by Lulu Taylor
Amanda shook her head, feeling a little more cheerful than she had been.
‘Because of Iseult Rivers-Manners,’ hissed Gerry, eyes almost crackling with rage. ‘Octavia’s been turned … she’s gone over to the dark side!’
‘Oh, dear.’ Amanda could barely suppress a smirk. ‘Iseult! She could hardly have picked anyone worse, could she?’
Everyone knew of the long-standing feud between Gerry and Iseult. It was based on an argument whose cause had been lost in the mists of time, but ever since they’d loathed one another as only two huge, colourful personalities who were more than a little alike could loathe one another. It was well known in society that one could be friends with both only by keeping very quiet about one’s divided loyalties. It was no more done to regale Gerry with tales of frolicsome weekends spent at Iseult’s Somerset house than it was to mention to Iseult the high jinks at Gerry’s handsome hunting lodge in Hampshire.
‘I don’t need to tell you how wounded I am. Iseult has Octavia running with her pack now. She’s doing this fashion show for her young protégé Wildblood and apparently Octavia’s going to be the star in it. It makes me grind my teeth down to the bone! I was there first! I found her first,’ he finished petulantly.
‘Well, I’m very sorry for you, but I don’t really see what any of this has to do with me.’
Gerry pushed his cup further on to Amanda’s desk and stood up. He walked over to the little casement window with its leaded lights and gazed out over the street below. He turned slowly back to face Amanda. Then he said in a tight voice: ‘I hear that La Beaufort isn’t exactly riding high in your estimation either. Didn’t she throw a jug of water over you at my party, or did I hear wrong? Apparently a very pretty Temperley dress was completely spoiled.’
Amanda cocked her head awkwardly. ‘No. You’re right. She did drench me.’ Amanda remembered very well how it had felt: the shock of that cold water, the realisation that her expensive dress and beautiful hairstyle were soaked, perhaps ruined, the sense of humiliation as everyone stared and muttered. The rage she’d felt ever since whenever she thought about it – though she tried not to – came back redoubled.
‘You see,’ Gerry said, coming towards her, ‘that little cow doesn’t have the first clue how to behave!’
‘She’s a bitch,’ Amanda said bitterly. ‘A class-A bitch. She made a fool of me in front of everyone at that party. No one’s ever treated me like that before.’
‘You’re right. And now she’s gone off with Iseult Rivers-Manners, the thing that hurts me most in the world. Dropped me like a hot potato. After everything I did for her! And,’ Gerry’s expression turned almost sly, ‘there’s one more thing. My sources tell me that Octavia has some suitors buzzing around her honeypot. And one of them is Ferdy Logan.’
Amanda tried not to react, but it was hard. Ferdy? Her ex-boyfriend? That was a little too close for comfort. ‘I see,’ she said.
‘She’s trouble,’ declared Gerry. ‘We’ll rue the day she ever appeared! I mean it, Amanda, she’s making life nasty for all of us. Well, if she wants to play with the big boys, she’s going to have to get used to our methods. We can play dirty if we’re forced to, right? I think we should join forces. It’s time to think about bringing little Miss Beaufort down a peg or two, don’t you agree?’
‘Do you know what, Gerry?’ Amanda said cheerfully. ‘I think I do. And I’ll enjoy doing it quite a lot.’
16
Preparations for the fashion show were going swimmingly. Iseult had secured a venue and was using every contact in her little black book, shamelessly pulling strings to get the big names and the acres of press that would surely follow.
Roddy was having trouble, though. According to Iseult, he was suffering from creative block.
‘He’s full of confidence usually, really a very self-assured and secure person,’ Iseult told Octavia one night in Hurley’s, a private members’ club in Shepherd’s Market. They sat in a dark corner on a low, velvet sofa, a single lamp glowing dimly on the table next to them. ‘He’s loved, you see. Such an advantage in life. Despite the fact that he’s the youngest of six children or something like that, his parents utterly adore him, especially his mother. Not every working-class Catholic woman would be supportive of a bolshie, gay, dress-designing son, but Mrs Wilcox is.’
‘Wilcox?’ asked Octavia, puzzled. ‘I thought his name was Wildblood?’
‘It is now,’ said Iseult with a laugh. ‘But it used to be Wilcox. Rod Wilcox. I don’t know about you, but I didn’t think that had quite the right ring for a fashion label. Rod Wilcox doesn’t sound like a man destined for Paris and couture greatness. Roddy Wildblood on the other hand …’ She shrugged. ‘I suggested it and he agreed.’
Despite the darkness of their surroundings, Iseult was wearing sunglasses, her lips painted the usual blood red colour, and was dressed in a long vividly embroidered kimono with huge bell sleeves and a gorgeous sash. She’d teamed it with her trademark towering shoes. ‘So he’s lucky like that, having a mother’s love to fall back on.’ Iseult gave a small tight smile. ‘From which you’ll probably infer that I don’t have any such thing. And you’d be quite right. My mother, or Mrs Rivers-Manners as I call her, left me when I was just a child. She was a very honest person, you know – there were no lies about Father Christmas or the damned tooth fairy for me – but even so she never told me the truth: that she was about to leave me and break my heart. And heartbreak when you’re young … it’s very hard to shake it off.’
Octavia blinked at her. ‘My mother left me too,’ she said in a small voice. Inside, she felt quite surprised. Iseult obviously felt permanently damaged by her mother’s departure. Should I feel like that too? wondered Octavia. Perhaps I should. After all, her mother had vanished from her and Flora’s lives when they were only four years old – Octavia remembered almost nothing about that time and had only a few, fleeting recollections of her: the scent of her perfume, the sheen of her glossy brown hair, a soft cheek and some hasty kisses. Once, in the library at Homerton, she and Flora had discovered an old photo album and inside were pictures from their parents’ wedding day, artistic black-and-white shots of the occasion, the guests dressed up in early-eighties splendour, the men with shaggy hair and the women with Lady Di flicks or long tresses backcombed at the top. It was obviously a lavish occasion, with the wedding in a local church and then a grand reception held in a marquee in the gardens of Homerton. It was the bride and groom who fascinated the girls the most, though. They’d spent hours staring at all the photographs they both appeared in.
‘She’s beautiful,’ Octavia would say, stroking the photograph that showed her parents dancing together, the bridegroom bending down to hear something his bride was whispering in his ear. ‘What do you think she’s saying to him?’
‘She’s saying, “Oh, my darling, I’ll be yours for ever”,’ Flora had guessed. ‘I love her dress.’
It was a flounced ivory silk dress, mushrooming out from the net petticoats worn underneath, off the shoulder but with large puffed sleeves to the elbow. Bows and lace adorned it everywhere. The bride wore a wreath of flowers in her short curly brown hair, and the black-and-white of the photograph still showed the shimmer of her frosted lipstick, sparkly eyeshadow and dark streaks of blusher on each cheek.
‘She looks like a princess,’ Octavia agreed. She looked at their father then, with his dark moustache and raffish smile. ‘And Daddy must have been her prince.’
Then they would put the album away and, late at night, would spin stories about Diane and Arthur and their lives together. Their father, they knew, was dead. Their mother, Aunt Frances had told them, had gone away many years earlier and never been heard of since. They both agreed that this must be standard behaviour in princesses whose princes had been killed, and neither of them ever thought to wonder if she should have stayed to look after her babies. She must have done whatever was necessary, surely. One day they went to look in the album and it was gone, and then
even the photographs were only memories. As they grew older, the fairy tale began to fade away altogether, and Octavia had accepted long ago that she had no mother or father, just Aunt Frances and the Brigadier, the closest thing to parents she would ever know.
But, she thought with a creeping sense of awfulness, perhaps that was wrong. Perhaps, for all these years, she had been asleep, like the Sleeping Beauty Iseult had called her – asleep to the fact that she’d suffered something unusual and damaging when she’d grown up in never really knowing either of her parents.
But I don’t want to know! she thought fiercely, pushing away the disconcerting thought as hard as she could. I refuse to! I’ve just found my freedom, and I’m just discovering life. I won’t have it spoilt now, just when I’ve broken free.
Iseult stared at her impassively from behind her sunglasses, as though watching all these emotions scroll across Octavia’s face. ‘Families are pure horror,’ she said almost kindly, ‘and best forgotten about. They do say that a wretched childhood can make one interesting and creative. I tend to think misery breeds misery. But … enough of that. Let’s have some more champagne. I’ve always found Moët a very satisfactory cure for life’s ills. And I’ll tell you all about my plan for us to decamp to Mabbes, so that Roddy can rediscover his muse – I want you to come too, it’s absolutely vital. Will you?’
‘Mabbes?’
‘It’s my family home, a silly old pile in the country, falling to pieces but charming. I share it with my sisters. All of us childless and unmarried, like sad spinsters from Jane Austen. Probably for the best. We’d only ruin more young lives, passing on our dreadful family streak of melancholia. So that’s settled. You’ll come. Good.’ Iseult smiled, lowering her sunglasses for a moment so that Octavia could see her strange yellow-green eyes. ‘I think you’ll bring some welcome sparkle to Mabbes.’
Octavia got home to find the drawing room full of flowers, with Flora and Vicky sitting in the middle of them all, Flora hunched tightly on the sofa, and Vicky looking half amused and half angry.
‘I d-d-don’t want to,’ Flora was saying obstinately as Octavia came in. Her stammer was worse, Octavia noticed. Usually it was better with Vicky, but it was only with Octavia that it disappeared entirely.
‘What’s all this?’ She asked, gesturing at the roses displayed everywhere. ‘Have you bought a florist’s?’
Flora looked over at her, a faint expression of reproach in her eyes. ‘Where were you last night, Tavy? You didn’t come back till very late.’
Octavia remembered. She’d been at a party with Jasmine and Rosie, in some boy’s Mayfair flat. She’d got very drunk and had a vague memory of collapsing on the hall floor when she returned, and Vicky helping her to the loo before she’d puked her guts up. She flushed and glanced at her cousin, who was looking rather stern. ‘I was out … and today we had rehearsals for the fashion show. Why, what’s happened?’
‘I’m afraid that Flora was mugged yesterday,’ Vicky said gravely.
Octavia gasped, her hands flying to her face in fright.
‘Don’t worry,’ Vicky said quickly, ‘she’s fine, aren’t you, Flora? But it could have been nasty.’ She swiftly retold Flora’s account of what had happened the night before. ‘I’m trying to persuade her to go to the police,’ she finished.
‘I don’t w-w-want to, it was my own fault,’ Flora said sullenly. She looked tired, Octavia thought, and her eyes dull. ‘And I’ve told you, I’m not going out.’
Octavia couldn’t speak. She was still recovering from the rush of fear that had gripped her while Vicky was telling the story.
‘I still think you should go to the police,’ their cousin said gently. ‘We ought to alert them to these people.’
Flora stayed silent, staring at the floor, her mouth in a tight line.
Vicky looked over at Octavia. ‘Flora’s decided she’s not going back to her art course either. It’s such a shame when she was enjoying it so much.’ She stood up. ‘I’m going to leave you two alone if that’s okay. I’ve got some admin to deal with. I’ll see you later.’
As soon as she’d gone, Octavia rushed over to her sister and hugged her, tears in her eyes. ‘God, I’m so pleased you’re all right!’
‘I was an idiot,’ Flora said, her expression suddenly frustrated. ‘It was all my own fault. I knew this would happen if I tried to do anything alone.’
‘It’s not your fault you were attacked!’ Octavia felt furious on her sister’s behalf. ‘They’re the criminals, not you. But who was this man … the one who rescued you?’
‘His name is Otto.’ Flora smiled weakly for the first time. ‘He sent all these flowers today with a very sweet note saying he hoped I’d recovered. A taxi arrived this morning, absolutely crammed with bouquets of roses. Aren’t they gorgeous?’
‘Beautiful.’ Octavia stared around at the stunning blooms. ‘Well, thank goodness for this Otto man. It sounds as though it could have been very dangerous otherwise.’ She glanced anxiously at her sister. ‘Are you sure you want to give up your course, though? You were loving it so much.’
Flora looked up at her with panicky eyes. ‘I can’t, Tavy, I can’t go back. Not right now … maybe later … maybe when I’ve recovered.’
‘All right,’ she said quickly. ‘Don’t rush it. You’ve had a frightening experience. Oh, dear …’ She felt a pang of guilt and looked away.
‘What is it?’
‘I have to go away in a few days. Iseult wants me to go to her country house so we can prepare for the show. I said I would …’ Octavia bit her lip, worried. ‘I’ll tell her I can’t go.’
‘Don’t be silly, you must. I’ll be perfectly fine.’
‘Really?’ Octavia knew she ought to stay, but the longing to be with her new friends, and at Iseult’s house, was overpowering.
‘Of course,’ Flora said. ‘You go. Have fun. I’ll be fine here with Vicky.’
Octavia stared into her sister’s blue eyes, the mirror image of her own. She knew that in their depths she could see fear. But I’ll only be away for a few days, she told herself, and after that I’ll devote myself to Flora and to making sure she’s okay.
‘As long as you don’t mind?’ she said.
‘I don’t.’ Flora took her hand and squeezed it. ‘Honestly.’
17
Octavia made sure that she stayed at home with Flora for the next two days, spending as much time as she could with her twin and trying to help her recover from the ordeal. Flora was quieter than ever, she noticed, and she worried that her sister wasn’t eating enough either. Octavia coaxed her with delicious meals sent up from the kitchen, but while Flora tried to eat for her sister’s sake, she obviously didn’t have much of an appetite.
The trouble was that only half of Octavia’s mind was on Flora’s problems. The other half was continually on the forthcoming visit to Mabbes, and what might lie ahead for her there. Iseult had mentioned casually that she’d invited some boys to come and stay, and Octavia was sure she must have invited Ferdy Logan who had been flirting with increasing intensity every time they met. The prospect of spending some time with him was overwhelmingly exciting; she couldn’t help daydreaming about it almost constantly.
In the pool she swam endless lengths, enjoying the sensation of the warm water caressing her body while she imagined what it might be like to have Ferdy put his arms around her and kiss her. She hadn’t been kissed for six years, not since the crazily passionate summer of the year she found Brandon.
They had been spending it in Connecticut, at the enormous farm Aunt Frances owned there thanks to an inheritance from a wealthy American relative. It was vast enough for them to have all the freedom they wanted and never worry about straying off their own land. It was there that she and Flora had learnt to ride, going off for hours on their horses, able to enjoy the illusion of leading a pioneering, adventurous lifestyle, while all the time remaining safely at home. Whenever they were in Connecticut, their aunt saw it as her duty to im
prove their physical skills and attainments: there were swimming lessons in the Olympic-sized pool, riding and dressage instruction, and, of course, tennis, the sport every elegant young woman should be able to play with grace and style.
The coach came from a local country club, a cheerful man with a leathery orange tan, a bristling grey moustache and muscles that were beginning to look a bit stringy. Every morning during their summer stays, he would arrive with his bag of rackets and tub of balls to put them through their paces and improve their strokes. The girls both enjoyed tennis and, if they weren’t exactly the Williams sisters, were good enough to play a decent game. They were both at ease with Burt, enough so that Flora almost lost her stammer with him, and liked his easy-going warmth and informality.
Then, one summer when the twins were fifteen, Burt had not come to coach them. He was in hospital, it transpired, having an operation that would mean some months of recuperation afterwards. His son Brandon was sent instead, an arrangement that Aunt Frances seemed happy enough with when it was explained to her.
But then, she hadn’t seen Brandon. When Octavia had first laid eyes on him, she’d gasped. The sight of him was like a punch to her stomach. He was as beautiful as a Greek god, with blond hair that glowed in the summer sunshine, a tan that his tennis whites made appear even more bronzed, and a superb body that radiated all the youth and health of a nineteen-year-old athlete. He moved with a languid feline grace that transformed itself into pure power when he hit a ball or raced across the court to make a difficult volley, slamming it back with precision and tightly controlled force.
‘I’m in love,’ Octavia had said to Flora as they left the court after that first lesson, their cheeks flushed and hair damp with sweat.
‘He is gorgeous,’ Flora agreed.