Jilly Cooper - Octavia

‘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.

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.’