you crying

at one point during that performance?’

‘Yes, you did.’

‘Do you always cry so easily?’

‘No. No, I don’t. I’m usually rather cool. On most

occasions.’

‘Something happened? To disturb your cool?’

‘You don’t want to hear about it.’

‘Yes, I do. Very much.’

‘I’ve got myself into a bit of a mess,’ she said slowly,

sipping at her champagne.

‘I can’t imagine it, I must say. You seem much too in

control to be in a mess.’

‘Well, maybe mess is too strong a word. It’s tedious.

Family stuff.’

‘Not having a family, I find them the opposite of tedious.

What are they all doing? Taking drugs, getting pregnant?

Tell me about it.’

‘No, really. It’s very boring.’

But she did tell him about it; about Romilly and her

contract, about Alec’s furious opposition to it.

He listened attentively. Then he said, ‘It doesn’t sound

too bad to me. She’ll have lots of fun. And I’m sure you

won’t abandon her to the wicked world. You’ve obviously

got far too strong a conscience. And are still too much in

thrall to your husband. Are you still in love with him?’

‘No, of course not,’ she said, shocked. ‘Alec wasn’t a very

nice man. He was bad tempered, unfaithful, he—’

‘That wouldn’t necessarily matter. Women don’t mind

anything, in my experience, unfaithfulness, physical violence

even, if they’re in love.’

“That is such absolute rubbish,’ she said, half amused, half

shocked. ‘Patriarchal, establishment, male chauvinist rubbish.’

‘Isn’t

it? Not true, of course. I don’t believe it. Well,

hardly. I just said it to make you cross.’

‘Why do you want to make me cross?’

‘Because,’ he said, reaching out his hand, touching her

cheek, ‘because if you can make a woman cross, you can

make her sexually aroused. Same set of responses.’

‘That’s rubbish too,’ she said, confused by his touch and

her response to it. ‘Anyway, are you in love with your ex

wife?’

‘Oh, good Lord, no,’ he said, removing his hand,

reaching out for his wine glass. ‘She was very unpleasant to

me. But the fact remains—’

‘Why was she so unpleasant to you? Weren’t you a very

good husband?’

‘I was a very good husband. I wasn’t even unfaithful to

her. Not strictly speaking anyway.’

‘Now what do you mean by that?’

‘I mean I never went to bed with anyone else. While we

were together.’

‘But you lunched around, I would guess?’ she said.

‘As in slept around? Nice concept. I like it. Yes, a bit.

But she wasn’t very nice to me. Even before the lunching.’

‘And why do you think that was?’

‘I think I outshone her,’ he said, ‘and she didn’t like it.

She was a very spoilt, difficult woman. And at the same

time rather dull. In spite of her great beauty. People,

especially women, preferred me. I make them laugh, and

she didn’t like that. She was in a permanent bait with me.’

‘So why did you marry her in the first place?’

‘Because she was extremely beautiful. And seemed rather

nicer than she was. Oh, and she had a title. I was dazzled by such things in those days. Now she has a hugely pompous

new husband, who is considerably less attractive than her,

so she is very happy.’

‘You are appalling,’ said Marianne, laughing.

‘Indeed I am. Now what about you? Have I made you

feel any better?’

‘Yes,’ she said, surprised, ‘yes, you have.’

‘Good. I think the only thing you should do is warn

Romilly of the dangers in her new situation, as you see it. I

do think that’s important. People should be always warned.

If they are in danger. Not to warn them is a ducking of

moral responsibility, however unpleasant it might be.

Anyway, enough of this rather earnest conversation. Far too

serious for dinner with a beautiful young woman.’

‘Hardly young,’ she said laughing, ‘I’m thirty-nine!’

‘That’s pretty young. And certainly you are beautiful.

The most beautiful woman I’ve had dinner with for a very

long time. Now, are you going to come home with me

tonight?’

‘No, Nico, of course I’m not.’

‘I really think you should,’ he said, and he took her hand

and turned it over and kissed the palm.

She tensed; she couldn’t help it.

‘I felt that.’

‘Felt what?’

‘Oh, never mind,’ he said, releasing her hand, sitting

back, smiling at her as their first course arrived. ‘You know

as well as I do. I’m a very patient man. I can wait. Well, for

a bit. Now, I do have a little more serious conversation,

actually. What of young Fleming? I want to discuss him.

Incidentally, does the name Cornish mean anything to you?

In connection with him, I mean.’

‘No. I don’t think so. Why?’

‘A Mrs Cornish phoned him on Friday. When he was in

my office. I have seldom seen a man so rattled.’

‘Poor Tom. Probably just a difficult client.’

‘This was a rather more — what shall we say — intense reaction than that. Rather personal. Anyway, no matter.

More to the point, or rather the Fleming point, an

extraordinary document arrived on my desk on Thursday.

A memo. Telling me, in effect, that I should withdraw my

account from his company.’

‘Really?’ said Marianne. ‘Who was it from?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘You mean it was anonymous.’

‘Entirely. And not a businesslike piece of writing.

Although it tried to give the impression it was, at any rate.’

‘How very odd,’ said Marianne slowly.

‘I thought so. Very odd. Well, I checked it out. And it is

true, you know. His company is in trouble. Or about to be.

He’s been looking for funding. He’s lost two accounts.

One, of course, through the unfortunate little games his

extremely neurotic wife has been playing,’

‘Oh, God,’ said Marianne. ‘So you think it was a sort of

poison pen letter?’

‘Yes. Exactly. Someone who wishes him ill. Now can

you think of anyone who wishes him ill?’

‘No, of course not,’ said Marianne. But something was

tearing at the back of her brain, a discomforting, almost

frightening memory, something she had tried to dismiss,

tried to explain away.

‘No sacked employees, no disappointed clients?’

‘Well, I wouldn’t know about them anyway, would I?’

‘Maybe not. What about a scorned woman? The likes of

whom hell hath no fury.’

‘Now that really is ridiculous.’ said Marianne.

Tom phoned Octavia at one thirty-one. She was lying in

bed with Gideon, and she grabbed the phone instantly, lest

it woke him, and checked on her bedside clock.

‘Octavia, it’s me. What the hell’s going on?’

‘I’ll go downstairs,’ she said quietly into the receiver and

eased herself out of bed; Gideon stirred, restlessly, but didn’t

wake.

Even on her way down the stairs, concern for Gideon

was replaced by a savage rage.

‘Where the hell have you been? With her? You have,

haven’t you?’

‘No, I haven’t,’ he said. ‘I’ve been with Aubrey. You can

phone him now and check if you don’t believe me.’

‘Oh, he’ll tell me the truth, won’t he? Your old friend

and partner. Who’s bound to want to keep me sweet, since

he’s going to ask for money too. From my father.’

‘Oh, Octavia, please. How’s Gideon?’

‘He has eight stitches in his foot and he’s in a lot of pain,

but there’s no harm done.’

‘And how did it happen?’

‘He’d been playing cricket with Poppy in the garden.’

‘In bare feet?’

‘Yes. Don’t ask me why. He climbed over the gate to get

the ball and someone had left a broken bottle on the verge.

Simple as that. He’s had a tetanus shot and antibiotics and

God knows what.’

‘Where did you take him, which hospital?’

‘Bath General. We thought—’

‘We?’

‘Yes. I had a — a friend here.’

‘Oh, yes,’ he said, ‘of course, Louise.’

‘How do you know she was here?’

‘You told me,’ he said. ‘When you said you were going

down. But there’s a Nuffield at Bristol, why didn’t you go

there?’

‘Tom, there’s no Accident and Emergency at the

Nuffield. And in a crisis the NHS is still best. Anyway, you

weren’t here, I coped with it, he’s fine, please don’t start

criticising me now.’

‘Sorry. When are you coming home?’

‘Tomorrow maybe, or Tuesday. He certainly couldn’t be

moved tonight. He was wretched, in a lot of pain. And he’d

lost a lot of blood.’

‘Poor little bugger. Should I come down, do you think?

Tomorrow?’

‘There is absolutely no point. Anyway, you’ve got an

important business meeting in the morning. As I recall. I’ll

call you in the morning, tell you how he is.’

‘Yes, all right. Give him my love. Poppy okay?’

‘Yes. She was very upset, of course, but she’s all right

now.’

‘And you’re sure he’s had sufficient treatment? He

doesn’t need the foot X-rayed, there isn’t any further

damage, to ligaments or—’

‘Tom, if you’d been here, you could have seen to all that.

As you weren’t, I had to. Gideon will be fine. Good night.

I’ll speak to you in the morning.’

She put the phone into the kitchen, filled the kettle.

Bastard! How dare he criticise her choice of hospital, imply

the treatment Gideon had had was in some way wanting?

When he hadn’t even had his mobile on. Then she couldn’t

have got hold of him even if she’d wanted to …

‘Bastard,’ she said aloud. ‘You absolute bastard!’

‘Your husband again? He seems to attract a great deal of

opprobrium from you.’ Gabriel Bingham had appeared in

the doorway; he was wearing the Madras shirt and what

seemed to be nothing else. Octavia smiled at him uncertainly.

‘It’s

all right,’ he said, noticing her eyes travelling down

him, ‘I have a very stout pair of boxer shorts on. Nothing to

worry about.’

‘I wasn’t worried,’ she said. ‘I’m making some tea, would

you like a cup?’

‘That would be very nice. I wasn’t asleep anyway, I was

reading. I have trouble sleeping at the best of times.’

‘You do? So do I.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me at all,’ he said, settling down at

the kitchen table, sticking his long legs out in front of him,

crossing them at the ankles. They were, she noticed, very

nice legs.

‘Why doesn’t it surprise you?’

‘You’re not exactly relaxed, are you?’ he said and

grinned at her. ‘I would imagine you spend quite a lot of

every night fretting over the next day, the past day, the present night, and then fretting because you’re not asleep.

An unsettled personality, you have, Mrs Fleming.’

She was feeling extremely unsettled at that precise

moment; unsettled by Gabriel, unsettled by Tom and

unsettled by something else, and she couldn’t think what. It

kept happening, that: why, what was it?

‘Still, it’s very attractive,’ he said. ‘It’s all part of what I

was talking about earlier. You being sexy. Of course,

serenity can be sexy. There’s a certain kind that is. But it’s

very rare.’

She said nothing.

‘Anyway, I prefer your brand. Of sexiness, I mean.’

‘Good,’ she said lightly. She didn’t know how to react to

him at all. She never did; he had her emotionally

disadvantaged all the time. The last thing in the world she

wanted to appear was over-eager, a sex-starved deserted

wife; on the other hand, she didn’t want to appear cold,

frigid even. She had been slightly taken aback when he had

gone up to bed, having accepted the logic of staying, after

two large glasses of whisky and three of wine, with nothing

more than a brief good night; it had been one of the reasons

for her sleeplessness.

She smiled brightly. ‘Well, I might be getting back to

bed. I’m quite tired.’

‘Yes,’ he said, after a short silence, and his voice quite

different suddenly, almost cold, ‘that’s probably a good

idea.’

His eyes were distant, almost hard.

She felt a sudden rush of courage. ‘Gabriel—’

‘Yes?’ But the voice was still cold, detached.

She turned away, feeling foolish: terrified that he might

think she was propositioning him. ‘Nothing,’ she said,

‘sorry.’

‘I think it’s I who should be saying sorry.’

‘What?’ She looked at him in genuine astonishment.

‘What for?’

‘For so clearly embarrassing you. Obviously I’ve been in politics too long, grown a second skin. You’ve made it perfectly plain, several times, that you don’t find me in the

least attractive, and I’ve just gone on and on, making

ludicrous remarks—’

‘Gabriel, that is nonsense.’

‘I don’t think so,’ he said heavily. ‘I really don’t. You cry,