‘Look, woman –’ said Sir Merlin, and his white bushy eyebrows began to bristle; it was a sign to those who knew him that he was losing his temper. Miss Edmundson did not know that; she stood her ground, flushed.
‘Sir Merlin, I really don’t like–’
‘I don’t care what you like. I don’t like what I see of this child. She’s shockingly thin, she looks as if she hasn’t had any fresh air for months. What have you been doing to her?’
‘Sir Merlin, I assure you–’
‘I’m not interested in your assurances, I’m interested in Harriet. And I’m taking her out.’
‘But–’
Sir Merlin took Harriet’s hand, went to move away, then turned back.
‘Incidentally,’ he said, ‘what are the fees in this establishment?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t–’
‘They must be at least a thousand a term. That’s about – let’s see –’ He pulled a calculator from his pocket, and beamed at her over it. ‘Wonderful things these. You should get one if you haven’t already. Pay for themselves time and time again. Now then, thousand a term, let’s say twelve weeks, that’s eighty-four days, eleven pounds point 9047 pence a day. That’s a lot of money, wouldn’t you say? That you’re saving on Harriet today. I’ll tell my godson to dock it off the fees next term. Good day to you. Can’t wait any longer for you to make some damnfool phone call. I’ll have her back for bedtime, don’t fret.’
‘Sir Merlin–’
The Lagonda was halfway down the school drive before Harriet dared even to breathe.
Sir Merlin accomplished what the stealing, the illness, the misery, the tears, the begging letters to her parents, had not. Harriet was removed from St Madeleine’s; she first heard of this decision not from her parents, or even Miss Edmundson, but from Cressida. ‘I’m so excited, they’ve said you can come home,’ she had written in her neat, careful handwriting, ‘but I heard them say if you’re at all naughty you’ve got to go again.’
‘I think I’ll go down to the bridge and find Cressida,’ said Harriet, putting down her mug of tea. ‘She’s obviously feeling more nervous than we all thought. Funny, she was so amazingly calm last night. I’ll be back in a minute, Janine. Purdey, walk?’
But Purdey raised one weary eyebrow and sank back into her dreams.
Harriet went into the utility room, pulled on her mother’s old Barbour over the long T-shirt that was the nearest thing she possessed to a nightdress, stuck her feet into a pair of the long line of wellies that stood there and went out into the golden morning. The air was fresh, almost tangibly sweet; it was like breathing champagne, she thought, surprised at herself for thinking it. She was not greatly given to poetic observations. She walked across the small brick-paved courtyard outside the back door, through the walled rose garden that was her father’s pride and joy, and across the lawn. In the far corner was a small gate and beyond that a field leading to the stream and the little double-arched bridge. It was an absurdly pretty spot: the setting for countless family photographs, both formal and informal. A weeping willow trailed into the water, and on the other side of the bridge was a stone seat, set into a small grassy mound, with ferns growing round it.
Harriet had half expected to see Cressida standing on the bridge playing Pooh-sticks with herself, as she had done all her life at times of emotional turmoil – good or bad. She would stand there, leaning over, staring intently into the water, waiting for her stick to come through, a bundle more of them in her hands (Cressida never did anything without being carefully prepared), and usually Purdey would be sitting beside her, watching the water with the same concentrated gaze. Only this morning Purdey wasn’t there, and Cressida wasn’t there either; nor was she in the little spinney beyond the bridge, or at the top of the meadow opposite. She was nowhere to be seen.
Frowning slightly, Harriet turned and walked – quickly, anxiously, while telling herself that of course there was no need for anxiety – back across the grass, towards the house. And noticed, as she should have done earlier, she told herself, that there was only one set of footprints in the thick dew and they were her own; and no doggy prints either. So where had Cressida gone, with Purdey, and where was she now? Back in the house of course, Harriet told herself, she must have missed her, she would have gone down the lane, maybe towards the bridlepath, she liked that walk (but so early in the morning? so far on such a day?).
She walked across the courtyard and into the kitchen, her heart pounding just a little too hard, smiled, carefully casual, at Janine, said (her voice just slightly strained), ‘Cress back?’
And ‘No,’ said Janine, sounding surprised, ‘no, she is not back, was she not at the bridge?’
‘No,’ said Harriet, ‘no, hadn’t been there actually. Well, I expect she wanted to go a bit further, calm her nerves. I’ll – I’ll get dressed and go down to the shop in the car and get a paper, I think, probably pass her in the lane. If she’s not back already.’
‘Yes of course,’ said Janine, ‘and chérie, I will go and take a bath and we can all meet again here in a little while. I expect your mother will be down soon.’
‘ ’Fraid so,’ said Harriet, with a grin.
It was still very quiet upstairs; her mother must have taken a sleeping pill. Otherwise she would have been pacing the house by now. Harriet looked at her watch: quarter to seven. That meant Cressida had been gone for at least an hour. A long time for a wedding morning. Or maybe she’d come back, through the front door, and Harriet had missed her. She knocked gently on Cressida’s bedroom door: no answer. She opened it, looked in: the room was exactly the same – still, lifeless, neat. It was almost as if – Harriet shut the door again, stood very still for a moment and then, feeling slightly sick, her heart thudding uncomfortably in her throat went to her own room, pulled on some leggings and a clean T-shirt and ran downstairs again. Bloody Cressida, she thought, feeling suddenly angry: this was playing the drama queen just a bit too thoroughly. She must have realized they’d all be getting up by now and would start worrying: shit, where had she put her car keys? Probably on one of the hooks on the dresser, where they all hung their keys. Yes, she remembered now, she’d put them next to Cressida’s – hung on that irritating key ring of hers, with the naff ‘First Class Toilet’ sign – the night before. Harriet reached for them, and then saw that Cressida’s weren’t there: not on the hook, not on any hook, she thought, her eyes racing over the dresser. She ran out to the drive: no red mini there as it had been last night. Well, of course not, she said to herself, hanging onto calm with great effort. James had told her to put it away, said they must clear the drive, either he or Cressida must have put it in the garage. Harriet went over to the garage, stood looking at the big white double doors, taking deep breaths, confronting what she was afraid of; then put out her hand to turn the knob and noticed that her hand was shaking, her palm slippery with sweat. She pulled the door back and looked cautiously, almost fearfully in.
And what she saw was precisely what she had been afraid of seeing: the only car in the garage was Maggie’s little Renault; Cressida’s car was gone.
Chapter 3
Theo 6am
Theo woke up feeling, as he so often did, in serious need of sex. He could never understand why people didn’t want sex in the morning; after a night of close proximity to someone, curled, wrapped round them, the smell of them, the shape of them, the feel of them, what else could a normal person desire? It was the logical, natural sequence of events: first the foreplay, then the act. One of the main reasons he had made Sasha (apart from her blonde hair, wide blue eyes, impressive breasts and extremely good legs) the fifth Mrs Buchan was that she was wonderfully responsive in the mornings. ‘Oh, Theo,’ she would say, laughing, turning to him, kissing him, feeling for his penis, stroking it, fondling it, ‘Oh Theo, you are so wonderful.’ It was the best possible way to start the day; he would rise, after it, refreshed, as sleep alone could never make him feel, and stand in the shower, singing
in his curiously tuneless voice, before heading for the gym and his religious-like progress round it. After that, and another shower, he would make his way through glass after glass of orange juice, bowl after bowl of coffee (wherever he was Theodore liked coffee in the French way) and a proper breakfast too, two very lightly boiled eggs followed by a great pile of croissants and pains au chocolat and tartine, and then he would take his great six-foot-five, 100-kilo frame into his dressing room and clothe it, and finally, still feeling wonderful, would pronounce himself ready for the day.
Only today, little of this progress through pleasure was to be granted to him. The Royal Hotel at Woodstock was extremely good, but there was no gym, no indoor pool even, nowhere for him to exercise. God, he should have told Jamie to check on that. So it would have to be jogging which he didn’t enjoy these days, now that he’d got so heavy, and what they called a Continental breakfast was no doubt a piddling little glass of orange juice and a couple of chewy croissants. He could have the English, which was clearly excellent, he’d studied the menu the night before, bacon, eggs, sausages, mushrooms and black pudding – God, it was years since he’d had black pudding – maybe that would see him through to the wedding luncheon which would not be until nearly teatime.
James had asked him if he and Sasha would have supper at the house that night, after everyone had gone; he was still trying to get out of that one, an emotional evening in the bosom of the Forrest family, with its own particular attendant torture, think of an excuse, but so far he’d failed. James had been quite hurt enough that he’d stayed at the hotel the night before, and … Theo wrenched his mind from the problem and decided to have a shower; but the thought was not tempting, an English shower, feeble, trickling, he’d spent half an hour the night before trying to get the soap out of his hair. God, where was Sasha?
It was only just on six, she couldn’t possibly have got up yet. Sasha liked to sleep late, usually slumbering peacefully (after satisfying his demands so deliciously) while he exercised, occasionally sitting up sleepily to be fed morsels of breakfast and sips of orange juice and then often dozing again until he got dressed and made the half-dozen or so phone calls that heralded the beginning of his working day.
‘Sasha?’ he called fretfully in the direction of the bathroom. ‘Sasha, where are you?’
No answer; Theo felt a rush of something close to real rage. She didn’t have to do much, for Christ’s sake, just be there for him. That was what women were for, in his opinion: to be there for men. When he had first met Sasha, she was actually working in a public relations company, and she’d told him she wanted to carry on with her work: her insistence that she was in some way important, contributing to the running of the company, amused and almost touched him, indeed he had enjoyed teasing her about it at the time, especially in front of his friends. ‘How was the board meeting today, Sasha?’ he would say, or ‘Tell us about that big deal you’ve got going through, Sasha, the one with that bank,’ and she would blush prettily and say, ‘Oh Theo, I can’t, you know it isn’t like that,’ and he would say, ‘No, no, if it’s important to you, then we’re all interested, I’d like you to tell us all about it.’ And he’d listen, smiling indulgently as she stammered through some story of a decision to take on two extra account executives, or a new contract with a client in the City, and then he would ask everyone their views on whatever it was, and she would sit only slightly discomfited, looking at him adoringly. But once they were married, he’d insisted on her severing every connection with the company; he was her partner now, he said, with just the merest shadow of menace in his voice, and the only deal she need concern herself with was the one with him. Yes of course she’d said, she completely agreed and understood, and she could quite see that looking after him was going to be not only much more important than anything else she might be involved in, but a great deal more interesting and fun. And she had tried, she had tried very hard, and in the nine months they had been married had made him very nearly happy. Not quite, but that wasn’t her fault. She was only thirty-one years old (to his fifty-nine), loving, thoughtful, charming to his friends and associates, a surprisingly talented housekeeper, a good cook (a talent she didn’t often get a chance to display) – and if she wasn’t exactly clever (a fact which he gently reminded her of from time to time, when she showed any real interest in his business affairs) she was bright enough to chatter away amusingly in any company. She was also extremely good at spending money. Theo had told her he wanted her to look the part of the wife of an international businessman and she’d taken her duties seriously, becoming a personal customer at such disparate places as Chanel, Valentino, Ralph Lauren, Jasper Conran and Jean-Paul Gaultier. Theo raided the jewellers of the world for her, and was said to be seeking a knighthood, simply so that Sasha could have a tiara; meanwhile her collection of gems was dazzling, although mostly stored in the vaults of various banks, her preferred jewellery chosen from Cobra and Bellamy and Butler and Wilson.
Theo’s five children, with the exception of Mungo, detested her, seeing her as a totally unscrupulous gold-digger, and his two elder daughters by wife three no longer spoke to him, since he refused to have them in the house unless they could be genuinely friendly to Sasha. His eldest son, Michael, by wife one, was distantly courteous to her, since his life and personal fortune were too caught up in the business to be otherwise, but Mungo, by wife two (always said to have been Theo’s one great true love, and who had died tragically of cancer after five very good years), made his father very happy by being patently fond of Sasha, said she was gorgeous, that it was nice to have someone his own age around, and that from where he was sitting, anyone who would take his father on deserved any little rewards that happened along her way.
What he meant also, Theo knew, was that anyone who could distract his attention from Mungo’s misdemeanours, or make excuses for them, was extremely welcome; wife number four in particular had been less than fond of Mungo, feeling, perhaps with some justification, that never having done what anyone would actually consider a day’s work in his life, and having lost at least a million at the poker table, a little discipline was called for, albeit somewhat late in the day, and had urged Theo to cut Mungo’s allowance, stop giving him the run of the Buchan homes, and make him at least consider the possibility of casting his mind in the direction of doing something in the way of gainful employment.
Well, she had been right, had number four, Jayne by name: Mungo’s behaviour was a great deal less than exemplary; but Theodore was hard-pressed to upbraid him on it, having led an almost identical life up to the age of thirty himself, when he managed to find the rush of adrenalin, hitherto only experienced at the poker game, in the business world and had trebled the fortune his father had left him by the age of thirty-five.
‘Business is just like poker,’ he was fond of saying, ‘it has nothing to do with chance or luck, or the cards you are dealt, and everything to do with how you read the situation. You can turn a terrible hand to a good one, simply by patience, and watchfulness.’
This maxim was much quoted in the business press. There was, as the financial journalists argued, a little more than patience and watchfulness to making a couple of billion pounds, which was what Theo was currently said to be worth, via his various companies (mostly food, oil and timber), but he would smile charmingly and say no, no, not at all, and if they ever cared to play poker with him, he would prove it to them.
He lived in one of three homes: a fine London house in The Boltons, a large apartment of breathtaking beauty in Paris, on the Ile St Louis, on the Quai Bethune, a chateau in the hills above Nice. He also owned a small island near Mustique, and another even smaller off the west coast of Scotland, a castle in County Cork, and an apartment in Trump Tower, New York – but they were for occasional visits, he explained, they were not homes. His favourite was undoubtedly Paris; Paris was where he had grown up, he said, where he had spent his happiest times, where he had his closest friends.
‘Paris is a sexy
city,’ he liked to say, ‘people know how to enjoy themselves, how to please themselves.’
Sasha, on the other hand, preferred London.
Theo got out of bed, pulled on his bathrobe and went over to the window. It overlooked a quiet courtyard at the back of the hotel; in the distance he could see the glorious lyrical parkland of Blenheim. It was a perfect day; well, that was good. Probably be too hot, but the sun would shine on the bride, and they would all be able to wander about in the garden, drinking the champagne that he knew would be excellent because it had been his wedding present to James (not Cressida, to whom he had given a bed of considerable splendour, a late eighteenth-century French four-poster, with exquisitely painted and fluted posts and wonderful cream brocade curtains). ‘I don’t want any bloody nonsense,’ he’d said firmly, when he called to say twenty cases of Veuve Clicquot were being delivered to the Court House, ‘expensive business getting married, Christ, I should know, and you’re not a rich man.’
‘I’m quite rich enough, thank you,’ James had said with a touch of irritation, and Theo had said it was impossible to be rich enough and that James wasn’t rich at all by his standards, which was true, and couldn’t he give an old friend a little something to launch his daughter into married life?
As he looked down into the courtyard, frowning, increasingly displeased at Sasha’s absence, he suddenly realized that his car was missing. It was his favourite car: the silver Bentley Continental, immensely valuable. He kept it garaged in London through the winter and drove it with great pleasure down to the South of France every spring; he had driven it back up this summer, so that Cressida Forrest could have it for her wedding, and Theo’s chauffeur, who had sat wretchedly in the back of the Bentley for most of the journey up from Nice, was due to drive it over to the Court House at 1:30 to take first Maggie and the bridesmaids and then Cressida and James to the village church. And the last thing Theo had done last night before getting into bed was look fondly out of the window at it; now it had gone.
Another Woman (9781468300178) Page 5
