Almost a Crime (75 page)

‘Well, do what you can. I’m going to go out for an hour

or so, get a drink.’

An hour: another hour of waiting, of feeling nervous,

feeling sick. They’d waited nearly three hours for him this

morning.

‘Fine. It’ll take an hour, give the skin a chance to rest.

Hair okay?’

‘The hair is wonderful. Thank God.’

Romilly knew what he meant: nothing else was.

‘We had such fun,’ said Megan, beaming at her mother.

‘Sandy was wonderful. We took about ten pictures and

then Mrs Ford appeared and said what were we doing, and

did we know we were trespassing. Sandy said he was

terribly sorry, he’d thought the house was open to the

public, he was interested in architecture and could we

possibly do some from the back of thee house. And she said

no, we couldn’t, and then her husband appeared and got

really stroppy, and then one of the old ladies came out and

she turned out to be Mrs Sanderson, and she was really,

really great and said she’d take some pictures for us. So it

was all very successful.’ She smiled up at Sandy. ‘And then

we went and had a drink, didn’t we, Dickon, at the Coach

and Horses, and—’

‘Sorry we were so long,’ said Sandy, smiling at Pattie,

interrupting this monologue, ‘but they were so great, both

the kids.’

‘It couldn’t matter less,’ she said. ‘I was enjoying the

peace and quiet. Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound

rude!’

‘You didn’t.’

‘Beer? And then I’ve just made a big salad, so it’s hardly

spoilt.’

‘Great idea. Both of them. Megan, let me lift you out of

the car …’ She was very light; horribly light. She was a

sweet child, he thought: uncomplaining, cheerful even,

highly intelligent, full of funny, blithe comments about

everything. Dickon adored her.

‘Pattie, I’ve had a very nice morning with your charming daughter, and it’s taken my mind off my troubles.’

Now why had he said that? Sandy wasn’t given to talking

about his troubles; that wasn’t what you did. Troubles were

your own business, nobody else’s.

‘I’m sorry you have troubles.’

That was all she said: but accompanied with her sweet,

rather tired smile, it was absolutely right. Not pressing, not

over-sympathetic, not do tell me about them, not can I

help, just that she was sorry.

‘Yes, well; we all do, don’t we? You certainly do.’

He looked over at the children; they were drinking

lemonade and giggling over some card trick Megan was

showing Dickon.

‘Yes, I do. But I’m pretty used to them.’

‘I’m afraid I’m not used to mine yet,’ he said suddenly

and was shocked at himself again.

‘Look — if you feel up to talking about them, do. I mean,

don’t feel embarrassed or anything. Just because you don’t

know me very well. Sometimes that’s better. And it can

help.’

‘Thank you. I’ll bear it in mind.’

She was right: someone who didn’t know him, didn’t

know all about him, didn’t know his friends, or his history.

It would be better. He probably wouldn’t talk to her,

certainly wouldn’t tell her much. But the thought that he

could, if he got desperate, was oddly soothing.

‘When my husband left me,’ she said suddenly, abruptly

almost, ‘I was so ashamed, I didn’t tell anyone for months.

Pretended he was away. When finally I did manage to talk

about it, I felt a million times better. I was surprised. Having

been brought up to the stiff upper lip and all that.’

‘Oh, that ruddy upper lip,’ said Sandy and laughed. ‘My

father’s was so stiff, he could hardly talk through it. Poor

old Dad.’

‘What’s he do now? Retired, I suppose?’

‘I’m afraid he’s in God’s regiment now,’ said Sandy.

‘Oh, Lord. Oh, Sandy, I’m sorry.’ It was the first time she’d said his name, not called him Mr Trelawny. It was warming, nice.

Sandy smiled at her. ‘Don’t be silly. It was a couple of

years ago now. I’m quite recovered.’ He decided to return

the warmth. ‘Pattie, could I have another beer? And men

maybe we could get the kids over, start our lunch? I’m

famished.’

‘Yes. Yes, do let’s. Oh, dear, now I haven’t brought out

any more beer.’

‘I’ll go. Relax. In the fridge?’

‘Yes. Yes, well, I hope so.’

It wasn’t in the fridge, it was on the work surface

warming up nicely. He picked it up and went out and told

her he’d found it in the fridge.

‘Okay, little baby.’ Stop it, stop calling me that, thought

Romilly, gritting her teeth. ‘Now let’s try it another way.

Sit with your back to me. No. No, that doesn’t work. Lean

back on the stool. Yes, that’s better. That’s definitely better.

Only now the neck is strained. Maybe a chair would be

better. Tang, get a chair. Now now now!’

Tang ran silently out of the room, ran in again, holding

one of the Lloyd Loom chairs from reception.

‘Put it down there. Romilly, sit on it. Not like that,

darling, not like a chicken on a perch. Push your bottom

into the back of the chair. That’s better. Okay, let your

arms hang free over the sides. Relax, darling, relax. You

mustn’t be so tense. I’m not frightening you, am I?’

He bent over her, smiled into her eyes; he had been

drinking wine and was slightly drunk. His breath smelt

horrible; she had to fight not to turn her head away. ‘No, of

course not.’

‘Good. Because I think we are beginning to get

somewhere.’

Beginning! Only beginning. She was so tired. Her head

ached unbearably and she hadn’t dared ask for an aspirin.

Her back ached too, and she wanted to go the loo, but

didn’t dare say that either.

‘Pattie, I’ve had a very nice morning with your charming daughter, and it’s taken my mind off my troubles.’

Now why had he said that? Sandy wasn’t given to talking

about his troubles; that wasn’t what you did. Troubles were

your own business, nobody else’s.

‘I’m sorry you have troubles.’

That was all she said: but accompanied with her sweet,

rather tired smile, it was absolutely right. Not pressing, not

over-sympathetic, not do tell me about them, not can I

help, just that she was sorry.

‘Yes, well; we all do, don’t we? You certainly do.’

He looked over at the children; they were drinking

lemonade and giggling over some card trick Megan was

showing Dickon.

‘Yes, I do. But I’m pretty used to them.’

‘I’m afraid I’m not used to mine yet,’ he said suddenly

and was shocked at himself again.

‘Look - if you feel up to talking about them, do. I mean,

don’t feel embarrassed or anything. Just because you don’t

know me very well. Sometimes that’s better. And it can

help.’

‘Thank you. I’ll bear it in mind.’

She was right: someone who didn’t know him, didn’t

know all about him, didn’t know his friends, or his history.

It would be better. He probably wouldn’t talk to her,

certainly wouldn’t tell her much. But the thought that he

could, if he got desperate, was oddly soothing.

“When my husband left me,’ she said suddenly, abruptly

almost, ‘I was so ashamed, I didn’t tell anyone for months.

Pretended he was away. When finally I did manage to talk

about it, I felt a million times better. I was surprised. Having

been brought up to the stiff upper lip and all that.’

‘Oh, that ruddy upper lip,’ said Sandy and laughed. ‘My

father’s was so stiff, he could hardly talk through it. Poor

old Dad.’

‘What’s he do now? Retired, I suppose?’

‘I’m afraid he’s in God’s regiment now,’ said Sandy.

‘Oh, Lord. Oh, Sandy, I’m sorry.’ It was the first time she’d said his name, not called him Mr Trelawny. It was wanning, nice.

Sandy smiled at her. ‘Don’t be silly. It was a couple of

years ago now. I’m quite recovered.’ He decided to return

the warmth. ‘Pattie, could I have another beer? And then

maybe we could get the kids over, start our lunch? I’m

famished.’

‘Yes. Yes, do let’s. Oh, dear, now I haven’t brought out

any more beer.’

‘I’ll go. Relax. In the fridge?’

‘Yes. Yes, well, I hope so.’

It wasn’t in the fridge, it was on the work surface

warming up nicely. He picked it up and went out and told

her he’d found it in the fridge.

‘Okay, little baby.’ Stop it, stop calling me that, thought

Romilly, gritting her teeth. ‘Now let’s try it another way.

Sit with your back to me. No. No, that doesn’t work. Lean

back on the stool. Yes, that’s better. That’s definitely better.

Only now the neck is strained. Maybe a chair would be

better. Tang, get a chair. Now now now!’

Tang ran silently out of the room, ran in again, holding

one of the Lloyd Loom chairs from reception.

‘Put it down there. Romilly, sit on it. Not like that,

darling, not like a chicken on a perch. Push your bottom

into the back of the chair. That’s better. Okay, let your

arms hang free over the sides. Relax, darling, relax. You

mustn’t be so tense. I’m not frightening you, am I?’

He bent over her, smiled into her eyes; he had been

drinking wine and was slightly drunk. His breath smelt

horrible; she had to fight not to turn her head away. ‘No, of

course not.’

‘Good. Because I think we are beginning to get

somewhere.’

Beginning! Only beginning. She was so tired. Her head

ached unbearably and she hadn’t dared ask for an aspirin.

Her back ached too, and she wanted to go the loo, but

didn’t dare say that either.

‘Right, lean back. Right back. That’s it. Good. Only here, let me pull that down a bit more,’ he said, gesturing at

the muslin.

‘I’ll do it,’ said Romilly quickly. She couldn’t see how it

could go any lower, without showing her nipples. She

pulled it cautiously; it moved a couple of millimetres. He

nodded, started shooting again.

He had taken the camera off the tripod now, was moving

round her, shooting from the top, the side, then the back of

her. ‘Now, darling, turn, now, yes, that’s better. No, no,

no, too much. Much too much. Romilly, don’t be silly,

darling. Not your head, just your eyes. Tang, I’m still

getting the muslin.’

Tang came over, eased the muslin down further.

‘Not enough. That’s it. Now Romilly, again. Yes, yes,

that’s better. Beginning to get better. Think, darling, think

about what you’re doing. No! No, too stiff. Start again,

relax. Deep breath, darling, move your bottom again, back

into the chair. Right! Now then, stretch your neck right

up, think of a bird, darling, think of a swan, yes, yes, that’s

good, good, yes - shit, fucking muslin. Darling, take it off,

would you? Just take it off.’

‘Off? But—’

‘Oh, darling don’t go all virginal on me. I’ve seen breasts

before. They’re not going to show, I just keep getting the

shadow of the fucking muslin, and I can’t manage.’

Romilly thought of sitting there, with her breasts bare,

knowing both he and Tang were looking at them, knowing

they’d be in the pictures, and she tried and tried to cope

with it. It didn’t matter. It really didn’t matter. Of course

he’d seen breasts before. It was like — well, it was like being

at the doctor’s. It would mean no more than that. And they

wouldn’t show in the pictures. Not when they were

printed. Only on the actual prints. All the models had

pictures taken with bare breasts. She’d seen some of Kate

Moss and Naomi Campbell. It wasn’t as if he wanted her to

show her pubes. Of course it was all right. Of course she

had to do it.

‘Darling, just do it, would you? Take the muslin off.

Come on.’

Very slowly, very miserably, she pulled it down. Right

down. Tang came over to her, stretched out his hand for it.

She sat there, her arms crossed over her breasts; she felt very

hot suddenly, hot and scared.

‘Right. Now then. Arms over the sides again, just like

before.’

So easy. All she had to do was move her arms, let them

hang over the arms of the chair. But she couldn’t do it. She

really couldn’t. It was as if they were glued to her breasts.

She swallowed, stared at Alix.

‘Darling, please. I’m getting a little bit tired here. Come

on. Like this, look.’

He walked over to her, tried to move one of her arms.

Panic shot through Romilly; she pulled away from him.

‘No! No, don’t. I’ll - I’ll do it.’

She managed it. Her arms felt rigid.

‘Right. Let them fall. Now, look at me. Come on, come

on. Jesus, Romilly, relax. Just relax.’

‘I can’t,’ she said and bunt into tears.

‘Dear sweet Jesus,’ he said and stalked out of the studio.

She could hear him shouting, hear the door bang.

When Ritz and Serena came in, she was sitting, her head

buried in her hands, crying quietly.

Tang was being very sweet and standing by her, draping

her shoulders with the muslin and offering her his

handkerchief.

Gabriel felt quite panicky already. And he was only on the

airport tarmac. The heat was stifling, blanket thick. How

was he going to stand it?