Almost a Crime (19 page)

familiar, someone here, someone who might be enjoying the

private knowledge, the shared secret, and she felt so sharply

and freshly hurt, so violently jealous she could have pushed

him backwards off the balcony, down to the courtyard

below.

And then as she stood there, she heard Lauren Bartlett’s

voice: that dangerous sexy voice. ‘Tom! Hello!’ it said, and

then she saw her, looking stunning, horribly stunning, in a

pale blue silk suit and a large cream straw hat. Her blue eyes

were brilliant as she reached up to kiss Tom, and Octavia

watched, miserable, as she whispered something in his ear.

God, she hated women who did that. Hated them, hated them. How dare she stand there, behaving as if she and Tom had something exciting and private to share. Maybe

they did. Maybe She was Lauren. Oh, God, thought

Octavia, I can’t stand this, I really really can’t, and she felt

dizzy suddenly and sick again: and then Lauren saw her,

over Tom’s shoulder, and smiled, waved a cream-gloved

hand.

‘Octavia, hallo. What a marvellous hat. I was hoping I’d

see you. I want to talk to you about Next Generation — maybe we could meet after lunch.’

‘Of course,’ said Octavia, smiling at her with enormous

difficulty, ‘lovely idea.’

And for want of anywhere else to hide, made her way

along to the ladies’ and stood there, staring at herself in the

mirror, realising this was how it was going to be from now

on, everyone under suspicion: the world lopsided, weighed down with this new ugly presence in it.

Half an hour later Octavia felt worse. They were sitting at

lunch. Tom had put her in between Aubrey and Michael

Carlton and misery was making her clumsy; she had already

knocked over her glass of wine, and every time Carlton

spoke to her she felt herself physically jump. Her discovery

felt like an obscene growth somewhere on her body. Had it

really only been this morning, only a few hours ago, she

had made her discovery? The end of life as she knew it, her

successful, carefully controlled life? And what could she

possibly have found to worry about within it? What trivial

obsessions, like her weight, not being able to sleep, the

twins’ arguing?

‘Are you all right, Octavia?’ said Aubrey, refilling her

glass with quiet courtesy; and ‘Are you all right, Octavia?’

said Michael Carlton at almost exactly the same moment.

‘Yes, yes, thank you,’ she said, smiling at Aubrey, and

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ she said slightly less graciously to Carlton.

‘Good,’ Carlton said. ‘You look wonderful, and this is a

marvellous day out. Very good of Tom to invite us. Betty

was over the moon.’

‘I’m so glad you were able to come,’ she said, adding,

carefully dutiful, ‘Betty looks lovely.’

‘Oh, now come on. Not lovely. A bit much, really, those

colours on her. But bless her, she just went out and bought

it all, so what could I do but admire it?’

He was actually, underneath the bluster and the scheming,

she thought, a perfectly nice man, and without doubt a

very nice husband, loyal and supportive. She had to like

him for that.

‘Still upset about that business in the paper yesterday,’ he

said conversationally, loading a roll with butter. ‘Bit

disappointed in Tom — I thought he had the press wrapped

up on this one.’

‘There are some things even Tom can’t do,’ she said

coolly. Like wrap up the press. Like cover up an affair

indefinitely.

‘Yes, well, I pay him to be able to do anything I need.

Anyway, I’m looking forward to our meeting on Friday,’

said Carlton and turned his attention to Nico Cadogan.

She looked at Tom, sitting between Marianne and (most

dutifully) Betty Carlton, a citrus nightmare in lime-green

dress, orange jacket and shoes and a brilliant lemon-yellow

hat. He was laughing heartily at something Betty had said,

refilling her glass: the model host. Bastard! Absolute bastard.

She wanted to smash her own glass, drag the broken pieces

down his smiling, handsome, treacherous face, she wanted

to—

‘Good gracious, Octavia,’ said Betty Carlton, smiling.

‘You looked very fierce then for a moment. Whatever

were you thinking about?’

‘Oh, whether I’d told my secretary something,’ said

Octavia. ‘Sorry!’

‘Well, I’m glad it wasn’t more serious than that. I do

hope you’re enjoying today as much as I am. It really is

wonderful.’

‘I’m glad,’ said Octavia. Betty was so nice: she had made

a great effort to chat to her before lunch, ask her about her

charity work. Betty, who had not appeared to be nervous at

all in spite of Tom’s warning, had said stuff charity, she was

having the time of her life today, didn’t want to think about

anything dreary at all.

‘It doesn’t have to be dreary,’ said Octavia laughing.

‘It does if you’re down to collecting-tins and bring-and

buys,’ said Betty. ‘Which I do gladly, don’t get me wrong,

but fun it isn’t.’

Octavia resolved to ask her up to London for lunch with

the chair of one of her charities. Field workers got so little

appreciation, and it wasn’t fair.

There were fourteen of them in the small room, and it

was very hot, in spite of the french windows opening out

on to the balcony.

‘You look rather pale,’ said Carlton thoughtfully, turning his attention back to her. ‘You sure you’re all right?’

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ she said, trying to sound relaxed, ‘but it is

very hot.’

She caught her father’s eye across the table; he was

looking at her thoughtfully, his eyes anxious. She smiled

quickly, carefully back; the last thing she wanted just now

was an interrogation from him.

Before the pudding, they saw the royal procession

starting on the television. ‘Come on,’ said Aubrey, holding

out his hand to her, ‘let’s get out quickly, get the best view.

I always love this bit, don’t you?”

She took his hand, finding it strangely comforting. ‘Yes, I

do, but I’m surprised you do.’

‘Oh, I’m a great royalist,’ he said. ‘The day they replace

the Queen with a President is the day I leave the country.’

The carriages were in view now, quite near: the Queen

in yellow, smiling — ‘God, she loves this,’ said Aubrey, ‘you

can see that smile from up here’ — the Queen Mother in

lavender, Margaret, Charles, Philip, the Gloucesters, the

Kents.

‘What a shower,’ said Carlton, in her ear. ‘Only one I’ve

got any time for isn’t here.’

‘Diana?’

‘Yeah. I think she’s great. So does Betty, don’t you,

love?’

‘I think she’s lovely,’ said Betty Carlton. ‘And the way

she’s been treated — well! Quite dreadful. Not that I blame

the Queen, she’s a wonderful woman — it’s the rest of them.

Charles should be ashamed of himself, while they were still

on their honeymoon too, she was such a baby …’

And she was off on the well-rehearsed Diana Worshipper’s

Litany; Octavia, who took a slightly dimmer view of

Diana herself, listened with half an ear, wishing she was

anyone, anyone at all except herself, any of those pretty,

well-dressed, happy people who had nothing to worry

about except the racing and their hats. And then saw a

woman in the next box looking at her, smiling at her, and thought probably that was what people saw in her; a pretty, well-dressed woman with nothing to worry about either.

It was the second race; Nico Cadogan shouted, ‘My God,

look at that horse, did you ever see anything like it?’

He’s going to fall over the balcony in a minute, Octavia

thought; he suddenly seemed quite unlike the smooth,

rather controlled creature she had imagined, was more like

a small boy. She smiled and then realised his hand was

resting on Marianne’s back, and felt absurdly like crying,

felt unattractive, undesirable … The horse was indeed

remarkable, pulling ahead as if endowed with some sudden

hidden power — horsepower, thought Octavia through her

misery, how appropriate.

‘Well, that’s Fleming Cotterill safe,’ said Aubrey, grinning.

‘I put next year’s profits on that horse.’

As if he would, thought Octavia, so careful, so cautious.

‘So is my house,’ said Nico Cadogan. ‘God, what an

animal.’

‘Let’s go down to the paddock,’ said Marianne. ‘I love it

down there. Octavia, you coming?’

Octavia nodded. Anything would be preferable to sitting

here, looking down on a thousand women and wondering

if any of them was Her. Tom had disappeared; so had her

father. Nico and Carlton and two other men were now

engrossed in business talk. She looked at Betty Carlton,

who was sitting fanning herself with her race card.

‘Would you like to come, Betty?’ she asked.

‘No, love, if you don’t mind. I’m a bit warm. I’ll just sit

here and have a cup of tea.’

Nobody else wanted to come; Marianne slipped her arm

through Octavia’s and they walked to the lift. ‘You all

right?’ she said suddenly.

‘Yes,’ said Octavia, trying not to sound defensive. ‘Why?’

‘You seem — subdued.’

‘I’m a bit tired. You know. Life and all that.’

‘I do know,’ said Marianne, smiling at her. God, she’s

nice, thought Octavia; I hope my father appreciates her.

They walked in silence through the darkness of the tunnel, out into the brilliance of the paddock, wandered

about, watching the horses being led down for the next

race, watching the people.

‘At last,’ said Marianne, smiling happily, ‘I feel I’m

actually at the races now. It’s marvellous up there, but you

feel very apart from the action, don’t you?’

A line formed suddenly, a corridor of people, and the

royal party walked through it, smiling graciously, on their

way back to the Royal Enclosure, the Queen Mother,

walking slowly, bravely spurning her motorised buggy;

there was a ripple of very polite applause.

They walked over to the Royal Enclosure themselves,

looked in: the atmosphere in there was less frenetic, more

languid, the clothes more monotone, a lot of creams and

beiges and very pale pastels. ‘All thoroughbreds in there,’

said Marianne, laughing. ‘Come on, we’d better get back to

our own paddock.’

They started back. And then Octavia saw Tom: standing

at the entrance to the tunnel, talking very intently to a

woman she had never seen before, very pretty, quite

young, thirty-something, dressed in pale pink silk, with a

tall, pink hat; she was staring up at Tom, and reached up

suddenly and kissed his cheek.

The sick dizziness started again, the panic: she stood there

staring at them, wondering, fearing, tears stinging her eyes.

‘Octavia,’ said Marianne, gently, ‘Octavia, what is it,

what’s the matter?’

‘Nothing,’ she said fiercely. ‘Nothing, honestly.’

‘But you’re crying — it can’t be nothing!’

‘No,’ she said with a deep sigh, trying to calm herself, ‘it

isn’t nothing. It’s quite a lot actually. But I don’t want to

talk about it. Sorry, Marianne. I’m very sorry.’

‘It’s all right,’ said Marianne, taking her arm again,

walking slowly, patently trying to calm her, ‘don’t apologise

to me. I’m just sorry you’re unhappy. I won’t press you.

But - well, if you want to talk, at any time, I’m there. And I

won’t tell your father, if you’d rather I didn’t.’

‘Oh,’ said Octavia, ‘yes, thank you, but it really is

nothing.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it. Oh, Nico, hallo.’

‘I thought I’d like to get a bit nearer some horseflesh,’ he

said, smiling at her, removing his hat, bowing slightly. ‘Care

to take a turn with me? And you, Octavia?’

‘No, really, I think I should be getting back,’ she said.

‘Do my wifely duty. But thank you all the same.’

‘We’ll see you later, then,’ said Marianne and smiled at

her slightly anxiously.

Octavia managed to smile back. She had not really seen

this aspect of Marianne before, this gentle, careful aspect;

she supposed because she had never before let her guard fall

in her presence, had presented her most brittle, confident

self. Possibly — probably, indeed — because of repressed

jealousy of Marianne. She had no recollection of having a

mother; but she thought, in that moment, that if she had,

she would have liked her to be exactly like Marianne. Even

more than Anna Madison.

Anna was watching Ascot on the television with Charles,

and Louise and Dickon, who had come over for the day.

They had set up a racing party in the morning room, where

Anna spent most of her time these days, lying on the chaise

longue. She and Charles had always gone to Ascot; today

she took up what she called a Royal Enclosure seat at home,

and became as excited when the camera panned over the

paddock as when a race was being run. ‘Look,’ she would

say, ‘there’s Bunty Harewood, she’s aged a lot, shouldn’t

have had that eye job,’ or ‘Doesn’t Sarah WadhamBrown

look marvellous, and that husband of hers, just heavenly!’

Charles looked at her thoughtfully; she was a very bad