the man an adulterer, he’s fraudulent as well. Attempting to
inveigle money out of me when - oh, for Christ’s sake!
And why didn’t Cadogan tell me about it? I can hardly
credit such disloyalty.’ His voice was raw with distaste and
rage.
‘But, Felix, Nico is Tom’s client, not yours. Tom
impressed him, he has served him well.’
‘You seem to know a great deal about Nico Cadogan’s
business affairs,’ said Felix, staring at her. His dark eyes had
changed, had become very brilliant; she knew that change
and it frightened her. ‘Clearly he has talked to you about
the whole thing. And at some length. Just how much did
you know, Marianne? And choose not to tell me?’
‘Oh, Felix, don’t be absurd! Don’t turn this into some
sort of conspiracy.’
‘I’m afraid that’s rather how it seems to me,’ he said, ‘a
conspiracy. Against me. Me and my daughter.’
‘Felix, really! A conspiracy. That is truly absurd.’
‘I don’t think so,’ he said, ‘I don’t think so at all.’
‘For the last time: what goes on in their marriage is
between Octavia and Tom. Not you.’
‘Well, nothing will be going on very much longer,’ he
said. ‘Octavia will be divorcing him.’
‘Has she told you so?’
He hesitated fractionally, then said, ‘No reasonable
person could do otherwise. She will want a divorce. And I
shall see Tom is made to pay. In every possible sense of the
word. Beginning with that company of his.’
‘Oh, Felix, do be careful, please. That sounds very
destructive to me.’
‘Destructive? Of course it’s destructive. I intend to
destroy Tom Fleming to the very best of my ability.’
‘Including his marriage to your daughter?’
‘Marianne, he’s done that himself.’
‘Not quite,’ said Marianne, standing up, picking up her
bag. ‘Not necessarily quite that. And I think you complete
that particular job at your peril. It’s nothing to do with you,
Felix, nothing at all. Octavia is married to Tom. Not to
you. She’s grown up, Felix. When are you ever going to
realise that? She’s not a child, she’s not yours, she’s not your
property any longer. Leave her alone. Her and her
marriage. For God’s sake, just leave her alone!’
She could speak openly to Octavia about it, perhaps even
suggest who it might be. She really had to do that: no time
should be lost. It was too dangerous.
Aubrey went into Tom’s office. He was carrying two
tumblers and a bottle of Chivas.
‘Come on, old chap. Few quiet ones. Do you good. Do
us both good.’
Tom looked up at him; his eyes were red in his
exhausted face. Aubrey realised with a shock that he must
have been weeping.
‘Aubrey, I’m so sorry. So terribly sorry.’
‘Oh, now, Tom, I don’t want any self-flagellation. This is
no more your fault than anyone else’s.’
‘Of course it is,’ said Tom. ‘I’ve let everyone down; the
company, you, Octavia, the children …’
‘Tom—’
‘Yes, I have. I’m an idiot, a bloody, fucking idiot. Why
did I do it, Aubrey? How could I have been so stupid?’
‘Had this affair, you mean?’
Tom stared at him; they had not confronted the issue
before. Such conversations were not really Aubrey’s style.
‘Yes,’ said Tom quietly, ‘this affair. This awful, dreadful,
hideous affair. He was so vile, Felix Miller, I mean. I did deserve it, I know, but he was unspeakable. He said he wouldn’t lend us the money, said I had no right to ask. I
suppose I don’t. But then he started. Over and over, round
and round. You name it, I’ve been called it. He must have
had the thesaurus open at adultery. God. I feel physically
sick.’
‘And you just sat there? Took it?’
‘No. I eventually put the phone down. When he started
on my calibre as a father. Said I wasn’t fit to be with my
own children. That was one insult too far. Oh, Jesus,
Aubrey, what am I going to do?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Aubrey simply, handing him a huge
tumbler of whisky. ‘Want to talk about it?’
‘I can’t,’ said Tom, ‘it’s too hideous. It wouldn’t be fair.’
And then proceeded to talk about it in some detail and at
some length.
By the time he had finished, Aubrey needed a second,
equally large, Scotch himself.
When Marianne got home, there was a message to ring
Nico Cadogan.
She did so; and heard herself agreeing not only to have
dinner with him the following night, but to drive out to the
country with him on Saturday and look at a house he was
thinking of buying near Marlborough. ‘And then I thought
we might have dinner down there. How would that be?’
Marianne, who knew exactly how it would be, said she
wasn’t sure about dinner, but seeing the house would be
nice.
‘Well, I shall book a table anyway. So that when you are
sure, it will be ready for us.’
‘Nico, I—’
‘Yes?’
‘Oh, nothing.’
‘Are you sure?’
She had been going to warn him about Felix, to tell him
how angry he had been about Tom, how dangerous his
mood, but she could not formulate her thoughts and her
fears into logical order. Nico was a clever man, and a hugely competent businessman; he could surely take care of
himself and his affairs. Business and otherwise. ‘No,’ she
said, ‘no, really, it’s nothing.’
‘Well, ring me if you change your mind. Good night,
Marianne.’
Octavia was in the kitchen, making herself a cup of hot milk, when Tom’s taxi pulled up outside. He walked into the kitchen looking appalling. He sank down into a chair,
pushed his hair back, asked her if she would give him a glass
of water.
‘Do you want something stronger?’
‘What? Oh, no, no. I’ve had more than enough of that.’
He had obviously been drinking but he was strangely,
heavily sober.
‘I’ve had a phone call from your father,’ he said.
‘I didn’t tell him,’ she said. ‘I want you to—’
‘I know you didn’t,’ he said, ‘he told me. He had a
letter.’
‘Yes. You don’t know who—’
‘I don’t want to talk about that,’ he said.
‘No. No, I see. I just wondered if - well, the other
letters, the memos, if they were from—’
‘No,’ he said sharply. ‘That really is out of the question.
Anyway, I really don’t want to talk about it. Not now.’
‘No, all right.’
‘He wasn’t very pleased with me,’ he said, and there was
the shadow of a smile on his face. It was oddly touching,
that he could be humorous about it.
‘No,’ she said, her own half-smile echoing his, ‘no, I
don’t suppose he was.’
‘You’ve talked to him, then?’
‘Yes, I saw him this morning.’
‘Did he ask you to move out of here? To go home to
him?’
‘He suggested it,’ she said and smiled rather weakly.
‘And are you going?’
‘Of course not. This is home.’
‘I’m glad you see it like that,’ he said, and suddenly
buried his head in his arms and started weeping.
Octavia stared at him horrified: horrified that he should
be so distraught; horrified at what her father must have put
him through to bring him to this; horrified at her own
reaction. Which was of tenderness, sorrow, pity. How
could she be feeling like this, towards a man who had
behaved as Tom had behaved, who had let her down,
publicly and horribly? How could she want to put her arms
round him, comfort him, staunch his tears? Whatever it
was, she couldn’t help it: she stood up, moved forward, put
her hands on his shoulders, leaned down, kissed his bent
head.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, putting one of his hands over hers,
looking up at her, his face ravaged. ‘Sorry. For all of it. I
am truly ashamed.’
‘He refused you the money, I presume.’
‘Octavia, he didn’t just refuse it. He made it very plain
that every fragment of energy, of power he might possess,
would be put to work to destroy me totally. Professionally,
that is. Personally, I think I should start to employ a
bodyguard. Only I won’t be able to afford it of course.’
She said nothing, just stood there, looking down at him.
‘The company can’t survive,’ he said after a while. ‘We
shall have to declare insolvency. Your father was the last
port of call. I don’t, know quite where that leaves you. You
and the children. The house will have to go, I expect, but
no doubt your father will see you all right.’
‘Tom, I don’t want him to see me all right.’
‘Well, I can’t, I’m afraid. Any more. I shall be absolutely
without money, you see,’ he said, ‘no credit, nothing.
That’s what happens.’
‘What about all these stories you hear, people starting
another company the very next day, leaving their creditors
behind them?’
‘Mostly apocryphal. In this climate and in my line of
business, and with your father at work, out of the question, I’m afraid.’
‘I see.’
She stood there, appalled at the part she had played in this
small, poignant tragedy. Revenge, it had been; revenge,
dressed up as principles. Not pretty.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said finally. It was the most difficult thing
she had ever had to say. ‘Sorry for my part in it. About
Michael Carlton.’
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter. We were on dodgy ground long
before that. It didn’t help, I can’t pretend it did. But — well,
blood on the tracks. As Aubrey would say.’
‘How is Aubrey?’
‘He’s been magnificent,’ said Tom. ‘Not a word of
reproach.’
‘But, Tom, it can’t just have been your fault.’
‘No, it wasn’t. But mine was the lion’s share, I’m afraid.’
He looked up at her suddenly, his eyes raw with emotion. ‘I
still love you, you know,’ he said. ‘I don’t expect you to
believe me, for it to make any difference, I’m not asking
you for forgiveness, can’t expect you to listen to me even.
But - I do.’
‘Please don’t say that,’ she said, ‘don’t say you love me. It
hurts more than anything.’
‘Why?’ he said. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Because it simply can’t be true, Tom. That’s why. It just
sounds — horrible to me.’
‘Yes, I see,’ he said.
She went up to bed after that; lay awake for a long time,
examining her own feelings, trying to decide how much
could be forgiven, how strong a marriage needed to be to
survive such mortal blows as Tom had dealt it, whether
love turned to hatred could become love ever again. And
fell asleep before she even began to find any answers.
‘What did you say?’
Barbara Dawson looked at Tom in alarm; she would
never have thought he was a candidate for a heart attack,
but he was suddenly red in the face, a vein bulging on his
forehead, white round the lips, breathing extremely fast.
‘Did you say Gloucester? That postmark? Why the hell
didn’t you give me that message before?’
‘Tom,’ said Barbara, concern for him evaporating at great
speed, ‘I tried to give it to you. On the day it came in. You
said you didn’t want any messages about anything at all,
unless it was from the Bank of England. I’ve hardly seen
you since. I left a written list of messages on your desk each
morning. Each night I’ve found it buried under a welter of
paper. It’s hardly my fault if this is the first time you’ve
deigned to communicate with me properly since last
Friday.’
‘Yes, all right, all right,’ said Tom. ‘And this came from
Mike Dutton, you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘Get him on the phone, would you?’
Mike Dutton said that yes, the postmark was definitely
Gloucester. ‘I’ve kept the envelope, Tom, if you want it.’
‘Yes, please, if you wouldn’t mind sending it here.
Thanks.’
Barbara heard the phone slammed down; heard him
making another call, his voice very low and intense: then he appeared in her doorway.
‘Barbara, I’m going out. I may be some time.’
‘Don’t lie down in the snow,’ said Barbara brightly.
‘What? What the hell are you talking about?’
‘Captain Oates. You know, as in Scott of the Antarctic.
Got gangrene. Famous suicidal walk, never came back. At
least leave your mobile on.’
Tom didn’t seem to think it was very funny.
Octavia had usually left the house long before the postman
came, but this morning Gideon was fractious, Poppy
querulous and Minty, picking up on the prevailing mood,
wailed relentlessly. Caroline, normally calm in the face of
such traumas, clearly felt like wailing herself. Octavia
looked at her: the last thing she needed was for Caroline to
crack.
‘Look, Caroline, I’ll stay and read to Gideon for a while.
You and Poppy and Minty could go down to Sainsbury’s,
get some treats for lunch.’
She was halfway through the first chapter of The Hobbit when the bell rang: ‘Postman, Mrs Fleming,’ called Miss Donaldson, ‘something to be signed for.’
‘I’ll come down. Gideon, do you want a drink while I’m
about it?’
‘No thanks,’ said Gideon, ‘I’ll turn into a drink soon, the
way you keep pouring them down me.’
‘They’re very important at the moment,’ said Octavia