that, barring some rather unlikely miracle, he had probably,
finally, succeeded. And Tom did not believe in miracles.
Marianne sat on the floor of Romilly’s bedroom; Romilly
lay on the bed, looking at her, her large green eyes cloudy
with tears and some kind of strange sullen defiance.
Marianne felt very sick. Finally, haltingly, prompted
gently by Zoe, who was now asleep herself, released briefly
from her own troubles, the story had come out; the terrible
session with Stefanidis, his criticism of her, the humiliation,
physical and emotional, of the whole, terrible, drawn-out
day, culminating in the naked breasts, bared to two men,
total strangers, not so dreadful perhaps in absolute terms,
but an outrage against someone as innocent, as eager to
please as Romilly: and then, as if that was not enough for
her to bear, the appalling episode with Serena Fox and her
lesbian lover. And then coining home to an empty house, with no one to hold her, comfort her, say there there, it
doesn’t matter, you’re quite safe, nothing matters, I’m here.
What kind of mother was she, that she could have
allowed even the possibility of such a situation developing:
so engrossed in her own affairs — or affair — her own
pleasures, her own concerns. While one daughter was
running wild in London, committing God knew what
crimes, or near-crimes, and another was being confronted
by the reality of a world she had no business even to be
near, never mind forced into. Briefly, wildly, she contemplated
what Alec would have to say to her on the matter of
her motherhood now, and shuddered and tried to turn
away from it; and then thought that whatever he might say,
she deserved it and more.
‘Darling,’ she said rather helplessly, ‘darling, would you
like to come down, maybe watch TV with me for a bit?’
‘No,’ Romilly said, still with the strange closed expression.
‘I really don’t feel too good, I’d rather stay up here.’
‘But, Romilly, sweetheart—’
‘Mum, don’t make so much of it. It was no big deal. I’m
fine. Stop fussing.’
She sounded like Zoe: older, hostile, difficult; Marianne
sighed and turned away from her, looked rather wildly
round the room, still a child’s room, with its Roald Dahl
books on the shelf, and her noticeboard, covered with
tickets to theatres and pop concerts and the teenage balls she
had gone to, and postcards and pictures taken in photo
booths of herself and her friends, and posters of Leonardo di
Caprio and Robbie Williams, and her rollerblades and her
riding hat slung untidily into a corner, and the endless
collages of family holidays, and the dolls’ house, standing
next to the desk. Romilly had always loved that dolls’
house; Alec had bought it for her in America, a lucky find,
a house very like the one they stayed in at Martha’s
Vineyard every year.
She reached forward now, to close the front door, which
was hanging open. Something stopped it.
‘Don’t,’ said Romilly sharply. ‘Leave it alone.’
Marianne didn’t leave it alone. She pushed again, and
then when it didn’t yield, she opened it, and against the
background of Romilly saying, ‘Mummy, please!’ and
feeling sicker than ever, pulled out an almost-empty packet
of laxative tablets.
‘Romilly, darling, why on earth were you taking those?
Horrible things, for heaven’s sake, couldn’t you have asked
me? Why take them? For God’s sake, Romilly, you’ve got
to tell me. Got to let me help you.’
And then finally, the spell broke, and Romilly flung
herself off the bed and into her arms, and was saying, ‘I had
to, I had to.’
‘But, darling, why?’
‘I had this spot. My skin was horrible and my stomach
was all bloated, and it was the session. I thought - I thought
they’d help. They did.’
‘But, darling, help what?’
‘Help bring it on. My period,’ said Romilly, her voice
louder, thick with tears. ‘It was late. Days and days late. I had to do something about it, I had to, it was so terrible, you don’t understand.’
And Marianne sat there, holding Romilly, feeling the
sobs shaking her body, feeling more ashamed of herself than
she could ever remember, and realising exactly how badly
out of order her own life had become.
Playing God is a dangerous game for mortals. It requires
breathtaking arrogance, an iron nerve and an absolute
determination to see it through, whatever the cost and
whatever the consequences. Felix Miller, who possessed all
those things, had been playing God with some success; he
was lacking, however, in that other crucial quality, granted
only to the Almighty; the ability to see what further moves,
if any, might need to be made …
He simply considered his job done, and well done:
Octavia dispatched, alone with her lover, into the loveliness
and peace of Barbados; and in the knowledge moreover
that her husband was disporting himself in the pleasure
domes of Tuscany with his mistress. He had done that, Felix
thought, studying the financial pages that sunny Monday
morning; he had created a set of circumstances whereby
Octavia could go away, guilt free, knowing that her
marriage must be finally and absolutely over. And whereby
Tom Fleming had been typecast, correctly of course, but in
a manner of which there could be no doubt, as the
unarguable villain of the piece. All that was needed now
was the divorce to be set in motion, and Octavia would be
safe again. There could surely be no possible reason for her
to postpone it any longer now: no reason either for him not
to ring his solicitor and establish exactly what Octavia
should and should not do in order to bring about a legal end to her marriage, as final and unarguable as its emotional counterpart. He picked up the phone and dialled Bernard
Moss’s number.
‘We’ll go to Cave Shepherd tomorrow morning,’ said
Octavia, ‘to get your shirts. It’s a marvellous shop, a bit like
- well, like Harrods.’
‘Sounds my kind of place.’
He grinned at her. They had spent the day at Crane, on
the northern side of the island, a glorious white-sanded
beach with rolling white-edged turquoise surf. They had
taken belly boards and Octavia had tried to teach Gabriel to
catch the waves; he had been hopeless at it, missed the
moment every time, but he hadn’t minded, had watched
her from the beach, laughing, as she rode in through the
surf, and felt a stab of something very close to love for her.
Afterwards, she lay stretched out on her board, half asleep,
her body already turned golden brown, a clutch of rather
surprising freckles on her small perfect nose. Octavia would
not have been expected to have freckles, Gabriel thought,
they were somehow too childlike, too random, for her neat
orderly beauty. But they suited her. The sun suited her
altogether, Gabriel thought, more than half envious; he had
woken pink shouldered and sore, had kept his T-shirt on all
morning, even in the sea, feeling slightly foolish and
somehow adolescent. He wondered if Tom Fleming
burned in the sun and decided it was unlikely.
At lunchtime they went up to the terrace restaurant at
the Crane Hotel, set on the cliff high above the beach, and
ordered swordfish salads and fries; while they waited
Gabriel had a milk punch.
‘I warn you,’ said Octavia, ‘that might sound innocent,
but it’s lethal.’
It was; his head was spinning long before the food
arrived.
Later, they swam again, and then she went fast asleep on her
board, in the shade of some trees; Gabriel, feeling the heat
badly now, walked along the water’s edge, and tried to ignore a determinedly developing headache. He needed
some time out of the sun; but she had organised a boat-trip
the next day, and was so excited about the wonders it was
going to offer that he didn’t have the heart to say he
couldn’t go.
The dreaded cocktails had been postponed until the next
day: Fergus and the blonde were going to a dinner party
that night. For that, at least, Gabriel was grateful.
He had walked as far as he could, stopped by some cliffs
jutting far out into the sea, and turned; he swam for a few
minutes, trying to get cool. The water was warm as well as
wild; his headache eased as he dived under the waves. A
quiet evening and he’d be fine tomorrow…
‘We’re going to dinner at a restaurant called Pisces tonight,’
said Octavia, sitting up, refreshed from her sleep, waking to
his kiss. ‘It goes right out into the sea. You’ll really enjoy it.’
He tried to look enthusiastic but his headache had
stabbed back into life. ‘Good. Shall we go back now?’
‘Yes, I think we’d better. You look as if you’ve had quite
enough sun. Your face is terribly pink, Gabriel. I wish
you’d—’
‘You wish I’d what?’ he said, irritably conscious of his
burned face.
‘Wear a hat.’
‘I will tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I did bring one. A panama.’
‘Really? How nice, I love men in panamas. So oldworldish.
Come on, let’s get you back. We can have a well,
a rest before we go out.’
She smiled at him, jumped up and kissed him. He knew
what she meant, and tried to look enthusiastic, but his
headache was so bad when they did get back that all he
could do was fall gratefully asleep.
Pisces was a very nice restaurant; cooler now (in spite of
wearing his grey flannels), and with several painkillers inside
him, Gabriel managed at least to appear to appreciate it. He decided he should stick to water, but Octavia said the wine list was incredible, and he should have at least a glass.
Sipping a Californian chardonnay at one of the tables at
beach level, looking appreciatively at the menu, he felt
almost human again.
Octavia, dressed in a white linen dress, unbuttoned
dangerously low to show her brown breasts, smiled at him,
picked up his hand and kissed it. ‘I’m enjoying this so
much,’ she said. ‘So very much. I hope you are too.’
Gabriel said he was. ‘Much more than I expected,’ he
said.
‘Really? I find that mildly insulting.’
‘Only because of the heat,’ he said hastily.
‘I hoped that was what you meant. Now this menu is
wonderful, a perfect blend of Caribbean and smart London.
My advice is ignore the smart London bit, stick to the
Caribbean.’
‘I’m not actually very familiar with smart London
menus,’ he said. He had meant to sound lighthearted but it
didn’t quite come off.
‘Oh, Gabriel,’ said Octavia, ‘you do run on about your
humble lifestyle. It could get boring.’ He hoped that, too,
was meant to be a joke, but there was something
approaching an edge to her voice. He knew her well
enough now to recognise that edge; he hadn’t heard it
much out here, it belonged to the other Octavia. He had
wondered when she might come back.
He smiled at her, picked up the menu. It really was very
near perfect. The moon was just rising, reflecting in the
water; the stars were brilliant. The waves — gentle, foamy,
quite unlike the pounding surf of Crane — were drifting on
to the shore. Just the sound was cooling. It was all a cliche.
A luxurious cliche. But really very very nice. He was very
lucky: only a fool would knock it. He’d have the crab, he
thought, and after that—
‘Octavia! Hallo, my dear, how are you?’
‘Bertie! What a lovely surprise. I’m very well.’
Bertie was sixtyish, tall, handsome, white haired, very
tanned. Gabriel hated him on sight. ‘And your father? How is the old rogue? He’s not here, I suppose?’
‘No, he’s not. He’s fine. Coming over later in the year.’
‘Hope he’ll bring the lovely Marianne. I could use a
decent golf partner. Got the children with you? Look, why
don’t you join us? We’d love some company. Clem,
darling, look, it’s Octavia.’
And then Clem joined them: also tall, also good looking,
blonde, very slim, beautifully dressed. She bent and kissed
Octavia. ‘Darling girl. How lovely.’ She looked rather
uncertainly at Gabriel.
Octavia kissed her, then said, ‘This is Gabriel Bingham.
A friend of mine from England. Gabriel, this is Bertie and
Clem Richardson. Old friends of my father’s. They live
here, in the most wonderful house.’
Gabriel stood up, shook their hands dutifully. He felt
unreasonably outraged by their arrival.
‘Now, do join us, won’t you?’ said Clem and Gabriel was
almost prepared for Octavia to say that would be lovely,
saw her glance at him, was overwhelmingly relieved to hear
her say, ‘Well — just for a drink. But I think we might stay
on our own, if that wouldn’t seem terribly rude. We’re a bit
- tired. Long day.’
‘Oh, nonsense. Tired! Young things like you,’ said
Bertie, but Clem cut in and said, ‘Bertie, do use your head.
They want to be alone. Not spending the evening with a
pair of old geriatrics.’ Gabriel could have kissed her. ‘Tell