Another Woman (9781468300178)

by Vincenzi, Penny

  ‘Hallo, Mungo. I thought you should know what’s happened. And I’ve brought you some beer. You must be terribly hot.’

  ‘Glad someone thinks of me,’ said Mungo, standing up, taking the cans gratefully. ‘You’re a doll, Sasha. What has happened? They haven’t found her, have they?’

  ‘No. Not her. But they’ve found her car.’

  ‘Oh shit.’ Mungo sat down abruptly again, feeling sick. ‘Crashed? Is she –’

  ‘No, not crashed at all. The car was fine. Parked neatly in a country lane. Somewhere in Essex.’

  ‘Essex? What on earth was she doing in Essex?’

  ‘Picking up her plane.’

  ‘Her plane? Sasha, this is purest fantasy. Cressida can hardly handle the lawnmower.’

  ‘Well, maybe not, but she can handle a plane. She has a pilot’s licence. What’s more, Theo has been paying for her lessons. He didn’t know about the licence, though. She swore him to secrecy. Mungo, what the hell do you think is going on?’

  Chapter 10

  Theo 2pm

  Theo felt terrible; guilt suffused him. He shrank from what James might have to say to him about Cressida’s flying lessons; he would see it as an appalling betrayal of friendship, of trust. Theo set aside as determinedly as he could the remembrance of another, greater betrayal – or what James would certainly see as one – and concentrated on this one, the part he had played, however unwittingly, in Cressida’s disappearance. It was ridiculous, he told himself, to feel so bad, he had only paid for the bloody flying lessons (and promised Cressida not to tell anyone about it), but the fact remained that if he hadn’t done it, she couldn’t have taken off quite literally into the blue. OK, if she’d been desperate enough to vanish, she would no doubt have gone anyway; but he had certainly made it easier for her. And he’d kept his promise not to mention it to anyone: ‘Please, please don’t tell them, Theo,’ she’d said, her blue eyes wide with anxiety. ‘You know how hopeless I am, I’ll have such trouble with it, probably never master it at all, and then they’ll all laugh at me. I’ll tell them when I’ve finally cracked it and it’ll be wonderful.’

  And he had agreed, unable to refuse her as always, had kissed her and told her to tell the flying school to send their bills to him. ‘On one condition. You take me up on your first solo flight.’

  ‘Of course I will. Of course. I promise.’

  That had been over eighteen months ago, and she never had taken him up: had confessed to him, ruefully, whenever they were alone together that it was exactly as she had feared, that she was indeed completely hopeless, still hadn’t got the hang even of keeping the nose steady, although she did love it, loved her lessons, and hoped he wouldn’t mind if she went on, and no, he had said, of course he didn’t mind, it was fine by him, she should go on for just as long as it took. He did wonder (as she’d been having so much trouble) if she was actually at the best flying school, but she assured him they were wonderful, terribly kind and patient. She’d told him it was somewhere in Wiltshire; quite what she was doing flying out of Essex he couldn’t imagine. Maybe she’d just had a few lessons there. It had never occurred to him to check on the school; he had rung his secretary and she had confirmed that yes, all the bills had come from some place in Essex, a very intensive course, several hours a week, but that they had ceased in April that year. ‘Apparently she got her licence last September. Just went on flying with them once a fortnight. They said she was very good. Very good indeed.’

  ‘And she took one of their planes?’

  ‘Yes. They’re very upset. They want to speak to you.’

  He had called them, spoken to the owner of the school, Richard Crooke, who had personally instructed Cressida. She had turned up that morning apparently, at eight thirty, asked if she could take one of the planes up and not returned. No said Crooke, she hadn’t seemed at all upset, she was her usual steady, highly competent self. She’d said she’d be back in an hour. There was enough fuel on board for about five hundred miles. Had Mr Buchan any idea where she might have gone and when she might be back?

  Theo said he had no idea, no idea at all, but of course he would contact the school immediately they heard from her, and trusted that they would do the same. Crooke asked if, in the event of the plane not being returned, Mr Buchan would be underwriting the cost. Theo said there was no question of the plane not being returned, and asked if Cressida was really a good pilot.

  She was excellent, Crooke said; from the very first lesson she’d been a natural, shown a complete grasp of the whole thing. No nerves, no mechanical problems. ‘And she loved it. She was laughing with pleasure from the moment the plane started taxiing down the runway. All the things that people usually don’t like at first, banking, landing, she just took in her stride. Her first solo flight, she was off, straight over the sea.’ He hesitated. ‘She didn’t mention to you that she had asked me to look out for a plane for her?’

  ‘No,’ said Theo. ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Well, she did. In fact I’d found one. Just a tiny one, a Cessna, twoseater. That was what she liked best. Said the four-seaters were too cumbersome. She said she was going to come over and see it last weekend. But she never did.’

  ‘But that’s not the plane she’s gone off in now?’

  ‘No. That’s one of ours. The one she flew most. Got her licence in. She said it felt like a pair of running shoes to her, that plane, she was so comfortable, at ease in it. She was a lovely girl, Mr Buchan. I hope to God nothing’s happened to her.’

  ‘Yes, well, I hope so too,’ said Theo. He’d put the phone down feeling rather sick.

  He wished Sasha was with him, but she had gone to see Mungo with some beer, and to tell him the news. He needed her, he needed her very badly. To distract him. What he should have done, he thought, staring morosely into his glass of whisky, was gone to meet Tilly at Heathrow, instead of letting Merlin go. She was coming over, had managed to catch a lunchtime flight. That would have cheered him up, distracted him from his guilt. His marriage to Sasha had not dulled a response to a sexuality as raw, as uncompromising as Tilly’s. But he could see that he couldn’t have left his post; and besides, her imminent arrival was probably causing James as much anguish as the disappearance of his daughter. Bloody silly idea getting Tilly over really; he had tried very hard to dissuade Mungo and Rufus from doing it. But Mungo had said her presence would help, she was so full of common sense and Oliver was so fond of her, and anyway things could hardly be worse. Theo had said shortly that they could be worse, much much worse actually, and Mungo had asked why; and short of giving him a full explanation (which was really not his to give) Theo had been forced to let things run their course. In any case, maybe it was better that she came, that the confrontation between her and James was finally forced; the drama of the aborted wedding might take the edge off it. And there was no doubt that Tilly would cheer things up.

  Extraordinary set of coincidences that had brought things thus far, almost unbelievable. That this girl should not only have met Harriet, but become a friend, quite a close friend indeed, and then to all of them, their tight little circle, and finally that Rufus should have fallen in love with her – it was bizarre, nightmarish. The only thing that saved the situation was Tilly herself. She was superb. In every way. He’d known she would be beautiful, sexily, raunchily beautiful: he’d seen dozens, hundreds probably, of pictures of her. But he had expected her to be tough, self-seeking, and quite possibly extremely stupid. He’d waited to meet her the first time, expecting to dislike her intensely. And she had walked into the room like some graceful, rangy black lioness, smiling her impossibly wide, glorious smile, and had taken his hand and shaken it, and it had been like a man’s handshake, so firm and strong, and said, ‘Hi, Mr Buchan. I’m Ottoline Mills.’ And he’d looked at her, at the slanting eyes, the wild mass of hair, at the long narrow body (dressed in a long slither of a black dress under a black leather jacket), and had not just responded to her, been charmed by her; he’d liked
her. It was nothing to do with her beauty or her sexuality or the fact that, yes, she was tough, but humorously so, and that, no, she was not stupid, quite the reverse indeed, coolly, sharply clever; it was the fact that she was plainly extremely nice. He could see it was a little early to reach such a conclusion, that he could be accused of being overwhelmed by her, but he was sure of it nonetheless. And everything that had happened since had reinforced that view.

  He could scarcely blame Rufus for falling in love with her, in spite of the appalling complications of the thing. What was less clear was why she should reciprocate that love: Rufus, however sweet, was patently not the sort of man with whom Ottoline Mills had spent much time or indeed would have been expected to enjoy spending time. Himself certainly (Christ, if only), Mungo perhaps (God forbid, especially now the boy seemed to be settling down finally – something was having a good effect on him). But Rufus, with his gentle manner, his tender heart, his old-fashioned charm – very unlikely. But love him she plainly did; further proof, Theo felt, of her niceness, that she should value such old-world, intangible virtues. Rufus was not rich, he was not particularly witty, he was not stylish, he was not even chic, he cultivated an almost deliberate shabbiness. If you looked at him and Mungo together, Theo had once remarked to Janine, Rufus looked like some slightly well-worn classical building and Mungo like some stark, perfectly conceived piece of modern architecture. But Rufus was clever, articulate, cultured, original. Of all those qualities, Theo supposed, it was the last that had won Tilly’s heart. She was certainly something of an original herself …

  Josh Bergin had rung suggesting a walk, had come into his room looking grey with strain, and Theo had been unable to refuse. He hated walking, it seemed to him the most dreary of physical activities, if indeed it could be dignified with such a name; but he couldn’t think of an alternative. Josh was hardly in a state (nor did it seem suited to the situation) to swim, or to play golf; walking was at least sober, respectable.

  Well, at least there was good news about Tealing Mills. The New York individual, whoever they were, had put their shares – at a huge profit incidentally, they were obviously extremely canny – back on the market. Theo had instructed Mark to buy. ‘And while you’re about it, tell George I think it might be time to get on with buying some more of those CalVin shares. I know I said softly softly, but that was my policy with Tealing. That is one baby I don’t want to lose. Or rather have you guys lose it for me.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Mark. ‘I’ll get back to you.’

  Theo put the phone down; he wished to hell all he had to worry about today were his companies and their conduct. His pleasure over the Tealing business was intense, almost sexual in nature. Theo could never quite decide which gave him the greater buzz, women or deals. He thought probably deals; certainly the pleasure was longer-lasting. And now if he could just wrap up CalVin, the day would at least have had something in its favour.

  Theo poured himself another large whisky (God, why wasn’t it working, why couldn’t he get drunk?) and sat reflecting upon CalVin: not a Scottish company this time, but an extremely profitable little wine-producing company in the Napa Valley, California (hence the name). Not only was it profitable, it was an exquisite place; he rather fancied making a home there, building a house. Not as a major home, more of a refuge; he might not even tell Sasha about it, he thought, smiling into his glass. It could be extremely useful, in the just-possible event of his wanting to be on his own, or almost on his own, for a few days: secluded, peaceful, utterly private.

  Well, that was for the future: meanwhile there was Josh to be taken care of. He couldn’t put that off any longer. He picked up the phone again. ‘When my wife gets back, tell her I’ve gone for a walk with Mr Bergin, would you?’

  ‘Certainly, Mr Buchan.’

  God, she’d been a long time. Disappearing seemed to be the order of the day altogether.

  Josh didn’t say anything for a long time; he led the way rather determinedly through the hotel grounds, over a stile and into some woods in total silence. Theo, who disliked any silence that lasted for more than twenty seconds, stuck it out for as long as he could and then said, ‘I suppose in twenty years or so we’ll all be laughing about this.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Josh. ‘I certainly hope so.’ He looked at Theo. ‘It really is one’s worst nightmare, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, I can think of much worse,’ said Theo carefully, thinking how Josh really did look more English than the English, tall, blond, quietly dressed; he even talked like an upper-class Englishman. Well, that old-money New York crowd prided itself on its cosmopolitan character; he had been to banking dinners there with Josh and wondered at times whether he was actually back in London. Especially now that the London financial scene was so overrun with barrow boys. Wall Street seemed better.

  ‘I can’t,’ said Josh. ‘I really can’t think of anything much worse. Poor Oliver. Poor old boy.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Theo, ‘poor old boy.’

  ‘He’s so upset. He’s much more easily hurt than anyone realizes, you know. He comes on very controlled and upbeat, but he’s actually extremely sensitive. And he adored Cressida. Really adored her.’

  ‘Yes, well, we all did,’ said Theo. ‘Mustn’t speak of her in the past tense, Josh. She’ll be back.’

  ‘Yes. Yes of course she will,’ said Josh. He didn’t sound terribly certain.

  ‘Definitely,’ said Theo. There was another long silence.

  ‘We didn’t all actually,’ said Josh suddenly. He sounded rather strained.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘We didn’t all adore Cressida.’

  ‘Really? Who didn’t? You?’

  ‘Oh – yes. Yes of course I did.’ He sounded even more tense. Theo looked at him curiously.

  ‘So – who? Who didn’t?’

  ‘Julia didn’t.’ The words came out almost defiantly.

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘No. In fact I would go so far as to say she didn’t like her. Christ, Theo, I’ve been keeping this to myself for months now.’

  ‘Well, old chap, mothers of sons don’t often like their daughters-inlaw. Jealousy you know. Freud at work. Thought you Yanks were heavily into all this psychiatric stuff.’

  ‘Oh, yes, of course, I know all that. And I’m the first to admit that Julia is – what should I say – highly strung. She virtually lives with her analyst. She seems very cool and in control, but she’s a hotbed of emotions underneath. Rather like that crazy old father of hers.’

  ‘How is dear Vernon?’ asked Theo, laughing at Josh’s contorted face.

  ‘Well, I fear,’ said Josh, relaxing suddenly and laughing back. Vernon Coleridge, Julia’s father, lived as a virtual recluse in Palm Beach; Julia, the focus of his life, was now almost his only visitor.

  ‘Anyway, this was rather more than just jealousy, I think. She often said she – didn’t trust her.’

  ‘Really? Why? Whatever made her feel that way?’

  ‘She said Cressida had – lied to her.’

  ‘What on earth about?’

  ‘Oh – this and that. Small things mostly, that didn’t really matter, I suppose.’

  ‘Go on, like what?’

  ‘Well, for instance, she told her that she’d had a bad riding accident as a child and had completely lost her nerve. When Julia asked Maggie about it, Maggie told her she certainly couldn’t remember it. And she said she’d always wanted to go to boarding school, and that because Harriet hadn’t liked it, she wasn’t even allowed to try. Again it turned out that she’d always said she didn’t want to go, had become hysterical at the very suggestion. Oh yes, and she said she’d always desperately wanted a puppy, and because Harriet had had one and it had been run over, that was that.’

  ‘None of it sounds very serious to me,’ said Theo lightly. ‘Typical rewriting of childhood history. Sympathy bids. I expect she was just trying to get Julia on her side. She probably sensed she didn’t like her.’

  ‘Wel
l – maybe. And I expect you’re right. There was a lot of jealousy. Oliver being not just the only son, but the only child. Julia does – what shall I say? – like to mother him still. But there was something rather more serious. That I never discussed with her as a matter of fact.’ He looked at Theo. ‘Are you sure you want to hear all this? Maybe this isn’t the time.’

  ‘I think it’s exactly the time,’ said Theo. ‘And I do want to hear it.’

  ‘Well – she’d been staying with us in New York for a week or so. Earlier this year. Julia was away, gone to see her father, he had a chill or something. Cressida had been out shopping all day and arrived home at around six thirty, terribly upset, said some man had been following her. She hadn’t been able to get a cab and she’d been walking the few blocks home up Madison. As she turned into our street, there’s a small florist on the corner, he’d pushed her into the doorway, started trying to kiss her, and got his hand into her blouse. She only got away by kneeing him in the crotch. She certainly looked a bit roughed up, she had a bruise on her face and another on her arm, and she was very shaky and tearful. I wanted to call the police, but she begged me not to, said everyone would fuss and she just wanted to forget about it. She especially didn’t want Oliver knowing about it, he’d freak out, as she put it, and she couldn’t face going over and over it.’