‘I don’t know,’ said Tilly again. ‘But we can’t just stay here. Come on, Mungo, be a man.’
He still didn’t move. Tilly sighed, raised her hand and rang the bell. It was a very ugly loud buzz; nothing happened. She did it again for longer. Still no answer.
‘She must have gone out and left the radio on,’ she said, relief making her weak. ‘We’d better come back.’
‘No, we might miss her.’
A man emerged from the lift, stood at the door of 2A, fiddling with his keys. ‘Keep trying,’ he said, ‘she never hears anything. She’s definitely there. I saw her go in with the dog.’
‘The dog?’ said Mungo. ‘But she – she hasn’t got a dog.’
‘I wish,’ said the man and disappeared. Tilly started hammering on the door with her fists, in between ringing the bell. ‘This is hopeless,’ said Mungo, ‘why don’t we go and phone again?’
‘No.’ She rang the bell again, left her finger on it. ‘Cressida!’ she shouted as loudly as she could. ‘Cressida, open the door.’
A dog started barking furiously. The music stopped; they heard footsteps coming towards the door, an inside key in the lock; a handle turned. Tilly swallowed, tried to ease her dry mouth. Then: ‘All right, all right,’ said a voice, ‘just hang on a minute. Who is it?’
A rather hard voice it was, with a South London twang to it: a voice that certainly wasn’t Cressida’s. A face looked through the crack of the door, past the chain, a pale slightly peevish face that wasn’t Cressida’s either. A dog’s nose thrust its way out at knee level. Tilly stood there, staring into the crack; then she said, ‘I’m sorry. We’re friends of Cressida Forrest’s. Is she there?’
‘Cressida Forrest?’ said the voice. ‘No, of course she’s not here. She hasn’t been here for over six months.’
She was a very good-natured woman actually in spite of her peevish face; she asked them in, gave them a cup of tea, told them everything she knew, which wasn’t much. Her name was Sally Hawkins, she was recently divorced, and Cressida had sold the flat to her soon after Christmas, had advertised it privately in Loot. She had taken the phone number with her, and had given the woman the Court House as her forwarding address.
‘She was a very nice girl,’ said Sally Hawkins, ‘a very nice girl indeed. She got on very well with Benjy,’ she added, looking fondly at the dog, an extremely shaggy black mongrel. ‘She said she’d always wanted a dog as a child and hadn’t been allowed one.’
‘Oh really?’ said Mungo. ‘Er – was there ever anyone here with her, when you came to see the flat and so on?’
‘No. She lived alone here, as you probably know. She seemed a very lonely person.’
‘Did you – that is, was the flat expensive?’ asked Tilly. ‘For what it was, I mean?’
‘No, not really. About average, maybe a bit below. But it’s hard to tell these days, with the state of the market, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, I guess it is. Do you think any of the neighbours might have known her?’
‘Well, I don’t know. This isn’t a very friendly place. The guy next door moved in after me, and all he ever does is complain about Benjy and my music. And I’ve never got to know anyone else at all.’
‘We could ask the caretaker, I suppose,’ said Tilly. ‘But thanks anyway. Er – here’s my number. If by any chance you think of anything, remember any clues she might have given you as to where she’s gone, could you ring me?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Sally Hawkins.
They tried the caretaker again; he was still out. Tilly looked at Mungo. He was very pale, clearly shaken.
‘I need a drink,’ she said.
‘Me too. Let’s find a pub. And then we should call Harry.’
Tilly opened her front door with a hand so weak it could hardly turn the key, and walked very slowly into her flat. She loved it, a white shell of a place, too big for her really, with very little furniture because she’d never had time to buy any, just a few couches and low glass tables, and a big iron bed, a present from Rufus (‘mostly selfish’ he’d said to her tenderly, ‘now I want you to burn that horrible futon.’) She stood there smiling round at it, feeling immediately better, and then noticed it smelt very fusty. Well, it wasn’t really surprising. She hadn’t been in it for three days, a hot three days; the windows were all tightly closed, the pile of dirty laundry she had meant to put into the machine before she’d left was still sitting on the bedroom floor, and the half-finished bottle of milk she’d left out on the draining board had separated into a watery rancid mess. She’d have to get a proper housekeeper or something rather than just dear Betty who came in once a week for what she called a whip-round. Tilly poured the offending milk down the sink, ran the cold tap fiercely to get rid of the smell, dumped the laundry into the washing machine and plugged in the kettle. At least she’d got some Long Life; if there was one thing she really hated it was black coffee.
She kicked off her boots, poured herself a glass of wine to go with the instant coffee and cigarette that frequently served her for a meal, and stood staring out of her small kitchen window. What a shit of a day. She couldn’t ever remember one like it. It really had had the lot, that day: work, airports, hangover, sex, love, shock (several doses), new encounters, old friends, rage, confrontation – and great sadness. She wasn’t sure what the deepest impression was, but it sure as hell wasn’t making her feel good now. She decided that it was probably the sadness: sadness for Harriet, for her family, for Mungo, for Cressida even – but most of all for Rufus and for herself.
There could be no happy ending to their particular little story, she thought to herself, pouring the water into the mug, adding five sweeteners (God, to think that used to be three spoons of sugar), carrying it over to the white leather sofa by the window, scooping up the telephone as she went. She loved Rufus, she loved him almost beyond endurance, and he loved her as much in return; and she had to end it, end the whole thing quickly before it grew and strengthened so that there could be no hope of revival, no tender, delicate little shoots and roots left. It was the only way, she had seen that as she walked through the lovely Oxfordshire countryside with Oliver that afternoon – God, it felt like months ago – trying to concentrate on what he was saying. There was no good thinking she could live with it, avoid James, ignore Rufus’s origins, turn her back on his family, because it wasn’t going to work. Apart from anything else it wasn’t in Rufus’s nature to do that; he was in essence a family person, he adored his mother, and the man he thought was his father, he loved his home, he belonged to his background. And there was no way either she could keep her new knowledge about him, about his parentage, to herself; her intrinsic honesty would never allow it. Even if James Forrest did what she had asked – and she was very doubtful that he would, and that matters would end there – she would have to tell Rufus what she knew. And that would spread pain, misery into so many lives, and while she felt no concern for James, for Susie, she cared very very much for Harriet, and for Rufus himself. He would be upset when she told him she couldn’t marry him, didn’t want to see him any more, but it would be normal healthy pain, he would get over it, find some other girl to love and to marry, some suitable, well-bred blonde, who would choose pretty chintzy furniture for his pretty, smartly based house, bear him pretty blond children, and wear pretty, dull clothes at her charming important dinner parties.
It would all be much much better and she would be over it in no time, indeed be back where she wanted to be, free, untied, in charge once more. She was tough, she had a most vulgarly iron constitution, she would find some new lover, from her own world, who understood her life and whose life she understood, and in a year, probably less, she would be thinking of Rufus fondly but slightly detachedly and she would hardly be able to remember how his eyes looked when they rested upon her, how he smiled with pure childish pleasure just at her very presence, how her heart lurched and her head spun when she saw him again after some parting, however brief, how she felt someh
ow warmed and cared for when she was near to him, how his voice seemed to reach out and caress her, how the gentlest, most casual touch left her shaken and moved, how when she was apart from him she felt not quite whole, not quite herself: all these things, she thought, told herself, forced herself to know, would pass, would become a memory, a part of her own history. But first, first there was the pain. And she shrank from it.
She knew when she must do it, had arranged it even, there was no sense in postponing it. Every day she left it, every hour she put it off, made it worse, deeper, crueller. Rufus was coming to see her in the morning (it wasn’t true that she had to work) after driving his mother back to town; she would tell him then. Not the whole truth, there would be no sense in that; she would tell him instead that they had no future with one another and their affair was best ended at once. And then she would take up the Rosenthal offer, and go to New York, quickly – and that was another thing; if she did that she could put some money into Harriet’s company, that would make it seem a little more worthwhile, would ease her homesickness – it was all going to be vile; he would argue, protest, and so she would have to hurt him further, be vicious to be kind, tell him she was already half involved with someone else, some photographer, designer, spare him hope. Tilly poured herself another glass of wine, lit another cigarette, put REM onto her stero. And then the phone rang. It was Ken Lazard.
‘Harry? It’s Tilly. Any news? Oh, I see. Well, I have some. No, nothing about Cressida. Did you tell the police about the flat? And what did they say? That is so strange. I mean it’s all so complicated. Harriet, don’t sound so despairing. The more we learn, the more it’s obvious that Cressida planned this whole thing. Has been planning it for months. Yes, I know it’s terrible, but at least you can assume she’s safe. I mean she hasn’t been kidnapped or run over. Try to be positive. What? Yeah, I know you do. Now listen, Harry. Have I got news for you. As they say. Ken Lazard called me just now. Apparently – Harry, are you sitting down? Well, I really think you should – apparently your Mr Cotton, he’s called Hayden by the way, Mr Cotton had dinner with – shit, Harry, I can hardly bear to tell you this – dinner with Theo Buchan three nights ago.’
There was a very long silence. Tilly could feel the shock coming down the phone; it was a physical force.
Then: ‘But he can’t have done. Theo was in London.’
‘So was Hayden. For twenty-four hours.’
‘But how does he know Theo?’
‘Oh Harry, you know how all these guys link up. Theo has a textile division, for God’s sake. And Theo told him not to get into bed with you. Figuratively of course.’
‘What!’
‘Yes, I know. I know. Harry, try to keep calm. Don’t go and shoot him yet. I want to help.’
‘But Tilly – oh, I can’t believe it. I just can’t think Theo would have been that – that unscrupulous. That evil.’
‘You’d better believe it. Anyway, it fits. Think about it. The timing, everything. You said they were about to sign what? – forty-eight hours ago, that you’d agreed terms, everything.’
‘But what grounds did Theo give him?’
‘I don’t know. Obviously it was complex and Ken couldn’t find out any more. I expect he said you were incompetent – or anything really.’
‘God,’ said Harriet. ‘Tilly, do you think he stopped the other two deals as well?’
‘Don’t know. Sounds possible. He’s obviously been monitoring you and your plans quite closely.’
‘But how – ’
‘Harry, it really isn’t very difficult. Honestly. You know what a tiny world it is.’
‘Oh my God. Tilly, thank you so much. So much. I don’t know quite what I’m going to do, but – well, I’ll think of something. But I tell you what. I feel an awful lot better suddenly.’
‘Good. Get him by the goolies, Harry, squeeze them till he screams.’
‘I couldn’t bear to touch them,’ said Harriet simply.
The substitute food wasn’t working; Tilly decided she needed the real thing. She dialled the local pizza delivery company, but it was engaged; suddenly going out, walking a few streets seemed like a good idea.
The air was very warm still, but not close; the sky was almost dark. The streets were packed, a mass of people walking, shopping, sitting outside pubs, at pavement tables, smiling, friendly people. It was true what everyone said, Tilly thought, the weather played a huge part in the English reserve.
She walked down to the Kings Road, into the Europa supermarket, bought a basketload of vegetables and some eggs. A huge Spanish omelette was exactly what she fancied. She wandered back slowly, enjoying the evening, feeling better. It was ten o’clock: an endless day.
As she ran up the stairs to her flat, she heard the phone ringing, then stop as the answering machine took the call. She couldn’t hear what the person was saying, but it was a female voice. Probably Harriet, calling to talk about Theo again.
She pressed the playback button: there were three lights flashing. The first message was from James Forrest.
‘Miss Mills? This is James Forrest. I’ve thought over what you had to say, and I agree it would be nice if I talked to your mother. Perhaps you’d like to let me have her number some time so that I can call her. Thank you.’
‘Well, well, well,’ said Tilly aloud. ‘You must be a very frightened man.’ Even to her it seemed remarkable that he should move into action on such a day. She debated ringing her mother, then decided it would possibly upset her to get such a call, to be forced into recollection; she needed to be with her, to explain, to talk it over. She would go over at the weekend to Peckham and sit with her and tell her about it, tell her that James Forrest wanted to see her and reassure her after all this time that she had not been at fault.
The second call was from Felicity Livesey. ‘Tilly, it’s Felicity. Mick said you were back in London. Sorry to hound you, but I’d like to give some kind of indication at least to Meg Rosenthal on how you feel about her offer. Could you give me a ring at home? Thanks.’
Then the third message.
‘Tilly? This is Cressida Forrest. When you get back, could you please just call my family and tell them I’m fine, and they are not to worry about me. Thanks.’
Chapter 18
Harriet 9pm
Mr Buchan was out, they told her, in their blank, courteous way, had taken his car and gone out. No, he hadn’t checked out of the hotel, but they really couldn’t say when he would be back. They were so sorry. No, Mrs Buchan wasn’t there either. Yes, of course they would give him a message. And yes, they would make sure he got it, no matter what time he came in.
Harriet put down the phone and wondered how on earth she was going to stand the raging mass that was centred somewhere in the area of her stomach for however long it took before she was able to confront Theo. She felt quite literally possessed; she knew now how people could kill.
She stared at the closed door of the drawing room; from behind it she could hear – what? Dear God, the television. How on earth could they watch television, all of them, when Cressida had gone missing? Then she considered the alternatives they had all been pursuing for the past two hours, and decided it was actually quite sensible. If one more person put forward a theory, she knew she would scream. She felt like screaming anyway; indeed it began to seem rather difficult to imagine that she would be able to endure many more minutes of this day without doing so.
It was almost dusk now, the sky deep brilliant turquoise, the sun sinking in a glory of orange behind the hills. The stillness was almost tangible; she felt if she went outside she would be able to put out her hand and touch it, feel it. It would be cool, she thought, slightly silken in texture; soothing, gentle. She decided to go down to the bridge and watch the sun finally settle into the night, see the stars come up. It was lovely down there in the darkness; when she and Cressida had been little they had crept out sometimes, greatly daring, and sat there, listening to the night sounds, the owls, the horses oc
casionally nickering, the water rats plopping into the stream. It was one of the few experiences that united them; they would snuggle together on the stone seat, holding hands, sharing a sense of courage, of adventure. They had only been caught twice (and of course she’d been blamed, being the eldest, and indubitably the instigator of the expeditions), but had gone out many times, every summer.
She went to the back door, and was about to cross the yard when she remembered Theo; she didn’t want to miss his call. And they might be worried if they didn’t know where she was. She went back, put her head round the drawing-room door. They all looked up slightly guiltily from what they were watching (some costume drama, she noticed confusedly, a re-run of something like Middlemarch). She smiled at them, as cheerfully as she could.
‘I’m just going for a breath of air,’ she said, ‘down to the bridge. If there are any calls, any news, will you call me?’
They nodded; a heaviness had settled on them all. Since the message from Cressida there was a sense of anticlimax, a loss of adrenalin. Only Julia smiled brightly. ‘I’ll come and get you personally, dear,’ she said. She looked marvellous, Harriet thought, as if the day had been a great success, her son safely dispatched with his bride across the Atlantic, instead of publicly humiliated, deserted almost literally at the altar.
Oliver looked at her, then at Harriet, rather uncertainly. ‘Would you mind if I came with you?’ he asked. ‘I won’t if you’d rather not –’
Harriet did mind, she minded very much, but she could scarcely say so. She forced a smile. ‘No, Oliver, of course not. Really. I’m just going to get a sweater. I’ll see you in the kitchen.’
She went out into the utility room; there was nothing there except Barbours and anoraks, all much too warm, and an old, rather holey cardigan of her father’s that they all wore from time to time. It seemed to belong to quite a different time: when everything had been simple, straightforward, happy. A time that belonged to another age: when Cressida was engaged to Oliver and her parents had a good marriage and she had a company that might yet survive. Years and years ago that was, that other age, yet actually only yesterday.
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