was any small and unofficial way she could help, she would
certainly try.
‘I’ve done everything I can for now,’ said Nico Cadogan to
Tom Fleming. ‘Drafted a letter to the shareholders, I’d like
you to look at first—’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Tom. They were sitting in
Cadogan’s office in the penthouse of the Knightsbridge
Cadogan Royal, the always surprising stretch of green that
was Hyde Park below them. It was midmorning; the
Horseguards in all their gleaming splendour were making
their way back to the barracks. ‘Good site, this. The tourists
must love it.’
‘Yes, they do. And I’m not letting Egerton get hold of it.
Now I’ve agreed your first press release, quite good that, I
thought, liked the touch about my grandfather being a great
benefactor, and I’ve got a letter on hold to the MP for
Romford North, Matthews his name is. I’d like your opinion on that one, too. You know him personally, do you?’
‘Yes,’ said Tom, ‘although only slightly. Good chap. I
thought I’d go to the House and see him at the end of the
week. Give him time to digest your letter.’
‘You know,’ said Cadogan suddenly, ‘I can’t quite adjust
to the idea we’re a Socialist country, you know. After all
that time.’
‘We’re not really,’ said Tom lightly. ‘Blair’s more right
wing than Major ever was. The word in the corridors is that
he’s Thatcher reborn. You know he’s had two meetings
with her already? Extraordinary. The man’s a genius at
public relations.’
‘I’m not too keen on this love affair with Clinton,’ said
Cadogan.
‘Blair’s, or the bimbos in the White House?’ said Tom
laughing.
‘Blair’s. I think the man’s got his eye on being president
here.’
‘Oh, I don’t think that’s very likely,’ said Tom easily.
‘Everyone still loves the monarchy.’
‘I’m not too sure. Everyone loves Diana, not the rest of
them. And she’s not the monarchy.’
‘Well, she’s about to blot her copybook, if you ask me,’
said Tom. ‘I hear she’s getting mixed up with the Al Fayeds.
The British won’t like that. A foreigner, and a dodgy one at
that. Anyway, nothing to worry about with Blair’s policies,
there’s no way he’s going to squeeze the rich. Now I’ve
also written to Margaret Beckett and a couple of civil
servants whom she might consult on this; early days for that,
but we can be absolutely ready if it does go to referral. And
I’ve approached someone about putting down the EDM I
mentioned to you. I found a real keenie, woman who made
her maiden speech on the dangers to the leisure industry if
the big boys get too much of a grip. So if I could just have
your approval on those—’
‘Felix Miller’s a devious bastard, isn’t he?’ said Cadogan
suddenly, looking up from the letters. ‘I was watching him,
never misses an opportunity to try and trip you up, does
he?’
‘No,’ said Tom briefly, ‘he hates me.’
‘But why?’
‘I broke up the great love affair of his life. The one he
had with his daughter. And he remains a pretty ferocious
rival.’ He grinned at Cadogan. ‘He’s just waiting for her to
see the folly of her ways and go home to him again.’
‘You can’t be serious?’ said Cadogan.
‘I’m absolutely serious,’ said Tom.
In the offices of Alive!, the fashion and beauty editors and
the senior director of Choice, the model agency, were
leafing through the final selection of twenty girls that had
been whittled down from the nine thousand who had
entered the model competition. This was the third year
they had run the competition, and they agreed it wasn’t a
good one. Even the final twenty had no real star-quality
winners.
‘Shit,’ said Annabel Brown, the fashion editor, ‘there isn’t
anyone here I’d want on my cover.’
Ritz Franklyn, of Choice, sighed. ‘Well, maybe they’ll
be better in the flesh. They’re coming in here next week,
right?’
‘Yup.’ “
‘Excuse me.’ It was Annabel’s secretary. ‘This one just
came in. Late entry. She looks quite good to me. Worth
showing you anyway.’
‘Let me see. Oh, yeah. Hey! This one is — look, Ritz.
Could be.’
Ritz looked. And experienced the flesh-crawling sensation
that only came about once a year, when she saw a girl
who she knew, just knew, had real one hundred and one
per cent potential. Not looks, not shape, just — well, it.
‘I agree. She could be. Susie, get her on the phone, will
you? Explain the situation. And let’s get her in on
Wednesday anyway. Well done, Suze!’
‘Thanks,’ said Susie and went back to her office to make
the phone call. She felt rather pleased with herself. She had
thought the minute she looked at the girl’s face — and her
figure - that she was pretty remarkable.
‘Oh, hi,’ she said, into the answering machine, ‘this is
Susie Bowman from Alive! magazine. You sent your picture
in for our model contest. Could you give me a ring about
it, please? Before six? The number is…’
Well, I’m doing all right, thought Octavia, after Carlton
had gone: still functioning, running meetings, running a
business, running the house. I’m not giving in. He isn’t
winning yet. And the longer he didn’t win, the longer she
could. It was a sort of self-fulfilling prophecy. Of course she
had yet to do it, to make the confrontation; but she would.
When she felt strong enough. She had to be feeling pretty
strong. It was hard to explain, even to herself; but the
thought of coming to that scene, that conversation, was like
approaching some vast obstacle, some huge, terrifyingly vast
obstacle, a sort of Becher’s Brook. She had to make a start
on it, gather speed, gain confidence; once she was on her
way, perhaps, the momentum itself would carry her over.
But not yet; not just yet.
Octavia’s phone rang: it was Louise sounding sad and tired.
‘Octavia, hallo. I’m sorry I didn’t phone yesterday, we’ve
been having a — well, Mummy’s much worse. It’s in her
liver. We have only weeks now. No hope at all. Not any
more.’
‘Oh, Louise.’ God, what did you say to someone in this
situation, someone whose adored mother was going to die?
‘I’m so, so sorry.’ Suddenly Bartles Wood, Michael Carlton,
even Tom, seemed unimportant. ‘What can I do?’
‘Just keep listening to me. And she’d love to see you.
Really love it. I told her you’d offered. Can you come?
Quite soon?’
Octavia looked at her diary. ‘How about Sunday? Tom’s
promised to look after the children. Caroline’s got the
weekend off. I’d much rather leave him to it. I can’t stand being alone with him.’
‘Have you - said anything to him yet?’
‘No,’ said Octavia briefly, ‘I haven’t.’
‘I’ll see you on Sunday, then. Thank you so much. And
are you feeling any better?’
‘No, worse,’ said Octavia briefly.
‘Poor angel. I wish I could help. Well, I can at least give
you a hug. Goodbye, darling Octavia.’
Life was so boring at the moment, Romilly thought. She
didn’t have a boyfriend, she’d never even been to a proper
club, she wasn’t part of the cool lot at school. When Zoe’
had been fifteen, she had been having a really wild time,
and she’d had loads of boyfriends, some of them really
amazing looking. She had some new one now whom
Romilly hadn’t met, Zoe said she was sure Marianne would
disapprove of him — Ian was a builder, as far as Romilly
could make out.
She’d asked Zoe to take her to a club, once or twice, but
Zoe always said she was too young, she’d never get in
without an ID. When Zoe had been fifteen she’d had a
faked ID, and Romilly had asked her about that, but Zoe
just said she’d never get away with it. Romilly had to admit
she was probably right, but that didn’t stop her feeling
dreary and as if she was missing out on life generally.
The house was very quiet; her mother was out, playing
golf, and Zoe was presumably celebrating finishing the first
week of her A-levels in some shop. It was all a bit dismal;
Romilly sighed and went to phone Fenella Thomas, one of
her best friends.
The answering machine was blinking: no doubt for Zoe.
And her mother.
The first one was for Marianne, the second for Zoe, and
the third was for Zoe too. Very much for Zoe; the sort of
phone call people dreamed about. And they wanted to hear
from her by six. Romilly looked at her watch. It was
already half past five. It would be awful if it all fell through because Zoe hadn’t phoned back. And goodness only knew when she would be in. She took a deep breath, picked up
the phone and started dialling the number.
Tom phoned Octavia towards the end of the day and said
shortly that he’d be very late back that night. ‘In fact I
might stay in a motel, come back in the morning. I’ll let
you know. Got to do a presentation to the Drapers. Very
unexpected. Just came up.’
‘Oh, really?’ said Octavia.
There was no way she was going to give him the
satisfaction of letting him think she cared how late he came
back, or who he was with.
‘You all right?’ said Tom.
‘Yes. I’m fine. Oh, you know you said you’d look after
the children on Sunday? I’m going down to see Anna
Madison. She’s terribly ill. Much worse than they thought.
So it seemed a good day to go. All right?’
‘Oh, yes. Fine,’ he said. He sounded rather taken aback.
Good, thought Octavia. The further he was taken aback,
the better. She was beginning almost to enjoy this.
Octavia was shocked at the sight of Anna Madison. She
seemed to have grown much smaller and her colour was
appalling. But she had clearly made an effort; her hair was
freshly brushed, and she was sitting up in bed on a pile of
lace-trimmed pillows, wearing a white lawn bedjacket,
‘And Louise has done my nails, look, in your honour,’ she
said. ‘It’s so terribly sweet of you to come, Octavia, darling.
You’re always here when we need you.’
Octavia laid down the flowers she had brought by Anna’s
bed.
‘Oh, how lovely. All my favourites. Louise, can you
fetch a vase, darling, and how about some tea?’
‘Yes, I’d get some. Octavia, do you want anything to eat,
a biscuit or something?’
Octavia shook her head; she found the sight of Anna
almost unbearable. And thought suddenly back to the first
time she had met her, the first time she had stayed with Louise.
Anna’s car had failed to start and they had had to get a
taxi to the village of Rookston from Stroud; she had
greeted Octavia on the doorstep of the lovely house, a tall,
dazzling figure, wearing a long, floaty dress in wonderful
bright colours, all shades of blues and greens, and bright blue
suede boots, her fair hair a riot of waves and curls tumbling
on to her shoulders, her large blue eyes, Louise’s eyes,
heavily ringed in kohl. She had hugged Octavia and told
her it was so lovely to be meeting her at last, she had heard
so much about her, and she was so grateful for all her help
to Louise — me help Louise! Octavia had thought, how ridiculous
when it had been so utterly the other way round. Anna
had then put her arm through each of theirs and led them
inside, into a warm, untidy, sunlit kitchen, with a great
many jugs and pots filled with dried flowers and grasses, and
three dogs, golden cocker spaniels, and several cats, and told
them to sit down and talk to her while she made lunch, and
had giggled at all Louise’s funny stories and threw in a few
of her own, irreverent anecdotes about her neighbours.
Octavia had tried to imagine her father talking in such away
about his fellow grownups, and had failed totally.
That night,‘Anna had sat next to Octavia at supper and
had her talking about her own life, which suddenly seemed
to Octavia particularly dull and bleak, and had told her it
sounded wonderfully interesting and intellectual to her;
after supper she had asked them if they would help her top
and tail gooseberries for a fool she was making for a dinner
party next day, and then took them up to her room to help
her decide what she was going to wear. She had a huge
wardrobe, crammed with clothes: Octavia had particularly
admired a patchwork waistcoat; Anna had told her to try it
on, and then said she should have it. ‘Honestly, it’s too
small for me and it suits your wonderful dark colouring
much better than it does me.’
By the end of the day, Octavia was in love.
‘It’s so lovely to see you,’ Anna said now, ‘and, darling, I do
want to know everything. Your important, exciting life,
and how is your lovely husband, and those wonderful twins
of yours and the darling baby, come along, sit down here,
darling, tell me everything …’
Octavia dutifully chatted for a while, telling her things,
trying to make her laugh, afraid of tiring her. Louise came
back with tea and a plate of biscuits, and they all talked for a