out of the front door. Octavia’s mobile phone, placed by
him in the kitchen drawer under some tea towels ten
minutes earlier, was still ringing intermittently as he drove
down the street…
Zoe looked at her watch: time she and Romilly left. She
went to the bottom of the stairs and called her.
‘I’m just coming.’
Romilly appeared in the hall; she was wearing a white
very low-cut top, new black satin skintight trousers and
high-wedge trainers, and she had tied her hair up on top of
her head. She had made up her eyes with very heavy
shadow and her lips with a rather dull, flat colour, outlined
in heavy pencil. She looked older, less fresh; Zoe felt she
was making a mistake, but didn’t say so. Romilly was
nervous enough already.
‘How do I look?’
‘Fine. Great. Really great.’
‘You don’t sound exactly sure.’
‘Well, I suppose I’m used to how you usually look.
That’s all.’
‘You sound like Mummy! I am just sick and tired of
being seen as a silly little baby. Even the photographer calls
me little baby! I’m not, I’m nearly sixteen and I just happen
to have signed a very big contract with a cosmetic
company. So clearly I’m not just a silly little baby. And it’s
time I stopped looking like one, okay?’
‘Yes, Rom, okay.’
Ritz and Serena were waiting in the studio reception.
Zoe liked Ritz; she was a bit less sure about Serena. She didn’t actually trust either of them, but Ritz she felt was an honest rogue.
‘Hallo, Zoe. Nice to see you,’ said Ritz. ‘Goodness,
Romilly, you look very grown up.’
Zoe could tell from her voice she didn’t like what she
saw.
Romilly looked at her warily. ‘It’s only because I’m not
in my school clothes.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course. Well, we have a make-up artist and
everything here, so we may change what you’ve done a
bit.’
‘I realise that.’ Romilly’s voice was just slightly irritable.
‘Is Mix here?’
‘No, not yet. He’s going to be late, apparently. Out on
the tiles last night. Anyway, we can start getting you ready.
Come in here. This is Frances, she runs the studio.’
Frances was tiny, skinny, with spiked black hair; she was
wearing ripped cutoffs and a top that revealed almost all
her breasts. ‘Hi. This way, Romilly. Jan, who’s going to do
your hair and make-up, has just popped out. She’ll be back
in a minute. Want a coffee or a Coke or anything?’
‘Look,’ said Zoe, ‘I’ve just got to go and do a few things.
I’ll be back later. Romilly doesn’t want me hanging around
anyway, do you, Rom? Or shall I wait?’
‘No,’ said Romilly. ‘I’ll ring you on your mobile when
we’re through. I mean, we might be hours.’
Sandy looked at Louise warily. She did appear to be better.
She had put on a bit of weight, there was some colour in
her face and she was rather full of having had her hair done,
had told him now the hairdresser came every Friday, it was
so nice, and on Monday a beautician came as well, she was
going to have a massage and a facial.
‘Daddy said he’d treat me. He’s been so wonderful, came
in three times this week. I missed you, Sandy.’ Her voice
was reproachful.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, trying not to sound short, ‘I do still
have a business to run and a small boy to look after. And it’s
quite a trek over here from Cheltenham.’
‘Sandy! I know that. But I get very lonely, you know.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I’m sorry.’
How could she talk to him like this, after what she’d
done, how could she behave as if everything was all right, as
if she’d just had an operation or something? He was about
to try and make her at least understand how difficult life was
for him, when he caught himself back; he must try to
remember what the doctor said; that however difficult, he
had to realise she had been, indeed was, extremely ill, that
he must be patient, must try to understand what had been
happening in her poor, confused brain.
It was all right for the doctor; he hadn’t loved Louise,
hadn’t thought she loved him, hadn’t properly had to realise
what she had done, hadn’t had to confront the thought not
only of her infidelity, but of her carrying another man’s
child. They all seemed to think that when Louise was better
she would come home again; how could he even contemplate
living with her again? And what could he do instead?
And who could he talk to about that, who would not be
shocked that he felt he hated her, never wanted to see her
again, felt incapable ever of even beginning to forgive her?
‘Well, I’m sorry,’ he said again, his voice very quiet.
‘I’m sure Dickon would like to see me more, wouldn’t
you, darling?’
‘Yes, I would. I keep asking Daddy.’
‘Well,’ said Louise with her sweet, quick smile, ‘you’ll
have to ask some more.’
‘We’re going to do something so exciting,’ said Dickon.
‘Really?’ Her voice was sharp. ‘What’s that?’
‘Go to a car race. With Octavia.’
‘A car race! Sandy, what is he talking about?’
‘Oh, it’s some charity do of Octavia’s. At Brands Hatch.
Everyone’s dressing up and there will be vintage car racing.’
‘And Octavia has asked you?’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘yes, she has. Very kindly.’
‘How extraordinary,’ she said. She was flushed. ‘When is
it?’
‘September the seventh,’ said Dickon. ‘I had a postcard
from Poppy this morning. Daddy read it to me. It said see
you on the seventh. She’s going. Maybe you’ll be better by
then, Mummy, maybe you could come.’
‘Maybe I could,’ said Louise, ‘if anyone was kind enough
to take me.’ Her voice was very sharp, then it changed
again, swiftly. She smiled at Sandy. The soft, flirtatious
smile. ‘Sandy, I would love to go out. Lots of the people
here do. I would love it. The doctor said maybe next week
I could. Just for a drive, and maybe tea. But only with you.
Or Daddy of course. I’m sure Daddy would take me. Only
I’d much rather go with you. You and Dickon.’
‘Yes, all right, Louise. I’ll — well, I’ll see what I can do,’
said Sandy.
He felt sick suddenly; he didn’t want Louise sitting in the
car beside him. He didn’t want to see her again. Ever. He
had actually found himself wishing sometimes that she had
died from her overdose. Having to entertain that thought in
his head kept him from sleeping, was driving him mad …
‘I really will try,’ he said firmly, trying to make amends
for the thought.
‘Octavia? I thought it was you!’
Gabriel looked up. There was a man smiling down at
Octavia, whom he didn’t like the look of at all. He was
rather as he had imagined Octavia’s husband must be: tall,
slim, tanned, very smooth, very well dressed. Only he was
American.
‘Fergie! How very, nice to see you. Where have you
sprung from?’
‘First class, darling. You know I never slum it in club.
I’ve been asleep, but I thought I heard your name earlier
and I came to look for you. Nice surprise.’ He smiled rather
uncertainly at Gabriel.
‘It is a nice surprise,’ said Octavia. ‘For me, anyway.’
‘Tom on board?’
‘Er - no. No, he’s not. This is — this is a friend, Gabriel Bingham. Gabriel, this is Fergus Payne. Our fathers were it
Harvard Business School together.’
‘Hi, Gabriel,’ said Fergus Payne, with a brief flash of
perfect teeth.
‘How do you do,’ said Gabriel. He knew it was absurd to
feel hostile to this person, but he couldn’t help it.
‘Gabriel’s coming out to stay for a few days, at
Mossaenda. Where are you staying?’
‘At Cobblers Cove. You must come and have a drink
one night. Both of you.’
‘That’d be lovely. I’ll phone you there. You on your
own?’
‘Yes and no. I’m with a friend. Divorce just came
through. Third time lucky, I hope.’ He hesitated, clearly
hoping, Gabriel could see, Octavia was going to volunteer
some information about her own marital state; she smiled at
him.
‘I’d heard. I’m sorry. Very sorry.’
‘Anyway, darling, better get back to the safety of first
class. See you at the airport maybe.’
Octavia looked at Gabriel rather intently as Fergus Payne
disappeared up the stairs. ‘Not your type?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘He’s okay. I’ve known him since he was about ten. He’s
a wonderful tennis player.’
‘How very nice for him.’
‘Gabriel! Don’t look like that. Honestly, he’s very nice
when you get to know him. Which you will, I hope. I’d
like you to see Cobblers Cove, it’s a gorgeous hotel, the
nicest on the whole island.’
‘I thought we were going to be on our own?’
‘Well, we will mostly. But you might get tired of me.’
She smiled at him. She seemed much happier now; she had
been in tears at the airport, unable to get hold of Caroline,
the nanny, hadn’t said goodbye to Minty.
‘You don’t understand,’ she had said, ‘I didn’t even kiss her goodbye, or the twins, I feel so terrible about it all—’
Gabriel said he thought he did understand, just, but that
it was only a week, and he was sure Minty would be all right, then when she continued to be distressed, even suggested cancelling the whole trip, ‘But the twins are away
anyway, so—’
Octavia had said of course they couldn’t cancel the trip, and that of course Minty would be all right, she knew that.
‘It’s me that won’t be. Oh, dear. I am a complete disaster.’
Gabriel tried to tell her she was nothing of the sort, but
she continued to berate herself until long after the plane was
in the air, when she surprised him by suddenly falling
asleep. He looked at her tenderly; she was clearly completely
exhausted…
‘More of the Californian chardonnay, Mr Bingham? Or
would you like to try something else? And would you like a
cigar?’
Gabriel said he’d have some more of the chardonnay, and
that he’d like a cigar very much. If you couldn’t beat the
buggers, and he clearly couldn’t, you might as well join
them. It was only for a week. And it did have its brighter
side…
‘Now come on, little baby, you’re not thinking. This
business is all about thinking, you know, what goes on in
your head. Concentrate, really concentrate on me now.
Nothing else. Give it to me now, now, come on, come on
- that’s it. Yes! Good! And again and again, now a little
little smile — no, no, too much, too much, back, back — no,
darling, I don’t mean move, I mean — oh, God. Frances, get
me some more cigarettes, would you? And, Tang, bring me
those polaroids again. And send this film off for clipping,
please, now now now.’
Tang, moving on his silent, slippered feet, his blank pale
race turned permanently away from her, gave Romilly the
creeps. They were all alone in there, in the studio, just the
three of them; she felt desperately uncomfortable. Alix had
had a screaming row with Ritz before the session began and Ritz had stormed out of the building, returned ten minutes
later and apologised horribly publicly — it had clearly been
demanded of her — and even then Serena and she had been
banned from the actual studio, were confined to the
reception area.
Frances was sent in and out with the polaroids, asking
them for comments, which Alix was quite clearly ignoring.
Once she came in and said, her cool little face quite
amused, that they had said he was not to go below shoulder
level; that they wanted the pictures cropped really tightly.
He had looked at her and raised his eyebrows and grinned,
that awful grin, and said, ‘They have the wrong photographer,
I think, darling, don’t you? Tell them I crop where
I fucking crop, darling,’ and turned back to peering at
Romilly through the camera.
He had made Romilly take off the white T-shirt she had
worn last time, and wrap a length of muslin round her
body, just above her breasts, so that her shoulders were
bare. She had tied it quite high up, but he had come and
eased it down, not actually very low, but she had hated the
feel of his hands on her. She had begun to get cross with
him then; it had helped with the nervousness.
And for a bit it had all gone better.
‘It’s the place where she had the pimple. It’s going to
show, look, here, see? Dry, rough little patch. Darling, can
you do anything about it? Anything at all?’ He was in the
dressing room now, lounging on the stool, talking to Jan.
Romilly sat down on the stool in front of the mirror.
Jan stood back looked at her. ‘Yes, I see what you mean.
Thing is, Alix, if I put more on now, it’s going to get a
build-up. Really I should start again.’
‘Well, darling, start again. We have to try and get it
right.’ He made it sound an extremely unlikely outcome.
They were both looking at her, talking about her, as if
she was ajar of cream or a piece of furniture, not a person,
not there at all. It was horrible. Calm down, Romilly, don’t
get upset, it won’t help.