Octavia

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘Tall and blond — almost as beautiful as you, and so gentle and sympatico.’

  ‘Rich?’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t asked him; not particularly.’

  ‘Well that’s no good then.’ Xander broke a roll impatiently with his fingers, then left it. He watched his figure like a lynx. Then he sighed, ‘You’d better tell me about him.’

  Conversation was then impossibly punctuated by waiters laying tables, asking who was having the smoked trout, giving us our first courses, brandishing great phallic pepper pots over our plates, and pouring us more wine. A quarter of an hour later I was still picking bits of bacon out of my avocado and chopped spinach.

  ‘Am I boring you?’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Xander gently. ‘But it really doesn’t matter. You have got him bad. What about Charlie?’

  ‘Charlie who?’ I said.

  ‘Like that, is it? Who’s going to be the other guy on the boat?’

  ‘A friend of Jeremy’s called Gareth Llewellyn.’

  Xander looked up. ‘He’s supposed to be rather agreeable.’

  ‘If you like jumped-up Welsh gorillas,’ I said.

  Xander laughed. ‘He’s phenomenally successful — and with birds too, one hears.’

  ‘Oh, he’s convinced he’s got the master key to everyone’s chastity belt,’ I said. ‘But I’ve had the lock changed on mine. He doesn’t like me very much. He caught me swapping extravagant pleasantries with Jeremy. He knows something’s up.’

  ‘Well, I’d get him on my side, if I were you,’ said Xander. ‘He sounds pretty formidable opposition.’

  Now we were into the rat-race of the second course. Waiters kept butting in, asking if I wanted my sole on or off the bone, offering vegetables and salads, more wine and more phallic pepper and tartare sauce.

  ‘Everything all right, sir?’ said the head waiter, hovering over us a minute later.

  ‘Yes, perfect, if you’d go away and leave us alone,’ snapped Xander.

  ‘There’s only one thing,’ I said, pleating the table cloth with my fingers. ‘Can you possibly lend me £200?’

  ‘What for?’ said Xander.

  ‘I need some clothes for the weekend.’

  ‘You’ve got quite enough,’ sighed Xander. ‘As it is, Covent Garden comes to you every time they want to dress an opera.’

  ‘Just £200,’ I pleaded. ‘I promise, once I hook Jeremy I won’t ask you for another penny.’

  ‘Darling, you don’t seem to realize that things are frightfully tight at the moment. There’s a little thing called inflation which neither you nor Pamela seem to have heard of. We’re all going to have to pull our horns in. My dear father-in-law’s been on the warpath all morning, bellyaching about my expenses. I gather this year’s accounts are pretty disastrous too.’

  ‘For the whole group or just Seaford-Brennen?’

  ‘Well Seaford-Brennen in particular. Everyone’s very twitchy at the moment. Something’s obviously up! Directors going round after dark piecing together one’s torn-up memos. Every time you go down the passage, you’re subjected to a party political broadcast on behalf of the accounts department. Both Glasgow and Coventry look as though they’re going to come out on strike — the shop stewards so much enjoyed appearing on television last time.’

  ‘Things’ll get better,’ I said, soothingly.

  ‘Bloody well hope so,’ said Xander. ‘I’ve borrowed so much money from the company they’ll have to give me a rise so I can pay them back. Thank God for Massingham, at least he’s on my side.’

  Hugh Massingham was managing director of Seaford-Brennen, a handsome, hard-drinking Northerner in his late forties, who liked Xander’s sense of humour. They used to go on the tiles together, and bitch about Ricky Seaford. Hugh Massingham liked me too. When my father died six years ago he had looked after me, and eventually we’d ended up in bed. The affair had cooled down but we’d remained friends, and he still spent odd nights with me.

  ‘He sent his love,’ said Xander. ‘Said he was going to come and see you next week.’

  I wondered, now I’d fallen for Jeremy, if I’d be able to come up with the goods for Massingham any more. Never mind, I’d cross that bridge party when I came to it.

  Depression suddenly seemed to encompass the table. I could feel one of Xander’s black glooms coming on, probably caused by my tactlessly rabbiting on about Jeremy — which must only emphasize the stupid mockery of his marriage.

  I took his hand.

  ‘How’s Pamela?’ I said.

  ‘Not awfully sunny at the moment. She’s spending the weekend at Grayston with Ricky and Joan, and I’ve refused to go. I have to put up with my dear father-in-law five days a week, I need a break at weekends. And I can put up with Joan even less, the great screeching cow. No one can accuse me of marrying Pamela for her Mummy.’

  I giggled. ‘What’s she done now?’

  ‘Alison’s pregnant.’

  ‘Oh God, I’m sorry.’

  Alison was Pamela’s younger sister, only married this year.

  ‘And dear Joan never stops subtly rubbing Pammie’s nose in it that she isn’t,’ said Xander.

  ‘What does the gynaecologist say?’

  ‘He can’t find anything wrong with her. Joan wants her to have a second opinion — nice if she had an opinion at all. So the onus falls firmly on me. Pamela takes her temperature every morning, and when it goes up I’m supposed to pounce on her, but I always oversleep, or have debilitating hangovers, or don’t get home like last night. But I’ve a feeling nothing’s going to happen while I lie on one side of the bed reading Dick Francis, and she lies on the other poring over gardening books.’

  He was rattling now. His hand shook as he lit a cigarette. I could sense his utter despair.

  ‘Is it absolute hell?’ I asked.

  He shrugged. ‘I suppose prep school was worse, but at least one had longer holidays then.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘She’ll get pregnant soon.’

  Xander was busy ordering coffee and brandies and I was easing a piece of bacon out of my teeth, when I looked up and saw a boy of about twenty-three standing in the doorway. He had dark Shelley-length hair, huge languorous dark eyes, and a Mediterranean suntan. He wore navy blue pinstripe trousers and was carrying his jacket slung across his shoulders. His pale blue shirt was open at the neck to reveal a jungle of gold medallions nestling in a black hairy chest. He looked like a movie star. For a second I felt a flicker of unfaithfulness to Jeremy.

  ‘Look at that,’ I breathed to Xander.

  ‘I’m already looking,’ said Xander, and suddenly there was a touch of colour in his pale cheeks, as the dark boy looked round, caught Xander’s eye, waved, and wandered lazily towards us.

  ‘See a pinstripe suit, and pick him up, and all the day you’ll have good luck,’ murmured Xander.

  ‘Hi,’ said the dark boy. ‘I was worried I’d missed you. The traffic is terrible.’

  He had a strong foreign accent, and was shooting me an openly hostile look, which became distinctly more friendly when Xander said,

  ‘This is my sister, Octavia. Darling, this is Guido. He comes from Florence, I must say I learnt more on my first trip to Florence than during my whole time at Radley.’

  Guido sat down and said he would have expected Xander to have such a beautiful sister. Xander had completely shed his black gloom now. He seemed greatly exhilarated.

  ‘Guido works at the Wellington Gallery,’ he said. ‘He’s in disgrace at the moment because he put his foot through a Sisley yesterday, stepping back to avoid the attentions of the gallery owner. Another large brandy and some more coffee,’ he added to the waiter.

  Guido was staring openly at Xander. His glance had flickered over me and passed on in that dismissive way a man would by-pass the woman’s page in a newspaper, knowing it had nothing to offer him.

  ‘How is your dear wife?’ he said.

  ‘Dear,’ said Xander. ‘She’s busy
putting in a swimming pool. You must come down for a weekend.’

  Suddenly I felt de trop, and got to my feet.

  ‘I must go,’ I said.

  ‘Must you?’ said Xander, but without conviction.

  Then he suddenly remembered. ‘I was going to get you some money, wasn’t I? Come on, we’ll go and chat up Freddy, I’ll be right back,’ he said to Guido.

  We found Freddy in the bar.

  ‘Now,’ said Xander, making sure he looked Freddy straight in the eye. ‘Can you cash me a small cheque?’

  ‘Of course. How much?’

  ‘£200.’

  Freddy didn’t bat an eyelid. He pulled a thick pile of notes in a money clip out of his pockets, and laid twenty tenners on the bar.

  ‘I’ll have to date the cheque sometime after the first of the month; is that OK?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Freddy, soothingly. ‘I can always sue you.’

  Xander gave me the money and escorted me to the door. I thanked him profusely.

  ‘Don’t give it a thought,’ he said. ‘Now have a ball with Jeremy Fisher. But keep your options open and your legs shut, and don’t rule out Gareth Llewellyn altogether; he could keep us both in a style to which we’re totally unaccustomed. Don’t you think,’ he jerked his head in the direction of the dining room, ‘that that is quite the most ravishing thing you’ve seen in years?’

  ‘Yes, he is,’ I said with a sinking heart, ‘but for God’s sake be careful, Xander.’

  ‘And the same to you, darling. Give me a ring when you get back.’

  And he was gone, trying to appear not to be in too much of a hurry to get upstairs.

  I felt curiously flat and decided to wander along to Hatchards and buy some highbrow books to impress Jeremy on the boat.

  Chapter Five

  By Friday evening I was golden brown all over and ready for action. I decided Xander was right, my best tack was to charm Gareth and get him on my side, and at five-thirty I was waiting for him with my three suitcases packed. I was wearing a wickedly expensive pink and white striped blazer with nothing underneath, white trousers, and cherry red boots. The blazer and boots were really both too hot to wear but I was only going to be driving in a car. I felt entirely satisfied with my appearance.

  The minutes ticked by. Six came and went, half-past six, a quarter to seven. I vacillated between seething temper that Gareth was late on purpose, and worry that he might have lost my address.

  At half-past seven the telephone went. ‘This is Annabel Smith,’ said a husky voice. ‘I’m ringing for Mr Llewellyn.’

  ‘Where the hell is he?’ I snapped.

  ‘I’m afraid his meeting is going on longer than expected. Could you possibly jump in a taxi and come over here? The address is Llewellyn House, Great Seaton Street. I’ll meet you on the ground floor and reimburse you for the taxi.’

  Oh, the hateful, horrible, utterly bloody man! Why the hell had I piled up my car? No taxis were free when I telephoned, all the mini cabs were booked for the next hour. My make-up was beginning to run in the heat. It was no joke having to hump three huge suitcases into the street and wait half-an-hour for a taxi. My blazer was too hot, my new boots killing me. By the time I reached Llewellyn House I was gibbering with rage.

  Mrs Smith, in green, looking as cool as an iced gin and lime, was there to meet me.

  ‘Come upstairs; you must be exhausted. Someone will put your luggage in Mr Llewellyn’s car. What a perfect weekend for going on the river,’ she said as we climbed in the lift to the fifteenth floor. I had a feeling she was amused.

  I was ushered into an office as modern as the hour. There were some good modern paintings on the wall, leather armchairs with chrome legs, one wall covered in books and facing it a vast window, a cinemascopic frame for St Paul’s and the city. How could anyone work with a view like that? Gareth evidently could. He was lounging behind a huge black leather-topped desk, on the telephone as usual, talking execrable French.

  He grinned and jabbed a paper in the direction of one of the armchairs. I ignored him and went over to the window. Buses like dinky toys were crawling up Fleet Street.

  Mrs Smith came in with a tray. ‘Would you like a drink?’

  I didn’t want to take anything of Gareth’s but I needed that drink too badly.

  ‘Gin and tonic, please.’

  She mixed me one with ice and lemon, and then poured a large whisky for Gareth.

  He put down the receiver and smiled at me.

  ‘Hullo, lovely. I’m sorry I’ve messed you about.’ There wasn’t a trace of contrition in his voice. ‘You look stunning. It’s as good as a day in the country just to see you.’

  ‘I’ve been waiting nearly three hours,’ I spat at him. ‘Shall we go?’

  He wandered towards the door taking his whisky with him. ‘I’m going to have a shower first; make yourself at home.’

  Mrs Smith brought me some magazines. I thumbed through them furiously, not taking in a word.

  It was nine o’clock by the time he came back, looking more like a lorry driver than ever, in jeans and a red shirt. He kissed Mrs Smith very tenderly before we left.

  ‘I see you believe in mixing business with pleasure,’ I snapped as we went down in the lift.

  ‘But of course. You wouldn’t expect me to sit looking at some top-heavy frump in basic black all day, would you? That’s a nice blazer you’re wearing. Did you think we were going to Henley?’

  ‘Oh this, it’s as old as the hills.’ I was damned if I was going to admit I’d bought it that morning.

  He reached out his hand towards the back of my neck and pulled something off my collar.

  ‘Don’t touch me,’ I hissed.

  He handed me a price tag with a hundred pounds on it.

  ‘If this is a cleaning ticket, darling, I’m afraid you’ve been robbed.’

  I was furious to find myself blushing.

  Outside the vulgarest car I’ve ever seen stood waiting for us, a vast open Cadillac sprayed a brilliant shade of peacock blue. I was surprised he hadn’t hung nodding doggies from the driving mirror.

  I had to admit he was a good driver, threading that huge car through the traffic in no time. We were soon out on the M4 speeding towards Oxford.

  The sun had set. In the west were great masses of crushed-up rose-coloured clouds. Broad beams of light shone down, reminding me of an old biblical picture. If God were up there this evening dispensing justice, I hoped He’d give Gareth his come-uppance. And He might grant me Jeremy at the same time.

  The needle on the speedometer registered a hundred m.p.h.

  ‘Let me know if you’re frightened and I’ll go a bit faster,’ said Gareth.

  I stared stonily ahead.

  ‘Oh pack it in, lovely; stop sulking. We’ve got to spend the weekend together, we might as well call a truce.’

  ‘Why didn’t you let me go earlier with the others?’

  ‘Because I couldn’t resist it — I wanted to annoy you. Never mind, I’ll buy you a nice dinner.’

  ‘I don’t want any dinner.’

  ‘All right, then, you can watch me eat.’

  He pulled in at an hotel beyond Henley. It was obviously very expensive. Waiters were flambéeing ducks all over the place and the menus had no prices on them. I suddenly realized I hadn’t eaten all day and found my mouth was watering.

  Gareth grinned at me. ‘Come on, eat; you might as well.’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ I said.

  Reluctantly I had to admit the food was excellent.

  ‘I always eat well,’ he said.

  ‘So I notice,’ I said, looking at his waistline.

  He roared with laughter. ‘I suppose you like little mini boys with hip measurements in single figures, but as Freddie Trueman once said, it takes a big hammer to drive a big nail.’

  ‘Don’t be disgusting,’ I snapped.

  His table manners were atrocious. Somehow he managed to eat very fast and talk at the same time. Now he was d
raining butter out of his snail shells with a sound like water running out of the bath. God, it was hot in the restaurant. I was pouring with sweat but I could hardly take my blazer off.

  ‘I had lunch with Jeremy, yesterday,’ he said, wiping butter off his chin.

  ‘Oh, I’m surprised you found the time.’

  ‘I always find time for things that matter. I think I’ve found them a house.’

  ‘That’s clever of you,’ I said coolly. ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘Kensington, round the corner from me.’

  ‘How can they afford it? Jeremy hasn’t got that kind of money.’

  ‘But Gussie has. She’s going to buy the house.’

  ‘Jeremy’d loathe that.’

  ‘Not now, he doesn’t. I’ve managed to persuade him how sensible it is. They can let out the bottom floor which will pay off the mortgage, and it means they can get married next month instead of waiting until November.’

  His face had that dreamy far-away look of a volcano that has just devastated entire villages. I wanted to kick his teeth in but I was determined not to betray any emotion.

  ‘They must be thrilled,’ I said.

  ‘Yes they are. I expect Gussie’ll ask you to be a bridesmaid.’

  I couldn’t speak for rage. I was glad when the pretty waitress came over. ‘Everything all right sir?’ She smiled at him admiringly.

  ‘Marvellous.’ He looked her over in a way that made me even angrier.

  ‘How much further have we got to go?’ I asked as we got back into the car.

  ‘Twenty, thirty miles, not more.’

  The stars were of Mediterranean splendour now, the newly cut hay smelt sweet, feathery moths were held prisoner in the beams of the powerful headlights. The air, cool at fast speeds, grew hot again whenever Gareth slowed down to take a corner. We were driving past the Reedminster fly over now.

  ‘Look,’ said Gareth, pointing upwards. On a huge floodlit placard was written the word ‘Llewellyns’.

  ‘You?’ I said, in surprise.

  ‘Me. I’ll be bigger than Taylor Woodrow one day.’

  ‘Quite the boy wonder. Why do you go on working so hard? You’ve made your packet. Why’s it so important to make more money?’