Almost a Crime (67 page)

‘With you, I expect. And she does come to the sessions.

But she hardly says a word.’

‘Not formed any relationships?’

‘No. None.’

‘What impression did you get of the husband when he

came?’

‘He seemed very nice. And the little boy was sweet. She

obviously adores him.’

‘Yes. Well, she insists the marriage isn’t a problem, says

they’re very happy.’

‘I think that’s probably true. He’s obviously very upset,

poor man. I think it’s a simple case of everything being too

much for her. The cot death, her mother’s death, then this

miscarriage. Poor woman.’

‘Yes. Yes, I daresay. I still haven’t managed to get her to

talk about the baby. She shies away from it. I’ll try again

soon. I’ll talk to the husband, too. It may be he’s not as

supportive as she claims. Bit bluff, isn’t he? Army type.

Probably none too sensitive.’

‘Probably,’ said the nurse.

It went very well, she thought. Oliver Nichols had seemed

to like Tom; they virtually ignored her for the final hour.

She didn’t mind that, just sat watching them, smiling

indulgently at them from time to time. They emerged into

the sunshine together after three. The river had a holiday

look to it, studded with small craft, and to their left Tower

Bridge’s Meccano-like structures rose from the blue water.

Lauren put her arm through both theirs, smiled up at

them. ‘It’s lovely here, isn’t it? Sad to leave. Now, I have a

cab waiting. Either of you want a lift to the West End?’

‘Not me,’ said Oliver, ‘back to the City.’

‘I’m going to Westminster, I’m afraid,’ said Tom. Rather

hastily, she thought.

‘I call that West End. I can drop you off. I have some

heavy shopping to do after that. We’re off to Tuscany in a week.’

‘How marvellous,’ said Tom.

‘I wish I was coming with you,’ said Oliver.

‘I wish you were coming with us, too, Oliver. And you,

Tom. What are your plans for the summer?’

‘We don’t really have any,’ said Tom quickly.

‘That’s a shame. Camilla would adore to be with Poppy.

No one of her age going. Now if you brought her

‘Well…’

‘Look, you two, I’ll leave you discussing your holiday

arrangements. I’ve got work to do. Tom, I’ll be in touch.

You’ve given me lots to think about.’

In one of those quirks of fate that reveal her determination

to interfere with the affairs of men, Oliver Nichols went to

a dinner that night at the Mansion House and found himself

seated at the same table as Felix Miller, whom he had met

several times at other such functions. He told him he had

had lunch only that day ‘with your son-in-law, Tom

Fleming. Nice chap, very impressive.’

‘He’s very good on presentation,’ Felix said, his tone

unenthusiastic.

‘Well, that’s precisely what I’m looking for. Presentation

skills. We had a very pleasant lunch at the Pont de la Tour.’

‘Oh, yes? I’m surprised he could afford it, the company’s

in serious trouble, you know.’

‘Really?’ Nichols looked at him sharply. ‘He didn’t give

me that impression. Anyway, he wasn’t paying, I was. It was

organised by a mutual friend, gorgeous girl, Lauren Bartlett.

Dead ringer for the Princess of Wales. When I left, she and

Tom were climbing into a very cosy-looking taxi, seemed

to be fixing up some holiday together.’

‘A holiday?’ said Felix. ‘Surely not!’

‘Oh, not just the two of them. Some jaunt to a villa.

Their daughters are friends, I believe. Pass that bottle,

would you, good sir. I need some more of its contents

rather badly. Bit of a tough day …’

When Felix got home he was physically sick. He lay awake

most of the night, torn between the desire to inform

Octavia of Tom’s apparently fast-blossoming relationship

with Lauren Bartlett and his plans to go on holiday with

her, and the desire to spare her further pain. In the end, in

the interests of her ultimate good, he decided he should tell

her.

Marianne had also spent a sleepless night: but not unhappily.

She was filled all the time now with a throbbing,

pervading energy; and she lay through the night, alternately

reading and then dozing, tossing on her pillow, smiling

foolishly into the darkness, overwhelmed, invaded by what?

Love? Too early to call it that. Infatuation? That was

more like it. Nico called her half a dozen times a day now,

to tell her she was beautiful, that he adored her, that he

loved her, that he wanted to marry her; That he was buying

the house for her, that he wanted her to look at it again,

make sure it was what she wanted. She tried to dismiss it as

nonsense, told him that of course she wasn’t going to marry

him, he wasn’t to buy anything for her, anything at all, and

certainly not a house, that she was a respectable middle

aged woman, that—

‘Hardly, my darling. Just. Respectable, no. Not with the

things you are capable of. Behind closed doors. What your

children would say I dare not even think.’

‘Don’t,’ said Marianne with a shudder.

She went into her bathroom, took a shower then looked

at her watch. Still only eight. Romilly had her session

today; she was terribly jumpy about it. They had to be at

the studio at ten: Marianne had insisted on going too.

Romilly had complained vociferously; called her neurotic,

over-protective, mad, tears welling in her great green eyes.

This whole thing had brought on a very acute attack of

adolescence; she had been so level and easy before. Finally,

Marianne had said she would stay for a while until things

were under way and then go shopping.

She would wake her soon; she would want to spend

hours getting ready. Marianne made a cup of tea and took it

up to Romilly’s room. She wasn’t there. The bedclothes

were thrown back, the door wide open; it looked as if she

had rushed out of bed.

She looked down the landing; the door of their

bathroom was shut. Clearly she was already at work on

herself. Marianne put the tea down on the bedside table,

went along to the bathroom.

‘Tea in your room, darling. I’m very impressed you’re

up.’

Silence.

She tried again. ‘Rom? You in there?’

‘Yes.’ Her voice sounded odd, rather weak.

‘Darling? You all right?’

‘Yes, I’m fine. Thanks.’

‘Well, see you in a bit. I’ll be downstairs.’

Another silence.

Romilly finally emerged from the bathroom rather shakily

ten minutes later. She’d obviously overdone it with the

pills. It had been agony; she’d been on the loo what felt like

half the night. Horrible cramps, going on and on. But — no

period. It wasn’t fair. God, it wasn’t fair. She got dressed

slowly, had to sit down from time to time. Once she

thought she was going to faint. She felt terribly thirsty;

surely it would be all right to have something to drink. She

just wouldn’t eat anything; not until after the session. It

would get her stomach going again, sticking out. Oh, God,

why wouldn’t it come, why?

‘You’re looking much better anyway,’ said Dr Brandon.

Louise said nothing, just smiled.

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Better,’ she said dutifully. She was beginning to enjoy

this game a lot; it was indeed making her feel better. Telling

them what she wanted to; painting her own view. Much

better than the stupid Prozac, which didn’t seem to make

any difference at all.

‘I’d like to talk to you some more about your husband

…’ he said.

‘Yes?’ This was the bit of the game she enjoyed most.

‘Now, you’ve been married — what?’

‘Seven years.’

‘Yes. And always been happy?’

‘Very happy.’

‘Louise, there’s one thing that puzzles me a bit.’

‘Yes?’

‘I understand your husband had a vasectomy? Why did

he do that?’

She shrugged. ‘We didn’t want any more children.’

‘Even though the baby had died? You didn’t want to try

again?’

‘It was before that,’ said Louise quickly.

‘Before she died?’

‘Yes.’

‘I see. They must have got the dates confused.’

She fixed her large blue eyes on him. ‘Please, Dr

Brandon.’

‘Sorry. We’ll leave that for now. Anyway, he was happy

to have the vasectomy?’

‘Oh, yes. Very happy.’

‘I see. But you became pregnant?’

‘Yes.’

‘How did that happen, do you think?’

She smiled at him. She knew he liked her, was interested

not only by her, but in her. Looking at the other patients, it was pretty obvious he would. ‘The usual way. Obviously.

Vasectomies do fail, don’t they? I can’t be the first person

it’s happened to.’

‘No,’ he said, ‘no, of course you’re not.’

‘Romilly, hallo. Come in. And Mrs Muirhead. It’s so nice

you came too.’ Serena smiled at them across the studio

reception area. ‘Now, I think you know everyone. Except

the photographer. Here he is: the great great man himself.

Straight from the pages of Vanity Fair and American Harper’s. Alix Stefanidis.’

Romilly had seen pictures of him with some of his

subjects in Vanity Fair. He’d photographed them all, Nicole

Kidman, Cindy Crawford, Naomi, the Princess of Wales

… He was tall, blond, impossibly handsome, with brown

eyes and a hundred-volt smile.

He bowed slightly over Marianne’s hand as he shook it,

then turned to Romilly, took hers. ‘So you are the famous

new face-to-be,’ he said, smiling. ‘How very very lucky for

me, to be the first to work with you.’ His accent was

middle-European-American; his voice was throaty, fairly

light.

Romilly smiled uncertainly up at him.

‘Well,’ he said, turning to Serena and Donna, who were

sitting side by side on a reception sofa, ‘she’s so much

prettier than you said. Wonderful eyes. And that skin!’

‘I’ve got a spot,’ said Romilly abruptly. Everyone

laughed; she felt like crying.

After they had had coffee, Alix Stefanidis said, ‘Well,

little baby, I’d like to get going. Just work around a little,

get you used to the camera, to me, let me get used to you.

These are just for us. Our own special pictures.’

Romilly smiled at him rather uncertainly; she wasn’t sure

she liked being called ‘little baby’, but she supposed it was

partly him being foreign.

‘Fine,’ she said.

‘Let’s go, then. Follow me.’

‘Ritz, when shall I come back for Romilly?’ said

Marianne.

‘Oh, I don’t know. Can we put her in a cab when it’s

time to -go home? Alix may take all day or he may take an

hour.’

‘Well — look, Romilly, I have my mobile. Call me if you

want me.’

‘Mum! I think I can sit in a cab on my own. I’ll see you

at home.’

Afterwards, Marianne realised it was the first time

Romilly had not called her the babyish, dutiful ‘Mummy’.

Being photographed by Alix was rather different from being

photographed by Jonty.

It started all right; he set her down on a stool on the

background paper, told her to relax, to smile, to think, to

look around, and then did some polaroids which he studied

for a long time in silence by the window. She looked at him

anxiously, waiting for a reaction; finally he threw them all

on the floor and turned back to her, smiling rather

remotely. His assistant, Tang, a Japanese boy dressed

entirely in black, picked the pictures up and carried them

reverently over to a low table where he set them very

precisely in neat rows.

Romilly began to feel rather edgy. She also felt the

opposite of someone who was about to be the latest famous

face; she had no make-up on, she had expected someone to

do that for her, and at least to brush her hair out, all she had

done was wash it. She knew she was pale, and she was

miserable about the spot. And she still felt a bit odd.

Alix worked much more silently than Jonty, played

music she couldn’t recognise, and apart from issuing

increasingly abrupt instructions, hardly spoke to her,

occasionally having intense little exchanges with Tang in

which Romilly presumed to be Japanese while they both

stared at her.

After half an hour, he turned to Ritz and Serena and told

them to leave. ‘None of us can concentrate with you all

here. Donna, you stay for a little while, I want to go

through those layouts again.’

Ritz stood up reluctantly. ‘You okay, Romilly?’

‘Yes. Yes, I’m fine. Really I am. Could I just go to the

loo?’

‘Of course. You should have asked before.’

She sat there for a few minutes, taking deep breaths. Her

tummy still ached, and she felt very nervous.

When she came out, Serena was waiting. She smiled at her, gave her a brief hug. ‘Are you really all right?’

‘Yes. Yes, I think so. He’s a bit scary. So — grand.’

‘Romilly, darling, let me tell you a little secret about Mr

Stefanidis. He was born in a slum in Athens, he only went

to school for about three years, and he still has table