Almost a Crime (43 page)

guy coming, friend of Drew’s, just bought a chain of

chemist shops, looking for someone like Tom as far as I can

make out, to advise him a bit. I told him I knew Tom, and

he seemed interested in meeting him.’

Octavia thought fast. If Tom could get a new client, it

would make everything much better; he’d be on firmer

ground, she’d feel less guilty, and it would be a lot easier to

begin to sort things out.

‘I think that might be rather nice,’ she said. ‘I’ll ring Tom

and ask him if he’s—’

‘Good. About one, then. Really casual, dress comfy.’

Octavia knew what dressing comfy meant at the

Bartletts’; not quite new Armani jeans, last season’s JP Tods,

a slightly washed-out Joseph sweater; and a really casual

lunch for a few old friends meant twenty or so people, all

networking furiously, over a champagne buffet of asparagus,

salmon, carpaccio, wild strawberries .

. . She felt tired just

thinking about it, but she picked up the phone and rang

Tom’s office.

‘Sorry, Octavia, he’s not here. Gone to Birmingham. Big

meeting with Bob Macintosh. All day, till late. Coming

back tomorrow. You could try him there.’

She phoned Bob Macintosh’s secretary, asked if Tom was

with him.

‘I’m not too sure, Mrs Fleming. They had an early lunch,

do you want to speak to Bob?’

‘Oh, yes. If that would be all right.’

Bob Macintosh was friendly, expansive, asked her how

she was. ‘I’m fine,’ said Octavia, ‘thank you. I wonder if I

could possibly speak to Tom. I’m sorry to bother you but

something’s cropped up.’

‘Tom’s gone, love, an hour or so ago. It was only a fairly

quick meeting we had. Said he had another appointment.’

‘I see,’ said Octavia slowly. Misery hit her, cold, solid in

her stomach. She could imagine what the other appointment

was; with Her. So much for it being over. There she’d

been, trying to help him in his bloody business, pushing

clients his way, and all the time he was rushing off to get

into bed with his mistress.

She put the phone down and sat shaking slightly. Well,

she supposed it was no more than she could expect. She

certainly wasn’t going to go to any filthy lunch parties now,

just to further the cause of Fleming Cotterill. She phoned

Lauren, said she was terribly sorry, but Tom was out of

London that weekend; Lauren made a rather halfhearted

attempt at pretending that Octavia would be welcome

without him, and was clearly relieved when she said she

didn’t think she could.

‘The nanny’s away, I’d have to bring the baby.’

‘In that case, it might be better not. Well, see you on Wednesday, Octavia.’

And now the weekend stretched in front of her, empty,

lonely, full of wrenching jealous misery. It wasn’t fair. She

couldn’t even go and spend time with her father, as she

often had on such occasions in the past. It would be much

too difficult. And she didn’t want to see any of their friends,

it would be bound to lead to inquiries, speculation. So it

was just her and the children. And too much time to think.

Unless … On the spur of the moment, she picked up

the phone, dialled Pattie David’s number, said she could come to the meeting, but she’d have the children with her.

Was there any way Pattie could help?

Pattie was thrilled. Yes, of course she could; the twins

were almost Megan’s age, they could all watch a video

together. ‘And then my daily will be in the house, keeping

an eye on Megan — she’d be delighted to look after the

baby.’

‘She’s an awfully good baby,’ said Octavia. ‘Anyway, it

won’t take long, will it? The meeting?’

‘It might,’ said Pattie. ‘There’s never any telling with

these things. And of course with Gabriel Bingham coming …’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Octavia, carefully vague, ‘I’d quite

forgotten he was coming …’

She called Caroline, told her to get the children’s things

packed, and then left a message for Tom saying what she

was planning to do, and that she presumed he would be

staying in London.

She felt much better suddenly; tough, cool, decisive. A

woman on her own, an independent woman, doing what

she wanted, going where she liked, following the causes she

was interested in. Very contemporary. The only flaw in the

whole thing was that Gabriel Bingham would be there,

misinterpreting all her actions, being snide about her

motives. Well, maybe he wouldn’t turn up. You never

knew your luck …

Julie Springer, the young account executive in charge of

press relations at Fleming Cotterill, was feeling rather

pleased with herself. It had been a bit slow in her

department during the last three weeks, so the call from a

journalist on the Independent, asking her who Fleming

Cotterill’s major clients were, was particularly welcome.

She was a very nice girl, clearly well informed on the nature

of the business; she said she was doing a round-up of firms

like Fleming Cotterill, for a big feature on Tony Blair’s first

months in power, and had already talked to the people at

GJW and Fishburn Hedges. She was also more courteous

than most journalists, thanked Julie for her help and warned

her that she might need to ring her again.

‘Just to check a couple more things. Would that be all

right?’

Julie said it would be perfectly all right and put the phone

down, smiling. Tom and Aubrey would be pleased.

Julie decided to follow up the information she had given

her with a letter confirming it. Her last boss had always told

her to do that. She addressed it to the girl, whose name was

Diana Davenport, at the features department at the Independent and took it down to the post room herself to make sure it got the next mailing out.

‘Well, that was very satisfactory, wasn’t it?’ said Gabriel

Bingham. ‘I enjoyed your little trajectory in the direction of

the Newbury bypass. Very ingenious.’

‘That was not ingenious,’ said Octavia irritably. ‘It’s

perfectly true. There is more development, more building

planned now, just because the new road’s there. It’s

dreadful. After all they—’

‘Yes, yes. I was listening. Very intently. Anyway, I hope

your colleagues are going to proceed in an ordered,

professional manner now. Getting seen as a load of green

do-gooders won’t serve them at all well.’

‘I think they — we — know that,’ said Octavia. ‘And

you’ve certainly rammed the point home. Several times.’

‘Inserting it firmly was more what I intended.’

‘It sounded like ramming to me,’ she said.

‘An unattractive word, ramming.’

‘Yes. Quite onomatopoeic, too.’

He looked at her and grinned suddenly. ‘Shall we

continue this extremely intellectual discussion over the half

of bitter I promised you?’

‘Most unfortunately I can’t,’ said Octavia coolly. ‘My

children are at Patricia David’s house. I have to collect them

and go on to the — our cottage.’

‘Ah. So you’ve quite put yourself out to come to this

thing tonight. Very exemplary. Well, I mustn’t stand

between a woman and her maternal duties. What about the

uxorial ones?’

‘What?’

‘Where is your husband? On his way, is he, bombing

down the M4 in a BMW, unleaded petrol obviously, green

wellies and shooting stick in the boot? And a couple of

bottles of vintage port for tomorrow’s dinner party?’

‘No,’ said Octavia, and tears suddenly stung at the back

of her eyes. ‘No, he isn’t, actually. He …’ She heard her

voice wobble, swallowed hard, turned away.

‘I’m sorry.’ The voice was quite different suddenly,

gentle, quieter. ‘Very sorry if I upset you. I didn’t mean to.

I was only teasing you.’

‘Yes,’ she said, still looking away, not trusting herself to

face him. ‘Well, perhaps you should choose your targets

with a bit more care.’

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked. ‘It’s not just what I said, is

it? You’re upset about something else.’

‘No,’ she said firmly, turning, smiling at him rather

distantly. ‘I’m not upset. Now I must go. Excuse me. Pattie,

hi, I’m over here. I really should be getting back to the

children. Do you mind if we go?’

She tried not to, but as she pulled the car door shut, she

glanced up at him; he was standing quite near, staring down at her intently, his expression concerned still, pushing his hand through his wild hair.

‘Sweet man, isn’t he?’ said Pattie, moving off with a

violent jerk.

‘That’s not quite the adjective I’d apply,’ said Octavia.

‘Mummy, there’s a man at the door.’

‘Just coming.’ Octavia had been engrossed in an article about the party

Prince Charles had thrown for Camilla ParkerBowles’

fiftieth birthday; she struggled back to reality, hoping it was

Bill Dunn, come to do the grass. It needed it very badly.

But it wasn’t Bill.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Hallo.’

‘Hallo, Mrs Fleming. Peace offering. It’s not vintage, I’m

afraid, but it is Bollinger.’

‘I can see. Honestly, you really shouldn’t have.’

‘I think I should. I felt rather guilty on Friday night.’

‘Oh, it didn’t matter. Please come in, I was just going to

make a cup of tea. Poppy, this is Mr Bingham. Darling,

would you put the kettle on?’

‘I remember you,’ said Poppy. ‘We met you in that wood.’

‘Not actually in the wood,’ said Gideon, who had

appeared at the door. ‘It was a clearing.’

‘It was a clearing of the wood,’ said Poppy, ‘so—’

‘Poppy, I said could you put the kettle on. Mr Bingham,

please come in.’

‘Mum, Minty’s crying. I heard her from the garden.’

‘Oh, I’ll go and get her. That was a short sleep.’

‘I hadn’t realised family life was so demanding,’ he said.

When she came back, he was following Gideon out of the

door.

‘He’s going to bowl for me,’ said Gideon.

‘Gideon, Mr Bingham hasn’t come all this way to be

dragged straight into a game of cricket.’

‘It’s not a game, it’s just so I can practise my batting. And

he said to call him Gabriel.’

Gabriel Bingham’s eyes met Octavia’s over Gideon’s

head. He smiled at her, then turned and followed Gideon

out into the garden.

‘That was very kind of you,’ she said quite a lot later, as

they sat drinking tea.

‘Not kind at all. I love cricket. Played for my school.’

‘Did you?’ said Gideon, his eyes shining.

‘Yup. First Eleven, actually.’

‘Golly.’

‘My finest hour was when we beat — well, another

school, and I made eighty-nine, not out.’

‘Which other school?’

‘Harrow. Not hard to beat, actually.’

‘And where did you go to school?’ said Gideon

‘Er, Winchester,’ said Gabriel Bingham, avoiding

Octavia’s eye.

‘Winchester and Harrow. What a very egalitarian occasion

it must have been,’ said Octavia mildly. But she smiled

at him; he smiled back.

‘I’m going to Winchester, I hope,’ said Gideon. ‘You

have to be clever to go there, though. What’s your job?’

‘I’m an MP.’

‘Are you? Our daddy knows lots of MPs. Have you met

him?’

‘No.’

‘Mummy, can I fill the paddling pool? It’s so hot,’ said

Poppy. ‘Minty’d like that.’

‘She might not,’ said Gideon.

‘Of course she would.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Gideon, stop it,’ said Octavia, wearily. ‘I agree with

Poppy, Minty probably would like it very much. Now go

and help Poppy get the pool out and fill it, would you?’

‘But, Mum—’

‘Gideon. I mean it. Otherwise, no hamburger on the

way back to London.’

‘I can see you’re a very harsh mother,’ said Gabriel

Bingham.

‘I’m quite strict. Actually,’ said Octavia.

‘Well, they’re very nice children. And this is a very nice

place you’ve got here.’

He looked round; they were sitting on a small paved area

outside the kitchen door, set with a wooden table and

chairs, and marked out by a trellis covered in climbing roses

and honeysuckle. In front of them was the daisy-covered

lawn, bounded by a thick hawthorn hedge, and beyond that

the rolling, tree-studded Somerset landscape.

‘And nice village? Friendly? Do they approve of you?’

‘I think so. I mean, we do try to join in.’

‘Go to the fete, use the shop, all that sort of thing? Very

commendable.’ His eyes were amused, but there was an

edge to his voice.

‘Look,’ she said, ‘it’s very easy for you to sneer. I might

tell you that this cottage had been empty for three years

when we bought it, it was derelict, so—’

‘Calm down,’ he said, smiling. ‘My word, you’re touchy.

I was only teasing you. I’m sure the village are very

fortunate to have you here. Anyway, where is the husband?

I’m beginning to think he doesn’t exist.’

‘He’s working. In London.’

‘I see. Do you often come down here on your own?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said quickly, ‘quite often.’

‘I see.’

There was a silence; then she said, ‘How did you know

where I was, anyway?’

‘I asked the saintly Mrs David.’