but still.’
He stood up, bent and kissed Lauren, shook Tom’s hand again. ‘You finish your drink. Order a club sandwich or something, I would. I don’t want my new management
consultant dying on me. Very untidy.’
‘I won’t,’ said Tom.
‘I won’t let him,’ said Lauren.
They watched Oliver Nichols leave the bar; Tom felt,
childlike, as if he could have literally stood up and floated
after him. He had done it; he was not a failure, not a
bankrupt, he was successful again, he had money again, he
was his glossy, flying, sleek self. He would enjoy this, savour
it, drink it in. Just for a while, he would allow himself to
shed his guilt over Louise, his anguish over Octavia, the
grisly misery of a divorce. He smiled at Lauren. She was
smiling at him too, leaning against the back of the sofa. She
was wearing a black linen suit with a very short skirt. Her
eyes were very blue, and how had he never noticed the
mole perfectly placed on the crest of her bosom? His dislike
and suspicion of her seemed suddenly very unjust. She had
worked this for him, hustled tirelessly away, and he could
only feel grateful, deeply pleased with her.
‘You are a wonderful girl,’ he said. ‘I have you and you
alone to thank for that.’ She shifted, imperceptibly, in her
seat; Tom found her body suddenly pressed, albeit lightly,
against his. She smelt wonderful: of something rich and raw.
It was the same scent he hated on Octavia; funny, that it
should suit Lauren so well.
‘I think I owe you a bottle of champagne,’ he said, ‘at the
very least.’
‘That’ll do for a start,’ she said.
Ridiculous, really. That just three letters should be so
extremely dangerous. Should spell longterm the end of any
truly high hopes, short term the triggering of intense wrath
and disappointment.
‘Zo! That them? What’d you get?’
‘DDE,’ said Zoe’, very quickly.
‘Ah,’ said Romilly.
At least she wasn’t pretending to be bright about it, to
say, ‘Well, that’s not too bad.’
‘Yeah. Exactly.’
‘What was the E?’
‘Geography.’
‘So D for English.’
‘Yup. Shit, Rom, why was I so stupid about it? I could
have got a B for that, if I’d worked. Why didn’t I, what the
flick was I doing, why did I think it didn’t matter?’ She was
crying now, tears of panic rather than misery.
‘Zoe, don’t cry. It’s not that bad.’ Her pale face was
earnest, the huge green eyes wide and anxious.
‘What am I going to do? How am I going to tell Mum?
She’ll be so upset. And as for Dad …’
‘Just tell them,’ said Romilly. ‘She’s all over the place
today anyway, with her weekend and everything. Tell her
you’re sorry, tell her you’ll retake, tell her you know
you’ve been stupid.’
‘Yes. Yes, I suppose you’re right…’
‘I really don’t think I can come,’ said Marianne. Her voice
was shaky.
Nico, accustomed to her cool, was alarmed. ‘Why not?
What’s happened?’
‘Mayhem’s broken out here. Zoe’s A-levels are appalling,
and she’s very upset. I feel absolutely wretched.’
‘All the more reason for a break for you.’
‘Nico, I have to be here. Alec is going to go mad when
he hears.’
‘With you?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Marianne, ‘with me. It will be my fault.
My fault for not overseeing Zoe, making her work —
probably quite right.’
‘What an appalling load of rubbish,’ said Nico. ‘I may not
be a parent, but I do have godchildren. I do know that you
can lead those little fillies to the fountain of knowledge but
you can’t make them drink at it. Zoe is a wilful, lazy, silly
girl who hasn’t done any work. Locking her in her
bedroom wouldn’t have changed that. In any way. You
have the decency and the wisdom to treat her like an adult;
she’s behaved like the adult she can see now she doesn’t
want to be. She might be just young enough to learn lessons
from it. Any other problems?’
‘Yes. Romilly’s photographic session has been postponed
to the Saturday. So I really should—’
‘Marianne, as I understand it, Romilly has legs and a
tongue in her head, she can hire a taxi and get herself to her
photo session. Her sister could go with her, if you’re really
worried about it, as a small token of her contrition. That’s
my view of all this, as a non-father. Now will you please go
and put some clothes, as few as possible, into a bag, and I’ll
send the car at five as arranged.’
Marianne said yes quite meekly, and put the phone down
without saying another word. It was a long time since
anyone had told her so clearly what she should do and made
her feel she should do it.
It was a great pity Nico Cadogan had never been a father.
He would clearly have been a very good one; and
moreover one after her very own heart…
‘I’m going to Barbados for a few days,’ said Octavia. ‘To
stay at the cottage. While you’re in Tuscany, you understand,
with the twins. And Mrs Bartlett.’
Tom turned to her; he had been up and working at his
desk since six. He was very pale. There was a heavy bruise
and a swelling on the side of his forehead.
‘Octavia, I do wish we could talk about this.’ ‘I really don’t think there’s anything to talk about. I’m clearly not mistaken. That’s where you’re going and who
you’re going with.’
There was a long silence; then he said, very quietly, ‘So
you seem to have decided.’
‘Good. Well, then, we shall both have a break. We both
need it. When we’re back, there will obviously be a great
deal of discussion, about the future. When are you leaving?’
‘We’re going tonight!’ It was Poppy, her eyes shining,
rucksack in tow. ‘Lauren — Camilla says we’re to call her
Lauren — she said we had to be at Camilla’s house at six. It’s
so exciting, going at night!’
‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ said Octavia, and walked out of the
room.
Tom looked after her helplessly. He could have tried to
explain, but he had reached a level of emotional exhaustion
that made even uttering the simplest sentence daunting.
He had been very stupid the previous night. Very stupid
indeed. But somehow, it had been so good, just for once, to
be having fun, not sitting out of control on an endless
hellish rollercoaster of misery and guilt and anxiety and fear.
They had drunk the bottle of champagne at the Connaught,
he and Lauren, and she had been very sweet, very flattering
(but not over so), had made him feel better about himself,
albeit briefly. She had been quite tactful too, not tried to
pump him about Octavia, about what, if anything, had
gone wrong; it was only when she said that she supposed he needed to be getting back to Octavia that he had suddenly found himself telling her at least something of what had
happened. Not the grisly detail, of course, not the really bad
things: just that he had had an affair, that Octavia had found
out.
‘Well, we all have to deal with these things,” Lauren had
said lightly, and ‘Do we?’ he had said, his voice infinitely
heavier.
‘Yes, of course. God, it’s hardly realistic, is it, one partner
for life? I mean, of course one should stay put, with the
family and everything, I do feel that terribly strongly and
I’m sure you will, but—’ She had looked at him, the blue
eyes with the heavy black lashes very serious, very
concerned for once. She seemed a different person suddenly.
‘You are, I presume? Staying put?’ ‘I want to,’ he said. ‘I want it very much.’
‘That’s what counts. The other is — well, I always think
of it as shopping.’
‘Shopping!’ said Tom, and it was so ridiculous he
laughed.
‘That’s nice,’ she said, ‘nice that you can laugh.’
‘I’m sorry. Have I been such a dreary companion?’
‘No, but not Tom Fleming. Not quite. Anyway, yes,
shopping. I mean, life is fine for me, I live in a nice house,
and I have a good husband and great kids, and we have a
good time, but it’s all rather predictable. I get - I don’t
know. A bit flat. So I go shopping. I go and buy myself
things. Spend probably more than I ought to, on myself.
And then I feel quite different. No more resentment at
having to do what Drew and the kids want, no more
boredom at entertaining endless dreary clients. I take those
bags home, and look at what I’ve given myself, and I feel
special again. Ready for anything. For a bit. Does that
sound crazy?’
‘Not really,’ Tom had said. It was a philosophy so totally
at odds with Octavia’s ascetic, almost puritanical approach
to life, he had found it hard to comprehend. It had a certain
charm.
‘Well, anyway, that’s what I do. And having lunch or
whatever, with lovely men, makes me feel the same. Sort of
— soothed.’
‘I see.’
‘Trouble is,’ she had said carefully, not really looking at
him, ‘it can get a bit out of control. The shopping. I mean, I
do more than I mean to.’
‘And the lunches?’
‘Yes, sometimes. One minute it’s flirting, the next it’s well,
danger. Serious. Huge.’
‘Yes,’ said Tom. ‘Yes, that’s exactly right.’
‘But still fun. Still making you feel better.’
He was silent.
‘Would I be right in thinking that’s what happened to
you?’ she said. ‘Thin ice, and all that?’
‘Yes, very thin ice. I should never have got on the pond,
though, I’m not trying to make excuses.’
‘Tom,’ said Lauren, ‘from where I’m sitting you’re a
great husband. You back Octavia in that career of hers how
many men are big enough to do that? — you’ve been
incredibly loyal to her and—’
‘Don’t,’ he said, and to his horror there were tears in his
eyes, ‘don’t talk about loyalty, Lauren. I’m afraid I don’t
know the meaning of the word.’
‘Oh, of course you do,’ she said, ‘you just slipped a bit.
On that ice. You wouldn’t be feeling so bad, if you weren’t
so loyal. God, you know what I’d like to do now, I feel so
terribly drunk and hot?’
‘No,’ he said, smiling at her, happy to be having fun
again.
‘I’d like to go and swim. At the Harbour Club. Lovely!
Come with me. And then maybe another drink and then
we should probably go off to our respective families. How
does that sound?’
Tom heard himself saying it sounded wonderful.
They had gone to the Harbour Club; it was fairly quiet.
Half London was away. He had hired a swimsuit, walked through to the pool, arrived just in time to see Lauren diving in, her slender body and long legs one perfect arch.
She resurfaced, swam over to him with an efficient crawl.
‘It’s heaven. Come on, just what we need.’
He swam for a while; she was right. He felt sober
suddenly, sober and exhilarated at the same time. ‘This is
such a good idea,’ he said.
‘I have a lot of good ideas.’
‘Yes, it seems you do.’
She pulled herself up on to the side. Her body was
intriguing: slim, but very strong, her breasts, with the
tantalising mole, full and high, her stomach board-flat, the
swelling of her pubic mound sweetly full, the skin smoothly
and perfectly tanned. A pampered body, with time and
money clearly lavished on it; a body to be looked at and
admired. It was there for that purpose, and the purpose
made it sexier. Much sexier.
Afterwards they sat drinking spritzers: ‘Almost harmless,’
said Lauren, smiling at him again. ‘Like our evening.’
‘Yes,’ he had said, determinedly firm, ‘yes, that’s exactly
right.’
She had kicked her shoes off, tucked one leg underneath
her. Her extremely short skirt just failed to reveal her
knickers. It was hard, Tom found, not to check that it
hadn’t succeeded. She caught him doing that once or twice
and smiled at him: a slow, confident smile. She was
extraordinarily sexy.
‘Well,’ she had said, finally, setting her glass down,
‘enough shopping for one day. I must get back.’
He had been surprised; surprised and relieved. This was
enough: he wanted no more. He had the stomach for no
more, and certainly not the sexual energy. But it had been a
wonderfully soothing, revitalising encounter.
‘Now look,’ she had said, ‘I suppose there’s no possible
chance you could come to Tuscany for a few days, get the
kids settled in? I know we could find you a corner.’
‘No chance,’ he said. ‘Very sadly.’
They had parted at the entrance with the lightest of
kisses; her mouth was very warm, very inviting. It had been quite hard not to prolong it. Suddenly, as she turned away,
he had pulled her back towards him, gave her a hug. No
more than a hug.
‘Thank you, Lauren,’ he said, ‘for everything. You’ve
saved my sanity tonight. And not just tonight, with fixing
Nichols for me as well. You’re a great girl.’
‘I’m just pleased you feel better,’ she said, and jumped
into her car, drove it off rather fast. It was a bright red
BMW. Very sexy, very much of a statement, very Princess
of Wales.