Buses.’
‘But I haven’t got any money.’ She felt helpless,
incapable of any kind of coherent thought.
‘Then you’ll have to walk.’ He shook his head. ‘Now
sign this here, please, and then go along with PC Manning
and he’ll take your fingerprints.’
Given that an extremely carefully planned — and expensive
- weekend had been most efficiently wrecked by a combination of an avenging fate and a great deal of bad behaviour on the part of children who were nothing
whatsoever to do with him, Nico was behaving extraordinarily
well, Marianne thought. Felix would have conducted
himself quite differently. Nico had rung some private plane
service he had used on various occasions and organised a
flight that got them to Heathrow by seven: and had his
driver meet them there and drive them direct to the police
station. He didn’t even lose his temper when they were told
Zoe had gone home, expressed satisfaction and relief that
she had been let off with a caution, and then dropped
Marianne off at Eaton Square, refusing to come in for so
much as a cup of coffee.
‘You have a lot to talk about,’ he said, ‘and you don’t
want anyone in the way. I’ll phone you later today.’
Zoe greeted her mother on the doorstep. She was very
pale. ‘Hallo,’ she said.
‘Hallo, Zoe. Are you all right?’
‘Yes, I think so. Thanks for coming. I am so terribly
sorry.’
‘We can talk about it later,’ said Marianne. ‘Right now, I
want a strong coffee.’
‘I’ll make one.’
‘Is Romilly here?’
‘Yes,’ said Zoe, ‘she’s here. And — Mum, you’re going to
need that coffee.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, I think you’d better let her tell you herself She
met her mother’s eyes, tried to smile. ‘This is not a good
day,’ she said. ‘Not a good day at all.’
‘Gabriel,’ said Octavia, shaking him gently, ‘Gabriel, wake
up.’
He surfaced slowly and smiled at her. He felt good: even
if he was hotter than he would have liked, and there was a
certain tautness to the skin on his shoulders that he knew
would become first soreness then agonising irritation. It had
been a very pleasing day: so far. She had taken him out to
the little reef and shown him how to snorkel; he had swum about for ages — dangerously careless of the sun on his back — gazing in wonderment at the slow and peaceful world beneath him and the water, at the fish, with their sweetly
smiling faces and dazzlingly brilliant colours, moving about
in shoals with almost military precision, swerving first this
way then that. Finally she had said they should go in, and
they had changed — she into something chic and beige and
he into his spare pair of brilliantly coloured trunks and a
blue T-shirt that went with them rather well, he thought,
and then they drove to the Glitter Bay Hotel and had a
wonderful breakfast of fruit and yoghurt and honey and
wheat toast and glass after glass of orange juice. And
then they had walked through the grounds and she had
shown him the blue water lilies that grew on the
ornamental pool and the house that formed the main part of
the hotel.
‘It used to belong to Emerald Cunard,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it
lovely?’
‘Who’s Emerald Cunard? You know how ignorant I
am.’
‘You are,’ she said laughing. ‘Famous beauty in the
‘thirties who was actually called Maud. I suppose she
thought Emerald was smarter.’
‘Sounds like my sort of person,’ he said.
Back at Gibbes Beach, they had sat under the trees for a
while; and then she had remarked that it was midday and
really the time for resting, for siesta; and then they had been
in bed together and not doing a great deal of resting, but
making love, and it had been immensely better than the
night before. He had felt confident and in command of her,
of her thin pliable body, had felt his own body moving in
her, through her, had felt her responding to him, softening,
tautening, easing again, had been as surprised as he had the
first time by the swiftness and greed of her, had heard her
cry out with pleasure, loudly, sharply, and then after that he
followed her and after that they had slept. Holding her,
watching her sleep, her face soft and unwatchful, already flushed with the sun, her body utterly at rest, perfectly relaxed, one arm flung across him, her legs entwined in his,
a hand occasionally lifting to brush her hair off her face, she
seemed quite a different creature from the well-ordered,
carefully controlled one he had thought he knew. And he
had thought how ironic it was that coming to this place,
about which he had had such misgivings, was changing her
into a person about whom he had no misgivings at all.
Until…
‘Gabriel, do wake up. Please.’ She was smiling at him,
but was anxiously serious as well. ‘It’s almost four, we have
to eat something and then get ready and be across at
Cobblers Cove by six.’
‘What’s so great about Cobblers Cove?’
‘Gabriel! I told you. We’re meeting Fergus there. For
drinks.’
‘Can’t we go tomorrow instead? Don’t they have a
phone?’
‘No, we can’t go tomorrow. They’re expecting us today.
Anyway, I want to go, I want to show it to you.’
‘I’d rather be shown it without Fergus.’
‘Oh, Gabriel! He’s perfectly nice really. Come on, get
up. Elvira’s left a perfectly gorgeous Caesar’s salad. We must
eat it.’
‘Can’t we have it for dinner?’
‘No, we’re going out for dinner.’
‘Out!’
‘Yes. My treat. To a place just along the beach. Don’t
look like that — only the two of us. It’s so heavenly, the
food is just fantastic and—’
‘I’d rather eat here,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘I just would.’
She hesitated. Then, as if it settled things, ‘Well, we
can’t. There isn’t anything.’
‘Whyever not?’
‘Because I told Elvira we’d be out for dinner.’
‘Without asking me? What I’d like?’
‘Yes. Mea culpa.’ She smiled, then saw he wasn’t smiling back. ‘Gabriel, please don’t be difficult, I just know you’ll
like it. The place is so lovely. And the food is wonderful.
Come on, get up. Or shall I bring you a plate of salad in
bed?’
‘No,’ he said with a sigh. ‘No, I’m terribly hot.’
‘It’s cooler in the dining room. The fan’s been going full
speed.’
It was cooler. And the salad was excellent. He drank a
very cold beer, felt his irritability easing.
‘Now, what are you going to wear?’ she said, as they
sipped iced coffee on the verandah.
‘Wear? God, I don’t know.’
‘Well, what trousers have you brought?’
‘Octavia, I haven’t brought any trousers. Only the
flannels I had on on the plane.’
‘No others at all?’
‘No. Sorry. No others.’
She was clearly struggling to say the right thing, not to
sound dismayed. She failed. ‘Gabriel, that’s - that’s a pity.’
‘Why? You said we’d be alone, at the cottage, as you call
it. Why should I have thought I had to bring lots of
trousers?’
‘You must have thought we’d go out a bit. To restaurants
and so on. Come prepared for it. Most people would.’
‘I’m not most people.’
‘No, I know,’ she said, kissing him, clearly struggling to
make a joke of it. ‘Well - you’ll have to wear your flannels,
then. What about a shirt?’
‘Again, I’ve only got the one I wore on the plane.’
‘What — the white one? Is that really all you’ve got with
you?’
‘Yes. And it’s sitting in the linen bag in the bedroom.’
‘Elvira’s probably washed it,’ she said, jumping up. ‘I’ll
go and see.’
Elvira had; but it was still very wet.
‘Damn. Well, you will have to borrow one of Daddy’s. It
may be a bit wide, but it’ll do.’
‘Can’t I wear a Tshirt?’
‘No, Gabriel, you can’t. Not to Cobblers Cove.’
He suddenly felt violently irritated. ‘Look, Octavia, why
don’t you go without me? I don’t want to go, I’m perfectly
happy here, I had no idea I had to bring a half my wardrobe
with me, I’ll just stay and read. My back’s sore anyway.’
‘I told you you should wear a T-shirt snorkelling,’ she
said, her tone crisply bossy.
‘Yes, well, I thought that cream stuff would do. Must be
something wrong with it.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with it, Gabriel, it’s just not a
high enough factor. You should have asked me.’
‘Octavia, I’ve hardly had a chance to ask you anything at
all over the past few days. If I had, I wouldn’t have wasted it
on bloody silly rubbish like suncream. For God’s sake, just
stop bugging me, will you? And go off to meet your friends
on your own. I don’t want to come.’
‘Gabriel—’ She put out her hand, covered his. Her face
was very concerned, her dark eyes brilliant with tears.
‘Gabriel, this is awful. We mustn’t quarrel. This is supposed
to be our time together. To get to know each other.’
‘Exactly,’ he said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean why waste it going to meet bloody silly people
for drinks, which means I have to wear clothes which I
patently don’t possess?’
She was silent for a moment; then she said, ‘I’m going for
a swim. I think you’re being very unfair.’
He opened another beer and sat glaring out at the beach.
She was gone for about ten minutes; when she came
back, she smiled at him awkwardly. ‘I’m - sorry, Gabriel,’
she said, ‘very sorry. I didn’t think.’
He looked at her. She found it hard to apologise for
anything, he knew, so great was her need to get everything
right, to know she had done so. She was wearing a one
piece navy swimsuit; with her hair slicked back, her anxious
expression, she looked like a little girl. He stood up, went
over to her, kissed her.
‘I’m sorry too,’ he said. ‘Of course I should have brought some more clothes. It’s just that — well, I didn’t think I’d
need them. I haven’t got them anyway,’ he added and
grinned at her.
‘No. I know.’
Suddenly he wanted her very badly. Her nipples stood
out very clearly under the swimsuit, drops of water hung on
her mouth. He bent and kissed it; she tasted salty, earthy.
‘Let’s go back to bed now,’ he said, ‘and I swear we’ll go
and meet your friends tomorrow instead. I’ll even ring
them, if you like, say you’re not well. So you don’t feel
you’re letting them down.’
She hesitated, then smiled and said slowly, ‘No, I’ll ring
them. I — think that’s a nice idea, Gabriel. Very nice
indeed.’
Later, much later, as they lay finally apart, shaken, sated
with pleasure, he said, ‘I tell you what. Tomorrow
morning, we could go into Bridgetown and buy me a
couple of shirts. How would that be?’
She leaned over and kissed him, very gently. ‘The sex
must have been very good,’ was all she said.
Tom couldn’t ever remember feeling so lonely. Like all
over-busy people he fantasised about having time, space,
life to himself; thought wistfully of a day filled with only a
neat and orderly structure of appointments, rather than a
mountain of them, heaped furiously one upon the next; of
having an evening to himself to read, watch TV, rather than
sharing every one with clients or even friends, over dinners,
drinks, theatres, exhibitions; dreamed of spending a quietly
self-indulgent weekend, a day even, alone in the house,
doing what he wanted, pleasing himself. Now, at the end of
just such a weekend, he felt strange, disoriented, longed as
he would never have believed for noise to fill the silence even
the twins arguing, Minty crying, Octavia playing the
chamber music she so loved and he so hated on the stereo;
longed for people to fill the space — even interrupting him
as he read the papers, taking the pen he was doing the crossword with, taking the water he had just boiled for coffee to make tea or hot lemonade with - longed for
demands to disturb his thoughts, stress to wreck his peace. It
did not come; and his sense of loss, planted in solitude,
nurtured by silence, burgeoned and grew into a vast,
oppressive misery.
He thought of the twins, playing with their friends by
some swimming pool in the Tuscan countryside, of Minty,
smiling and giggling, over-indulged by Caroline’s parents,
of Octavia, lying in the sunshine on the golden Barbadian
beach, and not only on the beach, but in the large, white
veiled bed where he and she had spent most of their
honeymoon; and not alone either, but with her lover, and
although he knew that he deserved some of the loneliness,
much of the pain, he also knew that other factors, avenging
furies even, had played their part, and not entirely fairly, in
creating it. And as he drank himself into sleep, staring at an
appalling film on the movie channel, he found himself filled
with anger and outrage at those furies. And at the one that
had played the largest part, the human, inhuman man who
had set out most wilfully to wreck whatever it was he had
made for and with Octavia; and was forced to recognise