glared at them: Tom noticed, looked away, turned hastily
to Mrs Nichols on his other side. She should have left him
at home with Minty.
Minty was behaving fairly well at the moment. They had
produced a highchair for her and Zoe was making quite a
success of spooning fruit salad into her. Zoe looked
wonderful; dressed in her jeans and a white T-shirt, brown
as a nut, her short spiky hair very blonde. She was sex on
legs; Octavia had lost count of how many of the male guests
had asked her where she got her nanny from.
Now, was she more or less sexy than Lauren? That was a
good one. She — she was interrupted in her miserable
musings by the toastmaster asking for quiet: for a few words
from the Chair of the luncheon today, ‘Mrs Lauren
Bartlett.’ Huge applause. ‘After which Mr Kit Curtis will draw the raffle.’ Even huger.
Lauren stood up. She was suddenly coolly, wonderfully
sober. She made a sweetly sad reference to Diana, about
what a shadow her death had cast over her day, thanked
everyone for coming in spite of it, ‘as I know she would
have wanted,’ paid careful tribute to her committee, to the
organisers, and to ‘wonderful Octavia Fleming and Melanie
Faulks of Capital C who have done so much to ensure the
day’s success.’ She was orderly, efficient, absolutely in
control. How does she do that? thought Octavia, and then
realised the giggling tipsiness was simply a cover, behind
which she could flirt foolishly as much as she wished. With her husband. Bitch. Silly bitch.
Kit Curtis the New Zealand racing driver was very pretty
indeed. Tall, dark, gangly, with wonderful hazel eyes and
freckles. Perhaps Lauren would switch her attentions to
him.
He said a few rather dull words in his rolling New
Zealand accent and then started to pull tickets out of the
bowl. God, this was going on for ever. And she’d got to
make her speech next. With Lauren and Tom looking at
her and laughing at her. It wasn’t fair! It just wasn’t fair.
Just before she got up to speak, Minty began to cry: on
and on. Zoe pushed the buggy backwards and forwards,
kept saying shush rather ineffectively. It had no effect
whatsoever. God, why had she brought her, why hadn’t she
left her at home?
Octavia got up, went over to her quickly. ‘Take her for
another walk, Zoe, if you don’t mind. She’ll probably goto
sleep.’
‘Okay. Cool.’
She got up, walked out of the room with Minty. Every
man in the place stopped looking at his raffle tickets.
Louise had waited outside, because there was nothing else
to do. Minty was in the building and she had to wait for her
to come out. Simple as that. She seemed to have been standing there for a very long time. It was very tedious, and inactivity was making her feel nervous again. This wasn’t
going to work. It just wasn’t. She might as well go home.
She’d just drive home and have a nice evening with her
father, maybe get Sandy to bring Dickon over when he got
back. Poor little boy, he obviously wasn’t having a very
nice day. And this was hopeless.
And then Minty did come out of the building. Strapped
into her buggy, half asleep, her thumb in her mouth. Zoe,
looking at once stressed and bored, was pushing her. Away
into the direction of the crowds.
Louise followed her.
Mrs Harrington had just finished stacking the dishwasher,
thinking that Mr Miller hadn’t eaten much of his lunch,
when the kitchen door burst violently open. So violently
indeed that she feared an intruder; she swung round,
startled, wondering wildly where the carving knife was.
It wasn’t an intruder; it was Felix Miller, standing in the
doorway, a ghastly colour, his face clammy with sweat,
clutching his chest and struggling to breathe.
His voice when he spoke was hoarse and rasping. ‘Please
call an ambulance, Mrs Harrington,’ he said, ‘I fear I am
having a heart attack.’
And then he fell down where he had been standing; his
great body suddenly frail and less substantial.
After dialling 999, Mrs Harrington, who had done a first
aid course, propped his head up on a pillow and made him
as comfortable as she could; as he lay there, clearly in
considerable pain, he lifted his hand, fumbled for hers.
‘Octavia …’ he said with immense effort.
‘I’ll ring her, Mr Miller. Don’t worry.’
‘No, no, don’t. Please not. She’s not at home important
day for her
And then he lost consciousness altogether.
The speech had gone all right; it had all gone all right.
Flowers had been presented to Lauren by the committee; it
was announced the raffle had made over four thousand pounds, everyone had cheered. Octavia was beginning to
feel much better.
She saw Drew go over to Tom, saw Tom stand up,
pump his hand, clearly congratulating him — on what? His
choice of wife? She’d better warn him about the dangers of
Tom getting friendly with wives. Then she saw Tom look
at her.
He walked over to her.
‘I’m off to have one of these hot rides. They’re doing
them now, before the racing starts. Drew and Oliver
Nichols are very keen. Okay with you if I leave you with
the kids?’
‘Absolutely,’ she said coldly. ‘You do what you like. Is
Mrs Bartlett going to have a hot ride with you? Or have
you already given her one?’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ he said. ‘Don’t be so pathetic’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I mean your jealousy is pathetic’
‘I don’t think so. Actually. I’ve felt pretty bloody silly,
sitting here, watching you two practically snogging all
through lunch.’
Suddenly he took hold of her arm; very hard. It hurt. She
winced.
‘Don’t do that.’
‘You come over here,’ he said. His voice was savagely
quiet. He led her towards the service doors, pushed her
through them. They were in a lobby, full of tables and
trolleys and trays covered now in coffee things. The waiters
looked at them curiously. Beyond them was another set of
swing doors; he pushed her through those too, on to a small
outside landing.
‘How dare you criticise the way I behave,’ he said, his
voice low but shaky with rage. ‘How dare you! What right
have you to any say in my behaviour when you’ve got a
divorce lawyer all lined up?’
She stared at him.
‘Well, haven’t you?’
She swallowed. ‘Yes. Yes, I have. I want a divorce and I
want it very soon. I take it you’re not surprised. And don’t
talk to me about rights. After the way you’ve behaved.’
‘You really are a cow,’ he said. ‘A self-righteous cow.’
‘Tom, this is ridiculous,’ she said. ‘We have guests to see
to, this is not the places—’
‘No, I don’t suppose it is,’ he said. ‘There have been
other far more suitable places, but this will have to do. God,
I can’t believe you did that, saw a solicitor without telling
me. Whatever I did or didn’t do, you owed me that. Well,
didn’t you? Answer me.’
‘Yes. Yes, I did,’ she said, remorse of a sort hitting her,
‘and I was going to, but—’
‘But you didn’t. Why not? Why the fuck not?’
‘Because — well, because …’
‘God, you’re pathetic,’ he said. ‘Cowardly as well as a
cow. A cowardly cow. Have you told her what happened
last week? Your solicitor?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know what I mean. Your magnificent performance
in bed. Our bed.’
She looked back into the building. There was no one
there in the lobby. Beyond it, people were finishing their
lunch, not sure quite what was happening next, probably
wondering where they were, where they had gone. She
was failing, failing in the most important day of her career.
God, this was a nightmare; there were cars roaring round
the track now, she could hear them, hear the rhythmic roar
coming up to her.
‘No. No, of course I haven’t told her. It was — well, it
was…’
‘I’ll tell you what it was for a start, Octavia. It was the
end of any hopes you have for a quick divorce.’
‘Oh, don’t be absurd!’
‘It’s true. If I choose. Legally, as you may or may not
know; that indicates that you don’t really want a divorce at
all. If I told a court
‘You wouldn’t,’ she said. ‘You couldn’t!’
‘I might,’ he said. ‘It might be — amusing. You obviously want to be rid of me very fast.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes, I do. And I presume you feel the
same?’
‘I don’t know what I feel,’ he said, sounding suddenly
weary, ‘I really don’t. I wish I did. I - oh, God, there’s
Oliver Nichols. I must go. Do this bloody ride. I’ll - I’ll see
you later, Octavia.’
‘Unfortunately yes,’ she said. ‘I suppose you will.’
It had to be now, Louise told herself: she might not get the
chance again. While everyone else was still in the building,
while no one else could observe her. No one who would
know. The plan formed swiftly, with astonishing clarity; she
pulled off the wig, tucked it into her bag, pushed a comb
through her hair, wiped off the fuschia lipstick. Quickened
her step, walked after Zoe, caught her up, tapped her on
the shoulder, smiled, said, ‘Zoe! I thought it was you! What
a lovely surprise.’
The ambulance had come for Felix, had lifted him up from
where he lay, placed him on a stretcher and carried him
carefully out of the house. He had regained consciousness
briefly; they asked him if he was in a lot of pain and he had
said yes, he was; they had given him some oxygen and an
injection of some kind of painkiller. Mrs Harrington
watched, feeling helpless; he had been in dreadful pain as
they waited for the ambulance, had tried to be brave, but
every so often he groaned loudly. He had clung, rather
pathetically, to her hand (crushing it painfully, but she
would not have removed it for the world), and twice,
deeply distressed and humiliated, he had vomited.
Mrs Harrington felt terribly upset, watching him being
loaded into the ambulance like a large piece of furniture.
Poor man; it had been a dreadful time for him lately. Hardly
surprising, she thought, that he’d had the heart attack; first
the trouble with his daughter, the upset with Mrs Muirhead,
all the business worries. She felt dreadfully guilty about his supper last night: it couldn’t have helped, full of cholesterol. She usually tried to watch his diet, but had
cooked it specially for him, comfort food, she had thought.
Comfort food indeed!
Back in the house she made herself a strong cup of sweet
tea and sat down. She felt dreadful. She looked at the clock; neatly three. It seemed terrible not to let Octavia know.
She’d want to know, surely, whatever her father said. On
the other hand, she didn’t want to upset him. That was the
last thing to do with coronary patients, she knew that. And
it was true, of course, Octavia was somewhere in the wilds
of the countryside, with this car racing day. Mr Miller had
told her about it, had been so proud of Octavia.
‘She’s doing so well with that company of hen,’ he had
said, ‘really extremely well.’
She had no idea where she was anyway: she couldn’t
contact her even if she’d wanted to. She supposed she had a
mobile phone, but she had no idea of the number. Perhaps
she could find it, perhaps Mr Miller had a note of it. Mrs
Harrington went into the study, found Felix’s address book.
He had all Octavia’s other numbers - the cottage, the
house, the office - but not that one. Maybe that was a sign.
But then she thought of Octavia’s grief if anything should
happen to her beloved father, if she wasn’t there; and
thought of him all alone in the hospital, nobody to be with
him, nobody he cared about. If only Mrs Muirhead - and
then she remembered. Mrs Muirhead had phoned that day;
had said she would see Mr Miller that night. At the
committee meeting. They had obviously cleared things up
between them, to a degree at least. She would ring Mrs
Muirhead, tell her. She would know what to do about
Octavia. She would probably want to go to the hospital
herself…
Tom sat in the car and gripped the bar just above his head.
It was a very tight fit; he was jammed against Kit. The
helmet he was wearing was also a very tight fit; it felt as if it
was crushing into his skull. In the mood he was in, that was quite welcome.
‘Okay,’ said Kit, ‘here we go. I’m going to go round the
track once or twice, see how we get on; then I’ll accelerate.
We’ll be doing about a hundred and twenty, ninety on the
comers. It’ll feel more though because we’re so low on the
ground.’
They moved off: slowly through the paddock, gathering
speed on the hill. Up the hill again, round the first curve, a
comparably gentle one, then back into the straight and
down the hill, and then a bend of incredible ferocity. The
sensation was extraordinary, of speed, of pressure, of
excitement, of — absurdly, for what could happen? - fear.