more full of energy even than usual, at one and the same
time happy to be reunited with them and querulous at the
loss of freedom, the pool, and several other children to play
with. Minty, having recovered from her first intense joy at
seeing them, was fractious and restless with the heat. Tom,
cautiously relaxed, was cooking a barbecue; Octavia jumpy,
wary, watched him and wondered and worried at how she
could have allowed herself to do what she had done, how
much it might affect the final outcome of her divorce petition,
whether anyone actually needed to know about it, and when
and how she was going to break the news of that divorce
petition to Tom. For, of course, that was still what she wanted.
Louise Trelawny was packing, reflecting upon her escape
from the Cloisters, now little more than twelve hours ahead, remembering with something approaching savage rage her final interview with Dr Brandon when he told her
he thought she seemed so very much better — how could he
think that, a doctor, how could he not see still how much
she hurt, how angry she was — but grateful at the same
time that he should think it. At least she would be away
from this horrible place; at least she could begin to take her
revenge. Indeed, in little more than a week, in eight days’
time, she would have taken it; or rather be in the very midst
of the pleasure of taking it. Then she really would feel
better.
Every so often she opened her bag, checked the zipped
pocket, just to make sure it hadn’t fallen out. It was still
there; she could go ahead.
Sandy Trelawny was sitting in the garden with Dickon and
Megan and Pattie David, eating a very nice lasagne Pattie
had cooked, and thinking this was the last time for many
weeks, or even months, that he would be able to see her or
rather them - and that he would be feeling calm and at
peace. Tomorrow he would be at home with Louise, trying
to suppress his anger, his distaste, trying at the same time to
care for her, because, until she was quite, quite better, there
was nothing he could do to get away from her. Pattie had
already said how much she would miss seeing him and
Dickon, and that he must let her know if there was
anything she could do to help over the next few weeks, but
he knew there was no prospect even of seeing her, let alone
her being able to help him.
But as they left, finally and reluctantly, he did allow
himself to kiss her lightly — only on the cheek — and to say
that he was more grateful than she would ever know for all
her help, and that he hoped very much that he would see
her and Megan again before too long.
He had thought he could say no more than that; but
somehow, when she said, ‘You must be so much looking
forward to having Louise back home,’ he heard his voice,
harsh and raw, saying that actually, no, he wasn’t, not at all.
Pattie then said (her pale face slightly pink) that it would obviously be a great strain for him, and he had actually been
about to try and tell her that was not quite the reason, when
Dickon ran up and said to come and see — Megan’s rabbit
had just had babies.
And after that, there was no more opportunity and it was
time to set out on the long drive home.
Lucilla Sanderson sat watching her friends the bats swooping
through the twilight, and wondering what she should
do next; she had phoned the Davids and they were coming
to see her the next day, and she had also spoken to her MP,
Gabriel Bingham, who seemed a very nice young man, and
didn’t sound at all like a Socialist, but you never knew these
days, look at Tony Blair. He had said there was very little
that could be done, if planning permission had definitely
been given, but that he had no idea if that was the case. If it
was, he said, then the democratic process must take its
course, and he very much hoped Mrs Sanderson was not
going to take to living in the trees or in a burrow
underground. This was intended as a joke, but Lucilla told
him that that was precisely what she would do if and when
the bulldozers arrived at Barries Park.
‘I’m very old you know,’ she said, ‘and I would see that
as quite a good way to go. Actually.’
Gabriel Bingham had laughed and said he would be in
touch with her as soon as he had some definite news.
Suddenly, across the valley, a rush of wind heralded the
beginning of a storm. The bats disappeared.
In London, Marianne Muirhead sat alone in her house,
working her way through a bottle of Sancerre and thinking
about Nico Cadogan and Felix Miller and the incredible
mess she had made of her relationships with both of them.
And about being checkmated and how there really was
nothing at all she could do about it. Upstairs, Marc was
playing some appalling music rather loudly; it was amazing how the young managed to sleep, talk and even work against the background of that noise.
Suddenly he appeared in the doorway; he looked
different today, cleaner and a bit paler, but still very thin
and extraordinarily beautiful. Marianne would have died
rather than admit it, but she did know that, deep down, at
the bottom of her heart, Marc was her favourite. She had
once heard a friend say, ‘I love my daughters more than
anything in the world, but I love my son more than more
than anything in the world.’ That described her own
feelings about Marc.
‘I can’t sleep,’ he said. ‘I’ve come for a chat, if that’s all
right. We did a lot of chatting at night in Nepal. Under the
stars. The stars were amazing. Huge.’
Marc was a great chatterer: more than either of the girls.
It was one of the things that she most loved about him,
made him so easy to talk to.
‘Did you do anything else?’ she said.
‘Yeah, played cards a lot. And chess.’
‘Ah,’ she said, ‘chess. It’s been much on my mind at the
moment, chess has.’
‘I didn’t think you played.’
‘I don’t. But I find myself in a situation that I can only
describe as checkmate.’
‘Oh, really? Want to tell me about it?’
She hesitated, then said, ‘No. No, it’s a bit - personal.’
He shrugged. ‘Okay. That’s cool. But I won’t tell
anyone. If you want to talk.’
Over a third glass of Sancerre, Marianne started to talk.
When she had finished, Marc was silent for a while; then he
said, ‘That’s not quite checkmate, Mum. Checkmate’s
when you can’t do anything at all. I’d call it check.’
‘And how do you get out of check?’
‘You do something of a defensive nature.’
‘Marc, I did that. When I went to see Felix. It didn’t
work.’
He stared at her. ‘And this Cadogan guy. How do you
feel about him?’
‘I just can’t tell you,’ said Marianne fretfully. ‘If it wasn’t for Felix, I suppose I’d be—’ she hesitated — ‘in love with
him. As there is Felix, I — well, I just can’t be.’
Marc looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Yeah,’ he said slowly.
‘Yeah, maybe it is checkmate.’
In Bath, Gabriel Bingham sat in his tiny courtyard of a
garden and thought rather sadly of Octavia, and also how
thankful he was that the day which had been so extremely
hot — although not nearly as bad as Barbados — was cooling
down now with the help of a wind that was rather strong
for August. The sky was growing stormy, too; it looked as if
it might even rain. That really would be extremely nice.
The whole week had been rather too hot.
He was missing Octavia; but he had come round quite
swiftly to her pragmatic point of view, that it was as well
they had discovered their incompatibility so soon. For that
alone, the week in Barbados had been worthwhile. He
hoped he wouldn’t lose her from his life entirely; he
enjoyed her company, her clear, incisive mind, her rather
engaging seriousness. He wondered if her inevitable reunion
with her husband had yet been accomplished; he
genuinely hoped so (and admired himself at the same time
for hoping it). He might phone her during the week, on the
pretext of checking whether she had heard from the poor
old soul at Bartles House. He had very little hope that
Bartles Park could be saved — from the beginning it had
seemed a foregone conclusion to him. And from his
viewpoint, there was much to be said for it; much-needed
housing, local employment, and whatever they all said, the
community centre and its facilities for the disabled would be
extremely valuable. These Nimbys were all the same. They
would never admit it, but it was true. If Michael Carlton
had wanted to put up his development on the other side of
Bath, none of them would have made a murmur…
Sailing off Martha’s Vineyard, Zoe Muirhead lay on the
deck of a dinghy, watching the clouds scudding above her, and occasionally smiling at the immensely good-looking boy at the helm. The holiday hadn’t been nearly as bad as
she had feared. One big abasement session with her father
and he’d been sweet as a pie, let her out every night so long
as he knew her escorts’ parents - God, adults were naive and
Romilly had had a ball, getting off with half the
sixteen-year-olds on the island, cured of the worst of her
shyness by her foray into modelling. Zoe had even told her
father she might like to go to an American university when
the time came: that had been a very smart move, and Ian
and Cleaver Square and the police station all seemed like
nothing more than an extremely bad dream …
In Edinburgh, Felix Miller sat morosely alone in his hotel
room, having left the friends with whom he had been
having dinner, after attending the wedding of another
friend’s son, drinking whisky and mourning the death of his
relationship with Marianne. For it was undoubtedly dead.
He knew that. And it was his fault. He had forfeited for
ever any chance of getting her back. Even as a friend. She
had come to him, swallowing her pride, concerned, anxious
even for him, and he had rejected her, harshly, horribly. He
was a fool: a complete fool. He missed her more and more
painfully every day; physically, emotionally, intellectually.
He felt very alone. And he was also somehow frightened.
That he had come so close to being caught out, shown up,
to Octavia, to the person he loved most, by far the most in
the world, had shaken him badly. He had thought himself
inviolate and now knew that he was very much the reverse;
it had been an extremely salutary experience.
But there was something else, something equally disturbing.
The encounter in the house over Nico Cadogan that
night had another result: one that Tom could certainly
never have envisaged, that Felix would not have believed
possible. It had changed his opinion, just very slightly, of
Tom Fleming, nudged him just a very little near respect. Of
course, Tom had been very clever, very devious. But he
had also wished to spare Octavia pain. It would have been
very easy for him to tell her, to say look what your father did to me, to you, to disillusion her about him. But he had
not; he had kept his counsel. Even before he discovered the
need for a bargaining point. For that Felix had to admit
Tom was not all bad.
In Paris, Diana, Princess of Wales had arrived at the Ritz
Hotel in the company of Dodi Fayed; the gang of paparazzi
who had pursued them there from Le Bourget airport were
now pitched up outside the entrance to the hotel in the
Place Vendome waiting to see where their quarry might
lead them next.
Whether she’d enjoyed it or not, she’d given them a
wonderful summer …
Louise went into the dining room for breakfast singing
under her breath. Her last meal there: her last day. It was
too good to be true.
It seemed very quiet; everyone was hushed, bent over
their papers. She poured herself some orange juice and
some coffee and went over to one of the empty tables. She
didn’t need to pretend to be friendly any more.
The woman at the next table, whom she’d always
particularly disliked, looked up. ‘Isn’t it dreadful?’ she said.
‘What?’ said Louise carelessly.
‘About Diana.’
‘Diana who?’
‘Princess Diana, of course. Didn’t you know? She’s been
killed. In a car crash.’
Louise felt as if she had been struck by a very heavy
weight in her solar plexus; she was shocked at how shocked
she was. She felt as if she had lost not a friend, but an
essential part of her life. She had grown up with the
Princess; she was almost the same age. She had watched her
change from pudgy, pretty teenager into first princess, then
goddess and finally neurotic divorcee; she had been
influenced by her appearance, fascinated by her power over
the media, sympathetic with her patent loneliness. She had
always been there, it seemed; an endless focus for gossip,
interest and admiration. And now she was gone; it simply didn’t seem possible.