Octavia

Chapter Nine

Great fans of overhanging willow trees crashed against the roof as we drew up at Ricky Seaford’s newly painted blue and white boathouse. Hayfields rose pale and silver towards a dark clump of beech trees, surrounding a large russet house, which was flanked by stables, sweeping lawns, and well kept fruit and vegetable gardens.

‘Goodness, how glamorous,’ said Gussie, standing on the shore and tugging a comb through her tangled hair. ‘I hope we don’t look too scruffy.’

I certainly didn’t. I was wearing a pale pink shirt over my black bikini, and the heat had brought a pink glow to the suntan in my cheeks.

‘Ricky Seaford’s a frightfully big noise, isn’t he?’ said Gussie.

‘Well, he makes a lot of noise,’ I said, admiring my reflection in the boathouse window.

‘It’ll be so useful for Gareth to meet him,’ said Gussie.

‘Oh he’s right out of Gareth’s league.’

‘Never mind,’ said Gareth equably. ‘I may pick up a few tips.’

We walked up the slope, past hedges dense and creamy with elder flowers and hogweed. Under huge flat-bottomed trees, sleek horses switched their tails deep in the buttercups. We came to a stile. Jeremy went over first, and helped Gussie and then me. For a second I let myself rest in his arms.

We let ourselves in through a wrought iron gate, walking across unblemished green lawns, past huge herbaceous borders luxuriating in the heat.

‘These are Joan’s pride and joy,’ I said. ‘She’s very good in flower bed.’

‘Is she nice?’ said Gussie.

‘Well, let’s say I prefer Ricky. She’s a perfectly bloody mother-in-law to poor Xander.’

At that moment, several assorted gun dogs and terriers poured, barking, out of the French windows, followed at a leisurely pace by Ricky Seaford. He was a tall man, who had grown much better looking in middle age, when his hair had turned from a muddy brown to a uniform silver grey. This suited his rather florid complexion which had been heightened, year by year, by repeated exposure to equal quantities of golf-course air and good whisky. Beneath the bull-terrier eyes the nose was straight, the mouth firm. A dark blue shirt, worn outside his trousers, concealed a middle-aged spread. The general effect was pro-consular and impressive.

‘Hullo, chaps,’ he said in his booming voice, kissing me on the cheek. ‘Joan’s down at the pool.’ He was always more friendly to me when she was out of earshot.

‘This is Gussie Forbes and Jeremy West,’ I said.

‘Nice to see you,’ said Ricky, giving them the big on-off smile that gave him such a reputation for having charm in the City. ‘You’ve certainly picked the right weather.’

Suddenly he saw Gareth who had lingered behind to talk to the dogs. For a minute Ricky looked incredulous, then his face lit up like a Christmas tree.

‘Why Gareth,’ he bellowed. ‘You do pop up in the most unexpected places. What the hell are you doing here?’

‘Cruising down the river on a Sunday afternoon,’ said Gareth. ‘I must say it’s a nice place you’ve got here, Ricky.’

‘Well, well, well, I didn’t realize you were going to see it so soon.’

Ricky now seemed terribly pleased with everything. ‘Fancy you meeting up with this lot. Now I expect you’d like a drink. Come down to the pool. Joan’s been so looking forward to meeting you.’

‘You know each other?’ said Gussie, looking delighted. ‘What a coincidence; you never said so, Gareth.’

‘No one asked me,’ he said.

‘Is this all of you?’ said Ricky. ‘I thought you mentioned some tiresome little parvenu who needed putting in his place, Octavia?’

‘That was probably me,’ said Gareth drily.

If I’d had a knife handy, I’d certainly have plunged it into him. I moved away, kicking a defenceless-looking petunia when no one was looking.

The pool, which was of Olympic size and always kept at 75 degrees, lay in an old walled garden, overgrown with clematis, ancient pink roses and swathes of honeysuckle. At one end, in a summerhouse, Ricky had built a bar. Joan Seaford, a 15-stone do-gooder, most of it muscle, lay under a green and white striped umbrella, writing letters. She glanced up coldly as we approached. She always looks at me as though I was a washing machine that had broken down. As is often the case, the people who married into the Seaford-Brennen clan were the ones who felt the family rivalry most strongly. The violent jealousy Joan had always displayed towards my mother was now transferred to me and intensified by the resentment she felt towards Xander.

‘Hullo Octavia,’ she said. ‘You’re looking very fit.’

Her voice had that carrying quality developed by years of strenuous exercise bawling out gundogs, and terrorizing charity committees. Drawing close I could see the talcum powder caked between her huge breasts, and smell the Tweed cologne she always used.

I introduced Gussie and Jeremy. Ricky had dropped behind, showing the new diving boards to Gareth.

‘I’ve never seen such a beautiful pool,’ raved Gussie. ‘And your herbaceous borders are out of this world. How on earth do you grow flowers like that? My fiancé and I have just got a house with a tiny garden. We’re so excited.’

Joan looked slightly more amiable; her face completely defrosted when Ricky came up and said, ‘Darling, isn’t this extraordinary? Guess who’s on the boat with them — Gareth Llewellyn.’

‘Oh, I’ve heard so much about you.’

‘And Octavia’s been telling us lots about you, Mrs Seaford,’ said Gareth, taking her hand.

Joan shot me a venomous look, then turned, smiling, back to Gareth.

‘My dear, you must call me Joan. I gather you and Ricky have been doing a lot of business together.’

‘Well, yes,’ said Gareth, the lousy sycophant, still holding her hand. ‘We hope to. I must say you’ve done this pool beautifully.’

‘Well what’s everyone going to have to drink?’ said Ricky, rubbing his hands.

Gussie was putting an awful flowered teacosy on her head.

‘I’d love to have a swim first,’ she said.

I sat down on the edge of the pool. One of the Seaford setters, sensing my ill-humour, wandered, panting, over to me and shoved a cold nose in my hand. The dogs had always been the only nice people in the house.

My temper had not improved half an hour later. Everyone had swum and Gareth, having totally captivated Joan Seaford, had been taken off to the house to talk business with Ricky. Ricky, having learnt from Gareth that Jeremy was in publishing, had invited him to inspect the library which dripped with priceless first editions that no one had ever read. Gussie was still gambolling round in the shallow end like a pink hippo, rescuing ladybirds from drowning. I was left with Joan.

‘Where’s Pamela?’ I said.

‘She’s gone off to lunch with some friends — the Connolly-Hockings. He’s the prospective candidate for Grayston. Xander finds them boring. We were rather surprised he couldn’t make it this weekend. You’d think after three weeks in the Far. .’

‘He was exhausted by the trip,’ I said. ‘It’s his first weekend home. I expect he had a lot of things to catch up on.’

‘Ricky thought it rather odd he used pressure of work as an excuse,’ said Joan. ‘He must confine all his industry to the weekends.’

‘What do you mean?’ I said sharply.

Joan wrote the address of some Viscountess on the envelope in her controlled, schoolgirl hand. Then she said, ‘Xander doesn’t seem to understand that office hours run more or less from 9.30 to 5.30 with one hour for lunch. He shouldn’t spend quite so long every day pouring drinks down young men who ought to be back in their offices at the Stock Exchange.’

Despite the white heat of the day I suddenly felt as though ice cold water was being dripped down my neck. Had Ricky and Joan got wind of Xander’s proclivities? God help him if they had.

‘Xander does most of his deals over lunchtime drinks,’ I protested.

At that moment Gussie joined us.

‘Are you talking about Xander?’ she said, ripping off her petalled tea cosy. ‘I always did think he was the most glamorous man ever — after Jeremy that is.’

Joan gave a wintry smile.

‘I gather from Tavy that Pamela is divine too,’ said Gareth, having gathered no such thing. ‘But I can’t believe you’ve got married daughters, you look so young.’

Joan patted her sculptured blue curls. ‘I’m going to be a grandmother soon.’

‘How exciting,’ shrieked Gussie. ‘You didn’t tell me Xander was having a baby, Tavy.’

‘No, my other daughter,’ said Joan. ‘She only got married in March, but they don’t believe in waiting, unlike Xander and Pammie who’ve been married two years.’

‘Oh that’s not long,’ said Gussie, soothingly. ‘I know she’ll get pregnant soon.’

‘She might,’ said Joan, ‘if Xander spent more time at home.’

I flushed and was about to contradict her, when Gussie said, ‘Alison was only married in March? Then you must be an expert on weddings. I bet it was lovely.’

‘It was rather a success. Poor Ricky had to sell a farm to pay for it. Perhaps you saw the photographs in The Tatler?’

‘I believe I did,’ lied Gussie.

And they were off: Searcy’s, The General Trading Company, Peter Jones, soft furnishings and duvets, and cast iron casseroles, and ‘weren’t lots of little bridesmaids in Laura Ashley dresses much sweeter than grown up ones’. Gussie really ought to cut a disc.

‘Alison’s husband, Peter, is an absolute charmer,’ Joan was saying, ‘we like him awfully. They spent their honeymoon in the Seychelles.’

The bitch! God how I wanted to hold her underneath her horrible, chlorinated, aquamarine water, until her great magenta face turned purple.

I watched the Red Admirals burying their faces in the buddleia. I wished Jeremy would tear himself away from the first editions. A great wave of loneliness swept over me.

‘If you’re in a hurry for a wedding dress,’ said Joan, ‘I’ve got a little woman who can run up things awfully quickly. Shall I give her a ring?’

I knew she was only handing out largesse to Gussie like nuts at Christmas to emphasize her disapproval of me.

‘Would you mind if I washed my hair, Joan?’ I said, getting to my feet. ‘I’ve brought my own shampoo.’

‘Of course not; help yourself. Use my bedroom; there are plenty of towels in the hot cupboard.’

And arsenic in the taps, I muttered, walking towards the house, feeling her hatred boring into my back. She was probably glad of an excuse to question Gussie about me and Gareth. As I crossed the lawn I deliberately didn’t look into the library to see if I could see Jeremy.

Suddenly a voice with a slight foreign accent said, ‘Hullo, Octavia.’

I gave a shudder of revulsion as I looked up into the coarse, sensual face of Andreas Katz, porn-king and multimillionaire.

‘What are you doing here?’ I said, not bothering to keep the hostility out of my voice.

‘Staying here.’

So this was the old admirer Ricky was talking about.

‘Let me monopolize you for a minute,’ he said, taking my arm. I felt his fingers, warm and sweaty, enveloping it. I moved away, but his grip tightened.

‘Come and look at Joan’s rose-garden,’ he said. ‘I gather it’s quite exceptional.’

I could see the line on his forehead where the man-tan ended and the gunmetal grey hair began. He was a man who seldom ventured out of doors. His eyes were so dark the pupils were indistinguishable from the iris, and always looked so deeply and knowingly into mine, I felt he knew exactly the colour my pants were. He was wearing a black shirt and silver paisley scarf which blended perfectly with the gunmetal hair. I supposed he was handsome in a brutal, self-conscious way, but I could never look at him without realizing what a really evil man he was. I was surprised Joan allowed him into the house. Inflation makes strange bed fellows.

As well as owning strip clubs and half the girly magazines in London, he also produced a prestigious semi-pornographic magazine called Hedonist which ran features by intellectuals alongside photographs of naked girls with Red Indian suntans lying on fur counterpanes. It was regarded as the English answer to Playboy. For a number of years now he had been chasing me in a leisurely fashion, offering me larger and larger sums to be photographed. I always refused him. I didn’t fancy a staple through my midriff. I felt towards him that contempt with which one regards a bath rail in an hotel bathroom, convinced one will never be old and frail enough to need it.

I stopped to admire a purple rose. Andreas admired my figure, which, in its sopping wet bikini, left nothing to the imagination.

He pressed a clenched fist gently against my stomach.

‘When are you going to come and pose for me?’ he asked.

‘I’m not. I don’t need the bread.’

‘You never know,’ he said. ‘Nothing’s gilt-edged any more. Not even your beautiful hair. Roots cost money to be touched up.’

‘It’s natural,’ I snapped.

‘I hear Seaford-Brennen’s are in a spot of bother,’ he went on. I could feel his hot breath on my shoulder.

‘Oh for God’s sake, why does everyone keep telling me this? Of course they’re all right. They’ve been all right for over fifty years.’

Andreas splayed his fingers out and caressed my rib cage. He was the only man I knew who gave me that horrible squirming feeling of excitement. I imagined the hundreds of girls and the millions of grubby girly pictures those fingers had flicked through. I moved off sharply and buried my face in a dark red rose. He lit a cigar with a beautiful manicured hand, holding it between finger and thumb like a workman. I could feel him watching me.

‘Why don’t you stop staring?’

‘A Katz can look at a Queen.’ He’d made that joke a hundred times before. ‘You’re a very beautiful girl, Octavia, but not a very bright one. I’ll pay you fifteen hundred for one photographic session. Why don’t we have dinner next week and discuss it? And that wouldn’t be the end, you know. I could give you everything you want.’

‘Well, I certainly don’t want you,’ I said, turning and walking back. ‘And if people saw the goods displayed so blatantly across your gatefold, they might not be interested in purchasing them any more.’

Andreas smiled the knowing smile of a crafty old animal.

‘I’ll get you in the end, baby, and by then it’ll be on my terms. You wait and see. By the way, what’s Gareth Llewellyn doing closeted with Ricky?’

‘He’s spending the weekend with us on the boat.’

Andreas laughed. ‘So he’s your latest. No wonder you’re not interested in bread at the moment.’

I looked towards the house, the wistaria above the library was nearly over and shedding its petals in an amethyst carpet over the lawn. Out of the library window I caught sight of Jeremy watching us. I turned and smiled warmly at Andreas.

‘There’s a beautiful girl down at the pool, talking to Joan. Why don’t you go and sign her up instead of me?’ I said and, patting him on the cheek, ran laughing into the house.

Joan Seaford must have got the most sexless bedroom in the world, with its eau de nil walls, sea green carpet, and utterly smooth flowered counterpane tucked neatly under the pillows so they lay like a great sausage across the top of the bed. On the chest of drawers stood large framed Lenare photographs of Pamela and Alison, looking mistily glamorous in pearls. There were also a large photograph of Peter, Alison’s husband, and one of Alison and Peter on their wedding day, knee deep in little bridesmaids in Laura Ashley dresses, but not even a passport snap of Xander, who was a hundred times more handsome than the whole lot put together. I was tempted to take the picture of him out of my wallet and stick it on top of Peter’s smug, smiling, square-jawed face, but it wouldn’t have done Xander any good.

I felt better after I’d had a bath, washed my hair and rubbed quantities of Joan’s bottle of Joy over my body. I hoped she wouldn’t recognize the smell on me. Anyway, she deserved to be Joyless, the old bag.

Combing my wet hair, I looked out of the window. Two girls — the kind who open their legs like airport doors whenever a man approaches — wearing white bikinis, stiletto heels and about a hundredweight each of make-up, were teetering across the lawn. They must have been brought down by Andreas. He always carried a spare. Suddenly Jeremy came out of the door leading to the swimming pool and walked past the tarts without even noticing them. They, on the other hand, swivelled round, gazing at him in wonder, watching him avidly as he loped with lazy animal grace towards the house. I can’t say I blamed them.

Bring me my beau of burning gold, I muttered, as, wrapped only in a huge fluffy blue towel, I curled up on the floor to dry my hair. I didn’t wait long. There was a quick step outside, and a knock on the door.

‘Come in,’ I said huskily.

He closed the door behind him. I let the towel slip slightly.

‘Why are you here?’ I said. ‘I’m amazed you could tear yourself away from those first editions.’

‘You’re why I’m here,’ he said. ‘Who was that repulsive man you were talking to?’

My heart sang. It had worked.

‘Andreas Katz. I’ve known him for years.’

‘How well?’

I went on drying my hair.

‘How well?’ persisted Jeremy. ‘Oh for God’s sake, turn that bloody thing off.’

‘Not as well as he would like,’ I said, but I turned off the dryer.

He put his hands down, pulled me to my feet and kissed me passionately, his hands moving down to my breasts and over my hips. Just for once, I thought, the millpond smoothness of Joan’s flowered counterpane is going to be ruffled. Then suddenly Jeremy pushed me away and went over to the window.

It took him a few seconds to get himself under control. I picked up the dryer.

‘No,’ he said. ‘For Christ’s sake don’t turn it on yet. Look, you must understand how crazy I am about you.’

‘You’ve got a funny way of showing it.’

He knelt down beside me, took my face in his hands, began stroking it very gently, as though he wanted to memorize all the contours.

‘Gus doesn’t deserve to be hurt, you know that as well as I do. Not now anyway, when Gareth’s around to fuck everything up as well. If you and I have got something going for us, and I believe we have, let’s wait until we get back to London.’

For a minute I looked mutinous. But I knew it wouldn’t further my cause to tell him that part of the charm of hooking him would be to upset Gussie and Gareth.

‘It’s only tonight and Monday to get through,’ he went on. ‘On Tuesday we go back to London and we can meet on Wednesday and decide what the hell to do about it. You’re so important to me, I reckon it’s worth waiting for.’

I nodded, picking up his hand and planting a kiss in the palm. ‘All right, I’ll try,’ I said.

With the tips of his fingers he traced a vein on the inside of my arm, down to the scar that ran across my wrist.

‘How did you get that?’

‘With a razor. The day Xander married Pamela. I felt the only person in the world who really loved me was being taken away from me.’

He bent his head and kissed the scar.

‘You do need looking after, don’t you? Be brave and trust me, little one. It isn’t long to wait.’

After he was gone I finished drying my hair, and went downstairs, experiencing a great and joyous calm. The road was clear now, there was nothing Gareth could do.

Down at the pool the two tarts were swimming, holding their made-up faces high out of the water, encouraged by Gareth, who was sitting on the edge talking to Ricky and Andreas, and drinking a Bloody Mary. He’d been swimming again and his black hair fell in wet tendrils on his forehead.

‘I certainly don’t want yes-men around me anymore,’ said Ricky.

‘I certainly want “yes” women around me,’ said Gareth. ‘I suppose we’d better go in a minute. Oh, there you are Octavia, cleansed in mind and body I hope.’

The three men looked at me. Together they made a nerve-racking trio.

‘Octavia has so far refused to cook a single meal on board,’ said Gareth. ‘So no doubt I’ll be slaving over a hot tin opener again tonight. I really don’t approve of role-reversal.’

‘The only time any role-reversal takes place in our house’, said Ricky, laughing heartily, ‘is when Joan reverses the Rolls into the gateposts.’

‘Who’s taking my name in vain?’ said Joan, coming through the gate, followed by Gussie and Jeremy, absolutely weighed down with loot from the vegetable garden.

‘Look,’ screamed Gussie. ‘Isn’t Joan angelic? We can have asparagus for supper tonight, and strawberries.’

‘At least we won’t get scurvy,’ said Gareth, smiling at Joan. ‘Thank you very much.’ He got up. ‘We must go.’

‘You’d better go and change darling,’ said Ricky. ‘I’ll walk down to the boathouse with them. It’ll give the dogs a run. I won’t be long.’

He bustled into the house.

‘Such a pity we’re going out to supper,’ Joan said, kissing Gussie. ‘Do send me a postcard when you know what your telephone number’s going to be. And I’ll get Alison and Peter to give you a ring. I know you’ll get on.’

‘Goodbye, Octavia.’ She gave me the usual chilly peck.

‘You must bring Mrs Smith down one evening,’ she said to Gareth. ‘I hear she’s the most gorgeous gel.’

She’d only started saying ‘gel’ since Pamela came out.

Ricky returned with the visitor’s book. ‘You must all sign before you go.’

He always does this so he can remember who to claim on expenses. I didn’t dare look at Jeremy when Gussie signed them both under their new address.

‘We won’t be actually living there for a month or two,’ she said, beaming round.

Andreas abandoned us at the edge of the hayfields. He was not cut out for country walks.

‘Goodbye Octavia,’ he said. ‘Think about what I’ve said. We can’t go on not meeting like this.’

‘That man’s a shit,’ said Gareth, as soon as we were out of earshot.

‘I know,’ said Ricky, ‘but an extremely clever one.’