Almost a Crime (81 page)

that, barring some rather unlikely miracle, he had probably,

finally, succeeded. And Tom did not believe in miracles.

Marianne sat on the floor of Romilly’s bedroom; Romilly

lay on the bed, looking at her, her large green eyes cloudy

with tears and some kind of strange sullen defiance.

Marianne felt very sick. Finally, haltingly, prompted

gently by Zoe, who was now asleep herself, released briefly

from her own troubles, the story had come out; the terrible

session with Stefanidis, his criticism of her, the humiliation,

physical and emotional, of the whole, terrible, drawn-out

day, culminating in the naked breasts, bared to two men,

total strangers, not so dreadful perhaps in absolute terms,

but an outrage against someone as innocent, as eager to

please as Romilly: and then, as if that was not enough for

her to bear, the appalling episode with Serena Fox and her

lesbian lover. And then coining home to an empty house, with no one to hold her, comfort her, say there there, it

doesn’t matter, you’re quite safe, nothing matters, I’m here.

What kind of mother was she, that she could have

allowed even the possibility of such a situation developing:

so engrossed in her own affairs — or affair — her own

pleasures, her own concerns. While one daughter was

running wild in London, committing God knew what

crimes, or near-crimes, and another was being confronted

by the reality of a world she had no business even to be

near, never mind forced into. Briefly, wildly, she contemplated

what Alec would have to say to her on the matter of

her motherhood now, and shuddered and tried to turn

away from it; and then thought that whatever he might say,

she deserved it and more.

‘Darling,’ she said rather helplessly, ‘darling, would you

like to come down, maybe watch TV with me for a bit?’

‘No,’ Romilly said, still with the strange closed expression.

‘I really don’t feel too good, I’d rather stay up here.’

‘But, Romilly, sweetheart—’

‘Mum, don’t make so much of it. It was no big deal. I’m

fine. Stop fussing.’

She sounded like Zoe: older, hostile, difficult; Marianne

sighed and turned away from her, looked rather wildly

round the room, still a child’s room, with its Roald Dahl

books on the shelf, and her noticeboard, covered with

tickets to theatres and pop concerts and the teenage balls she

had gone to, and postcards and pictures taken in photo

booths of herself and her friends, and posters of Leonardo di

Caprio and Robbie Williams, and her rollerblades and her

riding hat slung untidily into a corner, and the endless

collages of family holidays, and the dolls’ house, standing

next to the desk. Romilly had always loved that dolls’

house; Alec had bought it for her in America, a lucky find,

a house very like the one they stayed in at Martha’s

Vineyard every year.

She reached forward now, to close the front door, which

was hanging open. Something stopped it.

‘Don’t,’ said Romilly sharply. ‘Leave it alone.’

Marianne didn’t leave it alone. She pushed again, and

then when it didn’t yield, she opened it, and against the

background of Romilly saying, ‘Mummy, please!’ and

feeling sicker than ever, pulled out an almost-empty packet

of laxative tablets.

‘Romilly, darling, why on earth were you taking those?

Horrible things, for heaven’s sake, couldn’t you have asked

me? Why take them? For God’s sake, Romilly, you’ve got

to tell me. Got to let me help you.’

And then finally, the spell broke, and Romilly flung

herself off the bed and into her arms, and was saying, ‘I had

to, I had to.’

‘But, darling, why?’

‘I had this spot. My skin was horrible and my stomach

was all bloated, and it was the session. I thought - I thought

they’d help. They did.’

‘But, darling, help what?’

‘Help bring it on. My period,’ said Romilly, her voice

louder, thick with tears. ‘It was late. Days and days late. I had to do something about it, I had to, it was so terrible, you don’t understand.’

And Marianne sat there, holding Romilly, feeling the

sobs shaking her body, feeling more ashamed of herself than

she could ever remember, and realising exactly how badly

out of order her own life had become.

Playing God is a dangerous game for mortals. It requires

breathtaking arrogance, an iron nerve and an absolute

determination to see it through, whatever the cost and

whatever the consequences. Felix Miller, who possessed all

those things, had been playing God with some success; he

was lacking, however, in that other crucial quality, granted

only to the Almighty; the ability to see what further moves,

if any, might need to be made …

He simply considered his job done, and well done:

Octavia dispatched, alone with her lover, into the loveliness

and peace of Barbados; and in the knowledge moreover

that her husband was disporting himself in the pleasure

domes of Tuscany with his mistress. He had done that, Felix

thought, studying the financial pages that sunny Monday

morning; he had created a set of circumstances whereby

Octavia could go away, guilt free, knowing that her

marriage must be finally and absolutely over. And whereby

Tom Fleming had been typecast, correctly of course, but in

a manner of which there could be no doubt, as the

unarguable villain of the piece. All that was needed now

was the divorce to be set in motion, and Octavia would be

safe again. There could surely be no possible reason for her

to postpone it any longer now: no reason either for him not

to ring his solicitor and establish exactly what Octavia

should and should not do in order to bring about a legal end to her marriage, as final and unarguable as its emotional counterpart. He picked up the phone and dialled Bernard

Moss’s number.

‘We’ll go to Cave Shepherd tomorrow morning,’ said

Octavia, ‘to get your shirts. It’s a marvellous shop, a bit like

- well, like Harrods.’

‘Sounds my kind of place.’

He grinned at her. They had spent the day at Crane, on

the northern side of the island, a glorious white-sanded

beach with rolling white-edged turquoise surf. They had

taken belly boards and Octavia had tried to teach Gabriel to

catch the waves; he had been hopeless at it, missed the

moment every time, but he hadn’t minded, had watched

her from the beach, laughing, as she rode in through the

surf, and felt a stab of something very close to love for her.

Afterwards, she lay stretched out on her board, half asleep,

her body already turned golden brown, a clutch of rather

surprising freckles on her small perfect nose. Octavia would

not have been expected to have freckles, Gabriel thought,

they were somehow too childlike, too random, for her neat

orderly beauty. But they suited her. The sun suited her

altogether, Gabriel thought, more than half envious; he had

woken pink shouldered and sore, had kept his T-shirt on all

morning, even in the sea, feeling slightly foolish and

somehow adolescent. He wondered if Tom Fleming

burned in the sun and decided it was unlikely.

At lunchtime they went up to the terrace restaurant at

the Crane Hotel, set on the cliff high above the beach, and

ordered swordfish salads and fries; while they waited

Gabriel had a milk punch.

‘I warn you,’ said Octavia, ‘that might sound innocent,

but it’s lethal.’

It was; his head was spinning long before the food

arrived.

Later, they swam again, and then she went fast asleep on her

board, in the shade of some trees; Gabriel, feeling the heat

badly now, walked along the water’s edge, and tried to ignore a determinedly developing headache. He needed

some time out of the sun; but she had organised a boat-trip

the next day, and was so excited about the wonders it was

going to offer that he didn’t have the heart to say he

couldn’t go.

The dreaded cocktails had been postponed until the next

day: Fergus and the blonde were going to a dinner party

that night. For that, at least, Gabriel was grateful.

He had walked as far as he could, stopped by some cliffs

jutting far out into the sea, and turned; he swam for a few

minutes, trying to get cool. The water was warm as well as

wild; his headache eased as he dived under the waves. A

quiet evening and he’d be fine tomorrow…

‘We’re going to dinner at a restaurant called Pisces tonight,’

said Octavia, sitting up, refreshed from her sleep, waking to

his kiss. ‘It goes right out into the sea. You’ll really enjoy it.’

He tried to look enthusiastic but his headache had

stabbed back into life. ‘Good. Shall we go back now?’

‘Yes, I think we’d better. You look as if you’ve had quite

enough sun. Your face is terribly pink, Gabriel. I wish

you’d—’

‘You wish I’d what?’ he said, irritably conscious of his

burned face.

‘Wear a hat.’

‘I will tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I did bring one. A panama.’

‘Really? How nice, I love men in panamas. So oldworldish.

Come on, let’s get you back. We can have a well,

a rest before we go out.’

She smiled at him, jumped up and kissed him. He knew

what she meant, and tried to look enthusiastic, but his

headache was so bad when they did get back that all he

could do was fall gratefully asleep.

Pisces was a very nice restaurant; cooler now (in spite of

wearing his grey flannels), and with several painkillers inside

him, Gabriel managed at least to appear to appreciate it. He decided he should stick to water, but Octavia said the wine list was incredible, and he should have at least a glass.

Sipping a Californian chardonnay at one of the tables at

beach level, looking appreciatively at the menu, he felt

almost human again.

Octavia, dressed in a white linen dress, unbuttoned

dangerously low to show her brown breasts, smiled at him,

picked up his hand and kissed it. ‘I’m enjoying this so

much,’ she said. ‘So very much. I hope you are too.’

Gabriel said he was. ‘Much more than I expected,’ he

said.

‘Really? I find that mildly insulting.’

‘Only because of the heat,’ he said hastily.

‘I hoped that was what you meant. Now this menu is

wonderful, a perfect blend of Caribbean and smart London.

My advice is ignore the smart London bit, stick to the

Caribbean.’

‘I’m not actually very familiar with smart London

menus,’ he said. He had meant to sound lighthearted but it

didn’t quite come off.

‘Oh, Gabriel,’ said Octavia, ‘you do run on about your

humble lifestyle. It could get boring.’ He hoped that, too,

was meant to be a joke, but there was something

approaching an edge to her voice. He knew her well

enough now to recognise that edge; he hadn’t heard it

much out here, it belonged to the other Octavia. He had

wondered when she might come back.

He smiled at her, picked up the menu. It really was very

near perfect. The moon was just rising, reflecting in the

water; the stars were brilliant. The waves — gentle, foamy,

quite unlike the pounding surf of Crane — were drifting on

to the shore. Just the sound was cooling. It was all a cliche.

A luxurious cliche. But really very very nice. He was very

lucky: only a fool would knock it. He’d have the crab, he

thought, and after that—

‘Octavia! Hallo, my dear, how are you?’

‘Bertie! What a lovely surprise. I’m very well.’

Bertie was sixtyish, tall, handsome, white haired, very

tanned. Gabriel hated him on sight. ‘And your father? How is the old rogue? He’s not here, I suppose?’

‘No, he’s not. He’s fine. Coming over later in the year.’

‘Hope he’ll bring the lovely Marianne. I could use a

decent golf partner. Got the children with you? Look, why

don’t you join us? We’d love some company. Clem,

darling, look, it’s Octavia.’

And then Clem joined them: also tall, also good looking,

blonde, very slim, beautifully dressed. She bent and kissed

Octavia. ‘Darling girl. How lovely.’ She looked rather

uncertainly at Gabriel.

Octavia kissed her, then said, ‘This is Gabriel Bingham.

A friend of mine from England. Gabriel, this is Bertie and

Clem Richardson. Old friends of my father’s. They live

here, in the most wonderful house.’

Gabriel stood up, shook their hands dutifully. He felt

unreasonably outraged by their arrival.

‘Now, do join us, won’t you?’ said Clem and Gabriel was

almost prepared for Octavia to say that would be lovely,

saw her glance at him, was overwhelmingly relieved to hear

her say, ‘Well — just for a drink. But I think we might stay

on our own, if that wouldn’t seem terribly rude. We’re a bit

- tired. Long day.’

‘Oh, nonsense. Tired! Young things like you,’ said

Bertie, but Clem cut in and said, ‘Bertie, do use your head.

They want to be alone. Not spending the evening with a

pair of old geriatrics.’ Gabriel could have kissed her. ‘Tell