Another Woman (9781468300178)

by Vincenzi, Penny

  Theo felt as if he had suddenly surfaced after a rather long spell under-water. He smiled at her, released her hands, sat back with his glass of wine. ‘I really don’t think you should worry too much about Jamie,’ he said finally. ‘He’s not really the sensitive little plant you seem to imagine. He can look after himself, old Jamie can. I don’t think he’d mind any of that in the very least.’

  And ‘Oh Theo, thank you,’ said Maggie, ‘that is such a relief. What a good friend you are.’

  Afterwards, after dropping her off at her flat, he wondered if he should actually have told her the truth, and knew that in fact he had not been a friend to her at all.

  It was a measure of Theo’s anxiety about James that he had forgotten about his beloved car as he sat and waited for him. It was also a measure of his faith in his son – which was both considerable and oddly justified. Mungo might have been expelled from two schools (once for smoking cannabis, once for what the headmaster had described as fornication), he might not yet have shown a great interest in anything remotely resembling a career, (although he was currently masquerading as an estate agent and had an office in Carlos Place, whose earnings were, Theo was forced to recognize, just beginning to balance out with its costs); he consistently lost large sums of money at the poker table, consumed awe-inspiring quantities of alcohol, and his idea of being faithful was not being in bed with one woman while another was actually under the same roof; but he was fundamentally honest, loyal and, when the occasion demanded, sensible. And Theo knew that this occasion demanded sense. Mungo would be back, and he would bring the car back; things just might be a little tense in the meantime. He wished he could feel as certain about Sasha. He wasn’t going to stand for this sort of thing from her. He was lighting the first cigar of the day, as a comment on his uncertainty, when the phone rang.

  ‘Theo, good morning.’

  ‘Yes, Mark?’ Mark Protheroe was his personal assistant; he ran the London office with a towering efficiency that at times awed Theo himself. He also had considerable power. He had a watching brief on the companies worldwide, handled all Theo’s charitable ventures, and dealt, together with Theo’s personal secretary, with his diary, a work of some complexity. Mark was on paper an unlikely candidate for the job, a Wykehamist, with a double first in mathematics; he was tall, stooping, and extremely thin, with a hawklike nose, huge bony hands and very faded blue eyes which could absorb the contents of a company report, a balance sheet or a computer screen faster than most people could note the date at the top of it. He reported directly to Theo rather than to George Harding, managing director of Buchan International, a fact which caused Harding to complain vociferously that the swift path he liked to tread was often obstructed by the need to involve Mark Protheroe in considerable and absurd detail. Theo shrugged off the complaints, saying that it was his company, his system and if George didn’t like it he knew what he could do, and that Mark’s brief was simply to receive and transmit information which should in no way affect any decision-making Harding was involved in. This was not strictly true and Theo knew it and Harding knew it, but generally speaking the arrangement worked, mainly by virtue of Mark’s ability to sift through information at a rate which at times seemed almost instantaneous and decide which of it needed Theo’s urgent involvement and which did not. It was a dangerous brief that he held; 95 per cent of the time he got it right. Theo had met him at a business convention Mark was attending in his capacity as lecturer in economics at the Manchester Business School, had made him an offer that quadrupled his salary as well as putting the use of his private plane and the company apartments in New York and Tokyo at his disposal, and was still surprised when Protheroe accepted.

  Mark’s voice, level, calm as always, came over the phone now. ‘Morning, Theo. Just an update. London market’s steady, Japan looks slightly unsettled, New York closed well up.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ said Theo.

  ‘Yes indeed,’ Protheroe earned his salary as much for unruffled good-natured fielding of Theo’s quixotic responses as for any of his more technical skills. ‘Only two other things to watch at this stage. Tokyo Electron have dropped for some reason, only three points but they dropped four yesterday; and I’m afraid we’ve missed out on Tealing Mill.’

  ‘How for Christ’s sake?’ said Theo scowling into the phone through his cigar smoke. Tealing Mills was a timber company, family owned and in trouble; he had been watching it obsessively, convinced he could buy into it and turn it round, had instructed Mark and George Harding to pounce. It was such obsessions, such convictions that had made Theodore Buchan into a billionaire.

  ‘They’ve – well they’ve sold a 20% share apparently,’ said Mark, his nervousness just detectable. ‘Twenty-four hours ago.’

  ‘How the hell did we miss it?’

  ‘We blinked,’ said Mark. ‘It happened that quickly.’

  ‘I pay you not to blink,’ said Theo furiously. He groped for the lighter; his cigar had gone out. Christ, this was turning into a bad day. ‘Can’t I leave anything to you guys to see to? You know how much I wanted that company. Timber’s going through the roof. What the hell are you doing Mark? And who’s bought the bloody thing anyway?’

  ‘Private individual. New York based. I’ve got the New York people on it. They’re getting back to me.’

  ‘Private individual! Shit a brick. Can we get hold of any more?’

  ‘Difficult at the moment I’d say. They’ve got enough money to see them through a bit.’

  ‘Bloody brilliant. So we’ve totally goofed.’

  ‘Well – yes. If you regard this company as really important. George and I don’t. It’s doing OK, but that’s all. You have interests in far more profitable timber companies.’

  ‘Yes, but not ones I can get a hold of. I can turn Tealing white-hot. Correction. Could have done. Stay on it, Mark. Ring me when New York opens at the very least. Tell them to find out who this person is. And keep trying to get hold of some more of the shares. Someone must be offering them.’

  ‘Sure. Er–’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Won’t you be in the church?’

  ‘Ring me on the mobile. It’ll be with Brian.’

  ‘Yes, all right. Oh, and Exmoor phoned, want to check you’ll still be going on Saturday.’

  ‘Of course I will. What a bloody silly question.’

  ‘Yes indeed.’

  The Exmoor Foundation was a small community for the mentally handicapped Theo had financed and built from nothing on the edge of Exmoor; it was one of his favourite projects, and he took a personal and oddly tender interest in it.

  ‘All right, Mark. Speak to you later.’

  He put the phone down scowling and poured himself another coffee. God, it was filthy. He dialled room service, complained about it, ordered some more, and was trying once again to relight his cigar when Sasha walked in. She looked gorgeous; she was flushed, her hair was in a tangled blonde cloud, and she was barefoot. Her blue eyes as she looked at him were innocently wide, but just slightly wary. Theo looked back at her without smiling.

  ‘Where the hell have you been? And where are your shoes, for Christ’s sake?’

  ‘They’re outside the door, Theo. They’re muddy. I’ve been for a walk.’

  ‘Sasha, since when did you like going for walks?’

  ‘Since this morning,’ said Sasha. ‘It was lovely. I really enjoyed it. I think I might take it up as a regular thing.’ She spoke as if walking was a rather unusual occupation like scuba diving or rock climbing.

  ‘Well, next time, you might tell me where and when you’re going. I’ve been worried out of my head about you. Come over here.’

  He held out his arms; Sasha went over to him and put her arms round his neck, kissed first his cheek, then his lips, very gently. He slid his hand into her raincoat and met a bare breast.

  ‘Mrs Buchan! What is this?’

  ‘A breast. I think.’

  ‘Sasha, most people wear clothes before going f
or country walks. If you’re going to make it a regular activity, you’d better get the equipment for it. Stand up.’

  She stood up. He undid the belt of her raincoat; it swung open. Underneath she was stark naked. Theo caught his breath, sat staring at her, feeling his skin prickle, his balls stir, his breathing deepen. Shit, she was gorgeous.

  ‘You’re gorgeous,’ he said simply. ‘Take that raincoat off.’

  Sasha took it off. She was smiling gently now, clearly assured of his benevolence, his trust. She leant towards him gently; Theo put out his hand and pushed her upright again.

  ‘A moment, my darling. I’m not yet absolutely into my dotage. Would you mind telling me exactly why you developed this sudden urge for early country walking after – what? thirty-one years of sleeping late? Well, maybe only thirty. I daresay you woke early as an infant.’

  Sasha looked at him slightly less confidently. She shivered slightly and reached for her raincoat. Theo put out his arm and held hers.

  ‘No, don’t put it back on. I like the slight sense of disadvantage you’re at, and besides it’s very nice for me. Just tell me, Sasha, I’m not going to beat you up.’

  ‘Oh, Theo –’

  ‘Don’t Oh Theo me. I don’t like being lied to. Or prevaricated with.’

  ‘Theo, I would like to get dressed.’

  ‘And I would prefer you didn’t. Why did you go out?’

  ‘Theo, for God’s sake, I told you –’

  There was a knock on the door. ‘Yes,’ shouted Theo.

  ‘It’s me,’ said James’s voice and he walked in.

  ‘Christ I’m sorry,’ said James. ‘You did tell me to come straight up.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Theo expansively. ‘We’re pleased to see you, aren’t we, Sasha?’

  ‘Yes of course,’ said Sasha, smiling automatically. She had put her raincoat back on. ‘How are you, James? Er – would you both excuse me? I have to have a bath.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Theo. ‘Close the door, darling, won’t you? This is a private conversation about to be held. Very private.’

  Sasha looked at him, her blue eyes suddenly dark with hostility. Theo was surprised; she was normally totally acquiescent. She turned and walked through to the bathroom and slammed the door. Taps started running very hard.

  ‘You’re a bastard,’ said James. He managed to smile rather weakly. ‘You really can’t talk to your wife like that.’

  ‘On the contrary, I can, and frequently do,’ said Theo calmly. ‘Coffee, Jamie?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said James. He sat down and took a cup. His hand was shaking visibly. He drained the cup, held it out for more.

  ‘You look as if you need a brandy,’ said Theo. ‘Want one?’

  James shook his head. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Sorry. One of these days I’ll crack that resolve of yours.’

  ‘Of course you won’t,’ said James irritably. ‘Never.’

  ‘OK,’ said Theo, refilling the cup. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s Rufus.’

  ‘Rufus! What on earth has Rufus been doing? Nothing in my car I hope. You haven’t heard from them I suppose?’

  ‘No. Sorry.’ James looked at him, tried to smile and then suddenly put his head in his hands. Theo looked at him in alarm.

  ‘Jamie, come on. It can’t be that bad.’

  ‘It’s quite bad,’ said James. ‘Rufus is in love. Says he’s going to get married. Susie told me last night.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So it’s with – with someone he has no business to be in love with.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Jamie, do stop talking in riddles,’ said Theo wearily. ‘Who’s the boy in love with? And what’s it to you? Apart from the little matter of – well we won’t go into that now.’

  ‘We might have to,’ said James. ‘He’s in love with Ottoline Mills.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Theo, ‘shit a brick.’

  Chapter 4

  Tilly 6am

  ‘Fuck off,’ said Tilly politely, slamming down the phone on the well-spoken robot who had just informed her that it was six heures. She tried to open her eyes, but they felt raw and scratchy, and her head throbbed horribly. ‘Shit, shit,’ she said aloud, she shouldn’t have had all that red wine last night, she should never have gone to that bloody place with that little nerd, it always always had this effect on her, she really should have learnt by now. It would show too, on her face, on her skin, she would look terrible, and she only had – what? Three-quarters of an hour, not long enough to go for a run, maybe the hotel sauna – yes, that would help. God, it had better be open; of course it would be, this might be Paris, but she was in a small piece of America, that’s why she had chosen to be here rather than somewhere more romantically French – who needed that on a trip? Tilly unwound her long legs from the foetal position they liked to spend the night in, sat on the edge of the bed, her head in her hands, her long red nails pushed into her short cropped black hair, trying to force the pain out.

  ‘Come along, Ottoline,’ she said, ‘pull yourself together,’ and she stood up, fighting the nausea, the pain, wrapped herself into the thick white bathrobe that the Intercontinental Hotel had loaned to her, and padded along the corridor to the elevator.

  The Fitness Centre was not only open, it was busy. Complacently lean, tanned Americans and earnest Japanese walked, jogged, stepped, rowed: every machine was in action. Tilly looked round the room, swept it the half-inviting, half-contemptuous smile that accompanied her down the catwalks on the most prestigious fashion shows in the world, and walked into the sauna, ignoring the pile of towels on her way in. It was empty, thank Christ; she took off her robe and sat down naked, as wearily as if it had been night-time (if only, if only it was), on the wooden slatted seat, drew her knees up, sat hugging them, her head thrown back, waiting for, feeling already, the hard dry heat take possession of her, reaching inwards for her aching bones, her sore stomach. Trickles of sweat were forming between her breasts, her thighs, on her forehead, it was good, so good this, healing, soothing, and she felt suddenly she could cope with it, the long awful day ahead, the heat of the city, the bad temper she was going to encounter, from French fashion editors, hairdressers, make-up artists, and that bastard of a photographer McGrath. God, she hated him, with his bald head and his ponytail, and those dreadful glittering, evil eyes. The real Evil Eye, maybe he had that even, and maybe he could – Tilly realized suddenly that her thoughts were drifting dangerously free, she would be asleep again in a minute, and she stood up, feeling the room swim nastily, nauseously. Outside the sauna she breathed the suddenly fresh air, and without daring even to pause, jumped into the ice-cold plunge pool, feeling its shock on her skin, her veins, her lungs. Christ Almighty, she was going to faint, she was going to die. She hung onto the rail, her eyes closed, counting; get up to sixty, Tilly, and you can get out. But could she stay there deathly, mortally cold for so long? Yes, she could, she must … forty-nine, fifty … fifty-five, nearly there, now, fifty-nine, sixty. Thank Christ. She opened her eyes, started to climb out, realized she had left her robe in the sauna, realized there was a smiling, cocky bastard – French, he had to be, in those grey jersey shorts – standing at the top of the steps to the plunge pool watching her climb out, realized her breasts – the nipples hard and stiff with the cold – were already out of the water, and that the rest of her must surely follow. Well, OK, fine, if that was how he wanted to start his day, getting his rocks off on a bit of voyeurism, let him. She continued to climb, enjoying the moment as she finally stepped right out when he saw that she was taller than him, by two, maybe three inches, looked down at him, first at his face and then, pointedly, consideringly, down at his crotch, and walked slowly, gracefully past him, retrieved her robe and made for the elevator.

  Back in her room she did feel much better: tired, but at least likely to stay alive. She stood in front of the bathroom mirror, drenching herself in Opium body lotion, looking at herself
dispassionately as she was able easily to do (indeed it was one of the essential qualities, one that separated a good model from a great one, Felicity her agent had told her once), at the small head set on the long proud stalklike neck, the great slanting brown eyes, the chiselled lips above the tiny pointed chin, and the great slender height of her, six foot one and a half inches, the breasts that managed to be full on her wraithlike torso, the awesomely narrow hips, the flat stomach, the high, taut buttocks – slightly darker than the rest of her body, which was what the arty-farty girl from Vogue had labelled cocoa-butter brown in her copy – and then the legs, forty-five inches from hip to floor, legs that fashion editors at once loved and loathed, necessitating trousers specially made for sessions, false hems on skirts, legs that propelled her along without seeming (as another artyfarty journalist had said) to make any true contact with the ground. She brushed what there was of her hair: it was good, the short cut, very good. After ten days she still liked it. It had been the right thing to do. Tough, like the plunge pool, but right. Nicky Clarke had been telling her to cut it for months and she had resisted him, saying there were too many black girls around with short crops. ‘Not the way I’ll crop it,’ he’d said, and had spent a whole afternoon working round and round her head, caressing it tenderly, sensuously with his scissors, getting it exactly the right shortness, a perfect carved cap with a lick of length over the nape of her neck. Clever boy, Nicky: very clever.

  She hauled on a pair of leggings and a big T-shirt, heard her stomach rumble ominously; she should eat. Otherwise that row would be going on all day. She’d pick up a baguette on the way down to the studio, eat it in the taxi. She might throw up, but it was worth the risk.

  In the taxi, blind to the golden beauties of early-morning Paris, going towards the Marais, to Mick McGrath’s studio, munching the baguette, feeling steadily better, she looked at the real people – as opposed to the fantasy folk, like herself, like Susie Verge the fashion editor from Sept Jours she would be working with today, like Laurent the make-up artist, like McGrath – and felt sharply ashamed of regarding her day with foreboding. What she did, what they all did, was, as Nöel Coward had so memorably said, better than working; and as her mother had also said, slightly less memorably, ‘Ottoline, you don’t know what the word work means.’