Almost a Crime (89 page)

‘Look at me.’

She did so, reluctantly; was amazed to see him smiling. A

real smile: amused, friendly, affectionate.

‘You really are extraordinary,’ he said. ‘Quite extraordinary.’

‘Of

course I’m not,’ she said, irritable again. ‘What do

you mean?’

‘I mean I’ve done some fairly terrible things to you.

Correction. Some very terrible things to you.’

‘Well, that’s certainly true.’

‘And yet you feel you have to apologise for some minor

dismeanour towards me.’

She didn’t say anything. He stood up, walked over

towards her. She backed into the corridor; she didn’t want

him near her.

‘One of the reasons,’ he said, his eyes moving over her

face, ‘one of the reasons I have always loved you—’

‘Don’t say that! Please!’

‘One of the reasons I have always loved you,’ he said,

‘was your scrupulousness. Your sense of justice. It’s very — special. You are very special.’

She said nothing. She felt confused, disoriented. He

reached out suddenly, and touched her cheek, very gently.

She shied away, pushed his hand down.

‘Don’t!’

‘Sorry.’

Suddenly, startlingly, she wanted his hand there again, wanted him to touch her. It was frightening, how much she wanted it.

‘Octavia,’ he said, very slowly, and she realised he had

seen it, and was homed at herself, at her foolishness. And

still she didn’t move.

‘You look very tired,’ he said gently, and then bent and

kissed her on the mouth. Just briefly, lightly. ‘Go to bed,

get some sleep.’

‘Good night, Tom,’ she said. And then he bent and

kissed her again, still lightly, but very carefully; and she

could not help it then, it was as if she had become herself

again, the self she had forgotten, the self who had loved and

wanted Tom, and her lips parted under his. She felt him

pause, hesitate, then felt his mouth moving gently, with

infinite care, the rest of him not moving, utterly still. She

knew that stillness, she could remember it, her body

remembered it, preceding in him, it always did, an

intense, urgent sexual excitement. And then she felt the

echoes of it herself, felt a warmth creeping into her

somewhere, felt a stirring and a softness: and then, almost

frightened, she pulled her mouth away.

‘Good night,’ she said quickly, and half ran to her room

and slammed the door and lay on the bed, breathing very

fast, appalled at the power of her body to betray her, to

want him, and still more at the fact, the terrifying fact, that

however hard she denied it, she was able to consider

beginning at least to forgive him.

‘I want a divorce,’ she said. ‘As quickly as possible. So — can

you help?’

Melanie grinned at her. ‘As co-respondent? Not too sure

about that.’

‘No. With a lawyer.’

‘Oh, yes. I certainly can help you there.’

She’d known Melanie was the person to ask. Lying

awake, afraid that she might weaken, find herself feebly

accepting the whole thing, she had suddenly thought of

Melanie, of her famously successful departure from married

life. If ever anyone had been given absolutely superb advice

about their divorce, it was her.

Melanie smiled at Octavia now. ‘Does this mean you and

the Angel Gabriel are an ongoing item?’

‘Um — no,’ said Octavia quickly.

‘Oh, dear. Don’t tell me his powers were a little less than

heavenly?’

‘Well, I — actually, no. I mean, he’s lovely and funny and

we got on really well, had a great time but — not quite right,

I’m afraid.’

‘Shame,’ said Melanie. ‘I’m really sorry about that.’

Her large, brilliant eyes were gentler suddenly as she

looked at Octavia.

‘Oh — it’s not important. Honestly. I mean I never

thought it was going to be the love affair of the century.’

‘Didn’t you? I thought you were pretty smitten with

him. What went wrong?’

‘I messed it up, basically,’ said Octavia quietly. ‘I was

ghastly. Bossy, controlling, all my worst things, expected

him to fit in with everything there, the people we know,

the things we do. As if he had been — been …’

‘Tom?’ said Melanie helpfully.

‘Well - no, not Tom. Obviously. But used to it all, liking

the things we do there, getting on with the people …’

‘Like Tom?’

‘No, Melanie, not like Tom. What is this?’

‘Just testing!’

‘Well, don’t. I can’t cope with it.’

‘Is he still in the house?’

‘Well - yes.’

‘You’ve got to throw him out.’

‘I know.’

‘Octavia, you have. Fiona — my lawyer — will have a

great deal to say about that, I can tell you.’

‘Don’t! You sound like my father. He’s practically got

the divorce papers ready for me.’

‘Good on him. Now I’m going to give you Fiona’s

number and you’re to ring her, and then, if you could

possibly get your nicely sunburnt little nose down to the

grindstone, we have a few nightmares on our hands. Mostly

to do with the dreaded day at Brands Hatch. I tell you, we,

personally, are going to make a huge loss out of that thing.’

‘Mells, I’m sorry.’

‘Not your fault — you didn’t want to do it. And the

publicity and the association with the charity will more than

make up for it. I’ve already had two inquiries from other

children’s charities, as a direct result. Largely because of

Diana, of course.’

‘I don’t suppose we know if she’s coming or not?’

We don’t. She likes to keep people hopping. At the

moment she’s still disporting herself all over Europe with

Dodi Fayed. Have you seen the picture today? Obviously posed with the supplements in mind.’

The picture showed the Princess sitting alone on the

prow of Dodi Fayed’s yacht, wearing a pale blue swimsuit,

lovely legs swinging. She looked very alone, a tragic,

beautiful figure.

‘What on earth is to become of her?’ said Octavia. And

went back to her office, thinking that the same question

might have been asked of her.

‘He’s called a press conference. For Thursday morning,’ said

Tom. ‘I fear that confirms it.’

‘Have you talked to him?’

‘Would he talk to me? Of course not. But I’ve had my

spies out. He’s still in denial, of course, about a takeover.

Although he’s declared his holding to the Stock Exchange,

he’ll have to notify you of course before the press

conference. But I can’t think whatever else it could possibly

be.’

‘Shit!’ said Nico Cadogan. ‘God, I don’t like this.’

‘Nor do I. More coffee?’

‘Thanks. Well, I suppose I have only myself to blame.’

‘No,’ said Tom, ‘you don’t. Much of it has to be set at

my door.’

‘It still seems to me that I’m the major culprit. I walked

off with his woman. Although …’

‘Although what?’

‘Oh, nothing.’ He sighed, then said, ‘I suppose I should

tell you. Marianne has — well, she’s back with him.’

Tom stared at him, fighting to keep his face blank.

‘Really? But—’

‘I know what you’re thinking. If he’s got her back, why

does he still want the hotels?’

‘I was right, you see,’ said Tom. ‘This is all about me. Me

and Octavia, your helping me. The man’s crazy. He—’ He

stopped, looked at Nico suddenly. ‘Jesus!’ he said.

‘Tom, are you all right? You’ve gone the most ghastly

colour.’

‘Have I? Sorry.’

‘What is it?’

‘Oh—just remembered something. Doesn’t matter. Let’s

go over those figures again, shall we? There’s still a chance your shareholders might back you, isn’t there?’

‘A chance, yes, I suppose,’ said Nico Cadogan, ‘but I wouldn’t put money on it.’ He looked at Tom. He seemed rather different: older, worn down, his air of sleek confidence quite gone. ‘I feel pretty grim about this, I have

to tell you. I really can’t imagine life without Cadogan

Hotels.’

‘Maybe you won’t have to,’ said Tom.

Commuters were informed by their Evening Standards that

night that Nico Cadogan was really rather likely to have to

imagine life without Cadogan Hotels.

The press conference, called for Thursday morning by

financier Felix Miller, of the London Wall Bank, was likely

to announce his bid for the company. A consortium,

headed jointly by London Wall and stockbrokers George

Martindale, was said to have substantial funds in place; the shares now stood at over three pounds. The earlier bid from Western Provincial would be trumped by this one. Mr

Miller had stated earlier that day that although he had no

intention of pre-empting what he had to say at his press

conference, he was prepared to admit he had no objection

in principle to the idea of owning a hotel chain: ‘I travel a

lot and it would be useful always to be sure of somewhere

decent to stay.’

‘Bastard!’ said Nico Cadogan, hurling the paper across

the room. ‘Bastard!’

Nico thought of the first Cadogan Royal: the one that

had set the pattern and standard for all the rest, in the

beautiful house in Bath. He hadn’t lost a single feature of

that house: every cornice, every shutter, every lovely

window and stairway and piece of ironwork was still there.

It had cost him a fortune, had taken years to see back, but

he had done it. He had sacked two interior designers before

he had found one sufficiently in sympathy with the house and its mood; had thrown back drawings that showed fancy

furnishings, overdressed windows, elaborate wallpapers.

The hotel when it was finished remained a beautiful and

elegant house that could be lived in by up to forty guests;

but it could also be imagined as the home of one civilised

and privileged family. It was still cited as an example of how

to style an exclusive hotel, photographed and written about

in all the design magazines, and it was still his favourite, as

dear to him as his own home. And the company as dear to

him as anything could be: in the absence of a family, it

seemed a part of him, had done so for many years. It held

his heart, absorbed his attention, satisfied his pride. Without

it he would feel absolutely bereft.

And the irony was that Marianne, who had inadvertently

brought about its loss, had left his life as well…

Marianne was one of the many readers of the Standard who

read about the bid for Cadogan; it finally gave her the

courage to ring Tom, who seemed delighted to hear from

her.

‘I was thinking of calling you. I’ve got a client who’s a

great golfer, he’s coming to London for a few days, for a

conference, so where might he be able to get a game?’

Marianne suggested a couple of clubs, and then said,

‘Tom — is it true? That Felix is putting in a bid for Nico’s

company?’

“Fraid so,’ said Tom. ‘That is, it hasn’t been confirmed,

but the writing’s pretty clearly on the wall. You hadn’t

heard before?’

‘No. No, I haven’t seen Nico for — for a few days. I saw

something in the paper today.’

‘I see. Yes, the poor old boy’s in a terrible state about it.

Very upset.’

‘I expect he is,’ said Marianne. ‘Oh, dear. How dreadful.

I feel…’

‘Feel what?’ said Tom?

‘A bit responsible. Somehow.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Tom. His voice was very soothing,

very kind. ‘You ought to know Felix well enough to realise

he’s much too good a businessman to do something like this

on some kind of a personal whim. The company’s worth

having. He wants it. Simple as that.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Marianne. But she knew he wasn’t

being entirely truthful.

Tom called Nico.

‘For what it’s worth, Marianne doesn’t seem to be — what

shall I say? — in very close contact with Felix. She phoned

me to ask me if it was true about the takeover.’

‘It’s worth nothing to me at all,’ said Nico shortly.

‘Fine. Sorry to have troubled you. I’ll fax those

circulation figures over to you later today.’

‘Thanks,’ said Nico.

Felix had several times tried to teach Marianne chess. It had

been a disaster; she lacked the intellect, or so she told him,

to play. He had told her that her intellect was more than

adequate, it was her powers of concentration that were

lacking.

‘Octavia is a very good chess player. But it’s mostly

because she has the capacity to put everything else out of

her mind. You just need to develop that.’

Marianne said briskly that she had no desire to try to

develop it, and that was the end of the chess lessons; but she

did remember being much intrigued by the concept of

checkmate, of being in a position from which there could

be absolutely no escape, where absolutely no move was

possible. She felt herself checkmated now. She was the king

on the board, trapped helplessly by the all-powerful queen:

only the queen was not another person, it was her own

emotions, her own folly. That was what had trapped her.

She had left Nico Cadogan — whom she did miss quite

painfully - to return to Felix, because that was where she

belonged, where her duty lay; and because it was him — in