Almost a Crime (96 page)

him; other years, another life, she would have done so before anyone else. It had always been one of the good things about their relationship, the other’s valuable,

informed opinion, always available, criss-crossing their

personal and professional lives. She would miss that. Well, it

hadn’t gone yet…

‘I’ll ask him,’ she said.

Tom, clearly pleased to be asked, said he thought they

should go ahead. ‘Clearly not if it was the Saturday, of

course. I mean, they’re cancelling football matches, for God’s sake, and the supermarkets are shutting in the morning. But - Sunday. Not ideal in some ways, but

people will be pleased, I reckon, to have something to do

by then. They’ll be sated with the stuff. I think you’ll get a

good turnout.’

‘Thanks,’ said Octavia.

‘You in tonight?’

‘No. No, I’m not. I’d be quite late.’

She had a meeting with Melanie; and then she thought

she would sit in the office and fill in Fiona’s form. Because

it was easier there. Less interruptions. And when she’d done

it, when it was more — formal, she would find it easier to

tell Tom.

‘Pity. I wanted to have a chat. And you wanted to talk to

me about something, didn’t you?’

‘Oh - yes. But not tonight, I don’t think. Sorry.’

She put the phone down.

‘Darling, you look tired. I hope you’re not doing too

much.’

‘No, of course not. I’m fine. It’s just a bit of a strain,

getting back to real life. And I can’t sleep very well.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Oh - don’t know. The pills, maybe.’

How could she tell her father, of all people, she had lain

awake for hours angry, raging even; that she had gone to

Sandy on two nights now, had got into bed beside him, had

tried to arouse him, had used all the means she knew,

pressing her naked body against his, using her hands, her

mouth, even her voice, all quite uselessly: he had rejected

her totally, had tried at first to make a joke of it, to say no,

no, she mustn’t waste her energies on him; then, when she

persisted, had finally turned from her, saying in that tired,

distant voice she was coming to know so well, ‘Louise,

please. Please leave me alone.’

She had left swiftly, hurrying along the corridor, arms

crossed over her breasts, feeling horribly, vulnerably undesirable,

ugly even, feeling that no one must see, must

know — absurd, for who could? — back to her own room and lain there, weeping first sad, then angry tears, had lain

masturbating wretchedly, trying to rid herself of the aching

hungry desire, and then finally slept fitfully, only to wake

and remember, freshly humiliated …

“Well, you’ll settle down, I’m sure,’ her father said. I

thought we might go out for lunch, you and Dickon and I,

give Sandy a chance to do some work.’

‘Oh - yes, all right. Good idea.’

It was Wednesday; the mood was growing ugly now, the

tabloids taking it upon themselves to speak for the nation,

whipping up a mood of anger that the Royal Family were

staying in Balmoral, not coming to grieve publicly in

London, as (again) the tabloids felt they should. Pictures of

the mountains of flowers filled the papers; the flowers and

the sobbing public. It was all very sombre; it did not help

Louise’s mood.

She sat studying the Daily Mail in the pub garden, as her

father ordered the food, thinking about Diana, about her

rejection by her husband and her lover. Well, Diana had

taken her revenge; it was different from the one Louise was

planning, but revenge it had been just the same, blackening

Charles’ name and his image, talking on television about

how James Hewitt had let her down. It had helped her

most clearly it had helped her.

‘I wondered,’ she said, lightly, to her father when he

came back, ‘if I could possibly come over on Saturday some

time, stay the night?’

‘Darling, of course you can. That would be lovely. Will

you all come?’

‘No, no, just me. Sandy and Dickon are going off early

on Sunday morning, to this charity car race day. I don’t

want to be left alone.’

‘Why don’t you go too?’

‘Bit too much, I think. Long drive. No, I’d rather stay

with you.’

‘I wish you would come,’ said Dickon. ‘Everyone’s going.

The twins, and some new friends of the twins, that they

went on holiday with.’

‘And what about Minty?’

‘Oh, yes, she’s going. They’ve got her a special pram

thing, an old one. Poppy told me last night.’

‘And the twins’ mummy and — and daddy?’

Yes. All of them.’

So Tom had had his cake and eaten it; he and Octavia

were still together, still there in their perfect marriage with

their perfect family. Octavia was still no doubt being made

love to; not rejected, not creeping away, humiliated in the

middle of the night. Octavia had still got a baby, too …

‘It’ll be so fun. I wish you’d come.’

‘No, darling, not this time. I’ll get too tired. Next time,

maybe.’

‘All right,’ said Dickon with a sigh.

‘How extremely - liberal you are,’ said Louise to Sandy that

night.

‘Sorry?’

‘Going to this thing on Sunday. Octavia’s charity day.

Won’t you feel a little - what shall we say? Uncomfortable?’

‘I hope not,’ said Sandy. ‘And Octavia has been very

kind to me.’

‘Yes, so I keep hearing. And Mrs David, is she going?’

‘No. It’s too far for Megan.’

‘And how did you feel when you have to make polite

conversation about the weather with Tom?’

‘Tom’s not going.’

‘Yes, he is. You can ask Dickon if you don’t believe me.’

‘Oh. Oh, I see,’ said Sandy. He was silent for a while;

then he said, ‘I think I’ll just go upstairs, do a bit of work

before I go to bed. If you’ll excuse me. Leave this, I’ll clear

it up.’

After he had gone, Louise went into the sitting room, to

see what was on television. Predictably, there was a great

deal of stuff about Diana. With two days to go before the

funeral, the Royal Family had come down from Balmoral

and the Queen was to broadcast to the nation. The attitude of the tabloid press was softening; Charles had appeared

with the boys at the gates of Balmoral, and they had

received nothing but sympathy; Prince Andrew and Prince

Edward had run the gauntlet and done a walkabout in the

Strand, and not been lynched; the final details of a funeral

on a scale as impressive as Churchill’s were being put in

place.

Louise watched it for a while and then decided she

wanted some chocolate. Since she had been — ill, she had

had a craving for chocolate; it soothed and comforted her in

a way she would never have believed. She went to the

cupboard, but there was none there. Damn. She’d eaten it

all. She’d have to go and get some more. The corner shop

would still be open.

She picked up her purse, but it was empty. Never mind,

Sandy always had cash. His wallet was lying on the kitchen

table; she rummaged through it, found a five-pound note.

That would do: that would buy several bars of fruit and nut,

which she liked best.

As she pulled the note out, a photograph came with it;

Louise stared at it. It was of Sandy, Sandy smiling, looking

very happy — happier than she had seen him for a long time — and some woman. Some plain, dreary woman. Pattie David, no doubt. Beaming into the camera, and holding

Sandy’s arm. For God’s sake! How pathetic. How absolutely

pathetic.

‘Louise! Louise, I—’

She turned round; he saw her, saw her holding the

picture.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘my goodness, Sandy. How sweet. The

minute my back was turned. A new girlfriend. Bit plain.

But then she probably won’t give you the run around. You

might be able to hang on to this one. I don’t suppose she’s

very experienced in the bed department.’

Sandy flushed, a very deep dark red. ‘Please give me

that,’ he said quietly.

‘Of course. You can put it under your pillow. Well, no wonder you can’t cope with me, Sandy. Not a lot of it left, I don’t suppose. You never were exactly overburdened

with testosterone.’

‘Shut up,’ said Sandy. ‘Just shut up, will you?’

She said nothing, just leaned on the kitchen table,

looking at the picture, then at him, smiling. ‘I really do

hand it to you, Sandy. You didn’t waste much time. Of

course she must be pretty lonely, pretty frustrated. Easy

pickings, I suppose.’

‘Louise—’ He walked over to her, and raised his hand;

for one minute she thought he was going to hit her. Then

he simply grabbed her wrist and took the picture, and

stalked out of the room, without another word. Louise

stared after him, feeling very sick.

Two men had appeared on the other side of the valley;

Lucilla could see them through her binoculars. If her late

husband Douglas, who had used them for his birdwatching,

only knew how useful those binoculars of his were proving

now! The men had what looked like a camera, set up on a

tripod. No, that wasn’t a tripod, Lucilla thought wretchedly,

she knew exactly what it was; it was a surveyor’s

instrument, and they weren’t taking photographs, they

were studying the pitch of the valley, how best to plan their

assault on it, where to park their vehicles, their chainsaws, their diggers, which trees to hack down first, which foundations to sink into which slaughtered piece of

woodland. The picture blurred through her binoculars; she

set them down and wiped her eyes. Those harmless-looking

men, with their quiet innocent-looking instrument, foreran

chaos and noise and destruction. Those men were not

harmless at all.

‘Sandy? Sandy, hallo, it’s Megan. I wondered if you’d heard

I about - well, about anything?’ I ‘No, Megan, I’m afraid not.’

He sounded slightly impatient. She felt hurt.

‘Oh. Well, all right. Lucilla’s getting the reporter up to

the house tomorrow. I thought you might — might like to come.’

‘Megan, I’m sorry, I would come if I could. You know I

would. Is Lucilla very upset?’

‘Terribly. She says she’s going to chain herself to the

trees. In the wood.’

‘Good for her. You going to join her?’

“Course. Her friend Nora might, but she’s a bit feeble.

We were talking to her on Sunday as well. She can’t sleep

because of the bats, which doesn’t help.’

There was a long silence: then ‘Bats?’ said Sandy, and his

voice was quite different suddenly, excited, not irritable at

all. ‘Did you say bats, Megan?’

Megan said yes, she had said bats. ‘They’re in the roof of

Battles House. So sweet, I saw one of them on Sunday.’

‘God,’ said Sandy. ‘Bats. Good God.’

‘Now who is acting for your husband?’ said Fiona Michael.

‘In the divorce petition?’

‘Oh. Yes. Well, I’m not sure. Actually.’

‘Mrs Fleming—’

‘Please, call me Octavia.’

‘Thank you. Octavia, you have told him now, I hope.’

‘Oh. Oh, he does know. Yes.’

‘And what was his reaction?’

‘Oh, I think — that is, of course he’s not stupid.’

‘I’m pleased to hear that,’ said Fiona Michael.

‘Sandy? Thank you for ringing. Now is this really really

true? Pattie phoned me earlier, told me. It sounded like a

fairy story to me.’

‘Not a fairy story at all, Octavia. No. No, I think we’ve you’ve got them. Stopped them pulling the house down anyway. And from what Pattie said, that means they can’t

proceed with the development.’

‘She says she’s been talking to the local paper. They’re on

their way to see Lucilla now. To interview her about her

little friends, as she calls them. Friends indeed. Who’d have thought it? Pattie sounded over the moon, you should have heard her.’

‘I’d like to,’ said Sandy.

‘Well — call her. She’d love to hear from you. She’s so

grateful.’

‘It’s a bit — difficult,’ said Sandy, ‘just at the moment.’

‘Oh, of course. How stupid. How — how is Louise?’

‘Oh, she’s coming along. You know. Tired. But - yes,

definitely better.’

‘Good.’ Octavia’s voice was brisk; he heard her carefully

change tack. ‘Sandy, you are an absolute hero. We’re all just

thrilled. Hopefully you’ll get loads of publicity in the local

papers, do your business no end of good. Now look, you

are still coming on Sunday, aren’t you?’

‘No. No, I don’t think I will after all,’ said Sandy.

‘Why not?’

‘Because I heard that — that Tom was going. I really don’t

think—’

‘Oh, Sandy! Oh, God, I hadn’t thought. I’m so sorry.

How stupid of me. But of course I see. Oh, dear, Dickon

will be so disappointed.’

“I know. I wondered — well, if you could take him with

you.’

‘We’d love to. Can you get him up here? He’ll have to

come with Tom and the children. I have to be down at

Brands Hatch by nine at the latest, I’ve got stalls to set up,

banners to hang, all sorts of glamorous things …”

‘Yes, of course. Thanks, Octavia.’

‘No, thank you. You’re the hero of the hour. The story

will be out on Saturday. I can’t wait.’