Almost a Crime (21 page)

her as much as he had always done. That he clearly did not

was painful, very painful, but she could possibly learn to live

with that. And there was more to a marriage, surely, than

sexual fidelity. There were other things that mattered as much to the stability of the family unit — financial security, social standing, professional success.

The more she thought about it, about this approach, the

more her spirits lifted. Of course it would not be easy, but it

would be easier than the other way. She would tell Tom

that night, tell him what she had discovered and what she

had decided, and he would be bound to do what she said.

Or find himself caught up in a very expensive divorce. He

was so sure of her, of her emotional dependence on him, it

would be quite amusing, pleasing even, to show him she

was not.

She felt odd, almost excited, pain and humiliation gone.

She wasn’t even sure what she felt for Tom any more: it

seemed to be very little. Well, that was good. The less the

better. As for The Woman, whoever She was — well, this

way she could deal with Her. This way she would win.

She got out of the bath, pulled on her robe and went

downstairs again, made herself a cup of herb tea — her head

was spinning quite badly — and went into the family room,

to wait for Tom.

It was after one when Tom came home; Octavia woke

from her slightly drunken, confusing sleep to hear the taxi

chugging in the street. She sat up, pulled her robe round

her, and sat waiting, dry mouthed, for the door to open, for

the confrontation with him and what he had done: she felt

very frightened.

She heard him go up to their room, then along to the

guest room, up to the top floor, and then his footsteps on

the stairs, coming down again, and still she didn’t move.

She couldn’t.

Finally the door opened, and he looked in, saw her; he

was clearly exhausted. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

‘I didn’t want to see you,’ she said with simple truth,

sitting up, staring at him, breathing rather hard.

‘Why not?’ he said. ‘Why the hell not? And what the hell

were you doing today? Behaving as you did, letting me

down?’

The letting you down! Oh, Tom, I like that. I like that

very much.’

‘And what is that supposed to mean?’ he said, and she had

just opened her mouth in a rush of courage to tell him,

when he suddenly said, ‘Whatever it is, I’m too exhausted.

I’m going to bed. You sleep wherever you please. Safe in

the knowledge you have done great harm today. I hope

you’re well pleased with yourself

‘I’ve done harm! What harm am I supposed to have

done?’

‘Oh, I thought you’d be gloating over it. Being difficult

with Michael Carlton, practically ignoring the Macintoshes,

refusing to come out to dinner, embarrassing Aubrey and

me: how much more do I have to spell out? Well, if

Fleming Cotterill go down the pan, which is not impossible,

you might be interested to know, you can be quite

confident you contributed to it in your own inimitable

way.’

‘That is ridiculous! Of course I didn’t do anything that

would inflict that sort of damage. I wouldn’t, I—’

‘Oh, just stop it,’ he said. ‘Good night, Octavia. I’m

going to bed.’

He walked out, shut the door after him. She sat there,

staring at it,,.marvelling that even then her courage had

failed her, wondering why she was so afraid to confront

openly what he had done; it was as if it was she who was the

guilty one. She sat for a while, cold now, huddled in her

robe, and then decided she would go to bed herself. She felt

too frail, too confused to talk to him now.

She went up to the guest room very quietly, got into

bed. She had been there for a few hours when Tom slipped

into the bed beside her. She had been thickly asleep, did

not remember just for a moment everything that had

happened, turned to him, relaxed and warm. And then it

came back, ugly, violent, and with it the memory of how

she hated him; but in that moment, he had pressed himself

against her, taken her in his arms, moved his mouth to hen.

She pulled back, outraged, horrified, but ‘Don’t,’ he said, ‘please don’t. I’m sorry, sorry about what I said, come here, come to me please

‘I won’t,’ she said, sitting up, feeling breathless, her heart

pounding. The early dawn of high summer was just

beginning to break, she could see him looking at her; could

see him, unbelievably, smile at her, the rueful, sweet smile

of proposed intimacy, that she had always loved and now

must mistrust.

‘No,’ she said, again, ‘no, Tom,’ but he ignored her,

reached up his hand and began to outline her nipple very

gently with his fingers.

‘I want you most when you’re angry,’ he said, and she sat

there, wanting to hate him, wanting to be repelled by him,

but something extraordinary happened. Quite without

warning she looked at him, and through the violence of her

misery and shock and rage came a desire to have him.

Afterwards she was absolutely unable to explain it, was

ashamed even, that sexual hunger could be so strong, so

treacherous, but in that moment she only knew she wanted

him furiously, frantically.

How can I be doing this, she wondered, even as she felt

the familiar sweet sensations begin, how can I be lying here,

submitting myself to this, and not just submitting, savouring

it? How can I let him do this, how can I allow him to use

his hands, his mouth, how can I want him in me, how can I

feel myself growing round him, how can I, it’s terrible,

horrible, don’t, Octavia, don’t, don’t come! But it wasn’t

terrible and nor was it horrible, it was wonderful, unwelcomely

wonderful, as she rose and rose, higher and sweeter

and fiercer than she could remember for a long long time,

and then the sharp bright fragments broke around her and

within her; and she lay there afterwards, turned away from

him, shocked and wondering what sort of a creature was

she, that she could not just endure but enjoy, and enjoy

acutely, a sexual experience with a man she knew to be in

love with someone else, betraying trust, vows, love.

herself out of bed, went and stood in the shower for a long time, trying to explain it, to justify it. The nearest, she

supposed, was that she had wanted to feel desirable herself

still, not dull, not sexless, not someone to be set aside in

favour of another lovelier, more joyful body. Or perhaps far

worse — that she had found the thought of his sexual

treachery in some way exciting, arousing. That really

brought her to self-distaste, a sense of self-betrayal; this had

not been the behaviour of the sort of woman she had

decided to become.

Well, too late: much too late. She had done it, put herself

much further into Tom’s thrall. Too late now to say that

she knew, that she was shocked and disgusted by him, that

she wanted nothing more of him than the trappings of their

marriage; he would know it was not true. Despair filled her:

despair at her situation, at her marriage, most of all at

herself.

Her father phoned her as she was driving the twins to

school; trying to hear him, while negotiating the traffic and

at the same time trying to stop Gideon shouting at Poppy,

was impossible. She said she would ring him back and did

so, sitting outside Hill House; he had been worried about

her, he said; was there anything wrong? No, she said firmly,

nothing, and was then not too surprised to be asked why, in

that case, she had been crying at Ascot the day before.

‘Who on earth told you that?’ she said irritably, giving

herself away rather neatly.

‘Marianne saw you,’ he said shortly, ‘she was concerned

about you. Now, you would tell me if there was really a

problem, wouldn’t you?’

‘Yes,’ she said, thinking with something approaching

terror of his reaction if he had known what the problem

really was. ‘You know I would. I was tired and — well …’

Inspiration came to her. Her father was always deeply

embarrassed by anything of a gynaecological nature. ‘It was,

you know, hormonal problems. Bad time of the month.’

‘Oh,’ he said, and she could hear him digesting this, wondering whether to pursue it, deciding without too much difficulty not to. ‘I see. Well, I hadn’t thought of

something like that.’

It wasn’t until she had rung off that she realised in a

moment of brilliant, piercing relief, that it was actually all

right, that Tom need not know - yet - that she knew, that

she could actually bide her time, reassemble her self-respect,

and then still move safely into her new persona.

‘I’ll be honest with you, Mr Madison. I know you’d prefer

that.’

Duncan Fry had been a cancer specialist for almost thirty

years; he still found it as painful to inform patients and their

relatives about their prospects, or rather their lack of

prospects, as he had the very first time. And now here he

was telling a middle-aged husband that his wife of nearly

forty years had a tumour in her liver, a secondary from the

one he had removed from her breast, and in a very few

weeks she could be dead. Charles tried and failed not to cry.

Duncan Fry stood up and turned and looked out of the

window while Charles blew his nose and hauled himself

back under control, knowing that Charles would be

embarrassed by his own tears, that he was that kind of old

style Englishman.

‘Octavia, I feel absolutely terrible. I must have eaten

something last night, went to a sushi bar, can’t believe how

stupid of me … I just have to get home before I start

throwing up. I’m sorry, with this meeting with Michael

Carlton, but—’

Octavia looked at Melanie; she did look genuinely

ghastly, her large blue eyes shadowed and sunk somehow

deeper in her head, her whole face set with a greenish pallor. ‘Melanie, it’s fine. Honestly. Just go home and don’t worry about a thing. As they say.’

‘Please explain to Carlton that we have to do the usual

window dressing, as he’s linked with Tom, announce he’s

been chosen as sponsor from a shortlist of three, okay? And

could you ring Patricia David, she phoned for you this

morning, sounding very waspish, that’s an important

account, Octavia, we mustn’t—’

‘Melanie, go! We can cope.’ Octavia was rather meanly

relieved. At least she wouldn’t have to go through the

difficult process of explaining to Melanie about the

awkwardness of the Battles Wood connection. Yet…

Michael Carlton was clearly annoyed that Melanie wasn’t

going to be there, but in the end it was a fairly satisfactory

meeting; Margaret Piper was clearly very taken with

Michael Carlton, graciously delighted with the sponsorship

deal, agreed all his terms — the Carlton logo to be on all

stationery, promotional literature, to be prominently displayed

at any events.

When Mrs Piper left, Michael Carlton looked at Octavia

and grinned. ‘Charming woman. Well, it seemed to go very

well to me. How about lunch? We can talk about the other

business then.’

Octavia said briskly there was still nothing to talk about,

and that unfortunately she already had a lunch; she offered

him a drink, which he refused.

‘Never drink in the middle of the day. Well, thank you

for a good meeting, Octavia. Excuse me.’

His mobile had rung shrilly. He listened, barking out

yeses and nos, finally turned his phone off, turned to her,

his tone triumphant. ‘Well, that was interesting news.

Apropos of my earlier question. We come up before the

planning committee next week. With the Bartles House

development. There’s a strong rumour that we’re going to

get it. But I’m still going to need your help, Octavia, to win

the locals round.’

‘Michael, I really don’t think there’s anything I can do in

that direction. And they’ll appeal if you do get planning permission.’

‘Why do I get the impression you’re not entirely on my

side in this?’ he said, his voice hard edged suddenly.

‘It would be wrong of me to pretend I was entirely. I feel

rather emotional about the countryside. I can’t help it. But

of course I have to be pleased that Tom’s been able to help

you. Anyway, I shall wait to hear. Good morning, Michael.

Thank you for coming today. I’m sure this is going to be a

very fruitful liaison.’

She sat and stared out of the window when he had gone,

thinking about the undoubted beauty of Bartles Wood,

under threat of being bulldozed away, thinking that Tom

had helped to bring that about, thinking of Carlton’s

absolute confidence that he would be able to force her to

help him, and felt suddenly furiously angry.

And picked up the phone, as instructed, after all, by

Melanie Faulks, to a distraught Patricia David, who had also

heard a rumour that the development was to be given

planning permission, and heard herself saying that if there