Almost a Crime (6 page)

particularly anguished, veering between love and gratitude

to her father, and a desire to reassure him that she wanted

him still to be a major part of her life, and loyalty to Tom

and a passionate desire to see him prove himself.

It was an ongoing problem, still unresolved. Felix,

genuinely baffled by what he read as an entirely irrational

pride, genuinely hurt by the continual rejection, took

vengeance in a kind of truculent interference in his

daughter’s personal and family life, and indeed her own

professional conduct, for she, too, had refused to take

money from him, had raised the money for shares in Capital

C from her own bank. Octavia was able to endure it

because she loved Felix so dearly, but it was an endurance,

and getting no easier…

‘Octavia,’ said Felix Miller’s voice now. ‘I really do want to

speak to you. Ring me back, please, whenever you get in.’

Octavia jumped. She had been so lost in the contemplation

of her life that she had not even heard the phone

on her desk ring. She was surprised at herself; she must

have been very disturbed by Michael Carlton’s words. By

the whole complex Carlton issue; the development, her

charity …

She sighed, waited for a while, wishing she could ignore

the instruction, but she knew she couldn’t. The habit of

obedience to her father was impossible to break. She

pressed the button that automatically dialled him. It was

picked up immediately.

‘Felix Miller.’

‘Hi, Dad. Sorry, I was in the loo.’

‘How long have you been home?’

As always, she felt nervy at the inquisition. ‘Not long,’

she said. ‘Why?’

‘Because I left a message with that nanny of yours to ring

me. Didn’t she give it to you?’

‘Yes, Dad, she gave it to me. But I did have a few things to do. I’ve only been in just over an hour. I wanted to see my children, make myself a cup of tea—’

‘Yes, all right.’ He didn’t like those sorts of excuses.

‘Well, as long as you got the message. It was important. Are

you all right? You sound a bit — odd.’

‘I’m fine,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m tired, obviously—’

‘You work too hard,’ he said. ‘It’s ridiculous. Your job’s

all right, I suppose, but not all these out-of-hours things you

do with Tom. He asks too much of you.’

‘Daddy, it’s no more than any wife would do.’

‘Yes, but any wife doesn’t work all the hours God sends

as well.’

‘But that’s my choice. I can’t help it, I seem to need to

work. No prizes for guessing who I get that from.’

‘No, maybe not. Well, how about a good holiday? That

might help. Give you a bit of time with the children.

Maybe you should go alone, without Tom. You could

come and stay with me at the cottage.’ The cottage was an

exquisite small house in Barbados, right on the beach.

‘Daddy, honestly. You’re not exactly subtle.’

‘I don’t pretend to be subtle. It would still do you good.

Think about it.’

‘honestly I can’t. Much too busy.’

‘You really ought to look after yourself. Shortsighted not

to. You’re no good to anyone if you’re exhausted. Anyway,

I want you to get Tom to ring me urgently. Got a possible

project for him.’

‘What’s that?’ she said, knowing she had to ask,

otherwise he would upbraid her for taking no interest in

him, in what he could do for Tom and his company.

‘Oh, colleague of mine. Involved in a big takeover.

Someone’s after his company. He’d like some advice,

wonders whether he can get the Monopolies boys involved.

Name’s Cadogan, nice chap, you’d like him. So anyway, I

suggested he talked to Tom.’

‘Oh, Dad, why don’t you ring Tom yourself, if it’s

urgent?’ she said, exasperation raw in her voice.

‘You know why. He’s so damn touchy, probably tell me once again I was trying to muscle in on his business.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Octavia wearily.

‘I’m not being silly. You know perfectly well that’s quite

likely.’

‘In that case, what difference will it make if I mention it?’

‘Give him a chance to turn it down right away. But ask

him to ring me about it, would you? It could be very big.’

God, he was enraging, thought Octavia. Year after year

this went on, Felix making the simplest, most straightforward

matter tortuously complex. There was no earthly

reason why he shouldn’t have suggested to his friend that he

phoned Tom direct — except that he would have missed yet

another opportunity to let her know that Tom resented any

help he might have given him, and that Felix resented that

in turn.

‘I’m sure Tom would be glad to help if he can. And I will

certainly ask him to ring you. I might not see him tonight

though.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Oh, having dinner with some businessmen. In the City.’

She sighed. Usually she enjoyed her rare evenings alone,

they gave her a chance to catch up on things, but tonight

she wished Tom was there. He was so good at allaying her

anxieties, dismissing her fears.

‘Darling, you do sound down. What’s the matter?’

Suddenly she wanted to tell him about Michael Carlton,

get his reaction, his advice. ‘You’ve got time?’

‘Octavia, of course I’ve got time.’

She told him: about the lack of a sponsor for Cultivate,

about the development, about Carlton’s offer, about the

possible involvement with Foothold.

‘Well, the sponsorship side of things doesn’t sound too

serious. Solves the situation at a stroke, doesn’t it?’ Felix

said, half surprising her. One of the things she loved best

about him was that he was always on the side of absolute

pragmatism — she could trust him to be honest.

‘Yes, but, Dad, it puts me in his pocket. Makes me feel

I’ll have to go along with his horrible development.’

‘Well, it shouldn’t. Make it clear you won’t. If that’s

what he’s after, it’s his problem not yours. As for the other

charity, let them make their own minds up. They’ll

probably hate the idea of his development if it’s on their

own doorstep, but they might not. You don’t have to get

any more involved than that. What does Tom think about

it?’

‘I don’t know. He went straight off to this dinner.’

‘Rather unfair of him, I’d have said,’ said Felix Miller.

‘He shouldn’t expose you to that sort of pressure. He relies

far too much on you. And your good nature. Anyway, is he

beastly, this Carlton man? I think I recognise the name.’

‘Yes, he’s very well known,’ said Octavia, ‘and no, he’s

not beastly, not really. Although obviously ruthless. And

tactless.’

‘Well, you don’t get to be a big property developer by

being over-sensitive. You sound so tired, Octavia. Have an

early night at least. You never relax, don’t see enough of

those children.’

‘Don’t you start,’ said Octavia and put the phone down.

It rang again immediately. ‘Sorry,’ she said and burst into

tears.

‘Octavia, has someone been getting at you? Is Tom—’

‘No,’ she said firmly, ‘no, it’s nothing. I keep telling

you.’

‘All right, we’ll leave it for now. Look, I must go. Work

to do.’

‘And you criticise me for working too hard. How old are

you, Dad?’

‘I’m a very young fifty-nine,’ he said, and she could hear

him smiling. ‘Take care of yourself. Will I see you at the

weekend?’

Octavia hesitated. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘We’ve got

some Americans here, needing entertainment.’

‘Pity. Got some tickets for the ballet. You’d have

enjoyed it. Although you’ve probably seen it already. Manon, superb production, I’m told.’

‘We have,’ said Octavia, ‘but thank you for thinking of

us. And it is a superb production. We saw Sylvie Guillem in

it.’

‘Good. Well, I’m taking Marianne anyway. Maybe her

children will be able to come.’

‘I hope so.’ Marianne was her father’s mistress of a great

many years: she and Octavia enjoyed a rather taut

friendship. ‘Is - is she there now?’

‘No, no, I’m here on my own,’ said Felix. A notional

sigh hung in the air.

There was a silence. Then, ‘Well, good night, Dad,’ she

said. ‘I’ll get Tom to ring you.’

‘Now why did you say that?’ said Marianne Muirhead,

lifting her head from the magazine she was reading, and

looking at Felix with cool green eyes. ‘As if I needed to

ask.’

‘Say what?’ said Felix.

‘That you were on your own. Felix, you are a nightmare.

It’s a miracle poor Octavia isn’t even more of a neurotic

mess with you for a father.’

‘She’s not a neurotic mess!’

‘Of course she is. Well, maybe not a mess, but certainly

neurotic’

‘I would call it highly strung. And it’s the life she leads

that contributes to that, nothing I do.’

‘I would beg to differ. She was obviously upset about

something and the last thing she needed was all that loaded

stuff about her husband. Or to be told you were all alone in

the house, after she’d turned down your invitation to the

ballet. The words “lonely” and “neglected” hanging heavy

in the air. Really, Felix!’

‘Look, I don’t interfere with the way you manage your

children,’ said Felix irritably, pouring himself a large

Scotch, ‘so perhaps you’d be kind enough to allow me to

handle my own.’

Marianne didn’t answer, returned to her magazine. Felix

turned up the stereo; Bruch’s violin concerto filled the

room.

‘Felix, not quite so loud, please. It was perfectly all right

before.’

‘I thought you liked this. You always say it’s one of your

Desert Island Discs.’

‘I do, but not when it precludes all thought.’

‘You’re only reading Vogue, for Christ’s sake. That

doesn’t require much thought.’

Marianne closed her magazine, stood up. ‘I think perhaps

I might go home tonight after all,’ she said. ‘I’m rather

tired.’

‘Oh, don’t be so ridiculous,’ he said irritably. ‘Now

who’s playing games?’

‘Felix, I’m not playing games. I don’t play games. I am

tired, and I don’t find your mood very restful.’

It was true: Marianne didn’t play games. She was an

extraordinarily straightforward woman, coolly intelligent

and self-assured. She was thirty-nine years old, with a pale

blonde beauty, slender, elegant, always perfectly dressed. It

had once been famously said of Marianne Muirhead in an

article in Vogue that she did not follow style, her own

particular version followed her. Neither ultra-fashionably

nor classically dressed, she had evolved a look of her own

over the years that she simply adapted as she felt required to;

a long lean silhouette, a splash of primary colour added

fairly sparingly to black, always high heels, almost always

hats, skirts just above the knee, and a wardrobe that

contained at any one time (also famously) at least thirty

white Tshirts, in every possible fabric and style. She looked

as good on the golf course, which she claimed was her

natural habitat, as she did lunching at Caprice, or on the

floor at a charity ball. Any slight tendency to severity in her

appearance and manner was counteracted by her laugh,

which was loud and exuberant.

She had married Alec Muirhead, a London-based American

lawyer, in 1975 when she was only eighteen. Her own

father had been in the diplomatic service, based for much of his life in Washington, and she was herself half American and,

her only brother was entirely American-based — so she

settled happily into what most Englishwomen would have

found a difficult life. But she had discovered after the birth

of their third child in 1982 that Alec had been unfaithful to

her for years; since he spent at least half his time in New

York, and she had anyway grown to dislike him considerably,

this did not greatly distress her. She had agreed to a

divorce, on the basis of a hugely generous settlement and an

agreement that she should have full custody of the children.

Having obtained both, she surprised everyone by granting

him full access to them, and conducting their separate lives

with good temper and generosity, insisting that they spent

Christmas, Thanksgiving and at least one family holiday

together. Alec, settled now permanently in New York, had

never married again, merely had a long series of ever

younger mistresses, and the Muirhead children had grown

up with a view of marriage that was unconventional but

well balanced. Marianne and the two younger children,

both girls, lived in London; the oldest, Marc, was at the

University of Harvard reading Classics with a view to

following his father into law.

Marianne had met Felix Miller at a fundraising dinner at

the Royal Opera House, of which they were both patrons.

Five years into her divorce, she was ready, if not for love,

for a new relationship, and Felix was the only man she had

met who seemed to her to have the same power and

magnetism as her ex-husband, and, it had to be said, the

same potential for unpleasantness.