woman so intelligent, so culturally sophisticated, should devote herself to such a thing.
‘You could be running a company easily,’ he had said to
her more than once, and she had laughed and said she had
no desire to run a company; she saw life as something to be
enjoyed, experienced, rather than worked through, and if
there was no need for her to work, and there clearly was
none, then why should she? The girls needed her at home,
she enjoyed being at home, and she also wanted to be
available to Marc whenever he was in London. Felix,
whose entire life had been dedicated to the pursuit and
acquisition of success, struggled and failed to understand
her; it constantly amazed him that he should find himself
compatible with such a creature.
And maybe he wasn’t, he thought now, listening to her
car driving down Well Walk, maybe they should consider
parting; and then knew that he couldn’t possibly, that,
compatible or not, what he felt for Marianne was as near to
love as he had ever felt for any woman. Any woman apart
from Octavia, of course.
Tom was still not home by eleven thirty. Octavia decided
to go to bed in the spare room so that Tom wouldn’t wake
her when he did get in. She turned out the light and tried
to sleep, but the insomnia that always haunted her was very
powerful tonight. She was tempted to take a sleeping pill,
but she had to get up early, perform well; the pill would
make her fuzzy headed, less competent. So would being
exhausted; it was always a conflict, that, trying to decide
which evil was the lesser. And so she lay in bed, staring into
the darkness, doing one of the relaxation exercises her yoga
instructor had given her — absolutely useless but they were
at least something to do — willing herself to stay calm …
She had just turned the light on again to read when she
heard the chugging of a taxi in the street below, and Tom
coming in and up the stairs very quietly. She knew what
would happen next: he would find her not in their bedroom, and then he would come looking for her. He didn’t mind her moving out of their room, he was
sympathetic about her insomnia, but he hated to go to bed
without saying good night to her. She found it at once
touching and irritating that she must be awoken from her
precious sleep to be kissed and told to sleep well.
She smiled at him as he came and sat down on the bed,
kissed her.
‘Sorry I’m late. Bob Macintosh was at the dinner, got
into a rather long conversation with him.’
‘What about?’
Bob Macintosh was one of Tom’s longest-standing and
most important clients; he owned a small but very successful
chain of supermarkets in the Midlands and North of
England. He was outspoken, rather rotund, prematurely
grey haired, with brilliant dark eyes. Octavia was very fond
of him.
‘Oh, he’s not very happy.’
‘Really? How’s Maureen?’
‘Maureen’s the reason. She’s been playing around.
Again.’
Maureen was a flashy redhead, ten years younger than
Bob, loud, funny, extremely extrovert. She was fond of
Bob and fonder of his money, but she was serially
unfaithful.
‘Oh, dear. Poor old Bob. I don’t know how he puts up
with it.’
‘Usual thing. Can’t live with her, can’t live without her,’
said Tom. ‘Anyway, it’s rather complex this time. She’s
been sleeping with an MP.’
‘An MP! Heavens, Tom, who?’
‘Well, that’s the trouble. Or rather what makes it
complex. He’s a junior minister. Quite high profile. And
Mr Blair’s squeaky-clean new government can’t be tainted
with any Tory-style sleaze. Not yet anyway. They want it
hushed up, but the press are on to it, and so they need Bob’s
cooperation.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘Alistair Campbell, or rather one of his merry men, is looking for a garden-gate job. You know, David Mellorstyle,
whole family looking wonderfully happy.’
‘Both families?’
‘Yes. And Bob’s just not sure if
‘You could be running a company easily,’ he had said to
her more than once, and she had laughed and said she had
no desire to run a company; she saw life as something to be
enjoyed, experienced, rather than worked through, and if
there was no need for her to work, and there clearly was
none, then why should she? The girls needed her at home,
she enjoyed being at home, and she also wanted to be
available to Marc whenever he was in London. Felix,
whose entire life had been dedicated to the pursuit and
acquisition of success, struggled and failed to understand
her; it constantly amazed him that he should find himself
compatible with such a creature.
And maybe he wasn’t, he thought now, listening to her
car driving down Well Walk, maybe they should consider
parting; and then knew that he couldn’t possibly, that,
compatible or not, what he felt for Marianne was as near to
love as he had ever felt for any woman. Any woman apart
from Octavia, of course.
Tom was still not home by eleven thirty. Octavia decided
to go to bed in the spare room so that Tom wouldn’t wake
her when he did get in. She turned out the light and tried
to sleep, but the insomnia that always haunted her was very
powerful tonight. She was tempted to take a sleeping pill,
but she had to get up early, perform well; the pill would
make her fuzzy headed, less competent. So would being
exhausted; it was always a conflict, that, trying to decide
which evil was the lesser. And so she lay in bed, staring into
the darkness, doing one of the relaxation exercises her yoga
instructor had given her — absolutely useless but they were
at least something to do — willing herself to stay calm …
She had just turned the light on again to read when she
heard the chugging of a taxi in the street below, and Tom
coming in and up the stairs very quietly. She knew what
would happen next: he would find her not in their bedroom, and then he would come looking for her. He didn’t mind her moving out of their room, he was
sympathetic about her insomnia, but he hated to go to bed
without saying good night to her. She found it at once
touching and irritating that she must be awoken from her
precious sleep to be kissed and told to sleep well.
She smiled at him as he came and sat down on the bed,
kissed her.
‘Sorry I’m late. Bob Macintosh was at the dinner, got
into a rather long conversation with him.’
‘What about?’
Bob Macintosh was one of Tom’s longest-standing and
most important clients; he owned a small but very successful
chain of supermarkets in the Midlands and North of
England. He was outspoken, rather rotund, prematurely
grey haired, with brilliant dark eyes. Octavia was very fond
of him.
‘Oh, he’s not very happy.’
‘Really? How’s Maureen?’
‘Maureen’s the reason. She’s been playing around.
Again.’
Maureen was a flashy redhead, ten years younger than
Bob, loud, funny, extremely extrovert. She was fond of
Bob and fonder of his money, but she was serially
unfaithful.
‘Oh, dear. Poor old Bob. I don’t know how he puts up
with it.’
‘Usual thing. Can’t live with her, can’t live without her,’
said Tom. ‘Anyway, it’s rather complex this time. She’s
been sleeping with an MP.’
‘An MP! Heavens, Tom, who?’
‘Well, that’s the trouble. Or rather what makes it
complex. He’s a junior minister. Quite high profile. And
Mr Blair’s squeaky-clean new government can’t be tainted
with any Tory-style sleaze. Not yet anyway. They want it
hushed up, but the press are on to it, and so they need Bob’s
cooperation.’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘Alistair Campbell, or rather one of his merry men, is looking for a garden-gate job. You know, David Mellorstyle,
whole family looking wonderfully happy.’
‘Both families?’
‘Yes. And Bob’s just not sure if
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