Almost a Crime (68 page)

manners like a pig.’

Romilly giggled.

‘It’s true. All that talk about Diana and Jemima and

which of them he enjoyed working with more, it’s to

impress you, make you feel small. Which is stupid of him.

He has a rather rocky ego, even if it looks like the size of

the Empire State. You have twice as much class as he does.

In every way. Now Ritz and I will be right here if you

need us.’

Romilly smiled at her; she was so nice. Impulsively she

leaned forward and gave her a kiss. ‘Thank you. Thank you

so much. That does help.’

It did: for a bit. Then he moved closer, his lens probing

her face.

‘You have the most wonderful eyes,’ he said to her,

‘widen them for me. Now drop them. Yes. Good.

Beautiful. Lovely. Now look at me as if it was the very first

time.’

She supposed he must mean she should look surprised,

interested. She tried.

‘No, no, little baby. You know what I mean. The first

time. The very first.’

Romilly flushed; she did know what he meant. She

dropped her eyes again, naturally, automatically, then

looked at him: awkwardly shy.

‘That’s a little bit better. Let’s do it again. Try to show it

more. Yes. And more, and again more, look at me now,

now, yes, and now, think, Romilly, think…’

She heard a cough; saw Donna shake her head imperceptibly

at Alix. He took no notice.

‘Alix, can I have a word?’

‘Not now, darling, not while I’m working.’

‘Alix, please.’

‘Donna, I can’t work like this, I really can’t. I think it

would be better if you left too.’

Tension had risen in the room; Romilly’s stomach was

twisting again.

‘Romilly, is that all right?’ said Donna.

‘Of course. Of course it is.’

‘Good girl. More coffee?’

‘Yeah, more coffee, great,’ said Alix. ‘And could

someone send for some cigarettes for me, I really really

need one. Romilly, do you smoke?’

She shook her head.

‘Of course no,’ he said, the famous, the beautiful smile

breaking suddenly across his face. ‘No vices at all. Yet. Now

relax, darling, just try to relax. Let’s try the floor, sitting on

the floor — no, baby, not like that. Stretch out, now ease

yourself to the camera, to me …’

She became increasingly nervous. The more he told her

to relax, the more she tensed. She could feel his tension, his

impatience.

‘Fine,’ he said finally. ‘This will be the last roll for today.

Now I want you to - let me see. I’d like that hair to start

working. Drop your head, baby, shake it all about. No, no,

more, as if you were shampooing.’

She dropped her head obediently, pushed her hands

through her hair, pretending she was washing it.

‘No no,’ he said, and there was real anger in his voice.

‘Not like that. Silly little one. No. Go and brush it out, start

again.’

She brushed her hair smooth, flushed, near to tears.

‘Right. Now then, lean over, so it hangs straight, right

over your face. Now quickly, fling back, so it flies. Yes!

Yes, that’s better. But this time, the eyes wide, wide. And

again. Wider. And again.’

Suddenly she felt hopelessly dizzy. She said, ‘I must sit

down,’ and sank rather helplessly on to the floor. ‘Dizzy.

I’m so sorry.’

She heard him calling impatiently for Donna; then heard

him say, ‘It’s very difficult. I hadn’t expected it, she’s so tense. I can’t get her to relax. And now she is not well.

Dizzy, she said. I suppose she has her period or something.

These very young girls, all the same problem, the hormones,

so unreliable. I think we should stop for today.

Anyway, the skin is not good enough. I can’t work with

her any more today.’

When Serena and Donna came in, Romilly had her face

in her hands, crying quietly.

‘I’m so so sorry,’ said Serena. Donna had gone in pursuit

of Alix to upbraid him. ‘He’s a pig! I never wanted him in

the first place, but they insisted.’

‘No, no,’ said Romilly sniffing, ‘it’s my fault. I’m no

good, and it’s true, I have got a spot. I told you.’

‘Yes, but it will be gone by Friday, when we start

shooting for real. Or we could make it Saturday. How

would that be?’

Romilly thought fast; Saturday. Another whole day.

Surely by then everything would have sorted itself out.

She smiled at Serena. ‘It could help. Yes. I seem to have

got some sort of — bug.’

‘Yes, I know. Zoe told us. We understand.’

God, she was nice. So nice.

‘Look, how would you like another of our hot chocolate

sessions?’

‘That would be lovely.’

‘Jesus,’ said Ritz to Donna as she watched Serena and

Romilly leave the building, ‘I hope she’s not up to what I

think she might be up to.’

Megan David was alone in the house that afternoon; her

mother had begun to leave her occasionally now, and

Megan liked that, to feel she could manage, that she did not

always need someone with her. It made her feel more

normal, less of a freak. She loved having the kitchen to

herself, to pour herself an extra Coca-Cola, to find a packet

of biscuits, to steal a lolly from the fridge; innocent,

forbidden pleasures taken for granted by most children. As

she rummaged through the low cupboard by the sink, in

search of the miniature cookies her mother had bought only

that morning, the phone rang. She swivelled her chair,

drove it forward importantly towards the low table by the

kitchen sofa where the phone sat; she picked it up

in triumph. ‘Hallo. Felthamstone 6721. Megan David

speaking.’

‘Oh,’ said a slightly shaky, but very posh voice (as Megan

described it later to her mother), ‘I wonder, is that Mrs

David?’

‘No, she’s my mum. I can take a message.’

‘It’s very important.’

‘I can take an important message,’ said Megan, ‘or

unimportant, it’s all the same, you know.’

There was a silence; then a deep laugh came down the

phone, throaty, infectious. ‘Of course it is. How silly of me.

I’m sorry.’

‘Not at all. Who am I speaking to? I have a pen and

paper here.’

‘You’re speaking, my dear, to Mrs Lucilla Sanderson.

Have you got that?’

‘Yes,’ said Megan writing fast. ‘Yes, I have.’

‘From Bartles House.’

‘Oh,’ said Megan, ‘is it about the protest?’

‘It’s about my protest, yes. I want to stop this development

more than anything.’

‘My protest too,’ said Megan. ‘I want to save the wood

so much. Well, all of it of course, the house and everything,

but specially the wood. We had a meeting the other day. I

had some quite good ideas, I think,’ she added modestly.

‘Well, that’s splendid. I’m glad somebody has. Now

could you ask your mother to ring me, please? Is your

father.involved in this as well?’

‘Er - no,’ said Megan. ‘He doesn’t live with us any

more.’

‘Oh, my dear, I’m sorry. How very tactless of me.’

‘It’s all right. You couldn’t have known. Anyway, it was

ages ago he left.’ When the strains of living with a

handicapped child and a distracted wife had become too

uncomfortable for him. ‘My mum divorced him years and

years back.’

‘I see.’

‘I’ll get my mum to ring you,’ said Megan.

She sounded lovely, Megan thought, putting down the

phone, starting immediately to rewrite the message in

careful, coherent prose. Maybe they could go up there and

meet her. She’d like that, get a better look at the house.

Octavia Fleming was by coincidence focusing on Bartles

Wood at the very same time. She had just received a call

from Gabriel Bingham telling her that he really felt the most

pressing need in the whole business was to raise some

money, since Michael Carlton — so he had heard on the

local grapevine — was determined to fight for the project

right up to the highest courts in the land. ‘Just gave the quote to the Advertiser, apparently. He’ll have loads of dosh.

And you will need some. I’ve seen these cases before. They

can drag on for years, and every day of every year seems to

cost thousands.’

‘Yes, well, thanks,’ said Octavia with a sigh.

‘That’s all right. Just felt you ought to be aware of it.

When am I going to see you?’

‘Oh, Gabriel, I don’t really quite know.’

‘Okay.’ His voice sounded more distant suddenly. ‘Just

let me know. ‘Bye.’ He put the phone down.

Two hours later, her father phoned.

‘All right, darling?’

‘I’m fine. Thanks. Very busy, though.’

‘Yes, of course. I won’t keep you. Just wondered if you’d

thought any more about holidays. About the cottage.’

‘Dad, I really can’t leave the children just now.’

‘Oh, really? I heard - oh, it must have been a mistake.’

‘Heard what?’

‘That Tom had plans for a holiday with them. I met

someone who’d been talking to him about it.’

‘Met someone? Someone who?’

‘Man called Oliver Nichols. Nice chap. He’s considering

becoming a client of Tom’s apparently. I was very

surprised. Judgment’s usually very good. Anyway, he’s a

friend of your client, what was her name, some woman,

looks like the Princess of Wales, I think you said.’

‘Lauren Bartlett?’

‘Yes. He said they’d all been at a lunch together, and she

and Tom were discussing a holiday in Tuscany. With their

respective children.’

‘What?’ That hurt so much, she felt it physically. ‘Daddy,

when was this?’

‘Oh, last night, I think. Yes.’

Last night; when she and Tom, by mutual agreement,

had had supper with the children, had made a huge effort to

be courteous to one another for their sake, when he had

gone up to his study when everyone was asleep, saying,

‘I am trying, Octavia. To get some things at least right. I really am.’

Trying. To get another woman into bed. Already.

Reckless with rage, she picked up the phone, dialled his

direct line.

‘Tom?’

‘Oh, hallo. I’m in a meeting just at the moment, so if

you—’

‘I’m so sorry to have interrupted it. Is Mrs Bartlett one of

the participants?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I said was Mrs Bartlett one of the participants? Is

planning a holiday with her the purpose of the meeting?

Tom, just answer me one thing. Have you or have you

not discussed a holiday with Lauren Bartlett? With the

children?’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I really cannot have this conversation

with you now.’

And the phone went dead.

The Cadogan share price was continuing to rise. Nothing

dramatic, nothing remarkable even, but still unarguable, a

steady day-by-day, point-by-point climb. Philip Thorburn,

Nico Cadogan’s financial adviser, was watching it and

worrying over it; it was — odd. The company was under

threat of a takeover bid certainly; but the takeover was

under threat of referral to the MMC. And if it went to

referral, the shares would almost certainly fall again. So what was going on? Someone, somewhere, was moving in on the company; but why? It didn’t make an awful lot of

sense.

It was mad, she knew, mad, undignified, stupid, terrible;

but Octavia phoned Lauren. She hated herself as she did it,

watched herself, listened to herself in horror, but she still

went on.

‘Lauren? Octavia.’

‘Oh, hi, Octavia. How are you?’ The throaty voice

sounded particularly self-confident.

‘Oh, fine. You know. Look, ridiculous, I know, but I

can’t get hold of Tom and Poppy just said something —

well, about a holiday? With you?’

‘Oh, yes. Did Tom mention it to her? Or you? Good.

Yes, we talked about it the other day. You know I’m trying

to help him with this client? We had lunch together, the

three of us, and he said you had nothing planned. I’d be so

utterly thrilled if it could be arranged. We all would.’

‘Yes,’ said Octavia, ‘yes, I expect you would. How very

- thoughtful of you, Lauren. Well, I’ll have to get back to

you.’

She put the phone down and thought for a minute, then

she picked it up again, and dialled Gabriel Bingham’s

number.

‘Gabriel,’ she said, ‘Gabriel, how would you like to

spend a few days in Barbados with me?’

Zoe pushed her card into the cash machine. She had had an

idea. If she asked for ten pounds at a time, all over the place,

it would probably give them to her. Stupid to have thought

a hundred would get shunted out. But if her account was

only, say, seventy over the limit, it might easily let her have

ten. It didn’t.

‘Refer to Lloyds Bank,’ it said firmly.

She went into a branch of Lloyds with her cheque book:

wrote out a cheque for fifty pounds. The girl smiled at her,

passed her card through a machine, looked at it, tried again,

then said, still smiling very nicely, ‘I’m sorry, Miss

Muirhead, your account seems to be over the limit.’

She was very nice; Zoe hated her.

Shit, what was she going to do? She asked Romilly, who was in a foul mood and said she had hardly any money at all; she got a quarter of Zoe’s allowance, and she needed