thought you were fairly likely to be here.’
‘Good Lord,’ he said, studying her, ‘you must have been
very keen to apprehend me.’
‘Is there anything wrong with that?’
‘No, of course not. Don’t start getting huffy. Try this. It
should be very nice. Pouilly-Fuisse. I am not entirely
unaware of life’s more sophisticated pleasures, you see.
They keep a very good cellar here. The best in England, some say.’
‘It’s lovely,’ she said, sipping it. She met his eyes; he
smiled at her, and she felt that smile, felt it move through
her, warm, intriguing.
‘It was very sweet of you to come,’ he said, and the word
was unexpected somehow. ‘I really do appreciate it.’
‘I felt so bad. It was a foul thing to say.’
‘Well, I’ve said some fairly foul ones to you. So we’re
quits.’
‘I hope so.’
There was a silence; she looked at him. He was wearing a
suit; it wasn’t at all a good suit. Her eye, trained by Tom’s
obsessive stylishness, placed it as very mass-market indeed,
Principles probably, and under it he wore a very unsuitable
shirt, light woollen check, with a striped, rather battered tie,
and with the navy suit he wore brown Hush Puppies. He
was a sartorial nightmare; perversely she liked him for it.
‘What are you thinking?’ he said, looking at her.
‘Oh, nothing really.’
‘Yes, you were. Come on.’
‘I was thinking about your clothes,’ she said, ‘actually.
That I hadn’t seen you in a suit before.’
‘Do you admire my suit? I bought it in the spring, just in
case I got in. And what about the shoes? Ken Clarke style,
very politically correct.’
She laughed. ‘But the wrong party.’
‘Yes, well, you can’t have everything. On such small
things is political success built. I’m only joking.’
‘I do realise that,’ she said sharply.
‘Oh, you are touchy,’ he said. ‘Where does it come from,
this dreadful defensiveness?’
‘My father,’ she said, without thinking.
‘Do you have any siblings?’
‘No, just me and my father.’
‘How very claustrophobic’
‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘We were very happy together.’
‘Good,’ he said lightly. ‘And how did he react when you
were stolen away from him?’
She stared at him. ‘What?’
‘Stolen by your husband. Surely that’s how he saw it?’
‘Of course he didn’t,’ she said. She felt alarmed, almost
threatened by his swift grasp of her situation.
‘Then, he must be a saint. Your father.’
‘Oh, no,’ she said, laughing. ‘No, he’s not a saint.’
‘It’s nice when you laugh,’ he said suddenly. ‘You don’t
do it enough. It suits you …’
‘Dickon, I’ve got to go out for a couple of hours this
afternoon,’ said Louise. ‘I’ve arranged for you to go and
play with Timmy.’
‘Can’t I come with you?’
‘No, darling, not today. I’ve got to go to the dentist.’
‘You’re not ill, are you?’ said Dickon, his large dark eyes
filling with alarm.
‘Of course not. I’m fine.’
‘Can we go to the swings when you get back?’
‘Yes, all right. We’ll take Timmy if you like.’
‘That’s a lot of letters.’
‘Yes, business ones I’m doing for Daddy. I’ve got to
finish them, and post them when I go to the dentist. Now
we might go to McDonald’s later. You deserve it, you’ve
been such a good boy lately.’
‘Yes, please!’ said Dickon. ‘You are a kind mummy.’
‘Yes, well, I’m feeling rather kind. Just at the moment.’
‘You’re looking a bit flushed,’ said Melanie. ‘What have
you been doing?’
‘Oh, nothing much.’
‘Good. I’m delighted.’
‘What about?’
‘Your lunch date.’
‘I didn’t have a lunch date,’ said Octavia irritably.
‘Okay, have it your own way. Fine by me.’
Octavia went into her office. She felt extremely lightheaded; she’d had two glasses of wine, she who never drank
and certainly not at lunchtime. She felt sweetly flustered,
happily disturbed; the pain, the humiliation of Tom’s
behaviour somehow anaesthetised by the ebb and flow of
interest and amusement and sharp response that was Gabriel
Bingham’s speciality, by his sudden warmth, his even more
sudden gentleness, by her response to those things, surprisingly
eager, questing even. By the fact that her head was full
of him, and that when she thought of him, his eyes on her,
increasingly thoughtful, his long, rangy body moving slowly
nearer her as they talked, so that by the end of the bottle of
wine and the lunch hour he was pressed against her, casually
perhaps, but very firmly, and if she moved, shifted even
slightly, he moved too, followed her, and when she
acknowledged that fact by looking at him, meeting his eyes,
he smiled at her, acknowledging it too, and when that
happened, something leaped in her, something half
forgotten, a sliver of sexual excitement, sensual exploration;
by all those things she was most tenderly and surprisingly
moved.
‘We must do this again,’ he had said as she left, as his lips
grazed hers, ‘and that is not an empty statement, not just
London-speak for goodbye. I really would like it. If you
would, of course.’
And she had smiled at him, said she would like it, but she
didn’t quite know, and he had said in that case he would
know for her, and had waved her off in her taxi, and she
had slithered down in the seat, and gazed out of the
window on to a day that was suddenly most brilliantly
coloured; and had thus arrived back at the office. Flushed.
As Melanie had remarked.
Her phone rang; it was Louise.
‘Boot, hallo. I just thought I’d phone. See if you were all
right.’
And because it was Louise, Louise of all people, she said,
‘I’ve just had an illicit lunch hour.’
‘Boot! What have you been up to, and where and with
whom?’
‘Well, only drinking wine. But at the House of
Commons. On the terrace. With a very attractive man.’
‘Really? What, an MP?’
‘Yes. So funny, his name’s Gabriel Bingham, he’s the
member for North Somerset, and I met him through the
Bartles Wood thing. You know? I mean, it’s only a bit of
nonsense, and it certainly isn’t going to lead anywhere
but—’
‘Why not? Why shouldn’t you have an affair, if you want
to?’
‘Louise, I haven’t even thought of having an affair,’ said
Octavia, truthfully, half amused, half surprised. ‘Just a bit of
a flirtation. That’s all.’
‘Is he attractive? Sexy?’
‘Yes. Very. I mean, not good looking, but — yes. Very
sexy. Sort of awkward and challenging. You know how I
don’t like easy men.’
‘Well, no one could call Tom easy,’ said Louise. There
was an edge to her voice.
Octavia laughed. ‘No, they couldn’t.’
‘And are you going to see this awkward person again?’
‘I don’t know. I shouldn’t think so. It was just a lunch,
Louise. That’s all.’
‘Well, a lot of the best affairs start with lunch,’ said
Louise. ‘How is Tom, anyway?’
‘He’s all right. Why?’
‘Oh, just wondered. About the business and so on.’
‘Well, it is very dodgy. Like I told you. Now, can we
talk about something else, please? I haven’t forgotten about
that article about reversing vasectomies, my secretary’s
going through all the papers for it.’
‘How very kind of her,’ said Louise. Her voice was oddly
sharp. Octavia felt stung.
‘Louise! Don’t! You’re being ridiculous. It’s much more
sensible for her to do things like that. It doesn’t make any
difference to you. It’s not as if I’d forgotten about it.’
‘No, of course not.’
‘How are you feeling anyway?’
‘Pretty bloody,’ said Louise.
If he had had a gun, Tom thought, he would have shot her.
Stupid, bloody, incompetent woman: how could she have?
How could she? Then he pulled himself together; she was
only the messenger. It really wasn’t her fault. Given the
same situation, at her age, and level of competence — or
rather incompetence — he would probably have done the
same. With the same ghastly result.
It had been Bob Macintosh who had alerted him to it.
He’d phoned first thing: Tom should know, he thought, of
a letter he had received that morning. He’d fax it
immediately. ‘Only have a stiff brandy in your hand.’
Tom had gone over to the fax machine and waited. And
watched while it spewed out what he recognised to be
disaster.
A memo, on plain paper, computer written: to Bob
Macintosh.
Fleming Cotterill are in serious financial trouble. One
crucial client has left them and the effect of this on the
cashflow has forced the company to seek further
financial backing. Given the state of the company
finances and its extravagant lifestyle, this could be
difficult. Clients might be advised to move to other,
more reliable firms.
The memo was unsigned, but copied to ‘All clients,
Fleming Cotterill
Tom was unable to move or even to speak for some
time; then he picked it up and went into Aubrey’s office.
‘Today of all days,’ he said simply, handing it over.
Aubrey knew what he meant: today they were to hear
from Terence Foster.
A swift, carefully worded round of phone calls had
confirmed that their other clients had received the same
document. The staff had been summoned, questioned; and
Julie Springer - flushed, tearful, wretched - had admitted to
giving a full list of clients and their addresses over the phone
to the Independent. ‘Well, I thought it was to the Independent.’
‘To
a journalist whose name you didn’t recognise?’
‘Yes.’
‘And whose name you did not check?’
‘No.’
‘Extremely stupid,’ said Tom. ‘Unbelievably stupid.’
‘I’m so sorry. So very sorry.’
‘I’m afraid that doesn’t help us. In the least.’
‘Julie, don’t cry,’ said Aubrey gently. ‘Tom, all she did
was send a full client list to the paper. That’s not a crime in
itself. There’s nothing confidential in it. It’s information
readily available to anyone. Actually.’
Tom stared at him, then he said, ‘Yes. Yes, you’re right.
I’m sorry, Julie. But it was inefficient not to check, and not
to tell someone what happened later. Look, get back to
your desk, field any calls that come through, say it’s a
mistake, and we’re sending out a full release later today.
Although Christ knows what it can say. Fucking thing’s
absolutely correct.’
So how had he known about their situation, the bastard
who had written this, sent it out? Nobody knew how bad
things were. Nobody knew in the company, except Aubrey
and himself. Illingworth knew, but he was hardly likely to
have talked, to have endangered one of his own clients, it would be professional suicide. What about Foster? No, those guys just didn’t know.
Only one person knew, only one person outside the
company. It must have been her: some insane, absurd
revenge. He picked up the phone.
‘How dare you?’ Octavia’s voice was shaking with hostility.
‘How dare you even suggest such a thing? Of course I
wouldn’t have talked about your company and its troubles.
To anyone. I have told no one, no one at all, about it. It
makes me feel sick, that you could suspect such a thing. Sick
and totally insulted. I’m not some little halfwit stay-at
home, I do have a brain on me, a business brain. I’m very
very sorry for you, but this conversation is making me feel
ill. Please make sure Aubrey isn’t harbouring the same filthy
suspicions, would you? I’d hate to have him think badly of
me. As you so clearly do.’
She put the phone down, and sat with her head in her
hands, trying to calm herself down. Bastard. Bastard! To
dare even to suggest that she’d … God, she hated him.
Derek Illingworth, questioned more tactfully than Octavia
had been, said that not a word about the Fleming Cotterill
situation could have got out of his firm.
‘It would be more than my own life is worth to talk
about it. Bloody odd. Postmark any clue?’
“Fraid not,’ said Tom. ‘The only person I asked to check
was Bob Macintosh, and his secretary had already binned
the envelope and then chucked the dregs of her coffee in
the bin. Totally illegible.’
‘And you don’t feel you can ask anyone else?’
‘I didn’t want to make a meal of it. Perhaps that was a
mistake.’
‘Well, it could be a clue. Anyway, I’ll put some feelers
out, make sure there’s been no funny phone calls here, or
anything.’
‘You haven’t heard from Foster yet?’ said Tom.
‘No. Hopefully he won’t get to hear of this, but …’
‘That’s a big but,’ said Tom.
Half an hour later Illingworth phoned back. There had
indeed been a funny phone call from someone from one of
the financial papers, asking about private investors, and who
they might recommend.
‘The girl who took the call said we never handed out
that sort of information. But it seems odd. Given the other