back.’
‘No, honestly, there’s no need.’
‘I know that, but I’d like to. And I could meet your sister and- ‘ah, hallo. You must be Marc’ He held out his hand.
‘Nico Cadogan. Nice to meet you.’
‘How do you do, sir,’ said Marc. ‘Is there any news?’
‘No. Not at all. Still, I’m sure it will all be all right in the
end. Zoe, why don’t you make us all a pot of coffee? That’s
what we need.’
‘Yes, all right,’ said Zoe. She looked very white, and
almost dazed. ‘Any news from Mum, Marc?’
‘Only that she’s staying there for a bit longer. Said she’d
be home about nine.’
‘I wish she was here now,’ said Zoe and burst into tears
again.
‘Now look,’ said Nico sternly, ‘I take that as a personal
insult, your crying because your mother’s not here. I’m
here, and that should be a perfectly good alternative. Just for
now. Come on, Zoe, come over here and let me give you a
hug. I hope that doesn’t seem presumptuous when I haven’t
known you very long, but I do know what to do with girls
when they cry. Here, take my hanky. Marc, you fix the
coffee, there’s a good chap. And oh, hallo, you must be
Romilly. I’m Nico, how do you do? Got any spare
Kleenex, Romilly? I think we’re going to need them.’
Nobody walking into the Muirhead kitchen at that
moment would have dreamed that Nico Cadogan was not a
family man of considerable experience.
‘Coffee?’ said Melanie.
‘Yes. Thanks.’
Octavia had stopped talking, was sitting silent, staring out
of the window at the beginnings of the dusk. ‘I might just
ring the hospital again,’ she said, putting the cup down. ‘It’s
at least something to do.’
She did: the news was the same.
‘Poor Daddy. How horrible for him, to be there, all
alone. At least Marianne’s there. It’s very good of her. I
wonder if…’
‘Tell me about Marianne,’ said Melanie.
‘Do you really want to know?’
‘Well - sort of. Yes.’
Octavia smiled at her. ‘You’re a good friend,’ she said.
‘I’m doing my best. And I am quite interested in
Marianne. And your father. Good Lord! Look at that old
caravan in the field. We had one just like that when I was a
child. My father used to take us all over England in it. I love
caravans, they’re so— Octavia, are you all right?’
‘What did you say?’ said Octavia. Something in there had
been important. Had stirred something important. What
was it? She couldn’t think. ‘Marianne is wonderful,’ she
said, ‘I’m sorry she couldn’t have been here today. She’s a
real life enhancer and—’ She stopped. There had been
something. ‘Melanie, what did you say then? Apart from
asking me to tell you about Marianne.’
‘I said I was interested in your father.’
‘No, it wasn’t that. Something else.’
‘I don’t think so. Except that I said my parents had once
had a caravan. That’s seriously interesting, isn’t it? Now tell
me some more about Marianne. She’s rather beautiful, I do
remember her from your party.’
One of the policemen came in. ‘Nothing very positive
yet, I’m afraid,’ he said, ‘and we’re calling off the search
now. It’s getting dark.’
‘I know,’ said Octavia. The growing darkness had been
frightening her: it was the childhood thing, of there being
more to be afraid of, more things you couldn’t see. And
Minty hated the dark …
‘But we’ll start again in the morning,’ said the policeman,
seeing her face. ‘First thing. And do a door-to-door in the
area. The husband’s been interviewed, of course.’
‘Sandy! Why, he’s hundreds of miles away, he doesn’t he
couldn’t …’
‘Still her husband. He might know something that we
don’t.’
‘You don’t understand,’ said Octavia, ‘he’s the nicest
man in the world. He’d have told me—’
‘Mrs Fleming, no one’s saying he knows where your
baby is. But it’s possible he might have heard his wife say something, talk to someone. You’d be surprised how the smallest thing is important.’
‘Yes. Yes, I suppose so,’ said Octavia. She sighed. ‘And —
nothing else?’
‘No, nothing concrete. I would advise you to try and get
some rest, Mrs Fleming. I know it’s hard, but why don’t
you book into the Thistle Hotel here? It’s very comfortable
and you’ll still be — well, available.’
‘AD right,’ said Octavia, ‘yes, I suppose I could.’ He was
nice; he seemed to understand how she felt about staying
there. Where Minty had been.
‘I’ll stay with you,’ said Melanie.
‘No, don’t.’ Suddenly she wanted to be alone. Quite
alone. To think, to think about Minty. She didn’t want to
talk any more.
‘I won’t be a bother,’ said Melanie, reading her thoughts.
‘Of course, you won’t. But — no, Mells, you must get
back. It’s Monday tomorrow, there’s all the follow-up on
today.’
‘Fleming! Do you really think I’m concerned about that?’
‘Well…’
‘No, I’ll stay,’ said Melanie. ‘I can’t bear the thought of
you being here all on your own. I won’t even have dinner
with you if you don’t want to, just stay quietly in my
room.’
‘Melanie! I’ll be all right. I swear. If I feel really bad, I’ll
get Tom to come down. It’ll only take him just over an
hour, with the roads clear.’
‘Well, if you’re sure …’
‘I’m sure. I really appreciate the offer, but I think I want
to be by myself
‘I’ll try not to take it personally. I shall probably weep
tears of rejection all the way back to London.’
Octavia smiled at her. ‘Like I said, you’re a really good
friend.’
After Melanie had gone, she did feel very alone. Alone and
scared. Visions kept rising in front of her of Minty: Minty
crying and frightened, Minty hidden away from her somewhere, Minty threatened, Minty — so far at that point
she managed to drag her mind away.
She booked into the Thistle Hotel, went up to her room,
stared out of the window for a bit, wondered what on earth
she was going to do. It was only eight thirty; she couldn’t
sleep, she didn’t want to eat, she had nothing to read,
anyway, she wouldn’t be able to concentrate. She had a
rush of panic. Why had she sent Melanie away: why?
Melanie. She was the best sort of friend: understanding,
supportive, loyal, funny. And quite tough when it was
necessary.
Melanie. What was it now? She’d been talking and
something had stirred. Muted, almost imperceptible and
then gone again, rather like the first tug of pain that
heralded labour. She’d been talking about Marianne. And
her father. And - what? No, she couldn’t remember.
She was rummaging through her bag looking for her
mobile when the tug came again: slightly stronger, troubling,
determined.
She sat down on the bed. Think, Octavia, think. What
was it, what did she say, why did it matter?
Her phone rang. It was Tom. They were home, the
children were watching Star Wars, they didn’t seem so upset
any more. ‘I think they’re too exhausted.’ He’d handed
Dickon over to Sandy. Sandy had been very low. ‘I felt so
sorry for him,’ he said.
The irony that it was Tom who had been the immediate
cause of most of Sandy’s troubles did not escape Octavia.
But she didn’t say so.
‘And your father? I haven’t rung. Any more news?’
‘No. He’s the same. Marianne is still there. I think she
feels it’s something she can do. It’s very good of her.’
‘I’m here,’ he said, ‘if you need me. I can get down
there, in no time.’
‘Yes, I know. Thank you.’
‘Well — goodbye for now, I’ll ring again.’
‘I think I’ll just go for a walk for a bit,’ said Zoe, ‘I can’t
stand sitting here waiting for the phone to ring any longer.’
Nico was leafing through the Sunday supplements, a
large gin and tonic by his side. He looked at ease, very
much at home. ‘Of course. Good idea.’
He was trying to find something to read that wasn’t
about Diana and the funeral when Marc came in.
‘Hi,’ said Nico, smiling at him. Nice boy; very nice. Her
children were a great credit to Marianne.
‘Hallo. Where’s Zoe?’ said Marc.
‘Gone for a walk, feeling claustrophobic. Can I get you a
drink? If that wouldn’t sound too presumptuous in your
own house?’
‘No, it’s okay. I’ve had a few beers.’ He clearly had; and
he looked dishevelled, upset. ‘It’s very - kind of you to stay
here, with us.’
‘Not at all. I didn’t think you should be alone. Specially
Zoe. And your mother could be in something of a bad way
when she gets home.’
‘Yeah. Doesn’t sound as if Felix is going to make it.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. He’s very strong.’ He looked at
Marc. ‘I expect you’re very — fond of him.’
‘He’s - okay.’
Nico was silent, turned his attention back to the paper.
‘He’s an old friend of yours, I believe?’ said Marc after a
moment.
‘Well, more of a business associate really.’
‘Zoe said - she said you’d been really cool about her little
adventure.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I like Zoe, she’s great fun. And she
bob very like your mother, which is an advantage as far as
I’m concerned. Unfortunately, I haven’t seen your mother
much since then.’
‘No. No, she told me. We - do talk a bit. We get on
very well.’
‘Yes, I see. She’s very nice to talk to, I discovered that.
She’s very nice altogether. I’ve missed her. Quite a lot.’
There was a silence; Nico stood up, poured himself
another drink, sat down again, staring into it. He probably shouldn’t have said that; he’d embarrassed the boy now.
‘She’s missed you too,’ said Marc. He had spoken
suddenly, as if taking some dangerous leap, impelled by a
sudden surge of courage.
‘Oh, really? I’m afraid not. I had the impression she was
very happily back with Felix Miller.’ He certainly shouldn’t
have said that.
‘No. No, she isn’t. It didn’t work out. She’s really
miserable about it.’
‘I see,’ said Nico Cadogan politely. He wondered where
this was leading.
‘Yeah. She told me—’
The phone shrilled; Marc leaped up to answer it. He
stood there, pushing his hands through his hair, saying ‘yes’
and ‘no’ and ‘I see’, and then finally, ‘No, we’re fine. Mr
Cadogan’s here, with us. Yeah, that’s right. He’s being very
kind. Yes, I will. Cheers, Mum.’ He put the phone down,
looked at Nico, opened another can of beer. ‘She said to
thank you.’
‘How’s Felix?’
‘About the same.’
He nodded; went back to the papers. He felt confused,
almost irritable; without knowing quite why. It was all very
well, Marc telling him Marianne was no longer with Felix;
she was keeping a deathbed vigil by him, which by any
standards would seem to indicate a fair degree of commitment.
He sighed.
Marc looked at him, drained the can, pulled open yet
another.
‘Sir,’ he said. ‘There’s something — that is—’ and then
stopped again.
‘Look,’ said Nico Cadogan, ‘nothing to do with me, but
you’ve had an awful lot of those. And I’ve had several of
these. Why don’t I make us both some coffee?
‘Yeah, cool,’ said Marc.
Marc felt awful: awkward, miserable. But somehow the
drama of the occasion, liking Nico, his anxiety about both his mother and Zoe — and, he supposed, being rather drunk - all these things combined to make him feel he not only
could, but should, talk to him. He had to try to explain. For his mother’s sake.
Cadogan came back into the room, with a large jug of
coffee. ‘Now look,’ he said, ‘forgive me if I’m wrong, but I
get the impression you want to tell me something.’
‘Yes,’ said Marc, half afraid to speak at all, ‘yes, I do.’
‘About?’
‘About—’ He hesitated. ‘About Mum. But I - well, I
promised her I wouldn’t tell anyone.’
‘You’d better not, then,’ said Nico Cadogan firmly.
‘Definitely not gentlemanly behaviour.’
Marc felt a flood of relief. It was true. It was better not.
He’d done his best, he’d tried, and if Cadogan didn’t think
he should go on, then he certainly shouldn’t.
‘Especially,’ Nico went on, ‘especially as my relationship
with your mother is over.’
He sighed, picked up his coffee. He looked genuinely
wretched. That did it really for Marc. The pair of them
being wretched. When he could probably help.
‘But it shouldn’t be,’ Marc said quickly, before he could
stop again, ‘that’s the whole point. That’s why she’s so
miserable. She’s really upset about it. She said — she said …’
‘Yes?’ said Nico.
‘She said you made her really happy, were really good for
her. She said she—’ He stopped. God, this was difficult.
Embarrassing.
‘Liked me?’ said Nico, carefully helpful.
‘Um - well — yes. Yes. A lot,’ said Marc. He looked into
his coffee cup. ‘But Felix kind of stopped her feeling it. I
mean, God, I don’t really understand. It seems very
complicated. But that’s what she said. And she said,’ he
grinned, feeling with relief his way back into safer territory,
‘she said in a game of chess it would be checkmate. I