he can go through with
it. He says it turns him up.’
‘It would me,’ said Octavia, ‘and it would you, surely. I
hope,’ she added, leaning forward and kissing him.
‘Yes, of course it would,’ he said. He sounded irritable.
She looked at him thoughtfully. ‘So what’s it got to do
with you? Apart from the fact he’s your friend. And your
client of course.’
Tom sighed. ‘He wanted to know what I thought about
it. About the whole thing.’
‘And?’
‘I said it all came down to how he felt about Maureen.
Whether he can forgive her yet again.’
‘And?’
‘Well, he says he can, he wants her back, still loves her.
Poor sod. But on his own terms. And that certainly doesn’t
include making everything fine and dandy for her lover.’
‘He should turn it to his own advantage,’ said Octavia
briskly.
Tom stared at her. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean he should get something in return if he does
agree to play ball with them. As well as Maureen, I mean. I
presume she wants to stay with him.’
‘Of course she does. Faced with the prospect of losing
Bob and the money and that monstrous house and
everything, she suddenly finds him the only man in the
world—’
‘You don’t like Maureen, do you?’ she said.
‘No, I don’t. I can’t bear those money-grubbing, kept
women.’
‘You like Lauren Bartlett though,’ she said suddenly.
‘No, I don’t. I can’t stand her, actually.’
‘You don’t behave as if you can’t stand her. I seem to
remember some rather tactile dancing, the other night.’
‘Oh, Octavia, don’t start,’ he said wearily.
‘I’m not starting anything. Just making an observation—’
She stopped. This could get nasty. She was horribly,
painfully jealous, couldn’t bear Tom flirting even, had
never learned to laugh it off, to accept it didn’t mean
anything. And he flirted a great deal; it was part of his
charm, as natural to him as breathing.
‘Anyway, that’s the advice I’d give Bob,’ she said quickly
now, anxious to backtrack. ‘If he really wants Maureen
back, that is. He doesn’t have to do anything, it seems to
me. He holds all the cards. He should play a few of them.
Only don’t ask me which ones and how,’ she added,
slithering down on the pillows, ‘I’m much too tired to
think. I just feel dreadfully sorry for poor Bob.’
Tom sat looking at her very intently for a moment or
two, then leaned forward and kissed her. ‘You’re a clever
girl,’ he said, ‘and I love you. Having trouble sleeping?’
She nodded.
‘How would you like me to help you relax? I swear I’ll
go back to our room later.’ His dark grey eyes were very
intense, very serious.
She looked back at him, equally so.
‘I think I’d like that a lot,’ she said. Against all logic, all
common sense, the fact it was late, that she had an early
meeting, that she would be exhausted, she wanted him.
Quite badly suddenly; she could feel her body stirring, feel
it reaching out into desire. She moved lower in the bed,
held her arms up to him, like a child. His eyes fixed on hers,
he pulled off his clothes, climbed in beside her, started to
kiss her. They were both in a hurry, strangely, almost
guiltily so; she reached to put the light out.
‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘I want to be able to see you.’
He liked studying her, stroking her, kissing her small
breasts, her flat stomach, her neat, taut thighs, liked her to
look at him, to learn about him and what pleased him. She
had found that difficult at first; it had been part of her
insecurity, her nervousness. She preferred darkness. He had
teased her about it, told her she was an anal retentive, that it
was all part of her father-complex; that had upset her, she had cried, been angry, pulled away from him. It had taken
her a long time to learn to relax in bed; and she had known
in her innermost heart that Tom was right, that her father
did haunt her sexuality, that even as
it. He says it turns him up.’
‘It would me,’ said Octavia, ‘and it would you, surely. I
hope,’ she added, leaning forward and kissing him.
‘Yes, of course it would,’ he said. He sounded irritable.
She looked at him thoughtfully. ‘So what’s it got to do
with you? Apart from the fact he’s your friend. And your
client of course.’
Tom sighed. ‘He wanted to know what I thought about
it. About the whole thing.’
‘And?’
‘I said it all came down to how he felt about Maureen.
Whether he can forgive her yet again.’
‘And?’
‘Well, he says he can, he wants her back, still loves her.
Poor sod. But on his own terms. And that certainly doesn’t
include making everything fine and dandy for her lover.’
‘He should turn it to his own advantage,’ said Octavia
briskly.
Tom stared at her. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean he should get something in return if he does
agree to play ball with them. As well as Maureen, I mean. I
presume she wants to stay with him.’
‘Of course she does. Faced with the prospect of losing
Bob and the money and that monstrous house and
everything, she suddenly finds him the only man in the
world—’
‘You don’t like Maureen, do you?’ she said.
‘No, I don’t. I can’t bear those money-grubbing, kept
women.’
‘You like Lauren Bartlett though,’ she said suddenly.
‘No, I don’t. I can’t stand her, actually.’
‘You don’t behave as if you can’t stand her. I seem to
remember some rather tactile dancing, the other night.’
‘Oh, Octavia, don’t start,’ he said wearily.
‘I’m not starting anything. Just making an observation—’
She stopped. This could get nasty. She was horribly,
painfully jealous, couldn’t bear Tom flirting even, had
never learned to laugh it off, to accept it didn’t mean
anything. And he flirted a great deal; it was part of his
charm, as natural to him as breathing.
‘Anyway, that’s the advice I’d give Bob,’ she said quickly
now, anxious to backtrack. ‘If he really wants Maureen
back, that is. He doesn’t have to do anything, it seems to
me. He holds all the cards. He should play a few of them.
Only don’t ask me which ones and how,’ she added,
slithering down on the pillows, ‘I’m much too tired to
think. I just feel dreadfully sorry for poor Bob.’
Tom sat looking at her very intently for a moment or
two, then leaned forward and kissed her. ‘You’re a clever
girl,’ he said, ‘and I love you. Having trouble sleeping?’
She nodded.
‘How would you like me to help you relax? I swear I’ll
go back to our room later.’ His dark grey eyes were very
intense, very serious.
She looked back at him, equally so.
‘I think I’d like that a lot,’ she said. Against all logic, all
common sense, the fact it was late, that she had an early
meeting, that she would be exhausted, she wanted him.
Quite badly suddenly; she could feel her body stirring, feel
it reaching out into desire. She moved lower in the bed,
held her arms up to him, like a child. His eyes fixed on hers,
he pulled off his clothes, climbed in beside her, started to
kiss her. They were both in a hurry, strangely, almost
guiltily so; she reached to put the light out.
‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘I want to be able to see you.’
He liked studying her, stroking her, kissing her small
breasts, her flat stomach, her neat, taut thighs, liked her to
look at him, to learn about him and what pleased him. She
had found that difficult at first; it had been part of her
insecurity, her nervousness. She preferred darkness. He had
teased her about it, told her she was an anal retentive, that it
was all part of her father-complex; that had upset her, she had cried, been angry, pulled away from him. It had taken
her a long time to learn to relax in bed; and she had known
in her innermost heart that Tom was right, that her father
did haunt her sexuality, that even as
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