one of those umbrella things, do you think?’
‘Oh, no need this time of day. What sun there is is going
down fast. I think it’s going to rain. Octavia, what do you
want to drink?’
He had asked for water, sitting sulkily squinting into the
sea; they had told him he couldn’t possibly drink water at
Cobblers Cove, and ordered a Bellini for him.
‘Only place here you can get one,’ said Fergus. ‘Superb.
Do you good. Octavia, are you by any chance going to the
Richardsons’ tomorrow?’
Gabriel had not thought his heart could sink any lower.
He was wrong.
Nico Cadogan’s temper, hard to ignite, was nevertheless
very slow burning. Felix Miller’s clear intention to move in
on his company for reasons of nothing but personal revenge
infuriated him; after a day of intense anxiety over it,
discussing tactics with Tom Fleming, he arrived home to a
note from Marianne that added to his sense of outrage. He
had behaved magnificently, he thought, over the weekend, had not complained about having it cut short, had hired planes and cars, been supportive and patient with Marianne,
courteous to the difficult daughter — pretty, though, she was
going to be a dead ringer for her mother — and then slipped
tactfully away, left them all in peace. And what did he get
for it? A thank you note that might have been from
someone he’d invited to a cocktail party, and a plea to be
left alone ‘for a few days’.
He telephoned her immediately, and asked her, slightly
tersely, to join him for dinner.
‘I’m really sorry, Nico. I can’t. I just feel so dreadful
about everything.’
‘Then you need something to make you feel less
dreadful,’ he said, trying to sound lighthearted.
‘No. No, Nico, I don’t. I really need to be on my own.’
Irritation stabbed him. ‘Marianne, I need to be with you.
I want to talk to you. And things aren’t that bad. Surely.’
‘To me they are.’
‘But why?’
‘You wouldn’t understand. You couldn’t understand.
Please, Nico, leave me alone.’
The rage flared. Illogically, he knew: she had no idea
what Felix Miller had done, and it was he who had pursued
her and provoked Felix into revenge, not the other way
round. Just the same, he felt she owed him at the very least
some time. If he requested it.
‘Very well,’ he said and put the phone down.
‘Isn’t this lovely?’ said Octavia. ‘Mahogany trees.’ They
were driving through a long tunnel of them, arching tall
and graceful over the road. ‘Amazing, aren’t they?’
‘Yes. Amazing.’
‘And those feathery things are called casuarina trees, they
were introduced to Barbados by Prince Albert. It’s said to
be the best firewood in the world.’
‘Not much use here, then,’ said Gabriel.
She didn’t answer. They left the mahogany trees behind,
drove on a straight road between surprisingly lush fields,
where cows grazed alongside brown creatures with floppy ears he assumed to be goats.
‘Those are tropical sheep,’ she said. ‘Aren’t they sweet?
Very biblical looking. They’re all tethered because—’
‘Octavia, I really think I’ve had enough of the guidebook
stuff for now. If you don’t mind.’
She looked at him, her eyes suddenly dark with anger,
and said nothing more.
The Richardsons’ house was remarkable; built in 1700, it
would have been more at home in Wiltshire or Suffolk, he
thought, three graceful storeys high, with fine tall windows
complete with shutters, exquisite mouldings on the ceilings,
wooden floors and, astonishingly, fireplaces in all the main
rooms.
‘They thought houses needed fireplaces,’ said Clem,
laughing, seeing Gabriel’s face — Octavia had ceased
speaking to him altogether. ‘The man who built it came
over here from England to start a sugar plantation. He only
knew about Queen Anne houses.’
‘Do you grow sugar still?’ Gabriel said, making a great
effort to be polite.
‘Goodness no, the sugar market here is dead, I’m afraid.
No, we sold off the land in the early ‘sixties. My husband is
a businessman. A banker actually. Champagne, Gabriel?’
‘Er — yes. Thank you.’
‘Follow me,’ she said and led him into what seemed to be
an English drawing room; a black girl, in a black dress and
white frilled apron, stood holding a tray of champagne
glasses by the door. She gave him a minimal and polite
smile. Clem took two glasses, motioned to her to move
further into the room.
‘Thank you,’ said Gabriel loudly to the girl. ‘Thank you
very much indeed. Gabriel Bingham. I’m from England.
Cant shake your hand, unfortunately, but very nice to
meet you.’
The girl looked embarrassed; Clem Richardson amused.
‘Come through and meet some more people. Now,
Fergus I know you’ve met, and Harriet, of course, but let me see, oh, yes, this is Lady Browning. Lady Browning, Gabriel Bingham. He’s here with Octavia Fleming.’
Lady Browning was plump, middle aged, beautifully
dressed — and black. She smiled graciously at Gabriel. ‘And
what do you do in England, Mr Bingham?’
‘I’m in politics,’ he said.
‘Oh, really? Like my husband. He’s in the Civil Service.
And my son, Alistair, over there—’ she pointed out a slim,
flashily dressed man — ‘he’s in property. That’s the thing
here, you know. All these great mansions going up, have
you seen any of them?’
Gabriel said he hadn’t.
‘Huge places, costing four or five million dollars. They’re
going to cause trouble here.’
‘Why?’ said Gabriel.
‘Well, because they will have to have security gates,
guards, dogs, all that sort of thing. And it’s against the
culture here. It’s always been a very open society and that
sort of thing will lead to crime. I hear London has a terrible
crime problem these days.’
‘Not good, no,’ said Gabriel. ‘I think it’s because—’
‘Maria, come and meet Douglas Bird.’ It was Bertie
Richardson, beaming at them both. ‘And you, Bingham.
Interesting chap, into the charter airline business. Good
name for it, Bird, don’t you think?’
Gabriel followed them dutifully across the room. He
didn’t want to meet anyone in the charter airline business.
He didn’t want to meet any of them: although Lady
Browning seemed like fun. The whole thing was like the
worst sort of middle-class English dinner party. And with
his luck he’d be sat down next to Harriet, the blonde …
‘Octavia, I said I’m sorry.’
‘Yes, I heard you. But I’m afraid that can’t put right what
seemed like downright rudeness. Doesn’t matter to me, but
the Richardsons are old friends of my father’s. I could see
they were feeling terribly uncomfortable. And Fergus is an
old friend of mine.’
‘I wasn’t anywhere near Fergus.’
‘You were next to Harriet. You ignored her through the
whole meal. I just don’t understand—’ She stopped. She felt
horribly near to tears. She had been genuinely embarrassed
and upset. She had taken Gabriel along as her guest, and he
had abused the hospitality. It just wasn’t fair. Unbidden,
social occasions with Tom came into her mind: however
dreadful the people, however tired he was, he was always
charming, interested, made an effort. She tried to crush the
thought again, found it difficult: the effort made her feel
more upset still.
‘I’m going to try phoning Tuscany again,’ she said,
‘before it’s too late.’
Gabriel shrugged, went out to the verandah.
She had tried to get through the night before and failed;
then had tried the house, in order to speak to Caroline, to
achieve some kind of contact with at least one of her
children. Caroline wasn’t there either: presumably still with
her parents. Their number was on the answering machine,
anyway, but she couldn’t get through. The whole thing had
unsettled her, upset her; she felt cast adrift. And the ghastly
evening at Cobblers Cove with Gabriel being difficult,
obtuse, not responding to what was a genuine effort on Fergus’ part to be’ friendly, his wanting to get home early, had left her very much in need of hearing small, friendly
voices.
He had obviously wanted to make love to her when they
went to bed; upset, she couldn’t face it, had made an
excuse, said she was hot, had gone into the spare room.
Later, lying awake, she felt wretched; another relationship
going wrong already. Maybe it was her, as much as Tom;
maybe she just wasn’t good at relationships, and that was all
there was to it; maybe she was a control freak, as Tom had
said; maybe she was frigid even. No wonder Tom had
turned to someone like Louise, warm, easy, funny; no
wonder he had gone off with Lauren.
Panic had hit her; she was suddenly hot, stifling. She had
got up, made herself a cold drink, and gone out to sit on the verandah, staring at the moonlit sea, trying to calm herself, failing. It was ironic, she had thought, that this holiday
which she had thought would start to rebuild her self
esteem, was threatening to wreck it further …
‘Hallo? Hallo? Is that the Villa Vittorio?’
‘Scusi?’
‘I said — oh, dear, could I speak to — to Signora Bartlett?’
‘Signora is not ‘ere.’
Thank God for that, she thought.
‘Signor Bartlett, he speak. I fetch.’
“Thank you.’
Drew Bartlett’s deep, over-smooth, tones came down
the line. ‘Octavia! Wonderful to hear from you. How are
you, how’s Barbados?’
‘Oh - marvellous. Thank you. Last day tomorrow,
though.’
‘Really? Short trip.’
‘Yes, well, I’ve got to get back. Are — are the children
being good?’
‘Marvellous. Really marvellous. That Gideon is a little
trouper. He’s swimming today for the first time, marvellous
dive he’s got. Hasn’t complained once about not swimming
either.’
‘Is his foot all right?’
‘Absolutely fine. We had the local doctor check it over,
just to make sure. Right as rain.’
‘That was kind of you. Thank you so much. And
Poppy?’
‘She’s a peach. Really. Now the girls are all out, I’m
afraid, gone to Florence for the day. Lauren’s pretending
they were going for the culture, but actually, between you
and me, they’re just shopping. But Gideon’s here. Want a
word?’
‘Yes. Yes, please.’
She stood there, feeling slightly weak at the knees. She
had been so afraid Tom would answer the phone, her heart
was still thudding.
Gideon’s cheerful voice came over the miles. ‘Hi, Mum!’
‘Hallo, darling. Is your foot all right? Having a good
time?’
‘Brilliant. It was a bit hot till now, but I could swim
today. There’s another boy here, he’s good fun. He let me
play with his Nintendo while I couldn’t swim. And Drew Mr
Bartlett - was really kind, taught me chess.’
And what was Tom doing, she wondered tartly, swimming
with Lauren, no doubt…
‘How’s Poppy?’
‘She’s a pain. She and Camilla spend all the time giggling.
Really gross. She’s out. They’re going to be really late back.
They went to Florence on the train. I could have gone, but
it’s so hot. Drew said it’d be more fun here.’
‘I see. And — and Dad?’ She brought the word out with a
struggle. ‘How’s he?’
There was a silence; then Gideon said, ‘Dad? He’s okay, I
expect.’
‘Has he gone to Florence, too?’
‘What? Dad’s not here, Mum.’ Gideon sounded puzzled.
‘He’s in Florence?’
‘No, he’s not here at all. He never was. I mean, he didn’t
come. I don’t know why you thought he did …’
‘He didn’t come?’ she said stupidly. The floor seemed
to shift under her feet; she felt dizzy.
‘No. He’s at home. In London.’
‘But I thought—’
‘Mum? Of course he couldn’t come. There’s no room
for him. Poppy shares with Camilla and I sleep on a camp
bed in the dining room.’
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘oh, I see. I thought - well, that was silly
of me.’
‘It was a bit. Anyway, how’s it there? Even hotter, I
expect.’
‘Yes, pretty hot. Anyway, darling, I’ll be home in
London on Sunday morning. Give Poppy a big hug from
me. Drew says you’re both being very good. I’ve got to go
now. Sorry. I’ll ring again when I get home.’
She felt an urgent, a pressing need to get off the phone,
to be by herself, with her whirling thoughts. Everything
seemed to have shifted again: black had become white. And
two and two clearly didn’t quite add up to four. How had
she reached that conclusion? How was it possible? How
could Tom have let her reach it? Had he been hoping to
go, perhaps, thinking he was going even? Or — had she just
been stupid? Angrily, dangerously stupid?
Quickly, swiftly, before she could lose her courage, she
dialled the house; it rang for a while, then the answering
machine picked it up.
She took a deep breath, started to leave a message, and
then Tom’s voice cut in. ‘Hallo, Tom Fleming speaking.’
‘Oh — Tom,’ she said. ‘Tom, hallo. It’s me. Octavia.’ She