‘This Friday? That’s great. And Melanie’s not worried
about the connection?’
‘No.’
‘Good. Because it will help us a lot, your liaising with
him. A lot. As of course you realise. You’re such a star.
What would I do without you?’
‘I have no idea. Look, I have to go now. I’ll see you
tomorrow. Hope the speech goes well.’
‘So do I,’ said Tom. ‘Thanks, darling. Lots of love. And I
meant it. I really couldn’t manage without you.’
‘And just possibly, I couldn’t manage without you,’ she
said, smiling into the phone.
‘Of course you could.’
Those words came back to her in a piece of hideous and
total recall next morning when she discovered that Tom
was having an affair.
Zoe Muirhead was standing on the rush-hour Tube trying
very hard not to scream out loud. This was it: the day when
it was going to become extremely apparent that she had
done no work, or hardly any work. Why had she been so
stupid? Why hadn’t she spent all those evenings studying
instead of reading magazines and watching TV in her room?
Because studying was miserable and boring. She might, just
might, pass English, get a D or even a C; but French and
history, no way. She had never even finished reading two
of the French literature texts. So she’d fail her A-levels, and
have to do retakes at a crammer and miss her year out in
Australia.
Zoe sighed, and to distract herself from her misery began
reading a magazine over the shoulder of the girl standing
next to her. An ordinary, lucky girl, Zoe thought, with
nothing more to worry about than what to spend her next
pay-packet on, and obviously (from the way she was
reading an article on the subject so intently) whether or not
to have her hair cut very short. And then she saw something
that was rather more interesting — the announcement of a
model competition. Zoe thought she would make a rather
good model: other people had told her so, she was tall and
quite thin, and she did look pretty good in photographs.
She wondered if she might go in for it. Now that really
would solve all her problems: it wouldn’t matter in the least
if she failed all her exams if she got some modelling contract
for thousands of megabucks. It would show her parents she
had some thoughts about her own life, apart from theirs;
and they’d have to get off her back anyway, because she’d
be independent. It was worth a try, anyway.
The girl got off the Tube at the same place, stuffed the
magazine into a rubbish bin outside. Zoe pulled it out again
to study later in the unimaginably far off moment when the
exam was over. If it seemed even half worth doing, she’d
send off the form that very day …
Octavia was sitting on the bed, reading a quote of hers in
the Express about how brilliantly she managed her marriage,
when she noticed the handkerchief. It didn’t mean very
much straight away. Well, it didn’t mean anything at all, but
she did notice it, sitting right on the top of the pile of
ironing just brought in by Mrs Donaldson, because it didn’t
belong there. It wasn’t hers, she never used handkerchiefs,
and it obviously wasn’t Tom’s and it wasn’t Poppy’s. And it
didn’t look like the sort of handkerchief that Caroline
would have. It was a very pretty, lacy, embroidered thing — Caroline always had rather plain hemmed, boarding-school-type handkerchiefs. But maybe this was the exception.
She could ask her. Anyway, she should get on, not sit
here wasting time thinking about handkerchiefs — she had
to go to the office before she went to Ascot.
She ran downstairs to the kitchen. Caroline was just
clearing up the twins’ breakfast things. ‘Caroline, is this by any chance your handkerchief? It’s got caught up in the family washing, and it’s much too pretty to lose.’
Caroline looked at the handkerchief briefly, and said no
it certainly wasn’t hers.
Octavia turned to her daughter. ‘Poppy, you didn’t bring
this hanky home from somewhere by mistake, did you?’
‘Never seen it before. Maybe it’s Gideon’s.’
‘Don’t be silly, Poppy. Off you go, darling. I won’t see
you till tomorrow, I’m afraid.’
“Bye, Mum.’
Octavia went back upstairs, switched on her hairstyler,
and then looked at the handkerchief again. Why was it bothering her so much? Why? It was only a handkerchief.
But — well, handkerchiefs didn’t get into the house by
magic. Someone brought them.
There was a knock at the bedroom door. Mrs Donaldson
looked in. ‘All right if I do the beds tomorrow, Mrs
Fleming?’
‘Yes, of course. Mrs Donaldson, this hanky, I just
wondered — it’s not yours, is it? You didn’t leave it with the
rest of our stuff?’
‘I should be so lucky,’ said Mrs Donaldson, ‘to have a
lovely thing like that. No, I did notice it in the linen basket
and thought it was rather nice. I didn’t put it in with the
whites,’ she added slightly defensively.
‘It was in the basket, was it?’ said Octavia. What was she
doing? Why, why did she care so much about it?
‘Yes. On Monday morning, caught up with all the rest of
yours and Mr Fleming’s stuff. He’d obviously just emptied
his bag into it the way he always does when he’s been away.
I found a biro and a fifty-pence piece as well, lucky they
didn’t go into the machine!’
‘Yes,’ said Octavia, ‘yes, that was very lucky.’
She suddenly felt slightly sick.
It was ridiculous, of course. Absolutely ridiculous. To be
so upset. But the handkerchief had been in Tom’s bag.
From Friday night, when he had been away. With a client
and then at a sales conference. Working. As always.
Even so. It was strange. Intriguing. Maybe it had
belonged to one of the reps at the sales conference. Tom
could easily have picked it up and brought it home by
mistake. Well, fairly easily.
Maybe it was his secretary’s. She couldn’t quite imagine
the rather terrifyingly tough Barbara Dawson using antique
lace handkerchiefs, but you couldn’t assume anything. You shouldn’t assume anything.
She started longing her hair, trying to ignore the
persistent stirrings of panic. In between staring at the handkerchief and her own face and obediently neatened hair in the mirror, she also kept looking at the article in the Express, and her comments on her own marriage. They suddenly seemed rather smug.
‘It’s a bit of a tightrope, a working marriage … don’t
look down, and everything will be all right …”
And while you weren’t looking down, what might be
going on? Down there, just under your nose?
Oh, this was ridiculous. There was such an easy way to
settle it. Ask Tom. Just casually. Lightly. As if it was a sort of
joke.
‘And just whose handkerchief was that in your bag, Mr
Fleming?’
That sort of thing. Only she wasn’t very good at asking
questions like that, lightly and casually. It would come out
sounding neurotic and probing. Another manifestation of
her jealousy. It would probably lead to a row.
Like the near-one they’d had over Lauren Bartlett. After
the party and the dancing.
She put on the red silk dress and jacket she’d bought for
Ascot. It had been a mistake. She’d bought it in too much
of a hurry, and it didn’t suit her. The jacket made her look
short rather than small. Damn. And the hat didn’t help, it
was too big. Too big for the shape of the suit. Well, there
was nothing she could do about it now. Tom had said he
liked it. And he never lied to her. Never.
She had to pass the handkerchief to get her shoes; she had
managed not to look at it for a bit. It looked more
innocuous now. She’d just been over-reacting. As usual.
She took the suit and hat off again, put the suit back on its
hanger under a nylon cover, the hat into its hat box, carried them downstairs with her shoes and bag to take to the office, still feeling oddly wretched. Maybe she should ring
Tom. But he wasn’t there. He’d been away last night.
Again.
Twice in a week.
Bath last night. Leamington Spa on Friday. Friday when
he’d picked up the handkerchief. Where had he stayed?
Oh, yes, the Regency. He had stayed there before, said it was awfully good. She’d phoned him there, so he’d
definitely been there. No, he hadn’t. She’d phoned him on
his mobile. Of course. Maybe …
Octavia, this is dreadful. Go to the office, get some work
done.
She put the Express into her briefcase to show Melanie,
and then on an impulse, she picked up the handkerchief
stuffed it into her underwear drawer. When she found out
who it belonged to, she’d give it back.
The traffic was bad, going down to the Old Brompton
Road. She switched on the radio; she felt jittery, strung up.
Well, anyone would, going to Ascot, looking terrible.
The radio offered her nothing to calm her nerves, so she
switched it off again. She phoned Sarah Jane, said she was
on her way in. And then heard herself asking Directory
Enquiries for the number of the Regency Hotel, in
Leamington Spa.
Obviously she wouldn’t ring it. Wouldn’t check up on
Tom. Obviously. That would be an awful thing to do.
Awful. She just wanted the number, in case. She hadn’t got
it and it was a nice hotel. She had a huge bank of hotel
numbers, but not that one.
When the girl gave it to her, she scribbled it down on the
back of her A to Z. She could transfer it to her Psion when
she got to the office.
She definitely wouldn’t ring it. It would be a terrible
thing to do.
‘Oh, good morning. This is Mrs Fleming. Mrs Tom
Fleming. Yes. My husband stayed there the other night,
Friday. Yes. Yes, definitely. Well, anyway, he thinks he
might have left a book behind. What? Yes, this Friday just
gone. The thirteenth.’
Friday the thirteenth: how hideously, horribly significant
She hadn’t even registered it till now.
‘I’m sorry? Are you quite sure? Yes. Oh, I see.’
Octavia put the phone down.
She felt quite different now: driven by a white-hot need
to know. Clear headed, almost excited. She asked Sarah
Jane for some coffee, told her not to put any calls through
for half an hour. The sales conference had definitely been in
Leamington Spa. She’d seen the folder he’d brought back.
She phoned the Regency again. She was so sorry, she’d
made a stupid mistake, could they give her the name of any
other comparable hotels in the area? Yes. Yes, that would
be very kind. She wrote them down. Six.
She dialled Directory Enquiries, got the numbers.
And started. She said she was Tom Fleming’s secretary.
Not his wife. It was easier that way. If she got to the second
question. So far she hadn’t.
With each one, each time she was told no, Mr Fleming
hadn’t been there, she felt more ashamed of herself,
somehow dirty. Like some seedy private detective. It was
awful of her, a dreadful obscene demonstration of her
jealousy. But she had to know. She had to.
She looked at her watch. God, nearly ten thirty. The car
would be here in less than an hour, and she had things to do
first. Just one more. The others would have to wait.
‘Good morning. Carlton Hotel, Leamington Spa.’
‘Good morning. This is Tom Fleming’s secretary. From
Fleming Cotterill Public Affairs. Mr Fleming has asked me
to ring you. I believe he and Mrs Fleming stayed there last
Friday. Friday the thirteenth.’
‘Yes?’ The voice was politely bland.
‘Anyway, I’m trying to track down a book Mrs Fleming
thinks she might have left there. On antiques.’ How was
she doing this, how was she managing to sound so calm, so
efficient?
‘Just let me have a look …” The inevitable endless
computer clicking. ‘Hallo? Yes, that’s right. Last Friday. Mr
and Mrs Tom Fleming. Just the one night. But I don’t think
we have any books—’
‘Thank you,’ said Octavia automatically. ‘That’s perfectly
all right, don’t worry.’
She felt hot. Very hot. And was finding it terribly difficult to breathe.
She put the phone down carefully and sat looking at it
for a moment. And then she had to rush to the lavatory
where she was violently sick.
‘You all right, Octavia?’ Sarah Jane looked up at her as she
walked past her, smiling carefully, back into her office.
‘Yes, I’m fine. Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘Oh, you look a bit pale. That’s all. Hair looks nice.’
‘Thank you. Yes. Jonathan fitted me in at seven last
night.’
She had thought it so important at the time, had been so
relieved. Relieved: about her hair. How extraordinary.
Sarah Jane’s phone rang. ‘Hallo. Octavia Fleming’s— Oh, hallo, Barbara. Yes, she’s here, I’ll ask her. Octavia, can you possibly get there for eleven forty-five, instead of
twelve?’
‘No,’ said Octavia, suddenly brisk. ‘I can’t possibly.’ It
was a revenge of sorts on that dreadful day: small, but
important.
Barbara Dawson, thought Octavia: did she know about