and despair hit her and she felt a sob rising in her throat
again. ‘No, I need to speak to him myself.’
‘Well, can you at least tell me what it’s about? So that I
can tell him, make sure he has all the necessary information
when he does call you back?’
‘It’s about — about Bartles House,’ she said, ‘whether whether
the scheme is going ahead or not. I — well, I really
do have to know. Soon.’
‘Of course,’ said the secretary soothingly. ‘Of course you
do.’
‘So — could he ring me, do you think? I’ll give you the
number.’
‘I’m sure he will, Mrs Ford. Yes.’
Sheila Edwards, Michael Carlton’s secretary, put the phone
down. Poor woman had sounded desperate. She was the
matron, of course, looked after all those old people. What a
dreadful life. Well, from what Sheila had heard that
morning, she was going to get some good news. Some very
good news indeed.
She scribbled a note to Michael Carlton which said, ‘Mrs
Ford from Bartles House phoned. She sounded really very
upset. Is there any chance we could let her know it’s all
going through all right, cheer the poor woman up? Sheila.’
Then she looked at her watch. God. Almost eleven. She
and Michael Carlton had a site meeting at eleven thirty,
with the borough surveyor. She needed to get her skates
on. She picked up her coat and bag and hurried out of her
office, calling to Sharon Parker, the junior secretary, to take
messages carefully, and to get on with photocopying the plans for the Warminster development and that she’d be back by one. Oh, and could Sharon have some sandwiches
ready for her and Mr Carlton?
Sharon said yes, she would, but she had a dental
appointment at one. Sheila said she would be back in plenty
of time. ‘I promise. But I’d rather you didn’t go until then,
Sharon.’
Tom phoned one of his favourite journalists, a girl called
Jenny Angus on the Daily Sketch. Would she do him a great
favour, call him from the London Wall Bank the minute
the press conference was over, tell him what had happened?
‘Yes, of course I will,’ she said. ‘What’s up?’
‘Let’s just say it really rather matters to me,’ he said.
Nico and he were in his office; Nico was pacing up and
down.
‘You look like an expectant father,’ said Tom, in an
attempt to cheer him up.
‘Expectant fathers are in at the off these days, I thought,’
said Nico gloomily, ‘not waiting until the obstetrician’s
good enough to let him know what’s emerged. God, this is
bloody agony.’
Pat Ford looked at the clock. Twenty to one. Any minute
now Donald would be back, and he might get the phone
call from Carlton’s office. And he’d be so angry with her; so
terribly angry, tell her what a fool she was, how dangerously
stupid she’d been. She really couldn’t risk it.
She picked up the phone again, dialled the number.
Sharon was getting very annoyed. Sheila Edwards had
phoned to say the meeting was dragging on, and she might
be slightly delayed.
‘The dentist’s only just down the street, isn’t he, and he’s
bound to be running late. Sorry, Sharon, but there’s a very
important client phoning. I really don’t want the phone
unattended. Do please wait for me.’
The phone was ringing now: obviously the important
client. Sharon put on her personal secretary voice. ‘Mr Carlton’s office. Sharon Parker speaking, how may I help
you?’
‘Oh — hallo. Yes. This is Mrs Ford again. Is Sheila
Edwards not there?’
‘No, she’s out, Mrs Ford. Perhaps I can help you.’
‘Oh — it’s just that I phoned earlier. I’m from Bartles
House. To see if there was any news.’
‘Bartles House. Yes?’
‘We’re — well, we’re waiting for news. About what was
going happen to it. I just wondered if…’
She sounded nice: and as wound up and edgy as Sharon
herself. ‘There’s a note here about Bartles House, actually,
Mrs Ford,’ she said, noticing it suddenly. ‘I wonder if that’s
what you want?’
‘It might be. What - what does it say?’
‘It says — oh, yes. It does look like good news for you. It
says it’s going through all right, and that that should cheer
you up. Does that make any sense to you, Mrs Ford?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Pat Ford. ‘Yes, it certainly does.’
Donald Ford walked in through the door.
She turned to face him, shiny eyed. ‘Wonderful,
wonderful news. Guess what?’
‘What?’
‘That was Michael Carlton’s office. It’s all going through.
It’s all right. Do you realise what that means? It means we
can leave this awful place, and go to the new one. Oh,
Donald, I can’t believe it. No more Bartles House, no more
struggling with the stairs and the plumbing and the awful
draughty doorways.’
She went over to him and kissed him; over her shoulder
she suddenly saw Lucilla Sanderson, standing very still,
looking stricken. She had obviously heard every word.
‘Jesus,’ said Tom, ‘what the fuck are they doing over there?
Having a party?’
‘Probably, yes. Look, shall we give up and just go out to
lunch ourselves? I need to get seriously drunk.’
‘No, I think we should wait,’ said Tom. He felt very sick.
He had failed Nico, as Nico had not failed him; it was not a
good feeling.
‘I just want to make quite—’
The phone on his desk shrilled. He snatched it up.
‘Tom Fleming.’
‘Hi. This is Jenny. With a full news report.’
‘Yes?’ said Tom. ‘Yes?’
‘Okay. Well, he went through a whole rigmarole about
the London Wall Bank, what a great place it was, how
careful management and investment and really good client
services had placed it in the top fifty investment banks in
the country. And then he made his announcement.’
‘About… ?’
He was so sure she was going to say about Cadogan
Hotels, he actually heard it, heard the words. And then
realised rather slowly that she hadn’t. That those words
hadn’t come. That she was saying something quite different.
He tried to concentrate, to make sense of it.
‘So they’re opening a telephone banking arm. Called
London Wall Direct. I mean, boring or what? And then he
served some rather nice champagne and then we all left
again. And I called you.’
‘Jenny,’ said Tom, ‘Jenny, I love you. Thanks. Come
round here and I’ll give you some more. Nice champagne, I mean.’
He looked at Nico, who was standing staring out of the
window, every line in his tall, thin body an agony of
tension.
‘Nico,’ he said. ‘Nico, we have work to do. We have to
improve that cashflow situation further.’
Nico turned to him; his face was very drawn.
‘He’s made the bid?’
Tom waited for a just a moment, then, sensing the
cruelty, smiled at him. ‘No. No, he hasn’t. Old bugger
didn’t even mention the hotels. Clearly doesn’t think
they’re worth bothering about. They’re safe — from him, at any rate.’
‘Jesus!’ said Cadogan. ‘Jesus. I don’t bloody believe it.’
‘You’d better.’
you,
‘You had something to do with this, didn’t
Fleming? What was it, what the fuck did you do?’
‘Oh — nothing much,’ said Tom. ‘Certainly nothing
worth talking about anyway.’
‘Now one thing I must ask you, of course. Have you given
careful consideration to the idea of reconciliation?’
‘No.’ said Octavia. ‘I mean yes. I have considered it.’
‘And?’
‘And—’ she paused. She had been warned about this by
Melanie: that Fiona Michael was bound — by professional
regulation — to ask her. It was surprisingly hard to say. ‘And
I - I, well, it isn’t an option.’
‘You’re sure?’
Another pause. She realised Fiona Michael’s expression
was very piercing. It was obviously important to get the
answer right.
‘Yes. Yes, of course. I mean—’
‘Because it is important that you are absolutely sure. That
it can be ruled out. Have you discussed it with your
husband?’
‘I don’t discuss anything with my husband,’ said Octavia
briskly.
‘It’s important that you do. Divorce is a complex
procedure. This is one of the things that requires you
cooperate with one another.’
‘Oh. Oh, I see. I thought - thought that you’d do it all.
See to it.’
‘Most of it,’ said Fiona. ‘Not all.’
She smiled at Octavia coolly, crossed one long leg over
the other. She was tall and very slim, with dark red hair and very white skin; immensely attractive. Her office resembled
a sitting room; they were sitting on sofas, on either side of a
low table. A large box of Kleenex was placed beside the
vase of flowers on the table. Octavia wondered what they
were for.
‘Now then,’ she said, just let me have as much
background as possible. When the marriage first began to
break down, why you’re so sure there’s no hope of
reconciliation. Does he know you’re seeing me?’
‘No. No, not yet.’
‘Well, that’s absolutely the first step. You must tell him.
Unless you want things to become very unpleasant indeed.’
‘Oh — no, I don’t. Of course not.’
‘Well — let’s go through it, shall we?’
At the end of forty minutes, Octavia discovered what the
Kleenex were for.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Fiona, passing her the box, ‘everyone
cries. Men and women. Everyone. However much they
come in feeling and talking tough, they cry. It’s natural.
This is your marriage you’re planning to say goodbye to.
Coffee?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Octavia. She felt horribly upset.
The coffee was very strong; it made her feel better. She
managed to smile at Fiona. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s all right. Where is your husband living now?’
‘At home,’ said Octavia.
‘At home? You mean, with you?’
‘Well — yes.’
‘That is rather — unwise.’
‘Why? We’re not sleeping together any more.’ She felt
absurdly defensive suddenly. Of Tom, for God’s sake. What
was the matter with her?
‘You’re suing him for adultery. If you and he are
cohabiting, that weakens your case. You really should press him to leave. Although you can’t force him unless he’s being violent. I presume that isn’t the case.’
‘No,’ said Octavia, thinking of the night she had hit
Tom, starting to cry again. ‘No, he isn’t.’
Her father had been very insistent that Tom moved out;
maybe that was why.
‘He’s been having problems with his business,’ she said
after a while. ‘Financial problems. It would have been — difficult for him.’
‘That’s really rather accommodating of you, Mrs Fleming.
Not many wives would see things quite that way. Are
the problems over now?’
‘Oh — yes. Things are much better.’
‘That’s good. We shall be able to press for a more
substantial settlement. Bankrupt husbands are never good
news.’
‘No. No, of course not.’
Fiona Michael hesitated. Then she said, ‘Mrs Fleming
this won’t be pleasant. I do urge you to talk about it to your
husband one more time.’
Octavia looked at her; she waited for a moment, trying
to find order in her whirling thoughts. Then she said, ‘No.
No, I don’t want to do that. I want to go ahead.’
‘Very well. Now I’d like you to take this form and fill it
in for me. Before we talk any more. All rather tedious, I’m
afraid, but it will save a lot of time in the long run. More
coffee?’
Fiona Michael saw Octavia out of her office after an hour,
and went over to the window, watched her walking slowly
down the street. She liked her; but she felt it was unlikely
she’d be handling her divorce. If ever a woman was still in
love with her husband, it was Octavia Fleming.
It was all arranged: Louise was to come home on Sunday.
Every time he thought about it, Sandy felt ill. He spent a
long time on Friday evening cleaning the house, making up
the bed in the spare room — there was no way he could
even contemplate having Louise sleeping with him putting flowers in their own room for her.
He could cope with it; of course he could. And it wasn’t
for ever after all.
‘Tom, I want to talk to you.’
Tom looked at her over the financial section of The
Times. He was sitting at the kitchen table, a half-drunk
bottle of chardonnay in front of him; he looked tired, but
extremely cheerful. ‘Sure. Want some of this?’
‘No. No, thank you. I wouldn’t mind some fruit juice
though.’
‘Fine. Sit down, you look tired.’
‘I don’t feel tired,’ said Octavia coolly.
‘Good.’
‘I expect you’re pleased about the takeover. Or rather
that there wasn’t one.’
‘Yes. Yes, I am. Did your father call you about it?’
‘No. I haven’t heard from him. I just read it in the
papers. Is there any post?’
‘Over there.’
He had his back to her, was standing at the fridge. She
flicked through the letters; there was one from Barbados.
Nicholas Greenidge. He said he’d write about the mysterious