again. The piece of paper fell out.
It was only a piece of paper: a photocopy of another
piece of paper. Or rather several, neatly — of course — stapled together.
‘Confidential Client Questionnaire’, it said, under the
logo ‘Fisher Lewin Frances. Family Law Department’. He
knew about Fisher Lewin Frances, they were a very high
profile firm, specialising in matrimonial and family law. The
form then required to know a great many things about
Octavia and her husband and family; it had been neatly
filled in and was dated 1 September, 1997. Very recent.
Since the holiday with Gabriel Bingham.
Tom stood staring at it, studying what it said. After a
while he found it was blurred and he couldn’t see well
enough to read it any more; he put it carefully back and
closed the drawer.
Everything had gone so well: so very well. Louise smiled to
herself; her careful planning, not something she was
normally very good at, had been worthwhile. She had
slipped out of the house at five thirty, had left a loving
message for her father, saying she’d see him very soon, that
she hadn’t been able to sleep and had decided to go home
and do some chores before going out for the day; the little
car was flying up the M4 by six. She was going to change
into her disguise at Reading services, before hitting the
M25. There was the faint danger that others on their way to
Brands Hatch, stopping at the service station there, might
recognise her. Of course there was a danger of that
anywhere, but it was less likely at Reading. She would have
to fill up with petrol at the last minute, but that would be
less dangerous. She had calculated that, with a full tank, she
could make Cornwall. She certainly didn’t want to have to
stop to buy petrol, with Minty in the car.
She pulled into the car park, went in and had a coffee
before going into the ladies’. She was going to need a lot of
caffeine to get her through today.
She slipped out of her leggings and T-shirt and into the
tunic and trousers. And the wig. The wig wasn’t too bad,
short and dark, and cut in the Sassoon pudding basin style
Joanna Lumley had made famous in the Avengers; but even
in her excitement, she found it hard to look at herself in the mirror in those clothes. So horrible; so absolutely horrible.
Well, it wasn’t for long. Just till she’d made her getaway.
Then she could change again. In any case, Minty would
need to recognise her, to know who she was.
She didn’t feel at all nervous any more: just excited.
Excited and confident and rather happy … If only they
knew, Tom and Octavia. If only …
Octavia was already on her way down the M25 by seven
o’clock. She knew she would be much too early, but it was
better than worrying about being late, getting stuck in a
traffic jam. Tom was coming later with the twins and
Dickon. She still felt worried about leaving Minty: about
whether Zoe would be able to cope. Maybe — she suddenly
had an idea, dialled the house on the car phone, listened to
it ringing endlessly. Tom must have gone back to sleep.
He had been very odd last night, when she’d got in.
Cold. Very detached. He’d been in his study working, and
when she put her head in to say she was going to bed, that
everything was in place for the morning, the children’s
costumes, Zoe’s instructions for the day, he’d looked at her
as if he hardly knew who she was. Well, he was sometimes
like that when he was working. It wasn’t as if it mattered, as
if she cared. In fact, it was quite good, really. She didn’t
want him to be friendly. It would be easier to tell him she
was filing for divorce if he wasn’t. She would do it tonight.
When today was safely over.
His voice now answered the phone: ‘Yes? Tom Fleming
here.’
‘Tom, I’ve had an idea …’
‘Zoe? This is Tom Fleming.’
‘Oh, hi, Tom. It’s all right, I’m up, dressed, sober. Don’t
worry. How is Minty?’
‘She’s much better.’
‘You decided to take her?’
‘Yes, I think so. But I’d like you to come too. Look after
her, be nanny for the day. That all right with you?’
‘Yes, fine.’
‘Good. Want me to come and fetch you?’
‘No, it’s all right, Tom. Mum’s booked a cab — she was
worried I’d be late. You know what she’s like.’
‘Great. Well, see you in a bit, then.’
Felix Miller woke up feeling much better, apart from a
touch of indigestion — his own fault, no doubt, having a
second helping of Mrs Harrington’s mousse. But his arm
was less painful, clearly the muscle was recovering and he
felt refreshed from his long sleep. Just as well: there were a
lot of things he wanted to do that day.
Felix decided to do a couple of hours’ work, and then go
down to the health club at Swiss Cottage and have a swim
before lunch. He often did that on Sunday. Nothing too
strenuous: but he always felt better afterwards, and it would
probably benefit his arm. He might skip breakfast, though:
make up for the lasagne. Anyway, the indigestion wasn’t
doing a lot for his appetite.
Octavia stood at the window of the top floor suite of the
John Foulston building gazing out at the breathtaking view
across the Brands Hatch course. The whole place was
empty and orderly; still just a few people walking about, the
occasional car zooming round the track. Just for a moment
she stopped feeling nervous and jittery about the day, and
her responsibility for it, and thought what fun it was going
to be. Eighty-five thousand people they got here on a good
day; probably they’d get nothing like that because of Diana.
But there would still be a large crowd: ‘And because it’s a
classic race day,’ the marketing manager had told her,
‘you’ll get what we call the tweed and pearls set. Lot of
money: your charity should do very well.’
Certainly virtually all their three hundred guests were still
coming: a nervous ring round by Lauren had confirmed
that. A champagne reception at twelve thirty, followed by a
lunch; races beginning at two. Loads of OTG — opportunities
to give — as Melanie had observed — from the raffle at the lunch to buying hot rides — ten per cent to the charity, that was very good of the Brands Hatch people. Ladies with
collecting tins were everywhere, and Next Generation had
a large stall on the road between the building and the
paddock.
The suite looked impressive: the flowers had been done
at a knock-down rate by a friend of Melanie’s, in return for
a generous plug in the programme, and dear Bob Macintosh
had managed somehow to twist the arm of one of his
suppliers over the champagne — also for a plug in the
programme — and they hadn’t lost nearly as much as they
had feared. When she’d phoned to thank him, he’d said,
‘My dear Octavia, it’s a very little thank you for your input
earlier in the year. Invaluable. I don’t know what we’d do
without you and Tom.’
She knew what he meant: over the photocall. But he was
going to have to settle just for Tom in the future …
After Marianne had seen Zoe off, she settled down to the
papers; Marc and Romilly were still fast asleep. Probably
would be for hours yet. She had been almost envious of
Zoe going to Brands Hatch with Minty; had been tempted
to go herself. Then she had thought Nico might be there
and decided against it. Felix certainly wouldn’t go, he
wouldn’t want to see Tom.
Thinking of Felix reminded her of the committee
meeting tonight. She had decided to go to that. She mustn’t
start neglecting responsibilities, just because of her personal
difficulties. It was wrong, she had always tried to instil that
into the children. Without much success.
She decided to ring Felix, let him know. He might even
decide not to go himself, of course … She sighed, and
dialled the number.
Felix wasn’t there: Mrs Harrington answered the phone.
‘Oh, hallo, Mrs Muirhead. How nice to hear from you.’
‘Nice to hear you, as well, Mrs Harrington. Is Mr Miller
there?’
‘I’m afraid he isn’t, no. He’s at the health club.’
‘Oh, right. Well, look, could you give him a message?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Tell him I will be there tonight. At Sadlers Wells. All
right?’
‘Yes. Yes, of course, Mrs Muirhead. I’m sure he’ll be
very pleased.’
He probably won’t, thought Marianne, putting the
phone down. He probably won’t be pleased at all…
‘Mummy! Isn’t it fun! Gosh, what a good view. Is Camilla
here?’ It was Poppy, flushed and excited, wearing a
smocked flowery dress, a Christopher Robin hat jammed
down over her dark curls.
‘Not yet. You look terrific, Poppy! Where’s Daddy?’
‘Talking to Lauren. Over there, look.’
Octavia looked; Tom wasn’t just talking to Lauren. He
was standing very close to her, smiling down at her, and she
was on tiptoes, pulling his head down, whispering something
in his ear. She looked stunning, in wide navy palazzo
trousers, a very low-cut cream silk blouse revealing her
deep brown cleavage, long pearls and a small tipped hat on
her streaky blonde hair. Bitch, thought Octavia, silly bitch,
and then wondered why on earth she cared.
‘Octavia, moaning.’ It was Drew. Drew not dressed up at
all, looking refreshingly ordinary in a linen suit. ‘You look
marvellous. Jolly good show you’ve put on here. Now
where is the lovely Anthea, I can’t wait to sell her a raffle
ticket or two …”
Octavia managed to smile at him, went over to Lauren
and Tom.
Lauren’s smiling, flirtatious face hardened when she saw
her. ‘Octavia! Lovely hat. But I did think the collecting
ladies should be in costume — what happened?’
‘It saved us a thousand pounds, that’s what happened,’
said Octavia coolly. ‘I honestly don’t think it matters,
Lauren, they’ve got their sashes.’
‘I know, but they look as if they ought to be outside
Tesco’s or something. Oh, well. Never mind, can’t be helped. Now then, when are we going to start serving the champagne?’
‘Twelve thirty. As we agreed.’
‘I think that’s too late. I mean, several chums are here
already. I can’t just let them stand around with nothing to
drink.’
‘Well, there’s only thirty bottles,’ said Octavia, ‘so it’s up
to you. It did say quite clearly on the programme twelve
thirty. Any more and it will cost you, I’m afraid.’
‘I know that,’ said Lauren coolly, ‘but quite honestly, if
one’s friends feel — well, not properly looked after — I mean,
they’re simply not going to come again. Or dip their little
hands into their pockets while they’re here. I think we have
to start sooner than that.’
‘All right,’ said Octavia with a sigh. ‘Let’s start sooner.
We’ll have to find some waiters, though, they’re—’
‘Could you do that, Octavia? I’ve got enough to worry
about, so many friends arriving, the Nichols will need
looking after …’
‘Yes, I’ll see what I can do.’
She looked at Tom, smiled slightly nervously. ‘Where
are Minty and Zoe?’
‘She’s taken her off in her buggy,’ he said. He didn’t
smile back. ‘Come on, Gideon, want to go over to the
paddock?’
‘Yes, please!’
‘Good. Poppy?’
‘No, Camilla and I want to stay here and look at
everyone’s clothes.’
‘Boring!’ said Gideon.
‘Not as boring as the cars.’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘No, it’s not!’
‘Oh, shut up,’ said Tom. ‘You coming with us, Dickon?’
‘Yes, please!’
He looked rather nervous, Octavia thought. Poor little
boy. He’d had such a horrible time lately.
‘Don’t be long, Tom,’ she said. ‘You heard what Lauren said, your friend Oliver Nichols will be here soon.’
‘I think I know how to look after my own clients,’ he
said and walked away holding the boys’ hands. She looked
after him, feeling rather bereft.
Zoe’ pushed Minty along the path towards the paddock
area. It was lined with shops selling things she wasn’t in the
least interested in; expensive-looking anoraks, picnic baskets,
rugs. There was a large sort of shop affair with the
name of Octavia’s charity all over it, and a lot of earnest
looking ladies inside, smiling brightly. Nobody much
seemed to be going in.
Zoe hoped they were going to pay her well for today;
she wouldn’t say she was exactly enjoying herself. Minty
was very miserable, grizzling all the time, and she’d just had
to change her nappy which had been disgusting. She hadn’t
slept at all in the car, just thrashed around in her seat
throwing her cup endlessly on the floor and then wailing
for it again. Zoe had sat in the front seat next to Tom,
trying not to listen to her, and telling herself she was never
going to have any kids.
The place was filling up now; mostly with families, but
there were a lot of young men, some of them clearly