Almost a Crime (61 page)

just go home. Christ Almighty.’

He was obviously genuinely upset; Zoe hesitated. She

was fond of him and she hated being thought tight; it was

one of the reasons she was always in debt. And she had been

looking forward to the evening so much …

‘Wait,’ she said, putting her hand on his arm. ‘I’m sorry. I

have got some money. I - I got it out to pay Rom back.

Money she’d lent me. But I can get some more. Come on,

I’ll pay.’

She could get some more; do some babysitting or

something. Ian looked at her. ‘Okay, fine,’ was all he said.

It cost a tenner each to get into the Ministry; then she

bought him a couple of vodka and Red Bulls, which was

what he always drank there, and the same for herself; forty

quid gone already. Oh, well, she could still put half the

money back.

She didn’t care any more anyway; she felt wonderful.

The music was fantastic; they danced for a long time. It got

very hot, they consumed endless ice lollies from the buckets

that were brought round. ‘I’ll get these,’ said Ian, grinning

at her. ‘My treat. You’re worth it.’

He had left his jacket in the car; he was wearing just black jeans and a black sleevless T-shirt. His brown arms

were very muscly; he really did have a superb body. Zoe

thought of the pleasures that lay just ahead of her and felt

quite faint.

Marianne lay in the extremely large bed in the suite at the

Swan; she was in a state of acute sexual excitement. In the

end, there had been no conflict, she had simply agreed to

stay there with Nico, as she had known, of course, that she

would. She wanted him, he wanted her, there seemed

absolutely nothing else to consider.

She moved her hands now to her own breasts, as she did

when she was excited, contemplating the acute pleasure of

other hands on them, moved one down to her flat stomach,

smoothing it, lay looking at Nico. He was sitting on the

bed, wearing a bathrobe, ordering breakfast and the papers,

impressing that there should be no phone calls put through;

he smiled at her, put the phone down, stood up, took off

the robe. He was very slim, clearly very fit; unbidden she

thought of Felix’s large body, with its powerful sexuality

and its capacity for giving her pleasure, recognised her own

disloyalty and was shocked at it, and at the same time found

it strangely and appallingly exciting.

‘Dear God,’ said Nico, pulling back the sheet, studying

her, ‘dear God, you are beautiful.’ And then bent his head

to kiss her breasts, moving his hand slowly down her, where

her own had been, stroking, smoothing at her stomach.

‘I haven’t said this for a very long time,’ he said finally,

taking her in his arms, and she surged, felt herself move

towards him, wanting him, longing for him, ‘but I know

that I am very much in love with you.’ And then his body

began to move slowly and with surprising care and

tenderness on her and into her; and pleasure of such power

and intensity took possession of her that she was surprised

even at herself.

‘Oh, my God!’ Someone was shouting: a girl, it was her,

Zoe thought confusedly, it must be, there was no one else there, shouting through the explosion of violence and release that was her orgasm. ‘My God, my God, oh, my

God.’

‘Shut up,’ said Ian, putting his hand over her mouth,

laughing quietly, ‘you’ll have the neighbours in. Shush,

Zoe, for God’s sake.’

‘Sorry. Sorry. Just - a bit much. That’s all.’

‘Good. Very good. Glad to hear it.’

He rolled off her, studied her thoughtfully. She looked

back at him, smiling rather shakily, pushing her hair out of

her eyes. It was wet with sweat. She was wet all over.

‘You’re quite a girl,’ he said. ‘You know that?’

‘Yeah. ‘Course.’

‘Want some grass?’

‘Not yet. No. Let’s just - lie here.’

‘Nah. I get bored. Come on, I’ll go and get it.’

He eased himself up. They had been lying on the carpet,

beneath them just a rug they had found; she looked at his

back view, his lean muscly back, his taut buttocks, his

confident, slightly swaggering walk and felt mildly irritated.

He always got straight up afterwards, wanted to be doing

something: let’s get in the shower, have a smoke, a drink,

never wanted to lie and talk and kiss and be close. She

sighed; he heard her and turned.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Oh, nothing.’

‘Yes, there is, come on. Out with it.’

‘It’s just that I - well, I like to be - close afterwards. You

always seem to want to get up and—’

‘Well, it’s over, isn’t it? What’s the point of staying

there?’

‘The point,’ she said more irritated still, ‘is that I would

like it.’

‘What, the old postcoital rubbish? You’ve made me feel

so good, all that?’

‘Well - yes.’

‘Zoe, what is this? You’re not going all serious on me,

are you? Because—’

‘No, of course not,’ she said, sitting up, pulling her knees to her chin, wrapping her arms round them so she was less

naked, less at a disadvantage. ‘But it’s still nice to feel — well,

close. Cared about.’

‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘Zoe, I’ve been caring about you. I’ve

given you a really good fuck. Two actually. I’m not up to

all that lovey-dovey stuff. Sorry. You’ll have to get one of

your public school hoorays for that.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said. She tried to smile, to clear

his mood.

‘I’m not. I mean it. That’s what they’re good at, I

believe. Not so good with their cocks, by all accounts,

quick poke and they’re wilting again, but—’

‘Ian, how could you possibly know that?’

‘Oh, I know,’ he said. ‘You’re not the first upmarket bird

I’ve screwed, you know. Don’t flatter yourself.’

‘I didn’t think I was,’ she said. But somehow she had; and she felt absurdly upset, almost tearful.

He disappeared, went downstairs, reappeared with some

Rizlas and a bag of grass, sat on the bed rolling the joints.

He passed her one; she shook her head vigorously.

‘No thanks.’

‘Go on. It’s very good.’

‘Ian, I don’t want one.’

She felt cold suddenly, reached for her dress. As she met

his eyes, she saw he was watching her, his expression very

hard. He said nothing.

‘What’s wrong?’ she said, trying to sound lighthearted

again.

‘Let’s just say I don’t like this,’ he said.

‘Don’t like what?’

‘This — mood.’

‘Ian, I’m not in a mood.’

‘Yes, you are.’

‘I’m not. I just don’t want to smoke, okay?’

‘Yeah, okay. Fine. Well, best get going, then.’

‘What? What are you talking about?’

‘I’m talking about I don’t want to sit here, you looking

all tight arsed. Come on, get dressed.’

Zoe lost her temper. ‘I am not looking tight arsed.

You’re being ridiculous.’

‘I’ll decide what I’m being. Get your clothes on, Zoe, I

want to go.’

‘Well, just fucking go, then,’ said Zoe.

It was a stupid thing to say; she knew it at once. He stood

up, pulled on his clothes and walked out of the room

without even glancing at her; she heard the front door slam

and the truck start.

Zoe looked at her watch; it was not quite four. She felt

very frightened and very alone in the house; she pulled on

her clothes, rang for a taxi on her mobile, and went outside

and pulled the door shut after her, shivering. As she waited

on the corner, she realised that the taxi would cost her the

best part of the forty pounds she had left.

‘And how would you describe the way you’re feeling now?

Take your time, there’s no hurry.’

Louise looked at him, and thought if she hadn’t been

feeling so physically exhausted, she would undoubtedly

have hit him. How could you describe the effect on you of

wanting to die, trying to die, thinking indeed you were

safely dead, and then being sucked literally back to life by

the horror of a tube pushed down your throat and into your

stomach, the contents of your stomach emptying slowly and

disgustingly into a bucket on the floor at your side. That

was what she had awoken to; that, and then later the pain,

the dreadful raw pain, starting slowly, increasing in vehemence

and then through the haze of misery and nausea,

feeling the bleeding begin, being told she was miscarrying,

told she couldn’t have anything for the pain just now, her

body couldn’t tolerate it, that it would soon be over. But it

wasn’t soon over at all, it went on right through the night,

and then when it really was over, when there was no hope

for this baby either, when she was weeping, mourning for

it, being told briskly that she was being taken down to

theatre, to have a D&C just to make sure you aren’t

hanging on to any bits’.

And then coming round, confused and sore, and lying all

day in the ward, thinking that they couldn’t tell her about the baby’s sex because they would have just thrown it away, put it down the sluice. That was when the anger began.

And then, having endured all this, being asked how she

was feeling.

She didn’t answer because it was safer; just sat there,

staring at him.

He waited patiently for a while, just looking at her, then,

‘You’re not ready for me yet, are you?’ he said, smiling at

her, a dreadful patronising smile. ‘Never mind. We’ll just

let you rest for a day or two, and then we can really talk. All

right?’

‘No,’ said Louise, ‘not all right at all.’

Because it wasn’t. It was horribly and hideously all

wrong. And the only good thing she felt, strong and almost

comforting, helping her to go forward somehow, was the

anger. The anger was becoming her friend.

‘I think I’d like to take the line of least resistance,’ said

Tom. ‘If you don’t mind, that is.’

‘Not at all, old chap,’ said Aubrey. ‘I’d come to much the

same conclusion myself.’

They smiled at one another; two stiff-upper-lipped

Englishmen sitting on leather chairs in a book-lined room,

looking more as if they were agreeing to cancel a game of

golf, rather than the demise of something unique and

successful, created through their own particular blend of

talent and courage and commitment, something that had

absorbed all their energy, ingenuity, and most of their

waking hours over the past five years. No one would have thought at that moment that Tom Fleming was feeling a passion of rage so violent against the factors that had robbed

him of it, including his own folly, that he was having

trouble restraining himself from hurling his cup of coffee on

to the pristine white wall, or that Aubrey Cotterill was

looking round the room with a depth of sadness only

matched on the day when the wife he had thought had

married him for love had informed him she found him so

unattractive she was moving out of his bedroom permanently.

‘I

did talk to DTN,’ he said now. ‘We’d be lackeys,

office boys, forced to sit in meetings with our own clients

while the decisions we knew were right for them were

reversed.’

‘Aubrey,’ said Tom, ‘I did hate that idea. And I tried the

bank: no joy. Not a penny piece. But I did pop into a few

galleries over the weekend. I can cover the salaries if I

empty my walls into Cork Street.’

‘I can’t match that, I’m afraid. But I can probably keep

the wolves from our personal doors for a week or two, if I

visit an old friend in Hatton Garden with Bernadette’s ring.’

‘Well, what do we do first? Talk to the staff, inform the

clients?’

‘Go down to the courts, I should think, get the form. I

shall find it easier telling everyone if it’s actually a fait

accompli. Three hundred and fifty quid, you said?’

‘Yup. I wonder if the bank will lend it to us,’ said Tom,

and actually managed to smile.

‘Oh, my God,’ said Octavia. ‘Oh, my God.’

‘No,’ said Gabriel Bingham modestly, ‘no. Just me. Mr

Bingham. I’m surprised you’ve forgotten me already.’

He smiled at her; she smiled back.

‘It’s so nice to see you,’ she said and meant it.

‘Well, I thought I’d come and see your modest little

workplace. Don’t worry, I’m not staying.’

‘Absolutely you are not,’ said Melanie Faulks walking in.

‘She’s very busy.’ She settled herself on the edge of

Octavia’s desk, held out her hand. ‘Hi. You must be the

Angel Gabriel. I’m Melanie. Loved the roses you sent on

Friday. Nice touch. She cried, you know.’

‘She cried?’ He was clearly astonished. ‘Why did she cry,

for God’s sake?’

‘Oh, she’s like that,’ said Melanie. “Very emotionally

labile. I have a lot of trouble with her.’

Octavia felt a stab of irritation. She could see it was all good fun, that they were enjoying it, but in her fragile — or indeed labile — emotional state, it was hard to keep smiling.

The faint euphoria of Friday had been brief lived. She had

had a difficult and lonely weekend with the children and

had actually longed by Saturday evening for adult company,