Almost a Crime (77 page)

Serena, kissing her impulsively, blowing a kiss across the

table at Ritz. ‘It’s absolutely gorgeous. But you really didn’t

have to.’

‘Well, we thought we did,’ said Serena. ‘You had a

horrid day, and we felt responsible. Anyway, Alix Stefanidis

won’t be working for Christie’s again. That’s for sure. Will

he, Ritz?’

‘Absolutely not,’ said Ritz. ‘And there’s some more

news, Romilly. Very exciting. I think Mario Testino might

do the campaign instead. You’ll like him, he’s so gentle and

sweet. He did these marvellous pictures of Diana, look, in Vanity Fair, I brought them to show you.’

‘They are lovely,’ said Romilly, looking at the pictures of

a new, utterly different Diana, her hair unstyled, slicked

back, what could only be described as a grin on her lovely

face, ‘but…’

‘But what?’

‘Oh — doesn’t matter.’ How could she tell them she found the very thought of being photographed by another world-class photographer totally scary?

‘Yes, it does. Come on, tell your old aunties.’

‘Don’t!’ said Romilly, sharply. ‘Don’t talk to me like I’m

a baby. Like everyone else.’

‘Oh, Romilly.’ Serena looked at Ritz swiftly, then at her.

‘Romilly, we don’t think you’re a baby. We think you’re

very special. A real discovery. We’re very proud of you. It

isn’t easy, being catapulted into all this. No one can cope

with it at first. No one. Whoever they are, however old

they are.’

‘Of course they can,’ said Romilly. She was shocked to

find tears rising in her eyes. ‘I was so feeble. As if it

mattered. That - that bit of material coming off. Off my

boobs,’ she said loudly and clearly. The people at the next

table stared at her; she stared back at them boldly. She

didn’t care. It seemed important: to stop behaving as if she

couldn’t bear to talk about it. When it had actually been

quite — well, quite funny.

‘Romilly,’ said Ritz, putting down her glass, looking at

her very seriously, ‘of course it mattered. Let me tell you

something. When Kate Moss was just starting, she arrived at a session and some dirty old man tried to make her take her bra off. And you know what? She just refused and left. Listen,

you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. You hold all

the cards. You’re the face of the millennium. Everyone’s

going to be talking about you soon. And if you don’t want to

take your bra off, you certainly don’t have to.’

‘Really?’ said Romilly.

‘Really. More chips?’

‘Yes, please.’

Marie France Auguste sat in the first-class compartment of

the Paris to London Eurostar, sipping at a glass of

champagne, and thinking complacently how pleased Serena

would be to see her. It would be good to give her a

surprise. She knew she hadn’t been terribly nice to Serena

lately, and she felt remorseful about it. She might not be

exactly madly in love with her, but she was fond of her, and she owed her a lot and certainly didn’t want to upset her.

Well, actually, she couldn’t afford to upset her: her career

would go right on the skids if she did. Marketing directors

could do a lot for junior product development executives if

they felt so inclined. And so far, Serena had felt very much

inclined. She looked at her watch; nine. The train got into

Waterloo at ten thirty; she could be with Serena by eleven.

And then they could have a really good night together.

It never occurred to her for a moment that she might not

be entirely welcome.

Steel Magnolias was just drawing to its tear-stained conclusion

when the phone rang: Mrs Blake swore and went to

answer it. It was her husband. ‘Sorry to disturb you,’ he

said, ‘but I think you’d better get over to St Thomas’s. It’s

your mum, love. I’m sorry, but she’s had a stroke.’

‘A stroke! Oh, God, Phil, a bad one?’

‘I’m not sure. I don’t think anyone knows yet.’

‘Poor Mum. You’ll come, too, won’t you?’

“Course I will. What about that little lot there?’

‘Oh, I’ll ring Zoe. She said she could get back if there

was a problem.’

‘All right, larfe. Best get a cab.’

Mrs Blake phoned Zoe on the number she had given

her; it told her that Zoe would get right back to her. That

didn’t sound too good. Now what did she do? Distractedly

she flipped open the telephone book, looked down the list

of numbers under Emergency. Not a lot of help: doctor,

dentist, gasman, plumber. Oh, and here were all the

children’s mobile phone numbers. Spoilt brats, thought Mrs

Blake. Still — useful. And yes, here was Romilly’s. At least

she would know that she’d be coming home to an empty

house; she could probably make other arrangements. She

dialled the number.

‘Then you’ll have to stay with me,’ said Serena. ‘That’s

absolutely no problem. There’s no way you can go back to an empty house. I’ve got a very nice spare room and—’

‘Serena,’ said Ritz, ‘Serena, perhaps it would be better if

Romilly stayed with me.’

Romilly saw Serena look at Ritz, saw a very strange

expression in her face: if she hadn’t known better, she

would have said it was anger.

‘I really don’t see that,’ she said. ‘You haven’t even got a

spare bed, let alone a spare room.’

‘Yes, I know, but—’

‘But what, Ritz?’ The blue eyes were icy cold, the

mouth tight and hard.

Romilly suddenly felt very uncomfortable. ‘Look,’ she

said, ‘look, it really doesn’t matter. I’ll be fine for a bit.

Zoe’ll be in later …’

‘No,’ said Ritz, ‘no, we have to look after you. Of course

you can’t go home alone. Sorry, Serena, I — I just didn’t

want you to be — well, put out in any way.’

‘I won’t be,’ said Serena briefly. ‘I’m surprised you

thought I would be. Very surprised.’

Romilly suddenly felt she had to prove to them that she

was actually more grown up than they thought. And

improve the mood of things at the same time. ‘Let’s have

another glass of champagne, shall we?’ she said. ‘My treat.

Mummy always says it’s the best thing at the end of an

evening. Ends it on a high.’

‘Your mother,’ said Ritz, smiling at her, ‘is a woman

after my own heart. But I’ve got my car, so I daren’t have

another glass of anything. Let’s go back to your flat, shall

we, Serena, have it there? How would that be?’

‘Fine,’ said Serena. She was still icy cool. But at least she

managed a smile. At Romilly at least.

The house was nearly finished; the kitchen looked wonderful,

the units in the obligatory distressed greeny-blue wood,

a blue Aga in place, Fired Earth tiles on the floor.

‘Looks good, doesn’t it? And wait till you see the

bathroom. Bath came yesterday. Black.’

It wasn’t quite black, more dark grey and white marble,

with gold taps and Jacuzzi jets. He led her into the bedroom; that was finished as well, done in what her

mother would have described as wedding-cake style;

ruched blinds, fringed lampshades, silk wallpaper, the bed

an absurd confection, made up in white and cream lace

trimmed linen, with curtains hanging from a brass coronet

hung over it, and a heap of teddies piled on to a mountain

of lace cushions.

‘Teddies!’ said Ian, his voice thick with distaste.

‘I think they’re rather sweet,’ said Zoe, ‘and I love the

drapes. Um — Ian …’

She had decided, while they were dancing, to come

clean about the money. He might be cross, but he’d be

bound to lend it to her — it’d be worth more than his job if

he didn’t, actually; and he had a great stash of fifty-pound

notes in his wallet, she’d seen them.

‘Yeah? Get your clothes off, princess, there’s a good girl

— we haven’t got all night.’

Serena’s flat was lovely, Romilly thought: on the first floor

of a modern building just behind Lowndes Square. It was

very cool, very minimal. She asked if she could use the loo

and sat there staring at endlessly repeated images of herself,

disappearing into infinity, from all four mirrored walls. It

was quite a nice idea, she supposed, but the loo didn’t seem

the right place for it; you were hardly at your best. Next to

the loo was a study, white carpeted, with a big black desk,

dauntingly neat, and on the walls a set of framed Christie’s

advertisements, dating back to the ‘sixties. She went, rather

reluctantly, to find Ritz and Serena, but they seemed to

have called a truce and were chatting fairly easily in the

kitchen, which was all white-and-chrome with an endless

battery of chrome and stainless steel cookery appliances,

toasters, processors, juicers, and a kettle that looked like

no kettle Romilly had ever seen. The fridge was silver

too; Serena was removing a bottle of champagne from

it.

‘I feel bad now,’ said Romilly. meant the champagne

to be on me.’

‘Another time,’ said Serena easily. ‘Let’s go into the

sitting room.’

She put some music on, strange, high pitched, other

worldly. Romilly settled herself on the sofa, next to Serena,

smiled across at Ritz.

‘To Romilly,’ said Ritz, raising her glass. ‘Romilly and and

…’

‘Us,’ said Serena.

‘Yes, us.’

‘Feeling better?’ said Serena.

‘Much,’ said Romilly.

‘Good.’

Romilly felt a sudden lurch of affection for her; for both

of them. They had been so kind to her, so thoughtful and

patient. She moved slightly nearer Serena, smiled at her.

‘You’ve both been so …’

‘Cool?’ said Ritz and grinned.

‘Yes. Really cool,’ said Romilly. She took a large gulp of

the champagne and then another.

‘Romilly! I’m sorry, but there is a limit, even to our

indulgence. That is no way to drink champagne. You’re

meant to sip it. It’s not Coca-Cola!’

‘Sorry. Mummy always says exactly the same thing.’ She

giggled; and having started, couldn’t stop. It was partly the

champagne itself, partly relief that the day was over, not too

disastrously after all, and partly that she could never stop

giggling once she’d begun. Tears began to stream down her

face.

‘Here,’ said Serena, laughing too, handing her a hanky;

she wiped her eyes, handed it back, then collapsed against

Serena’s side, still giggling, in between exaggeratedly

genteel sips of champagne. The others began to do the same

thing.

The doorbell went.

‘I’ll go,’ said Ritz.

Romilly, no longer giggling, was wiping her eyes, still

leaning against Serena, when a girl walked in. A very pretty girl, blonde, blue eyed, very slim, wearing trousers and a

sweater exactly like the one they had given her that

evening.

She stood there, looking at them, a rather cool smile on

her face; Romilly felt Serena stiffen suddenly, then sit up

very straight.

‘Well,’ said the girl, in a thick French accent, ‘I see you

are having a little party, Serena. Am I too late to join in?’

Marianne lay half-asleep in Nico’s arms. She felt easy,

sweetly at peace. She could not remember feeling like this

before; love for her had meant always darkness, complexity,

tension. Nico, she realised, was that rare thing, a man at

peace with himself. She had no illusions about him; he was

vain, arrogant, pragmatic to the point of amorality. But

those very things made him easy; sure of who he was, what

he wanted. Self-doubt, and its more difficult companion,

self-mistrust, were unknown to him; the result was a

personality that was blithely straightforward. And then he

was fun: Marianne’s life-companions, her children apart,

had been short on fun. And he said he loved her. And

seemed to mean it.

She lay there contemplating him, listening to his heavy

breathing, reliving the evening, reliving his last words to

her: ‘Go on, Marianne. Promise to marry me,’ before he

fell asleep and she felt quite tempted to wake him up and

tell him she would. For why not? Because she had not

known him long? Because she hardly knew him at all? She

had known Felix for years and still not been sure. She had

known Alec extremely well, and still read him wrong.

Marriage, love itself indeed, was a gamble; there was no

way to be sure of a winning hand. You could see there was

a hand to play, and that was the best you could hope for. So

— why not take it, Marianne? she thought, shifting just

slightly, smiling at Nico’s sleeping face. It would be a very

different marriage, this one, if she made it: very grown up.

She and Nico could lead a life of total selfishness. There would be no one to worry about, no one to be concerned for but one another. She rather liked that concept. She had

always been rather critical of childless marriages, seeing

them as incomplete, inconclusive: but second time around,

that was surely different. It would simply be fun: self

indulgent, self-centred fun …

Marianne lay there, beside Nico, half smiling, thinking

about fun. But her sleep when it came was uneasy and her

dreams troubled.