thing. You’re not that worried, are you?’
‘Is the Pope Catholic?’ said Tom gloomily.
At midday there was a call from the one remaining potential
client, the one of whom they’d had the highest hopes: the
restaurant chain. He thought he should let them know
that he’d decided on another firm. ‘Nothing personal, just
feel I’d like the weight of one of the bigger boys behind
me.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Tom. ‘Very understandable.’ He
didn’t even try to put up a fight. He knew there was no
point.
Octavia was finding it very hard to concentrate; she and
Melanie were in the middle of their meeting with Lauren
Bartlett about the day at Brands Hatch. Lauren had been in
a difficult mood, questioning every point, quibbling over
costs, criticising the suite they had provisionally booked — ‘I
really don’t think it’s big enough, three hundred people is
nothing for us’ — the programme they had drawn up — ‘It’s
too male orientated. All the men will want to go round the
circuit, but half the women will be terrified. And it’s the
women who are our prime target, surely.’
‘But, Lauren,’ said Melanie, her eyes glittering dangerously,
‘you specifically said you wanted to get the men in.
Said they’d spend the money.’
‘Did I? Well, maybe I was wrong. I think we should
make it more of a family day out. More of the gokarting,
that sort of thing.’
‘I thought you wanted glamour,’ said Octavia wearily.
‘And anyway, it’s not that sort of day. It’s the classic touring
race day, we booked into that one deliberately, agreed that
would pull in what they call the tweeds and pearls. After all,
you’re not just going to make money from the invited
guests, are you? We’re targeting the other eighty-five
thousand people as well.’
‘Yes, yes, I know all that, but I want family fun. And
glamour as well. Look, this is costing us an awful lot of
money. We have to get it back. And if we’re going to get
the sort of publicity you promised, there’s got to be more
than a few races and stalls and an opportunity for the chaps
to go round the rallying circuit. We need some — excitement. Something to talk about. I’m still hoping that the Princess of Wales will come. Bring the boys. She did
seem interested when I told her about it. Just before she
went away, you know.’
‘Really?’ said Melanie.
‘But of course they won’t come unless—’
‘How about making it a vintage day?’ said Melanie. ‘For
your guests, I mean. Since it’s the classic day. Everyone
come in ‘twenties and ‘thirties costume. The women would
like that much more. We could have waiters in period
costume, making cocktails, maybe a jazz band up in the
hospitality suite, special posters everywhere. And then the
kids could have a fancy dress prize, and—’
‘Yes,’ said Lauren. She smiled graciously at Melanie. ‘I
like that a lot. What a pity you didn’t come up with
something like that before. Look, would you like to rethink
the whole day along those lines, get back to me in — let’s
see—’ she consulted her small black Hermes diary — ‘a
week?’
‘A week isn’t long,’ said Octavia, ‘not to clear it with the
Brands Hatch people, rehash the programme, the invitations,
the early press release. Couldn’t we—’
‘We’ll manage,’ said Melanie quickly. ‘It won’t be that
difficult.’
Octavia looked at her; she had an expression on her face
she knew very well. Her face was alive, her eyes sparkling,
her hawklike nose somehow scenting the air. It was a
brilliant idea; but it annoyed her. It meant they would be in a fearful panic from now on, and Lauren Bartlett and Next
Generation most certainly wouldn’t pick up any more of
the bill; they were doing the whole thing on a break-even
basis already. It meant that the only thing that Melanie
actually had in mind was the raising of the profile of Capital
C. If she hadn’t been so sick at heart, she might have put up
a fight.
That evening, one of Fleming Cotterill’s existing clients,
the owner of a small chain of garden centres, said that he
had decided most reluctantly that he was going to have
dispense with their services. ‘Nothing personal, just have to
make sure every penny’s being wisely spent in these hard
times.’
Shortly after that, Derek Illingworth phoned and said
that Terence Foster had declined their offer to become
involved in the company.
‘Someone up there doesn’t like us,’ said Aubrey wearily,
refilling their glasses with the stiff brandy suggested by Bob
Macintosh much earlier in the day.
‘Or out there.’
‘Sorry? Oh, yes. I see what you mean. Have you any idea
at all who might have done that, Tom? Or why?’
‘None whatsoever. Do you think we should have tried
to check the postmarks?’
‘Difficult. Under the circumstances. Mountain out of
molehill stuff’
‘Yes, but he might have some other little surprise in store
for us. Isn’t there anyone else we could ask? Someone like
Mike Dutton.’
‘It could be worth a try. And look, I hesitate to say this,
but there really is only one last port of call now. And you
know who that is, don’t you?’
‘I’m afraid I do,’ said Tom.
‘So how are things with Tom?’ said Felix. They were sitting
in McDonald’s with the twins, who were devouring Big Macs and strawberry milkshakes; Octavia smiled at him fondly. It had been Gideon’s sports day; Tom had pleaded
pressure of work, ‘or should I say, the threat of enforced
idleness’, as an excuse, and Felix had gone with her and the
children.
Felix had, rather surprisingly, covered himself with glory
by coming in third in the fathers’ race (having got special
dispensation to compete), and Poppy even more so by
winning the sisters’ race. Gideon had won nothing, but had
played for the First Eleven in an exhibition game and didn’t
care.
‘Tom’s fine,’ said Octavia briefly. ‘You were so wonderful
this afternoon, Daddy. Not many grandfathers could
have done that.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Felix modestly. ‘We’re not all in
wheelchairs.’
‘I still remember you winning the fathers’ race at
Wycombe Abbey. I was so proud of you. And Louise said
you were amazingly good looking, the most handsome
father there, as well as the fastest.’
‘Yes, well, she always was rather a one for the
compliment. How is she, by the way?’
‘Managing, just, I think. Poor Louise - and poor Charles.
I spoke to him the other day. He was clearing out Anna’s
room. He was so upset, being so brave.’ Saying that stirred
something; something uneasy, something she had half
forgotten. What was it?
Tom had a very large whisky and then made two phone
calls. The first was to Mike Dutton, of Dutton Distilleries,
to say they were looking for any kind of clue as to who
might have sent the letters: would it be an awful lot to ask if
the secretary could check the postmark? Dutton said she’d
gone home, but he’d have a quick look in the bin himself;
and came back to the phone to say the cleaners had already
been and emptied the bins.
‘Sorry, Tom. This is really worrying you, is it?’
‘Oh, not too much,’ said Tom, ‘it’s all such utter nonsense. But forewarned is forearmed and all that.’
‘Yes, of course. Well, cheers. Sorry we couldn’t help.
Oh, and, Tom—’
‘Yes?’ said Tom, feeling his bowels turning to water.
‘Please don’t think we’ll be taking any notice of that
memo. Couldn’t manage without you, and we know it.’
‘Mike,’ said Tom, ‘you’re a hero.’
The exchange had made the contemplation of the next
phone call more bearable: he dialled Felix Miller’s office.
Felix’s secretary said that he was out that afternoon, ‘At
your son’s sports day,’ she said. Tom hoped he was
imagining the edge to her voice, and said, yes of course, but
could she ask Felix to call him in the morning.
‘Yes, of course, Mr Fleming.’
‘Mrs Fleming?’
‘Yes, Mr Bingham,’ said Octavia, smiling into the phone.
‘I rang to see if you were coming down out of the smoke
this weekend?’
‘No, I don’t think so. The children have got things on
and I’ve got work to do.’
‘Well, it’s a pity. I was hoping to spend some more time
coaching Gideon. If you change your mind, give me a ring.
In Bath.’
‘Yes. Yes, I will.’
‘Goodbye, Mrs Fleming.’
‘Goodbye, Mr Bingham. Have a nice weekend.’
‘There’d be more chance of it being that if you were
coming down,’ he said and rang off.
Octavia sat smiling foolishly at the phone for several
moments, tantalised by the thought of another weekend at
the cottage. Maybe she could go. At least on Saturday night,
after the twins had attended their respective parties. That
would give her Sunday there. That would be fun. Only
now maybe it would look a bit pushy. She didn’t want him
to think she was chasing him. Well, maybe she could ask
someone else. Louise and Dickon, for instance. Sandy was away in France on one of his promotional wine tours. That would make it look a lot less calculating. It seemed ages
anyway since she and Louise had had any time together.
And Louise had said she couldn’t wait to meet Gabriel. Yes,
she’d ask her. She dialled Louise’s number. She was out, but
the cleaning lady said she’d get her to call back.
‘She’s gone to the dentist. I’ve got Dickon here. Oh, just
a minute, he wants to speak to you.’
Octavia was touched. She was very fond of Dickon.
‘Hallo, darling! How are you?’
‘All right. Mummy’s gone to the dentist again. She went
the other day too.’
‘Poor Mummy. Has she got toothache?’
‘Yes, but she’s not ill.’
‘Of course she’s not ill. Toothache isn’t ill. I thought you
might like to come and see us on Sunday.’
At the cottage.
What do you think? The twins’ll be there. And Minty.’
‘Yes!’
‘Well, tell Mummy to phone me when she gets back.
And we’ll try and arrange it.’
‘All right, Octavia. ‘Bye.’
“Bye, darling.’
Sweet little boy, he was, thought Octavia; obviously still
desperately worried about illness. It was so sad.
Mike Dutton phoned Tom Fleming, but was informed he
was on another call: would he wait?
‘No, I’m in rather a hurry. Could you just give him a
message from me? Tell him my secretary’s just come up
trumps. The postmark was Gloucester. He’ll know what it
means.’
Barbara Dawson said she would certainly pass the
message on.
Tom arrived shortly after lunch at Nico Cadogan’s penthouse
office, looking appalling: drawn, pale, heavy eyed.
He’d also lost weight: a good half stone, Cadogan reckoned,
since their first meeting.
‘You having a bad time with this memo business?’
Cadogan said briefly.
‘What? Oh, a bit. A couple of defectors, but most people
seem to be piling in behind us.’
‘It’s not true about the financial problems?’
‘Lord, no.’
‘Good,’ said Cadogan briefly. ‘Coffee?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘The share price has steadied,’ Cadogan said, ‘and, rather
pleasingly, some shares have been bought.’
‘Really? That is good news. Obviously some speculators
out there have faith in you. It always happens, of course.
Now, strictly between ourselves, I have heard this morning
that we are likely to go to referral.’
‘Quick.’
‘Yes, I know. And it’s not official. But your MP got his
question asked, there are a lot of signatures on the EDM there
are a great many keen new MPs wanting to look
efficient. And the government is anxious to show its mettle.
Supporting the individual, that sort of thing. They’re no
more bothered about huge conglomerates than the last lot,
of course, but they like to be seen to be.’
‘Can I say that in the interview?’
‘Absolutely not! It would almost certainly reverse the
decision. But I think you can feel more relaxed. Right,
now, if we could just run through—’
‘Sorry to interrupt, Mr Cadogan. There’s an urgent call
for Mr Fleming. A Mrs Cornish.’
Nico Cadogan was not given to cliched thought, but
looking at Tom Fleming’s face at that moment, the phrase
‘drained of colour’ seemed totally appropriate. He set down
his cup, with a slightly unsteady hand, cleared his throat.
‘Nico, would you excuse me? Just for a moment?’
‘Sure. Want to take it in here, in private? I’ll clear out.’
‘No, no, I’ll call her back. On my mobile.’
‘Of course. There’s a meeting room empty, use that.’
‘Thanks.’
He came back after a few minutes, still looking ghastly, but more in control. ‘Sorry about that. Prospective client.
Now then, if we could just run through this list of possible
questions
Mrs Cornish was about as likely to be a prospective
client, Cadogan thought, as Fleming Cotterill were to be on
sound financial ground.