as worth any more attention. ‘Where’s Octavia?’ she said.
‘Oh — at home. She’s feeling pretty done in. And wants
to be with Minty.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course. How is Minty? Quite recovered?’
‘If she could talk,’ said Tom, ‘she’d say recovered from
what? I honestly think she enjoyed the whole thing.’
‘Good for her. Obviously a chip off the old block. Look,
what are you two doing now? We’re off to Annabel’s with
some chums. Why don’t you join us?’
‘Oh, no, I don’t—’ Tom stopped. What was the point of
going home, re-enveloped in his fog, to be greeted by
Octavia’s hostility? If indeed she greeted him at all. He
might as well go to Annabel’s with the Bartletts. It might
just cheer him up.
‘I think that would be rather nice,’ he said.
‘Good. And you, Bob?’
‘Oh — not me,’ said Bob Macintosh. ‘Got an early start.
Thanks all the same.’
‘Bob!’ said Tom. He felt he needed a partner in this piece
of unsuitable behaviour. ‘Go on. You’ll enjoy it. You know
how much you liked it there last time we took you and
Maureen.’
He hesitated. ‘Oh, all right. Why not? Just for an hour or
so.’
‘Great,’ said Lauren. ‘We’re meeting our friends in the
foyer, they’re staying here. See you there in five minutes? I
just have to powder my nose.’
She gave Tom a dazzling smile and left the restaurant; the
men slowly followed her.
Octavia sat in the taxi en route to the Savoy; she still felt
very odd. Her father’s concession — the equivalent, surely,
of a deathbed confession — had shifted the whole world on
its axis and her own position in it. She could now see things
that before she had been unable to see, consider things that
before she would not have considered. Whatever it was that
Tom had done or said must have been of a quite
extraordinary magnitude. Not only to have changed her
father’s opinion of him — that was perhaps just imaginable — but to have persuaded him to admit it, and more unimaginably still, to insist that she knew it. It was a
humbling, a recognition and admission of his bad judgment
that probably nothing but death could have forced from
him. Contemplating that humbling, Octavia felt not just
astonished, but awed. It was as if— she tried to think of an
analogy, but couldn’t. The nearest was that Darwin had said
sorry, got it all wrong, as you were, everything began in the
Garden of Eden after all. That extraordinary, that prodigious,
that far beyond not just belief but reason.
The thought made her smile in its absurdity: but the fact
remained, it had happened. Her father had recanted,
repented, confessed; and it was she who could obtain
absolution. Absolution from humiliation, wretchedness,
hostility: so that at worst she could stop hating Tom, at best
admit that she might still love him …
‘Traffic’s terrible, love,’ said the cab driver, as they
turned into Birdcage Walk, ‘don’t know why. They’ve
been clearing up the flowers, round the Palace, you know,
maybe that’s got something to do with it. I’ll have to go
round the other way, along up Piccadilly. That all right?’
‘Oh — yes,’ said Octavia, coming back to reality from
Charles Darwin and her marriage with difficulty, ‘yes, of
course. Whatever you think.’
‘Right,’ said Lauren. ‘Here we are. I look a bit more human
now, I think. Tom, why don’t you and Bob come in one
cab with me, and Drew, you take Marcia and David in
another. How’s that?’
‘Look,’ said Bob. He was clearly becoming increasingly
unhappy about the prospective outing. ‘Look, I think I
won’t come after all. If you don’t mind.’
‘Oh, what a shame,’ said Lauren. She didn’t look too
deeply disappointed. ‘Can we give you a lift anywhere?’
‘No, no, I’ll walk, thanks. Clear my head. Tom, I’ll see
you soon. Give my love to Octavia.’
‘Well — if you’re sure,’ said Tom. ‘I wish you would
come. Look, I’ll call you in the morning. About that press
release.’
‘Fine. Do that. Cheers, old man. ‘Bye, Lauren, Drew.
Nice to have met you.’
He set off through the Savoy courtyard; Tom watched
him, wishing more than halfheartedly that he was going
too. But it was too late now; Lauren had her arm firmly
through his, was briefing the doorman to find two cabs.
‘Not many about, madam. Some hold-up somewhere.’
‘Oh, damn. Drew, I told you we should have brought
the car.’
‘So you did,’ said Drew, smiling at her. I must remember
that one, thought Tom, much better than arguing with a wife; and then remembered also that he would very shortly not have a wife at all, whether to argue with or not.
Lauren pressed herself up closer to him. ‘I think autumn’s
beginning,’ she said, ‘there’s quite a nip in the air. Drew,
why don’t you try and find a cab yourself, out in the
Strand.’
‘I’m sure the doorman knows what he’s doing,’ said
Drew.
‘That’s better,’ said the cab driver. ‘We can just nip down
here, down Chandos Place, and Bob’s your uncle.’
‘Good,’ said Octavia absently. ‘I’m glad about that.’
She was suddenly aware that she had no make-up on,
that she had been crying earlier and her mascara was
probably smudged, that her trousers had had egg deposited
on them by Minty at teatime, and her silk shirt was
extremely crumpled. She didn’t even have a comb, she
realised, rummaging in her bag; damn. Well, never mind.
Within the space of forty-eight hours she had recovered her
baby from kidnapping, her father metaphorically at least
from the dead, and she was possibly about to reclaim her
husband from the divorce lawyers. On a scale of one to ten,
and within that framework, a slightly ruffled hairdo and a pair of dirty trousers probably rated about a nought point one.
‘Here’s one cab,’ said Lauren. ‘Drew, you three take that
one, get us a decent table, we never seem to have one
worth sitting at. Go on, off you go.’
‘Right,’ said Drew.
The taxi pulled out of the courtyard; Lauren pulled
Tom’s arm round her shoulders. ‘I’m really cold,’ she said.
Tom stood there, half wishing to remove his arm, half
enjoying the warmth of her, the raw rich smell, and
thinking absently also that anyone coming into the courtyard
now would find the sight of them fairly compromising.
Not that it mattered. Not that it mattered in the very least.
And then, ‘Oh, shit,’ said Lauren. ‘Shit, I’ve just realised
I’ve left my scent behind in the ladies’. I’ll have to get it, Tom, sorry. Won’t be a second, hold the cab would you, if
it comes?’
‘Sure,’ said Tom.
And thus it was, that as Octavia’s cab pulled into the
courtyard of the Savoy, she saw her husband standing there,
all alone. She got out, threw a fiver at the driver, and
walked over to Tom rather slowly.
‘Hallo,’ she said, ‘I wondered if we could have a — a talk.’
‘A talk?’
‘Yes. If you — if you don’t mind.’
‘No. I don’t mind.’ His eyes were very brilliant as he
looked down at her; he smiled. She smiled back: carefully,
rather cautiously.
‘I’m very glad I caught you,’ she said, ‘I’ve obviously
made it just in time.’
‘Only just,’ said Tom.
Pattie David was giving a party. It was to celebrate the final
withdrawal of Bartles House, and consequently the wood,
from the shadow of the developers, and she had called it,
rather wittily she thought, a Batty Party.
It was to be at lunchtime in her garden — a slightly brave
idea, as the Indian summer just might not hold, although if
it started to rain or became really cold, they could of course
move inside. She and Megan, and Meg Browning and Mrs
Johnston, had not only worked very hard, making sandwiches
and vol-au-vents and quiches and marinating
chicken pieces and baking cheese straws, they had also all,
unbeknown to one another, prayed quite earnestly for a
fine day. Their prayers so far had been answered.
‘I’m so looking forward to seeing Dickon,’ said Megan,
looking up from her tub of margarine and pile of cutoff
crusts, wiping her fair hair out of her face, ‘and I bet you’re
looking forward to seeing Sandy. Aren’t you, Mum?’
‘Well — yes, of course I am,’ said Pattie primly. ‘He’s
become a very good friend.’
She hoped she wasn’t blushing too much. She had felt
very nervous about ringing Sandy, after his wife had gone
home to him, and then all the dreadful business with
Octavia’s baby; she had even consulted Octavia about it.
Octavia had said briskly that she knew Sandy would love to
come, and that the last time she’d seen Dickon he’d talked
almost nonstop about Megan and what he called the Bat House. ‘They both need a bit of fun. And in any case, the
house would probably be bulldozed down by now, if Sandy
hadn’t known about the bats. He should be guest of
honour. Of course you must ask them.’
And Sandy had indeed sounded not just pleased, but
delighted, had offered to come early to help get things
ready, set out garden chairs, light the barbecue if that was
what she had in mind. Pattie had said it would be lovely if
he came early, even if he didn’t help, and then fearing that
might sound forward, said hastily that Megan was pining for
Dickon.
Sandy said he’d be there by eleven at the very latest.
Lucilla Sanderson was up early; it took her a long time to
get ready these days and she wanted to look at her very best
for the party. She was going to wear — it being such a lovely
day — the blue and white silk afternoon dress that had last
had an outing when she and her husband had gone to a
garden party at Buckingham Palace. That and the hat she
had also worn that day, a wide-brimmed navy straw — and
her new Jaeger jacket in case it got colder — and she’d be
ready for anything. Nora Greenly, who was also coming,
along with a couple of the other old people, had appeared
in the room wearing a dreadful shapeless old cardigan and
skirt and said would that do. Lucilla had told her she
supposed it would; she decided afterwards it was quite a
relief, as Nora dressed up looked rather - well, rather
common. There was no other word for it. She also tended
to wear a too-bright lipstick, which was never put on quite
straight, her eyesight being so very poor, and then got
smudged all over the place when she ate. So on the whole
the shapeless clothes would be best.
The Fords were leaving Bartles House in a couple of
weeks, but the new matron and her husband, Mr and Mrs
Duncan, a lovely couple who had run a nursing home in
Scotland, had come to spend the day at the nursing home
the previous Sunday and had said they might pop in after
lunch for an hour or so, if they would be welcome. Lucilla
laid she knew they would be most welcome and told them
[they would be able to meet the local MP, who would be
there.
‘He’s very charming and clearly went to a decent school,
you’d never dream he was a Socialist.’
Gabriel had phoned Capital C to check how Octavia felt about his being there: she said she’d love to see him and that of course he must come. ‘And anyway, Gideon is dying to
see you again.’
‘And — Mr Fleming?’
‘Mr Fleming won’t be there. That’s because — well,
Sandy, Louise’s husband, he’ll be there. Not an entirely easy
situation, so Tom’s staying at home. And besides, the wood
is still a slightly fraught subject. In our lives. Professionally, I
mean.’ She hesitated, then said, ‘He’s going to the cottage
and we’re joining him there. At the end of the day.’
Gabriel said he was delighted to hear things had
improved so radically between them that they were going
anywhere together, even to something so socially undesirable
as a second home.
Later that day, he decided to phone her and tease her
about what he should wear: she was out. Melanie spoke to
him.
‘Angel Gabriel, how nice. How are you? Can I help?’
‘Oh - not really. I was just going to ask Octavia what I
should wear to this party.’
‘Wear! Does it matter?’
‘No, of course not. It’s a kind of an in-joke.’
“I should think just your robe and wings,’ said Melanie.
‘Fine. Will you be there?’
‘I was thinking of going, yes. No right to an invitation
really, except the whole thing’s caused me a lot of grief,
but…’
‘Oh, please come,’ said Gabriel. The thought of Melanie,
with her rather wild beauty, her raw sense of humour, at
what might he feared might be a rather prissy occasion,
appealed to him.
‘Well — okay. I’ll come. ‘Bye for now.’
‘Goodbye,’ said Gabriel. The idea of the party had
suddenly become more attractive.
Charles had been asked to the party, but had refused.
‘I’ve no right to be there, didn’t do anything to help and
I won’t know anyone.’
‘You’ll know us,’ said Dickon, ‘and you can meet