Almost a Crime (10 page)

‘Zoe, yes. I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you. I’ve talked

to my sister; she’s delighted to have her, says she can be

genuinely useful to her, not just be hanging around, folding

up Tshirts.’

‘Marvellous. I think it would be best if the invitation

came from Bella, don’t you? Otherwise she’ll (a) suspect us

of collusion and (b) be much less likely to want to go.’

‘Sure. I’ll tell Bella to call.’

‘There’s something else. Romilly is playing an important

solo in the school concert second week in July. Can you be

sure to be available?’

‘Of course. Well, crises permitting. I’m writing it down

right now. Give her a big hug from me.’

‘I will. If only Marc could come too,’ she said and sighed.

But, Marc was lost somewhere — not literally, as she prayed

earnestly every night — with several friends on a vacational

expedition to Nepal and the Himalayas, and would not

return to civilisation until the summer was over and he

went back to Harvard.

‘Well, there it is. He’s having a marvellous time.’

‘I know, but—’

‘Cut the apron strings, Marianne. I’m always telling you

that.’

He was, but it was easy for him. He saw a lot of Marc

anyway; she hardly ever did these days. And she found that

hard. She and Marc had been so close once; now she came a

poor second in his life, to the long string of leggy blondes

whom he seemed to attract so easily.

‘Anyway, he’s done extraordinarily well in his exams.

Second highest marks in his year. He’ll be heading up this

firm in a couple of decades, no doubt about that.’

‘No doubt,’ said Marianne, hearing an edge in her voice,

hating herself for it. Of course Marc should inherit

Muirhead Templeman, and he was clearly going to be a

brilliant lawyer in his own right. It was just that she

nurtured a dream of having him move to London to take

up a career there. Unlikely, but … Well, you couldn’t

have everything. And she certainly had pretty close to it.

Sandy Trelawny, unlike Marianne Muirhead, had had a bad

day. An order he had been banking on had fallen through,

his rather elderly Volvo had been most uncharacteristically

overheating all the way home from Birmingham, which

would no doubt mean an expensive trip to the garage, and

he had had a rather heavy letter from the bank, expressing

the usual pained surprise that his account had gone over its

agreed limit. He had a throbbing headache, and he had

been looking forward to getting home to Louise and Dickon, his wife and small son, and relaxing in front of the television. They had been away, visiting Louise’s parents for

a couple of days.

Only, as he walked into the house, raising his nose

hopefully for one of the delicious garlicky smells that meant

supper was well on its way, he realised the day was going to

continue on its inexorably unpleasant way. For Louise was

not upstairs bathing four-year-old Dickon, and nor was she

reading to him, as she did on the very good days — in fact,

Dickon was nowhere to be seen. Nor was she in the

kitchen, creating the delicious garlicky smell that would be supper as she did on the fair to middling days. She was

sitting in front of the television, watching Neighbours.

Neighbours days were the worst - no, not quite the worst;

Oprah Winfrey and Ricki Lake days were the very worst. If

he found Louise sitting gazing mesmerised into the riff

raffish evangelism of those programmes, he knew things

were going to be very terrible. Not that there had been

many of those days lately, or even a Neighbours one. But

there was one now.

Sandy braced himself physically, a reflex reaction from

his army days, took a deep breath and forced a cheerfulness

into his voice. ‘Darling! Hallo! Lovely to have you home.

How was your mum? I’ve missed you.’

Louise turned her face to him; it was white, her eyes

swollen with crying. Sandy was shocked, almost fearful. She

hadn’t looked as bad as that for a long time.

‘Darling, whatever’s the matter?’

‘It’s Mummy,’ she said, her voice shaky, raw with grief,

totally devoid of its lovely musical huskiness. ‘She’s got

cancer, Sandy. She’s probably going to — to die.’

And Sandy, staring at her in horror, felt a pang of

absolute panic, not only at the thought of losing Anna

Madison, so lovely, so young still, a source of such wisdom

and strength and so very dear to him, but at what the

dealing of this new blow would do to Louise. And how he

was going to be able to endure it.

‘Have you talked to Octavia?’ was all he could think of

to say.

‘You look lovely,’ said Tom, ‘and I owe you a big thank

you. You’re wonderful.’

‘What for?’

‘Well, you’ve solved poor Bob’s problem for him. About

the photo shoot, remember?’

‘Of course. What did I say?’

‘That he should use it as a bargaining point.’

‘What, with Maureen?’

‘No, darling, not with Maureen. Something much more

important. You see - ah, Jim. And Susan. How nice. Come

in and sit down. How are you both? Lovely to see you

again. You remember my wife, Octavia, don’t you?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Jim Draper shook Octavia’s hand

vigorously. ‘Very good to see you here, Octavia. Susan was

hoping you’d be able to make it. She wants to talk to you

about your charity work, don’t you, love? Wondered if you

could help her with something, as a matter of fact.’

Octavia’s heart began to sink. The evening was going to

be even longer than she had thought.

The Drapers owned a chain of local freesheet newspapers

and were in the process of acquiring a local radio station.

They were successful and ambitious, and tediously self

congratulating. Susan Draper, Jim told them proudly over

their first drink, had absolute editorial control over all the

papers. ‘She used to be women’s editor of the Eastern

Morning News, a very big job. She was about to come up here to Fleet Street, only she had the misfortune to meet

me.’

‘Well, Fleet Street’s loss was your gain,’ said Tom.

‘Yes, but the loss of her career really hurt her,’ said Jim

Draper, ‘so it’s marvellous she’s been able to pick it up again

now. You’re lucky, Octavia - that never happened to you,

I suppose. Although, as I understand it, you and your

husband work very closely together, rather like ourselves.’

‘Well, not exactly,’ said Octavia carefully, ‘but our paths

do cross quite a bit.’

‘And how does that work exactly?’ said Susan Draper.

‘Oh, it’s a bit complicated.’

‘No, do tell me. It would make a feature for our papers.’

‘That’s a very good idea, love,’ said Jim Draper, beaming

proudly at her, ‘and Susan would do the interview herself she

does that when it’s a really big project. Would help

your business as well, I expect, Octavia, bit of publicity.

What do you think?’

‘That would be a — a very interesting idea,’ said Octavia,

trying to sound enthusiastic.

It was a long evening; the Drapers ate their way through

the menu, insisting on the cheese board as well as the fruit

trolley, and drank a great deal as well. It must be costing

hundreds, thought Octavia, smiling sweetly at Jim Draper

over her iced water and fresh raspberries as he told her how

lucky she was not to put on weight. ‘I have a terrific battle,

don’t I, love?’ he said, crunching into a biscuit ladled with

both butter and Brie.

‘You do, yes. Octavia, you must go to a lot of charity

functions. Have you ever met Princess Diana?’

‘No,’ said Octavia, ‘I never have. Other big names of

course …’

‘Like?’

‘Well, the Duchess of Gloucester is a great favourite of

ours. Princess Anne is wonderful, and—’

‘What I would really like,’ said Susan Draper, leaning

forward and blowing a fog of smoke into Octavia’s face ‘God, I must give this up — what I would really like is to write an article about a big charity bash. Now I wonder if

you could ever see your way to arranging for me to attend

one? And meeting one of those ladies?’

‘It really is rather unlikely,’ said Octavia. There was a

point beyond which she was not prepared to compromise

herself. ‘It’s an unwritten part of the deal that the royals

particularly are given privacy inside the functions. Otherwise,

they just won’t do it. Naturally.’

‘Yes, well, of course I can see that. But I do assure you I

would be extremely discreet. Could you at least think about

it for me?’

‘I will think about it,’ said Octavia, ‘but—’

‘Susan, leave off,’ said Jim Draper unexpectedly. ‘You

mustn’t force Octavia’s hand if she doesn’t want it. She and

Tom have been very cooperative over the feature, and

given us a wonderful evening, and I found all that she had

to tell us about those charity auctions absolutely fascinating.

Privileged information, I’d say, Octavia! Now, Tom, I’ve

been looking at all the stuff you’ve given me about your

company and I must say I’m very impressed. I liked your

partner too, and the executive you say we’d be working

with. All very pleasant people. Now your charges are high,

no doubt about it, but we do need some advice, all this

legislation is very complex, and I’m prepared to go so far as

to say that I would like to see us doing business with you — maybe in three to six months’ time. Can’t be fairer than that, can I? Just have to dot the t’s and cross the i’s with the

rest of my board — that’s the mother-in-law and the cat — no, only joking. Oh, now yes, I could force down another of those brandies, if you twisted my arm

‘My darling you were magnificent,’ said Tom, returning to

the table with a sigh of exhaustion, picking up his brandy

glass swirling it round. ‘It was you who did it really, you

know. Tipped the balance. How can I thank you?’

‘By getting me off the hook with that woman’s

interview,’ said Octavia.

‘Of course I will. No problem. Promise.’

‘And telling me about Bob’s solution. I couldn’t think of

anything else all evening.’

‘Like several others, I hope,’ said Tom. ‘Listen…’

Octavia listened. When he had finished she looked at

him and smiled. ‘And I thought of that? How brilliant.’

‘ We thought of it. And we are brilliant. A brilliant team.

Why don’t you have a drink just for once?’

‘Oh, all right,’ said Octavia. ‘A glass of champagne would

be very nice. And I forgot to tell you, I’ve decided to go

with Michael Carlton’s sponsorship offer. Providing we can

make it work, and I don’t have to compromise myself with

my client too much. I’m still a bit unhappy about that.’

‘Don’t be. It’ll be fine.’

‘I hope so. And I have to tell you, I do worry about his

development.’

‘But why? I don’t understand.’

‘Because you know how much I hate the wrecking of

the countryside.’

‘Octavia! It’s only a few houses. People have to live

somewhere.’

‘Yes, I know, but not in little brick boxes, set down on

the graves of trees. I hate it, and I hate the thought of being,

however slightly, part of it.’

‘Maybe you won’t be,’ he said.

‘You mean he might not get his planning permission?’

‘Well - yes.’

‘I bet he will,’ she said soberly, ‘they always do.’

‘Think we’re going to get that account?’ said Aubrey

Cotterill casually. He and Tom were sitting in the

boardroom, having breakfasted with a couple of fairly

senior civil servants, in order to discuss the possibility of any

real likelihood of a differential in car taxation levels. They

were considering launching a campaign on the subject,

pulling together any of their clients with a vested interest in

the subject; it was the fun side of lobbying, as Tom often

said.

‘Oh, yes. I’m pretty confident,’ said Tom. ‘I had dinner

with the Drapers last night and they more or less committed

themselves. Just a matter of talking the board round, as Jim

Draper put it. I think that mostly means the Drapers

themselves.’

‘Good. We’ve put a lot of money into getting it. Was

Octavia there?’

‘Yes. She was great. I’d say she tipped the balance.’

‘Great. You’re a lucky man, Tom, having her.’

‘I know it,’ said Tom soberly.

‘Apart from her innate instincts for pulling them in,

prospective clients are always so charmed by her and her

own success. Well, I have to say that’s something of a relief.

Or will be when they’ve signed. I’m a cautious old biddy, as

you know.’ He reached for the cigarette box that was on

the table, pulled one out, lit it, inhaled hard.

Tom looked at him thoughtfully. Aubrey was usually the

more relaxed of the two of them, despite a ferocious

intellect. He was a Winchester Scholar, with a First in

Greats, divorced, after a brief, unhappy marriage, rotund,

balding, slightly baby faced, but with immense charm and a

rather surprising success with women; Octavia was very

fond of him.

‘We really do need that account, Tom,’ he said suddenly,