‘But that was three years ago,’ I stammered, ‘and in America.’
‘Yes, but she was paid by their English subsidiary, who, of course, declared it.’
‘Poor Octavia,’ I said faintly. ‘Have you any idea how much she owes?’
‘Well,’ he said, confidingly, ‘We don’t usually disclose figures’ (he was obviously crazy for me to disclose mine) ‘but I think it wouldn’t be much under five figures. She didn’t by any chance leave a forwarding address, did she?’
‘No she didn’t. There’s the telephone. I must go and answer it,’ I said firmly, shutting the door in his face.
Ten thousand pounds! Where the hell was I going to get that kind of money? Bleating with terror, I ran to answer the telephone, crossing my fingers once again that by some miracle it might be Gareth. But it was Xander. I’d only talked to him briefly since I got back. He’d been busy, so I hadn’t told him about Gareth. I was sure I wanted to, I couldn’t bear for him not to take it seriously.
‘Oh how lovely to hear you,’ I said.
‘You probably won’t think so when you hear the news,’ he said. ‘Hugh Massingham’s dead.’
‘What!’ I sat down on the bed.
‘Heart attack at the weekend. He’d been playing tennis,’ said Xander.
‘Oh God, how awful.’ Kind, handsome, indolent, sensual, easy-going Massingham — Xander’s patron and boss, my friend. He’s always been so generous to both of us — and taken care of all my bills. It didn’t seem possible.
‘I can’t bear it,’ I whispered, the tears beginning to roll down my cheeks.
‘Terrible, isn’t it. I really loved that guy. But darling, I’m afraid that isn’t all. There’s trouble at mill. Ricky’s been going through the books with a toothcomb and smelling salts, and the skeletons have been absolutely trooping out of the cupboard. This year’s figures are catastrophic, shares have hit rock bottom, orders are right down; unfortunately expenses, particularly yours, and mine, are right up.’
He sounded in a real panic.
‘Ricky’s called an emergency department head meeting for tomorrow at three o’clock. He wants you there as well.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘Well, there’s a bit of aggro over your flat, and all the bills we’ve run up between us, and there’s the car too. I think we’d better have a session tonight, and see how many bills we can rustle up,’ he went on, trying to sound reassuring.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘Come round after work.’
It seemed hardly the time to tell him about my income tax bill.
‘Actually,’ Xander went on, ‘it’s a good thing poor Hugh did kick the bucket when he did, Ricky’d already made plans to replace him.’
‘Did Hugh know?’
‘Don’t think so, but it’s certainly made Ricky’s task easier. He’s bringing in this new whizz kid over everyone’s heads to get us out of the wood.’
‘Do you think he’ll be able to?’
‘You should know, darling. It’s your friend, Gareth Llewellyn.’
I lay back on my bed, holding my burning face in my hands — all thoughts of Massingham, ten grand tax bills and fiddled expenses forgotten. Why, why, why had Gareth done it? He’d got far too much on his plate as it was. Why should he take on another directorship? Was it for power, or financial gain, or just to get his fingers into another industrial pie? Could it just possibly be that he wanted to see me again? Or, much more likely, that he’d got it in for me and wanted to cut me to ribbons. Whatever the reason, in just over twenty-four hours I’d see him again.
In the evening Xander and I spent two fruitless hours trying to sort out our expenses — then gave up. I set my alarm clock for eleven the next day, to give me plenty of time to get ready. Even so I panicked round trying on one dress after another. It’s strange how one’s wardrobe tells the story of one’s past. There was the cornflower blue midi I’d bought to ensnare Jeremy, the backless black that had inflamed Ricardo, the gold pyjama suit that had brought Charlie literally to his knees with a proposal, and lying on the cupboard floor, spurned, and never worn again, was the grey dress that had failed to detach that French racing driver from his wife at a ball in Paris last winter.
What could I possibly wear to win over Gareth? He’d said he liked his women gentle, unspoilt and vulnerable. I put on a white dress, bought for Ascot last year, but never worn. It was very garden party, with a full skirt, long sleeves and a ruffled low-cut neckline which showed off my suntan and I hoped made me look innocent and fragile. I had to make a hole in the material to do the belt up tight enough. My eyelids, after a fortnight’s crying, were the only part of me that hadn’t lost weight. I hid them behind tinted spectacles.
I arrived at Seaford-Brennen’s head office to find everyone in a jittering state of expectancy. Yesterday’s shock over Massingham’s death had given way to excitement over Gareth’s arrival. The secretaries had seen his picture on the financial pages. They knew he was rich, successful, attractive and, most important of all, single. They had all washed their hair and tarted themselves up to the nines. The offices, as I walked through, smelt like Harrods’ scent department; not a paper was out of place. I encountered some hostile stares. Why did I have to come swanning in to steal their thunder?
The Seaford-Brennen boardroom, with its dove grey carpet, panelled walls and family portraits, was discretion itself. Xander was the only person in there, sitting halfway down the huge polished table, directly beneath the portrait of my father. Their two bored, handsome restless faces were so much alike. Xander was chewing gum, and drawing a rugger player on his pad.
‘Hullo angel,’ he said in a slurred voice as I slipped into the seat beside him. ‘The condemned board is still out eating a hearty lunch. This place is in an incredible state of twitch, even the messenger boys are on tranquillizers. Ricky’s already been on to me this morning breathing fire about expenses. You must keep bills. I said I’m already keeping a Pamela, what would I want with a Bill.’
Oh God, I thought, he’s smashed out of his mind; he must be chewing gum to conceal the whisky fumes.
‘What happened after you left me?’ I said.
‘I went out and dined, not wisely, but too well, with a friend, and things escalated from there.’
‘Did you get to bed?’
‘Well not to my own bed, certainly.’ He tried to rest an elbow on the table, but it slid off.
The door opened and Miss Billings, the senior secretary, came in, fussing around, moving memo pads, straightening pencils. A great waft of Devon violets nearly asphyxiated us.
‘You ought to put a bit more Pledge at the top of the table,’ said Xander reprovingly, ‘and I’m rather surprised you haven’t laid on a red carpet and a band playing “Land of my Fathers”. Mr Llewellyn is used to the best of everything you know.’
Miss Billings clicked her tongue disapprovingly and bustled out, beads flying. Next moment she was back, with Tommy Lloyd, the sales director.
‘Do you think we ought to put flowers in the middle of the table?’ she asked.
‘A bunch of leeks would be more appropriate,’ said Xander.
Tommy Lloyd gave him a thin smile. He tolerated Xander but didn’t like him. An Old Wellingtonian with a bristling grey moustache, ramrod straight back, and clipped military voice, he had been in next succession after Massingham. His red-veined nose must be truly out of joint at Gareth’s arrival. He was followed by Peter Hocking, who was in charge of production and just about as inspiring as a flat bottle of tonic, and old Harry Somerville, his false teeth rattling with nerves, who’d been with the firm since he was sixteen, and was still treated by everyone as though he was a messenger boy.
Gradually the rest of the chairs were taken up by departmental heads, flushed by lunch, who greeted me with a good deal less enthusiasm than usual, a far cry from the fawning sycophancy when my father was alive.
There was desultory talk of our chances of winning the Test match. Peter Hocking was boring Harry Somerville with a recipe for home-made wine. But on the whole everyone was strangely quiet, and kept glancing at their watches or the door.
‘When all else fails, go to Wales,’ said Xander. ‘I feel exactly as though I’m about to go over Niagara Falls in a
