Almost a Crime (48 page)

Feeling something else too, which she couldn’t quite work

out. Something worrying. Something odd …

‘Boot! Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?’

Louise was smiling up at her, then stood up and held her

hand out to Gabriel Bingham. ‘Louise Trelawny. Old friend

of Octavia’s.’

‘Yes, she told me. You went to school together, is that

right?’

‘Yes. Happiest days of our lives, weren’t they, Boot?’

‘In some ways, yes,’ said Octavia slowly. ‘Would you like

some tea, Gabriel?’

‘Yes, please. Now where is my cricketing partner? I hope

he hasn’t let me down.’

“Fraid not,’ said Octavia, laughing. ‘He’s inside, watching

the test match on television. I’m amazed he hasn’t heard

you. I’ll tell him you’re here.’

Waiting for the kettle to boil, she tried to work out what

had - or what might have - been worrying her; but by the

time she had made the tea, had a further argument with

Poppy about the prospective walk, and set a time limit to

Gideon on the cricket practice, she had completely

forgotten that she had been worried at all.

‘I like your friend,’ said Gabriel Bingham. Louise and

Dickon had gone and he looked up from the mug of coffee

she had just made him, smiled at her across the kitchen.

‘Very pretty. Bit neurotic, but—’

‘Neurotic? Oh, I wouldn’t describe Louise as neurotic,’

said Octavia. ‘She’s very emotional, and she’s had a horrid

time - her mother, whom she adored, died just a few weeks

ago. And she had a little daughter who died at nine months.

And she isn’t very happily married.’

‘Dear, oh, dear. What a tragic story.’

‘It is,’ said Octavia defensively. ‘It isn’t funny.’

‘Of course it isn’t,’ he said, looking at her rather

seriously, then smiling gently. ‘You really must try not to be so tetchy, Mrs Fleming.’

‘I’m not tetchy,’ said Octavia, ‘I just don’t like people’s

troubles being belittled. Especially my best friend’s.’

‘I’m not belittling poor Louise’s troubles. But I stand my

ground — she is neurotic. She’s jumpy. Watchful. Especially

with the little boy. And too careful what she says.’

‘Louise? She’s always getting into trouble for not being

careful of what she says.’

‘I think not. Actually. And I do assure you, I’m a very

good judge of character. Had you summed up straight

away. Looked at you that day in Bartles Wood, thought there goes a tetchy lady. Want to know what else I thought?’

The hazel eyes looking at her were alight with amusement.

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ said Octavia. She stood up, picked

up her own mug of coffee, turned to the sink.

‘I’m so tired of being got at by you. All the time. When

I …”

‘Oh, dear,’ he said, and she heard him get up, still didn’t

look round, afraid he would see the tears, the wretched easy

tears; and then suddenly, there was an arm round her

shoulders, a head close to hers.

‘Do you want to know what else I thought? I thought

there is a rather sexy lady. And beautiful. And quite nice

too, unless I’m much mistaken. I wasn’t, as it turned out,’

he added rather complacently.

‘Oh,’ said Octavia. ‘Oh, I see.’

She felt rather foolish, incapable of thinking of anything

to say in return.

‘Octavia,’ he said suddenly, ‘I don’t know what’s going

on in your marriage. I’m not asking you to tell me. And I

certainly don’t want to add to your troubles. In any way.

But if you were not married, or not married any more, or

even in the process of becoming not married any more, I

would like to get to know you very much better. How’s

that for a romantic proposal?’

‘It’s not bad,’ she said, smiling up at him rather

uncertainly through the tears.

‘And could you imagine yourself accepting it?’

‘I — well …’ More than anything, she wanted to say yes.

But something stopped her. Fear, she supposed; but she

didn’t know what of. It was ridiculous. Go on, Octavia, do

it, say you’d like it, say—

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, drawing back. ‘I’ve said too much.

Stupid of me.’

His voice was cooler, more detached now, his eyes

harder.

‘No,’ she said, ‘you haven’t. It’s just that I — well, you

see …’

She wasn’t confident, that was the thing; she was

desperately insecure. She hadn’t realised how desperately

until that moment, how hurt, how shaky Tom’s rejection

had made her; hadn’t realised that she had studied and

fretted over herself, her looks, her figure, her conversation,

her performance at work, at home, at the dinner table, her

performance most of all, of course, in bed. What if that was

it? Why Tom had left her, discarded her? She had had so

little experience, apart from him; for all she knew, she was

dull, hopeless, useless in bed. And if she did go to bed with

Gabriel, then that dullness, that hopelessness, would be

displayed, and she would feel worse, more despairing—

‘Mummy! Gideon’s hurt his foot. Quick, it’s bleeding.’

‘Oh, God,’ she said, running out of the kitchen; Gabriel

followed her.

Gideon was sitting on the ground, outside their gate,

looking at his bare foot in horrified fascination. Sticking out

of it she could see a jagged edge of glass, and blood

pumping relentlessly.

Poppy was pointing not at the foot but the glass.

‘Mummy! It’s horrible. Quick, pull it out.’

‘No,’ said Gabriel sharply, ‘don’t touch it. We must get

him to hospital. Fast. Silly little bugger, going out there

without your shoes.’

‘He knows he’s not allowed to,’ said Poppy, sobs

choking her.

‘Shut up,’ said Gideon. He was very white.

‘I’ll drive,’ said Gabriel. He bent and picked up Gideon, stood cradling him in his arms. ‘Can we take your car? It’s

faster.’

‘Yes, of course. I must get Minty. Poppy, get in the back,

strap yourself in. Don’t worry, darling, he’ll be fine.’

‘Bring some towels,’ shouted Gabriel as she rushed into

the house.

A nightmare three hours followed. The Sunday evening

traffic was beginning and it took them over an hour to

reach Bath General. Casualty was full of holiday accidents:

cuts, stings, minor broken bones. She looked at the foot, no

longer bleeding, but ugly, swollen round the glass, experiencing

wild fears about septicaemia, gangrene, amputation.

Why was it taking so long, so terribly long?

Gabriel and Poppy had gone for a walk; Minty sat in her

buggy, mercifully asleep.

The doctor finally looked at the foot, said it would need

stitching and cleaning, but he could do it under a local.

Octavia had hoped for a nice remote, surgical procedure

under general anaesthetic, and Gideon then returned to her,

neatly bandaged, not the horror taking place before her

eyes. And Gideon’s.

‘Won’t that be horribly painful? And traumatic, he’s

terribly upset already.’

‘No, of course not. He won’t feel a thing. This is

Valium,’ he said to Octavia, easing a needle into a vein in

Gideon’s arm. ‘Works very quickly. And he won’t remember

much about it afterwards.’

It was just as well, thought Octavia, standing by the bed,

holding Gideon’s hand, stroking his hair, watching in sick

horror as they cut out the glass, cleaned the wound, stitched

it up.

When it was over, and they were outside, Gideon

sleepily peaceful in a wheelchair, she felt suddenly faint and

half fell on to a seat.

‘Dear oh dear.’ She heard Gabriel Bingham’s voice from a great distance. ‘How many more invalids do I have to take charge of today?’

He pushed her head down between her knees, asked a

nurse to fetch her some water, sat quietly by her until she

felt better.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, sitting back finally, smiling rather

weakly at him. ‘I haven’t done very well altogether today,

have I?’

‘You’ve done all right,’ he said, smiling back at her, and

pushed a stray bit of hair back from her face. ‘Now I think

we should get back to the cottage. I’d ask you to my house,

but I imagine it’s a bit short on things you need.’

She looked up at him; he was holding Minty in one arm,

and Poppy was sucking her thumb and leaning against him.

‘What’s that on your shirt?’ she said.

He glanced down at a large, dark stain. ‘Oh, an offering

from your younger daughter. I think her nappy just finally

gave out or something. Doesn’t matter.’

Her heart turned over.

‘You’ve been so kind,’ she said, when she joined him

downstairs at the cottage, all three children finally asleep.

‘No, that’s ridiculous. Not kind. Just - well …’

‘Magnificent?’ he said, grinning. ‘I thought so too.’

‘Seriously.’

‘I am being serious. I was magnificent. We all were. But

I think I might like a drink. Whisky, if you have it.’

‘Oh, God,’ she said, stricken, ‘how awful of me. Yes, of

course, and you must have something to eat, you must be

starving.’

‘Only in parts. As the curate said.’

She made a salad, found some cheese and some fresh

bread, carried it into the sitting room. ‘Is this all right?’

‘It’s excellent. And this is very good whisky.’

‘My husband drinks whisky,’ she said, and then sat silent,

awkward.

‘Does he? Look, it’s nothing to do with me, but

shouldn’t you phone him, tell him what’s happened?’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’ She had been putting it off, not sure what to say.

‘You do that. I think I’ll go and have a wash, if that’s all

right.’

‘Of course. Oh, and let me find you a clean shirt. That

one’s so awful.’

She riffled through the rack of Tom’s shirts, the Ralph

Laurens, the Lacostes, the Brooks Brothers; which would be

the least offensive, provoke the least comment? Finally she

found an old Madras cotton one from LL Bean, turned to

take it down to him.

He was standing behind her, watching her from the

doorway of the bedroom. ‘Very pretty,’ he said, looking at the label. ‘Not a brand I recognise.’

‘Oh, it’s a really obscure American one,’ she said quickly.

‘Nothing smart.’

‘I doubt that. Bit of a natty dresser, your husband, I

would imagine. Judging from the look of that wardrobe.

And this is just for the country.’

‘Well. It’s sort of a hobby.’

‘Really? Instead of shooting, I suppose. Thanks anyway.’

She phoned the house; there was no one there. She left a

message saying where they were and briefly what had

happened, that Gideon was fine, and then tried his mobile.

It was switched off.

‘Bastard,’ she said aloud, and slammed the phone down

again. ‘You absolute bastard.’

‘Your husband?’ said Gabriel Bingham.

She looked at him; the events of the day had left her

more emotional, more highly strung than usual.

‘Yes,’ she said and burst into tears.

‘I haven’t told anyone else all that,’ she said later, moving

away from him on the sofa; he had pulled her down beside

him, sat with his arm round her shoulders handing her

handkerchiefs, of which he seemed to have an endless

supply, while she talked. ‘Well, not anyone except Louise.’

‘Louise? Ah, the best friend. Yes, of course, you women

always talk to your best friends.’

‘And you men don’t, do you?’ she said, sniffing, glad of

the distraction suddenly.

‘No, not often. Well, I believe the really young chaps do.

Sobbing into their cocoa, hugging one another, all that sort

of thing. Not for me, I’m afraid.’

‘How old are you?’ she said.

‘Thirty-nine. Can’t quite think how it happened, only

yesterday I was nineteen. But there you are. What about

you?’

‘I was seventeen,’ she said, ‘only yesterday, I mean. Now

I’m thirty-six.’

‘A very good age for a woman,’ he said. ‘Just look at you.

Beautiful. Clever. Successful. Sexy.’ He grinned at her.

‘You have no idea if I’m sexy or not.’ she said fretfully.

‘Of course I do. You’re incredibly Sexy. Don’t look at

me like that, I mean it.’

‘I don’t think I can be,’ she said, too drained to speak

anything other than directly, ‘otherwise my husband

wouldn’t have left me.’

‘Oh, now that is really ridiculous. The sexiest women in

the world get left by their husbands. Look at poor Marilyn.

Look at that silly Princess Diana.’

‘Do you think she’s silly?’

‘Terribly silly. Neurotic, too. And dangerous. But

gorgeous. She has charm like you wouldn’t believe. And

she has the most wonderful giggle. Your friend Louise

reminded me of her as a matter of fact.’

‘I don’t think anyone could call Louise dangerous,’ said

Octavia.

‘Good,’ said Gabriel Bingham lightly.

Their table was by the window; the view from the Oxo

Tower incomparable, of the river, the city, and upstream

the bridges; and by the table, a bottle of Krug on ice.

‘How marvellous,’ Marianne said, looking out into the

darkness.

‘Isn’t it?’ he said complacently.

She smiled at him.

‘Why the smile?’

‘You sound smug. As if you created it. The view, I