manners like a pig.’
Romilly giggled.
‘It’s true. All that talk about Diana and Jemima and
which of them he enjoyed working with more, it’s to
impress you, make you feel small. Which is stupid of him.
He has a rather rocky ego, even if it looks like the size of
the Empire State. You have twice as much class as he does.
In every way. Now Ritz and I will be right here if you
need us.’
Romilly smiled at her; she was so nice. Impulsively she
leaned forward and gave her a kiss. ‘Thank you. Thank you
so much. That does help.’
It did: for a bit. Then he moved closer, his lens probing
her face.
‘You have the most wonderful eyes,’ he said to her,
‘widen them for me. Now drop them. Yes. Good.
Beautiful. Lovely. Now look at me as if it was the very first
time.’
She supposed he must mean she should look surprised,
interested. She tried.
‘No, no, little baby. You know what I mean. The first
time. The very first.’
Romilly flushed; she did know what he meant. She
dropped her eyes again, naturally, automatically, then
looked at him: awkwardly shy.
‘That’s a little bit better. Let’s do it again. Try to show it
more. Yes. And more, and again more, look at me now,
now, yes, and now, think, Romilly, think…’
She heard a cough; saw Donna shake her head imperceptibly
at Alix. He took no notice.
‘Alix, can I have a word?’
‘Not now, darling, not while I’m working.’
‘Alix, please.’
‘Donna, I can’t work like this, I really can’t. I think it
would be better if you left too.’
Tension had risen in the room; Romilly’s stomach was
twisting again.
‘Romilly, is that all right?’ said Donna.
‘Of course. Of course it is.’
‘Good girl. More coffee?’
‘Yeah, more coffee, great,’ said Alix. ‘And could
someone send for some cigarettes for me, I really really
need one. Romilly, do you smoke?’
She shook her head.
‘Of course no,’ he said, the famous, the beautiful smile
breaking suddenly across his face. ‘No vices at all. Yet. Now
relax, darling, just try to relax. Let’s try the floor, sitting on
the floor — no, baby, not like that. Stretch out, now ease
yourself to the camera, to me …’
She became increasingly nervous. The more he told her
to relax, the more she tensed. She could feel his tension, his
impatience.
‘Fine,’ he said finally. ‘This will be the last roll for today.
Now I want you to - let me see. I’d like that hair to start
working. Drop your head, baby, shake it all about. No, no,
more, as if you were shampooing.’
She dropped her head obediently, pushed her hands
through her hair, pretending she was washing it.
‘No no,’ he said, and there was real anger in his voice.
‘Not like that. Silly little one. No. Go and brush it out, start
again.’
She brushed her hair smooth, flushed, near to tears.
‘Right. Now then, lean over, so it hangs straight, right
over your face. Now quickly, fling back, so it flies. Yes!
Yes, that’s better. But this time, the eyes wide, wide. And
again. Wider. And again.’
Suddenly she felt hopelessly dizzy. She said, ‘I must sit
down,’ and sank rather helplessly on to the floor. ‘Dizzy.
I’m so sorry.’
She heard him calling impatiently for Donna; then heard
him say, ‘It’s very difficult. I hadn’t expected it, she’s so tense. I can’t get her to relax. And now she is not well.
Dizzy, she said. I suppose she has her period or something.
These very young girls, all the same problem, the hormones,
so unreliable. I think we should stop for today.
Anyway, the skin is not good enough. I can’t work with
her any more today.’
When Serena and Donna came in, Romilly had her face
in her hands, crying quietly.
‘I’m so so sorry,’ said Serena. Donna had gone in pursuit
of Alix to upbraid him. ‘He’s a pig! I never wanted him in
the first place, but they insisted.’
‘No, no,’ said Romilly sniffing, ‘it’s my fault. I’m no
good, and it’s true, I have got a spot. I told you.’
‘Yes, but it will be gone by Friday, when we start
shooting for real. Or we could make it Saturday. How
would that be?’
Romilly thought fast; Saturday. Another whole day.
Surely by then everything would have sorted itself out.
She smiled at Serena. ‘It could help. Yes. I seem to have
got some sort of — bug.’
‘Yes, I know. Zoe told us. We understand.’
God, she was nice. So nice.
‘Look, how would you like another of our hot chocolate
sessions?’
‘That would be lovely.’
‘Jesus,’ said Ritz to Donna as she watched Serena and
Romilly leave the building, ‘I hope she’s not up to what I
think she might be up to.’
Megan David was alone in the house that afternoon; her
mother had begun to leave her occasionally now, and
Megan liked that, to feel she could manage, that she did not
always need someone with her. It made her feel more
normal, less of a freak. She loved having the kitchen to
herself, to pour herself an extra Coca-Cola, to find a packet
of biscuits, to steal a lolly from the fridge; innocent,
forbidden pleasures taken for granted by most children. As
she rummaged through the low cupboard by the sink, in
search of the miniature cookies her mother had bought only
that morning, the phone rang. She swivelled her chair,
drove it forward importantly towards the low table by the
kitchen sofa where the phone sat; she picked it up
in triumph. ‘Hallo. Felthamstone 6721. Megan David
speaking.’
‘Oh,’ said a slightly shaky, but very posh voice (as Megan
described it later to her mother), ‘I wonder, is that Mrs
David?’
‘No, she’s my mum. I can take a message.’
‘It’s very important.’
‘I can take an important message,’ said Megan, ‘or
unimportant, it’s all the same, you know.’
There was a silence; then a deep laugh came down the
phone, throaty, infectious. ‘Of course it is. How silly of me.
I’m sorry.’
‘Not at all. Who am I speaking to? I have a pen and
paper here.’
‘You’re speaking, my dear, to Mrs Lucilla Sanderson.
Have you got that?’
‘Yes,’ said Megan writing fast. ‘Yes, I have.’
‘From Bartles House.’
‘Oh,’ said Megan, ‘is it about the protest?’
‘It’s about my protest, yes. I want to stop this development
more than anything.’
‘My protest too,’ said Megan. ‘I want to save the wood
so much. Well, all of it of course, the house and everything,
but specially the wood. We had a meeting the other day. I
had some quite good ideas, I think,’ she added modestly.
‘Well, that’s splendid. I’m glad somebody has. Now
could you ask your mother to ring me, please? Is your
father.involved in this as well?’
‘Er - no,’ said Megan. ‘He doesn’t live with us any
more.’
‘Oh, my dear, I’m sorry. How very tactless of me.’
‘It’s all right. You couldn’t have known. Anyway, it was
ages ago he left.’ When the strains of living with a
handicapped child and a distracted wife had become too
uncomfortable for him. ‘My mum divorced him years and
years back.’
‘I see.’
‘I’ll get my mum to ring you,’ said Megan.
She sounded lovely, Megan thought, putting down the
phone, starting immediately to rewrite the message in
careful, coherent prose. Maybe they could go up there and
meet her. She’d like that, get a better look at the house.
Octavia Fleming was by coincidence focusing on Bartles
Wood at the very same time. She had just received a call
from Gabriel Bingham telling her that he really felt the most
pressing need in the whole business was to raise some
money, since Michael Carlton — so he had heard on the
local grapevine — was determined to fight for the project
right up to the highest courts in the land. ‘Just gave the quote to the Advertiser, apparently. He’ll have loads of dosh.
And you will need some. I’ve seen these cases before. They
can drag on for years, and every day of every year seems to
cost thousands.’
‘Yes, well, thanks,’ said Octavia with a sigh.
‘That’s all right. Just felt you ought to be aware of it.
When am I going to see you?’
‘Oh, Gabriel, I don’t really quite know.’
‘Okay.’ His voice sounded more distant suddenly. ‘Just
let me know. ‘Bye.’ He put the phone down.
Two hours later, her father phoned.
‘All right, darling?’
‘I’m fine. Thanks. Very busy, though.’
‘Yes, of course. I won’t keep you. Just wondered if you’d
thought any more about holidays. About the cottage.’
‘Dad, I really can’t leave the children just now.’
‘Oh, really? I heard - oh, it must have been a mistake.’
‘Heard what?’
‘That Tom had plans for a holiday with them. I met
someone who’d been talking to him about it.’
‘Met someone? Someone who?’
‘Man called Oliver Nichols. Nice chap. He’s considering
becoming a client of Tom’s apparently. I was very
surprised. Judgment’s usually very good. Anyway, he’s a
friend of your client, what was her name, some woman,
looks like the Princess of Wales, I think you said.’
‘Lauren Bartlett?’
‘Yes. He said they’d all been at a lunch together, and she
and Tom were discussing a holiday in Tuscany. With their
respective children.’
‘What?’ That hurt so much, she felt it physically. ‘Daddy,
when was this?’
‘Oh, last night, I think. Yes.’
Last night; when she and Tom, by mutual agreement,
had had supper with the children, had made a huge effort to
be courteous to one another for their sake, when he had
gone up to his study when everyone was asleep, saying,
‘I am trying, Octavia. To get some things at least right. I really am.’
Trying. To get another woman into bed. Already.
Reckless with rage, she picked up the phone, dialled his
direct line.
‘Tom?’
‘Oh, hallo. I’m in a meeting just at the moment, so if
you—’
‘I’m so sorry to have interrupted it. Is Mrs Bartlett one of
the participants?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I said was Mrs Bartlett one of the participants? Is
planning a holiday with her the purpose of the meeting?
Tom, just answer me one thing. Have you or have you
not discussed a holiday with Lauren Bartlett? With the
children?’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I really cannot have this conversation
with you now.’
And the phone went dead.
The Cadogan share price was continuing to rise. Nothing
dramatic, nothing remarkable even, but still unarguable, a
steady day-by-day, point-by-point climb. Philip Thorburn,
Nico Cadogan’s financial adviser, was watching it and
worrying over it; it was — odd. The company was under
threat of a takeover bid certainly; but the takeover was
under threat of referral to the MMC. And if it went to
referral, the shares would almost certainly fall again. So what was going on? Someone, somewhere, was moving in on the company; but why? It didn’t make an awful lot of
sense.
It was mad, she knew, mad, undignified, stupid, terrible;
but Octavia phoned Lauren. She hated herself as she did it,
watched herself, listened to herself in horror, but she still
went on.
‘Lauren? Octavia.’
‘Oh, hi, Octavia. How are you?’ The throaty voice
sounded particularly self-confident.
‘Oh, fine. You know. Look, ridiculous, I know, but I
can’t get hold of Tom and Poppy just said something —
well, about a holiday? With you?’
‘Oh, yes. Did Tom mention it to her? Or you? Good.
Yes, we talked about it the other day. You know I’m trying
to help him with this client? We had lunch together, the
three of us, and he said you had nothing planned. I’d be so
utterly thrilled if it could be arranged. We all would.’
‘Yes,’ said Octavia, ‘yes, I expect you would. How very
- thoughtful of you, Lauren. Well, I’ll have to get back to
you.’
She put the phone down and thought for a minute, then
she picked it up again, and dialled Gabriel Bingham’s
number.
‘Gabriel,’ she said, ‘Gabriel, how would you like to
spend a few days in Barbados with me?’
Zoe pushed her card into the cash machine. She had had an
idea. If she asked for ten pounds at a time, all over the place,
it would probably give them to her. Stupid to have thought
a hundred would get shunted out. But if her account was
only, say, seventy over the limit, it might easily let her have
ten. It didn’t.
‘Refer to Lloyds Bank,’ it said firmly.
She went into a branch of Lloyds with her cheque book:
wrote out a cheque for fifty pounds. The girl smiled at her,
passed her card through a machine, looked at it, tried again,
then said, still smiling very nicely, ‘I’m sorry, Miss
Muirhead, your account seems to be over the limit.’
She was very nice; Zoe hated her.
Shit, what was she going to do? She asked Romilly, who was in a foul mood and said she had hardly any money at all; she got a quarter of Zoe’s allowance, and she needed