Jilly Cooper - Octavia

Gussie pulled at a wispy bit of hair.

‘He was?’ she said dully.

‘Anyway,’ I went on, ‘you said the other day on the boat, that you expected him to be unfaithful to you and you’d always forgive him.’

‘I know I did,’ said Gussie with a sob, ‘but one says such stupid things in theory, and they’re so horrible when they happen in practice.’

I went over and put my arm round her. ‘Please don’t cry, Gussie.’

‘Don’t touch me,’ she hissed. ‘I was thinking about you all last night. You’re wicked, you’ve always been wicked. Ever since we were at school together, you’ve resented my friends and tried to take them away from me. And now you’ve stolen the most precious thing I ever had. Why do you do it? You’re so beautiful you can have any man you choose.’

‘Because I’ve always been jealous of you,’ I said slowly, echoing Gareth’s words. ‘Because, in spite of my yellow hair and my long legs, people have always liked you more than they liked me.’

There was a pause.

‘I suppose it was kind of you to come and tell me all this,’ she said in a set little voice. ‘It does make a difference. I had a long talk to Gareth last night.’

‘What did he say?’ I tried to keep my voice expressionless.

‘That Jeremy was basically a lightweight, that I’d do better to cut my losses and pack him in. He said you may have encouraged Jeremy in the beginning, but on reflection he guessed that he was only too ready to be distracted and that it was Jeremy who forced the pace yesterday. He said marriage to Jeremy would be one long string of infidelities, and he was only marrying me for security and for my money.’

‘But that’s brutal!’ I gasped.

‘Isn’t it? But that’s the thing I like about Gareth, he tells the truth about things that matter.’

‘Did he say anything else?’ I said numbly. ‘About me, I mean.’

‘Not much. He agreed with me that if you really set your cap at someone, it would be almost impossible to resist you.’

I bit my lip. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s not so easy for me,’ Gussie said, playing with the tassel of her dressing gown. ‘I don’t get boyfriends very easily. Jeremy was the first man who ever said he loved me. I can’t go to a party tomorrow like you can, and pick up a new man just like that. I can’t walk down the street and be caressed and comforted by the admiration in men’s eyes. You haven’t a clue what it’s like not having any sex appeal. With you it’s only a question of time. I may never meet another man who wants to marry me.’

I felt a flash of irritation. Why the hell didn’t she go on a diet? Then I felt guilty.

‘Will you ever be able to forgive me?’

‘I don’t know, not now. Perhaps in a few weeks I shall feel differently.’

I went towards the door.

‘Will you see Jeremy if he turns up here?’

She burst into tears. ‘Oh yes, of course I will.’

It was only when I left her that the full desolation of my situation hit me. Since we’d left the boat I had been numb with misery, as though I’d put my heart in deep freeze until I had straightened the account with Gussie and Jeremy. Now I had to face up to the future — to the agony of loving a man who hated and despised me — who would despise me even more once he heard what I had told Gussie.

For the next few days I was on the rack. I never believed it was possible to suffer so much. Pride, despair and longing chased each other monotonously around my head. I cried all night and, at the slightest provocation, during the day. Over and over again I wandered down to the river and wondered whether to jump in. A thousand times I started letters to Gareth, pleading my case, but each time I tore them up. My case was so hopeless, I couldn’t even take refuge in daydreams. Most evenings I borrowed my landlord’s car, drove it across London and lay in wait outside Gareth’s house, but there were never any lights on and I used to turn the engine off and cry uncontrollably.

The blistering hot weather continued to grip London by the throat. Outside my flat Green Park was fast losing its greenness, the plane trees were coated in thick grey dust, the grass bleached to a lifeless yellow. Commuters wilted silently at the bus stops.

Two Mondays after we got back from the boat, I was woken by the doorbell ringing on and on. Wrapping a towel round me, I waded through the post, which was scattered over the carpet and consisted entirely of brown envelopes. I peered through the spy-hole, in a blind hope it might be Gareth. But it was only a thin youth with a moustache, and ears like the FA cup, wearing a crumpled suit and a battery of fountain pens in his breast pocket. He obviously had no intention of getting off that bell. I opened the door. He looked at me wearily.

‘Miss Brennen?’

‘No,’ I said. I knew the tricks of old.

‘But Miss Brennen lives here?’

‘Sure she does, but she’s abroad at the moment. Can I help you?’

‘It’s about her income tax returns. We’ve written to her repeatedly. The matter is getting rather urgent.’

‘Oh dear,’ I said sympathetically. ‘I’m sure she’s not avoiding you deliberately. She’s just rather vague where income tax is concerned.’

‘Lots of people become very vague when it’s a matter of paying it,’ he said, his weary eyes travelling over my body, ‘When are you expecting her back?’

‘She’s gone to the Bahamas,’ I said. ‘After that I think she’s flying on to New York. She’s got a lot of friends there. She didn’t say when she was coming back.’

‘We’re interested in a sum of money she earned doing a commercial for Herbert Revson.’

Thank God he was looking at my legs, or he would have seen how green I’d gone.

‘But that was three years ago,’ I stammered, ‘and in America.’

‘Yes, but she was paid by their English subsidiary, who, of course, declared it.’

‘Poor Octavia,’ I said faintly. ‘Have you any idea how much she owes?’

‘Well,’ he said, confidingly, ‘We don’t usually disclose figures’ (he was obviously crazy for me to disclose mine) ‘but I think it wouldn’t be much under five figures. She didn’t by any chance leave a forwarding address, did she?’

‘No she didn’t. There’s the telephone. I must go and answer it,’ I said firmly, shutting the door in his face.

Ten thousand pounds! Where the hell was I going to get that kind of money? Bleating with terror, I ran to answer the telephone, crossing my fingers once again that by some miracle it might be Gareth. But it was Xander. I’d only talked to him briefly since I got back. He’d been busy, so I hadn’t told him about Gareth. I was sure I wanted to, I couldn’t bear for him not to take it seriously.

‘Oh how lovely to hear you,’ I said.

‘You probably won’t think so when you hear the news,’ he said. ‘Hugh Massingham’s dead.’

‘What!’ I sat down on the bed.

‘Heart attack at the weekend. He’d been playing tennis,’ said Xander.

‘Oh God, how awful.’ Kind, handsome, indolent, sensual, easy-going Massingham — Xander’s patron and boss, my friend. He’s always been so generous to both of us — and taken care of all my bills. It didn’t seem possible.

‘I can’t bear it,’ I whispered, the tears beginning to roll down my cheeks.

‘Terrible, isn’t it. I really loved that guy. But darling, I’m afraid that isn’t all. There’s trouble at mill. Ricky’s been going through the books with a toothcomb and smelling salts, and the skeletons have been absolutely trooping out of the cupboard. This year’s figures are catastrophic, shares have hit rock bottom, orders are right down; unfortunately expenses, particularly yours, and mine, are right up.’

He sounded in a real panic.

‘Ricky’s called an emergency department head meeting for tomorrow at three o’clock. He wants you there as well.’

‘Whatever for?’

‘Well, there’s a bit of aggro over your flat, and all the bills we’ve run up between us, and there’s the car too. I think we’d better have a session tonight, and see how many bills we can rustle up,’ he went on, trying to sound reassuring.

‘All right,’ I said. ‘Come round after work.’

It seemed hardly the time to tell him about my income tax bill.

‘Actually,’ Xander went on, ‘it’s a good thing poor Hugh did kick the bucket when he did, Ricky’d already made plans to replace him.’

‘Did Hugh know?’

‘Don’t think so, but it’s certainly made Ricky’s task easier. He’s bringing in this new whizz kid over everyone’s heads to get us out of the wood.’

‘Do you think he’ll be able to?’

‘You should know, darling. It’s your friend, Gareth Llewellyn.’

I lay back on my bed, holding my burning face in my hands — all thoughts of Massingham, ten grand tax bills and fiddled expenses forgotten. Why, why, why had Gareth done it? He’d got far too much on his plate as it was. Why should he take on another directorship? Was it for power, or financial gain, or just to get his fingers into another industrial pie? Could it just possibly be that he wanted to see me again? Or, much more likely, that he’d got it in for me and wanted to cut me to ribbons. Whatever the reason, in just over twenty-four hours I’d see him again.

In the evening Xander and I spent two fruitless hours trying to sort out our expenses — then gave up. I set my alarm clock for eleven the next day, to give me plenty of time to get ready. Even so I panicked round trying on one dress after another. It’s strange how one’s wardrobe tells the story of one’s past. There was the cornflower blue midi I’d bought to ensnare Jeremy, the backless black that had inflamed Ricardo, the gold pyjama suit that had brought Charlie literally to his knees with a proposal, and lying on the cupboard floor, spurned, and never worn again, was the grey dress that had failed to detach that French racing driver from his wife at a ball in Paris last winter.