‘Look at me.’
She did so, reluctantly; was amazed to see him smiling. A
real smile: amused, friendly, affectionate.
‘You really are extraordinary,’ he said. ‘Quite extraordinary.’
‘Of
course I’m not,’ she said, irritable again. ‘What do
you mean?’
‘I mean I’ve done some fairly terrible things to you.
Correction. Some very terrible things to you.’
‘Well, that’s certainly true.’
‘And yet you feel you have to apologise for some minor
dismeanour towards me.’
She didn’t say anything. He stood up, walked over
towards her. She backed into the corridor; she didn’t want
him near her.
‘One of the reasons,’ he said, his eyes moving over her
face, ‘one of the reasons I have always loved you—’
‘Don’t say that! Please!’
‘One of the reasons I have always loved you,’ he said,
‘was your scrupulousness. Your sense of justice. It’s very — special. You are very special.’
She said nothing. She felt confused, disoriented. He
reached out suddenly, and touched her cheek, very gently.
She shied away, pushed his hand down.
‘Don’t!’
‘Sorry.’
Suddenly, startlingly, she wanted his hand there again, wanted him to touch her. It was frightening, how much she wanted it.
‘Octavia,’ he said, very slowly, and she realised he had
seen it, and was homed at herself, at her foolishness. And
still she didn’t move.
‘You look very tired,’ he said gently, and then bent and
kissed her on the mouth. Just briefly, lightly. ‘Go to bed,
get some sleep.’
‘Good night, Tom,’ she said. And then he bent and
kissed her again, still lightly, but very carefully; and she
could not help it then, it was as if she had become herself
again, the self she had forgotten, the self who had loved and
wanted Tom, and her lips parted under his. She felt him
pause, hesitate, then felt his mouth moving gently, with
infinite care, the rest of him not moving, utterly still. She
knew that stillness, she could remember it, her body
remembered it, preceding in him, it always did, an
intense, urgent sexual excitement. And then she felt the
echoes of it herself, felt a warmth creeping into her
somewhere, felt a stirring and a softness: and then, almost
frightened, she pulled her mouth away.
‘Good night,’ she said quickly, and half ran to her room
and slammed the door and lay on the bed, breathing very
fast, appalled at the power of her body to betray her, to
want him, and still more at the fact, the terrifying fact, that
however hard she denied it, she was able to consider
beginning at least to forgive him.
‘I want a divorce,’ she said. ‘As quickly as possible. So — can
you help?’
Melanie grinned at her. ‘As co-respondent? Not too sure
about that.’
‘No. With a lawyer.’
‘Oh, yes. I certainly can help you there.’
She’d known Melanie was the person to ask. Lying
awake, afraid that she might weaken, find herself feebly
accepting the whole thing, she had suddenly thought of
Melanie, of her famously successful departure from married
life. If ever anyone had been given absolutely superb advice
about their divorce, it was her.
Melanie smiled at Octavia now. ‘Does this mean you and
the Angel Gabriel are an ongoing item?’
‘Um — no,’ said Octavia quickly.
‘Oh, dear. Don’t tell me his powers were a little less than
heavenly?’
‘Well, I — actually, no. I mean, he’s lovely and funny and
we got on really well, had a great time but — not quite right,
I’m afraid.’
‘Shame,’ said Melanie. ‘I’m really sorry about that.’
Her large, brilliant eyes were gentler suddenly as she
looked at Octavia.
‘Oh — it’s not important. Honestly. I mean I never
thought it was going to be the love affair of the century.’
‘Didn’t you? I thought you were pretty smitten with
him. What went wrong?’
‘I messed it up, basically,’ said Octavia quietly. ‘I was
ghastly. Bossy, controlling, all my worst things, expected
him to fit in with everything there, the people we know,
the things we do. As if he had been — been …’
‘Tom?’ said Melanie helpfully.
‘Well - no, not Tom. Obviously. But used to it all, liking
the things we do there, getting on with the people …’
‘Like Tom?’
‘No, Melanie, not like Tom. What is this?’
‘Just testing!’
‘Well, don’t. I can’t cope with it.’
‘Is he still in the house?’
‘Well - yes.’
‘You’ve got to throw him out.’
‘I know.’
‘Octavia, you have. Fiona — my lawyer — will have a
great deal to say about that, I can tell you.’
‘Don’t! You sound like my father. He’s practically got
the divorce papers ready for me.’
‘Good on him. Now I’m going to give you Fiona’s
number and you’re to ring her, and then, if you could
possibly get your nicely sunburnt little nose down to the
grindstone, we have a few nightmares on our hands. Mostly
to do with the dreaded day at Brands Hatch. I tell you, we,
personally, are going to make a huge loss out of that thing.’
‘Mells, I’m sorry.’
‘Not your fault — you didn’t want to do it. And the
publicity and the association with the charity will more than
make up for it. I’ve already had two inquiries from other
children’s charities, as a direct result. Largely because of
Diana, of course.’
‘I don’t suppose we know if she’s coming or not?’
We don’t. She likes to keep people hopping. At the
moment she’s still disporting herself all over Europe with
Dodi Fayed. Have you seen the picture today? Obviously posed with the supplements in mind.’
The picture showed the Princess sitting alone on the
prow of Dodi Fayed’s yacht, wearing a pale blue swimsuit,
lovely legs swinging. She looked very alone, a tragic,
beautiful figure.
‘What on earth is to become of her?’ said Octavia. And
went back to her office, thinking that the same question
might have been asked of her.
‘He’s called a press conference. For Thursday morning,’ said
Tom. ‘I fear that confirms it.’
‘Have you talked to him?’
‘Would he talk to me? Of course not. But I’ve had my
spies out. He’s still in denial, of course, about a takeover.
Although he’s declared his holding to the Stock Exchange,
he’ll have to notify you of course before the press
conference. But I can’t think whatever else it could possibly
be.’
‘Shit!’ said Nico Cadogan. ‘God, I don’t like this.’
‘Nor do I. More coffee?’
‘Thanks. Well, I suppose I have only myself to blame.’
‘No,’ said Tom, ‘you don’t. Much of it has to be set at
my door.’
‘It still seems to me that I’m the major culprit. I walked
off with his woman. Although …’
‘Although what?’
‘Oh, nothing.’ He sighed, then said, ‘I suppose I should
tell you. Marianne has — well, she’s back with him.’
Tom stared at him, fighting to keep his face blank.
‘Really? But—’
‘I know what you’re thinking. If he’s got her back, why
does he still want the hotels?’
‘I was right, you see,’ said Tom. ‘This is all about me. Me
and Octavia, your helping me. The man’s crazy. He—’ He
stopped, looked at Nico suddenly. ‘Jesus!’ he said.
‘Tom, are you all right? You’ve gone the most ghastly
colour.’
‘Have I? Sorry.’
‘What is it?’
‘Oh—just remembered something. Doesn’t matter. Let’s
go over those figures again, shall we? There’s still a chance your shareholders might back you, isn’t there?’
‘A chance, yes, I suppose,’ said Nico Cadogan, ‘but I wouldn’t put money on it.’ He looked at Tom. He seemed rather different: older, worn down, his air of sleek confidence quite gone. ‘I feel pretty grim about this, I have
to tell you. I really can’t imagine life without Cadogan
Hotels.’
‘Maybe you won’t have to,’ said Tom.
Commuters were informed by their Evening Standards that
night that Nico Cadogan was really rather likely to have to
imagine life without Cadogan Hotels.
The press conference, called for Thursday morning by
financier Felix Miller, of the London Wall Bank, was likely
to announce his bid for the company. A consortium,
headed jointly by London Wall and stockbrokers George
Martindale, was said to have substantial funds in place; the shares now stood at over three pounds. The earlier bid from Western Provincial would be trumped by this one. Mr
Miller had stated earlier that day that although he had no
intention of pre-empting what he had to say at his press
conference, he was prepared to admit he had no objection
in principle to the idea of owning a hotel chain: ‘I travel a
lot and it would be useful always to be sure of somewhere
decent to stay.’
‘Bastard!’ said Nico Cadogan, hurling the paper across
the room. ‘Bastard!’
Nico thought of the first Cadogan Royal: the one that
had set the pattern and standard for all the rest, in the
beautiful house in Bath. He hadn’t lost a single feature of
that house: every cornice, every shutter, every lovely
window and stairway and piece of ironwork was still there.
It had cost him a fortune, had taken years to see back, but
he had done it. He had sacked two interior designers before
he had found one sufficiently in sympathy with the house and its mood; had thrown back drawings that showed fancy
furnishings, overdressed windows, elaborate wallpapers.
The hotel when it was finished remained a beautiful and
elegant house that could be lived in by up to forty guests;
but it could also be imagined as the home of one civilised
and privileged family. It was still cited as an example of how
to style an exclusive hotel, photographed and written about
in all the design magazines, and it was still his favourite, as
dear to him as his own home. And the company as dear to
him as anything could be: in the absence of a family, it
seemed a part of him, had done so for many years. It held
his heart, absorbed his attention, satisfied his pride. Without
it he would feel absolutely bereft.
And the irony was that Marianne, who had inadvertently
brought about its loss, had left his life as well…
Marianne was one of the many readers of the Standard who
read about the bid for Cadogan; it finally gave her the
courage to ring Tom, who seemed delighted to hear from
her.
‘I was thinking of calling you. I’ve got a client who’s a
great golfer, he’s coming to London for a few days, for a
conference, so where might he be able to get a game?’
Marianne suggested a couple of clubs, and then said,
‘Tom — is it true? That Felix is putting in a bid for Nico’s
company?’
“Fraid so,’ said Tom. ‘That is, it hasn’t been confirmed,
but the writing’s pretty clearly on the wall. You hadn’t
heard before?’
‘No. No, I haven’t seen Nico for — for a few days. I saw
something in the paper today.’
‘I see. Yes, the poor old boy’s in a terrible state about it.
Very upset.’
‘I expect he is,’ said Marianne. ‘Oh, dear. How dreadful.
I feel…’
‘Feel what?’ said Tom?
‘A bit responsible. Somehow.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Tom. His voice was very soothing,
very kind. ‘You ought to know Felix well enough to realise
he’s much too good a businessman to do something like this
on some kind of a personal whim. The company’s worth
having. He wants it. Simple as that.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Marianne. But she knew he wasn’t
being entirely truthful.
Tom called Nico.
‘For what it’s worth, Marianne doesn’t seem to be — what
shall I say? — in very close contact with Felix. She phoned
me to ask me if it was true about the takeover.’
‘It’s worth nothing to me at all,’ said Nico shortly.
‘Fine. Sorry to have troubled you. I’ll fax those
circulation figures over to you later today.’
‘Thanks,’ said Nico.
Felix had several times tried to teach Marianne chess. It had
been a disaster; she lacked the intellect, or so she told him,
to play. He had told her that her intellect was more than
adequate, it was her powers of concentration that were
lacking.
‘Octavia is a very good chess player. But it’s mostly
because she has the capacity to put everything else out of
her mind. You just need to develop that.’
Marianne said briskly that she had no desire to try to
develop it, and that was the end of the chess lessons; but she
did remember being much intrigued by the concept of
checkmate, of being in a position from which there could
be absolutely no escape, where absolutely no move was
possible. She felt herself checkmated now. She was the king
on the board, trapped helplessly by the all-powerful queen:
only the queen was not another person, it was her own
emotions, her own folly. That was what had trapped her.
She had left Nico Cadogan — whom she did miss quite
painfully - to return to Felix, because that was where she
belonged, where her duty lay; and because it was him — in