Almost a Crime (111 page)

to him. Marianne, on the other hand, spent a great deal of

the day saying goodbye to him. And all the other things that

one wants to say on such an occasion. Clearing up

misunderstandings, righting wrongs. Lucky her. No distress

due for her, as far as I can see.’

‘Octavia—’

‘And if you hadn’t had an affair with Marianne, Nico, if

you hadn’t persuaded her away from my father, then he

would probably have been with us yesterday. Have you

thought of that?’

‘Yes, actually, I have,’ said Nico Cadogan quietly. ‘And

that is one reason why I do feel distressed.’

‘Well, how very unfortunate. Were you coerced into

your relationship with Marianne? Was it somehow rather

less voluntary than I had imagined?’

There was no reply. Octavia suddenly realised the twins

were standing at the door to the study, listening to her conversation, goggled eyed.

‘Look,’ she said, ‘I have to go now. Please tell Marianne I

really don’t want to have any kind of communication with

her. About my father or indeed anything else. Goodbye,

Mr Cadogan.’

She was rather pleased with that ‘Mr Cadogan’. Childishly

pleased. She put the phone down feeling much better

altogether. For about five minutes. Then she found herself

crying helplessly again and little Poppy sitting with her arm

round her, saying, ‘Poor Mummy, I was thinking about

you today, you’re an orphan now, aren’t you?’

‘Well, you must be feeling pretty good,’ said Bob Macintosh,

raising his glass to Tom. They were sitting in the

River Room at the Savoy, by the window; outside,

hundreds, thousands of lights reflected in the water broke

up the darkness. Normally Tom loved that view, the

graceful timeless shape of the river studded with all the

uncompromising, contradictory styles of the buildings; the

curving dome of the Festival Hall, the stark hump of the

National Theatre, the tall, fairgrounds, Oxo Tower.

Tonight the whole thing seemed pointless, not worth

looking at; he” might have been underground for all he

cared. He would rather be underground. Several feet.

He looked at Bob. ‘Sorry?’

‘I said you must be feeling pretty good. About things.’

‘Well — yes. Yes, in a way,’ he said carefully. He had

given up even trying to work out what or how he felt, so

swiftly had relief and euphoria been replaced by hurt and

confusion.

‘How is Octavia?’

‘Oh, pretty upset about her father, you know,’ said Tom.

‘Of course. Of course. She was very fond of him, wasn’t

she?’

‘Very fond, yes. Very close.’

‘Dreadful, both things happening on the same day.

Anyway - at least the baby was safe. What a nightmare that

must have been.’

‘It was. Yes.’

‘So — I should think you both need a good holiday, don’t

you? For all sorts of reasons. Got anything planned?’

‘No,’ said Tom. ‘No, not really.’

Bob looked at him. ‘Er — forgive me, but things are

better between you two now, aren’t they? I kind of got that

impression. None of my business of course, but—’

‘Of course it’s your business, Bob,’ said Tom. ‘I seem to

remember bending your ear with the sordid details for

hours and hours only a very few weeks ago. Lying beside

you right through the night, wasn’t I?’

‘Well, what are friends for? Anyway, it is all right now, is

it, between the two of you?’

‘No,’ said Tom, ‘no, as a matter of fact, Bob, it isn’t. As a

matter of fact, Octavia and I are — well, we’ve agreed to get

a divorce. I’m afraid there really doesn’t seem to be an

alternative.’

‘I’ve got to talk to her,’ said Marianne, ‘I’ve got to. It’s so

important. Nico, what am I going to do?’

‘Maybe you could write to her,’ said Nico.

Marianne stared at him. ‘That’s a very good idea. Why

didn’t I think of that? Only thing is, she might just tear it

up.’

‘She might not. It’s worth a try. It’s as good as you’re

going to get at the moment anyway.’

‘Yes,’ said Marianne, ‘yes, you’re right. I’ll give it a try.

Nico, what would I do without you?’

‘For the time being at least, my darling, you’re not going

to find out.’

She smiled at him rather weakly. She couldn’t think how

she would have got through the past twenty-four hours

without him. It was extraordinary.

Octavia had just come downstairs after watching the first

half-hour of Aladdin with the twins, when there was a ring

at the doorbell. Damn. Couldn’t be the press, the last journalist had left that morning, having finally been

persuaded by Tom that there was no more story, no point

in staying. Maybe it was one of those wretched young

people trying to persuade her to buy a bunch of dusters for

some monstrous amount of money. She always found it

very hard to refuse, tried to imagine how she would feel in

ten years’ time, if Gideon had run away from home and was

living on the streets, and some rich bitch refused so much as

to listen to his sales pitch. She had a vast collection of the

dusters, which were all thin and useless, and the tea towels,

which shrank hopelessly when you washed them.

She peered through the stained glass of the door, trying

to make out who it was. She couldn’t see anyone; moved

on, thank God.

The bell went again. Go on. You got Minty back,

Octavia, surely you can spare a fiver. She opened the door.

‘Look, I really don’t—’

It wasn’t a homeless teenager: it was one with several

homes. It was Zoe’. ‘Don’t turn me away, Octavia,’ she said,

‘please don’t. Just because you’re upset with Mum.’

‘Zoe, if she’s—’

‘She hasn’t sent me. I swear. She doesn’t know I’m here.

Nobody does.’

‘So

‘So I’ve come to ask you to see her. I can see how bad

you must feel about her.’

‘Can you?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Zoe, sounding surprised that she

should say such a thing. ‘She was there with your dad when

you should have been. God, I’d be upset.’

‘I think you’d better come in,’ said Octavia. She had felt

as if she had been travelling through some foreign country

where nobody understood a word she said ever since her

father had died, and now here was Zoe, who seemed to be

able to act as interpreter.

‘Thanks,’ said Zoe and followed her into the house.

Marianne was just beginning the third draft of her letter to

Octavia when Zoe appeared in the doorway.

‘Mum—’

‘Oh, hallo, darling. I thought you’d gone out.’

‘I did. But I’m back now. Anyway, I thought you might

like to know—’

‘Zoe, darling, not now. I’m terribly busy, I’m trying to

do something very difficult.’

‘But, Mum—’

‘Zoe, please.’

‘It’s not Zoe who’s here to bother you, Marianne. It’s

me,’ said Octavia.

‘I was just writing you a letter. Or rather, trying to,’ said

Marianne.

They were in the morning room, looking at each other

warily over a jug of rather strong coffee that Zoe had

brought in.

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

‘About my father?’

‘Yes. Well, you wouldn’t talk to me and

‘I’m - sorry if I was rude,’ said Octavia, with great

difficulty. ‘I’ve been feeling rather upset.’

‘Octavia, it’s all right. Of course you’re upset. I think I

understood. Not all of it, but - well, look. We don’t want

to get too embroiled in guilt and remorse. Either of us. The

important thing is something your father said to me. When

he -just before he died.’

‘Oh, yes?’ said Octavia politely. ‘Do please tell me about

it.’ A casual visitor might have assumed she was inviting

information about a holiday venue or a good place to buy a

new hat.

‘He said to tell you

Yes?’ She felt terrified. As terrified as when she had

opened the caravan door, fearing for what she might find

inside. As terrified as when she had stood, staring at Anna’s

handkerchiefs. She cleared her throat, swallowed, took a sip

of coffee, then wondered if it might have been mistake, if she was going to throw up. ‘What did he want you to tell

me, Marianne?’

That she had been a disappointment to him? That he was

dying broken hearted because she hadn’t been there? That

he would never forgive her for marrying Tom?

‘He said - well, he said to tell you that Tom loved you.

Very very much.’

‘I’m sorry?’ said Octavia. She felt very hot and sick, and

rather as if she might faint. ‘What did you — did he say?’

‘He said that Tom loved you. Very very much. Those

were his exact words.’

‘Oh. Oh, I see.’

She sat there, staring at Marianne, and the sickness and

the faintness slowly passed. She waited, waited to discover

that hearing those words was an aberration, a fantasy, a

dream even; but that didn’t happen. Everything seemed to

be quite normal, quite real. Marianne continued to sit

there, the coffee continued to be too strong, above their

heads continued the subliminal thump of teenage music.

‘Urn - did he say anything else?’ she said finally. ‘About

Tom, I mean?’

‘No. Or you. He - well, he hadn’t talked much at all.

But - that was what mattered to him. In the end. That you

should know that. You were his only thought, his only

concern.’

‘Yes, I see,’ said Octavia again. So Marianne had not

stolen him from her, he had remained hers. The knowledge

was sweet, healing. ‘Well - thank you, Marianne. Thank

you for telling me. I - I don’t quite know what to make of

it.’

‘No,’ said Marianne. ‘I can see that. Nor could I.’

‘You couldn’t. Does that mean you can now?’

‘No. Not really. Of course. But it seemed to me that something

must have changed his mind. About Tom.

Changed his view of him, that is. Something very radical

indeed.’

‘Yes. Yes, I suppose so. And you — you couldn’t have any

idea? I certainly don’t.’

‘No. But you see how important it was. That you knew.’

‘Yes. Yes, of course. It changes a few things. I mean,

until — until very recently, he regarded Tom as the devil

incarnate. Always did. He was so jealous of him, you see.’

‘Yes, said Marianne with a shadow of a smile, ‘I think I

realised that.’

‘And with the business about — you know — Louise — he

could scarcely even bear to think about him. He did

actually hate him. He thought he was the most disastrous

thing that could ever have happened to me. He was hell

bent on ruining him. In every possible way. Especially my

view of him.’

‘I do know. I knew your father fairly well.’

‘Yes, of course you did.’ She looked at her awkwardly.

‘Marianne, I do realise he took a lot of his - distress over

Tom and me out on you.’

‘Now who on earth told you that? If it was Zoe—’

‘It wasn’t Zoe,’ said Octavia smoothly. ‘Or Nico, if that’s

what you thought. It’s fairly obvious to me. Nobody knew

Daddy better than I did. He could be - difficult.’

‘Just a little,’ said Marianne. Her eyes, suddenly brilliant,

met Octavia’s; her mouth curved upwards in a half smile.

Octavia smiled back at her. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, ‘sorry

I was so hostile. I’m sure you had a lot to put up with. For a

long time.’

‘I did,’ said Marianne with a sigh, ‘but I loved him. For a

long time. Well, until he died.’

‘So - Nico?’

‘Nico comforted me. Distracted me. To an extent, I

think I was in love with him.’ She smiled. ‘Still am. But I

did still feel I belonged with your father. I couldn’t quite

break away from him. Even though in the end it didn’t

make me at all happy. Wasn’t what I needed, any more. Or

even wanted.’

‘I felt much the same at times,’ said Octavia and managed

to smile. ‘But he did inspire — great love.’

‘He did indeed. Great love.’

They were both silent; remembering the love, the

difficult, demanding love. And both freed from it now,

recognising it was time to move on, move away.

‘Marianne,’ said Octavia after a while, ‘what do you

think Tom could possibly have done, what could have

changed Daddy’s mind about him to that extent?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Marianne, ‘but whatever it was, it

must have been pretty astounding.’

‘Well, I’d better try and find out,’ said Octavia. ‘If you’ll

excuse me, Marianne, I have a hot date at the Savoy Hotel.’

‘Tom! Hallo! It’s the hero of the hour. I saw you on telly.

How do you manage to look so handsome, even after

twenty-four hours or something on a cross-country chase?’

It was Lauren; she was holding Drew’s arm, smiling

down at them. She was wearing a scarlet crepe trouser suit.

It beamed, briefly, through the fog of depression that was

enveloping Tom.

‘Hallo, Lauren, Drew,’ he said, just a natural facility, I

suppose. I’m being signed up by GQ any minute now. I

don’t know if you’ve met Bob Macintosh, client of mine.

Bob, Lauren and Drew Bartlett. Old friends.’

Lauren smiled briefly at Bob, clearly not perceiving him