Octavia

Chapter Seventeen

Looking back, I shall never know how I got through the next few weeks. I hadn’t realized that the journey from Putney to the city would take two hours in the rush-hour, or in this heat, the bus would be like a Turkish bath. My second day working for Jakey Bartholomew I didn’t get in till quarter to ten, and received such a bawling out I thought I’d blown the whole thing. But gradually as the days passed I began to pick up the job. I learnt to work the switchboard and skim the papers for anything important and stick press cuttings into a scrap book. The work was so menial that sometimes I did scream. But Jakey was a hard taskmaster, and came down on any displays of sulks or ill-temper like a ton of concrete slabs. In the same way, he picked me up for any stupid mistakes.

Gradually too, I got to know the other girls in the office, and learnt to grumble with them about the lateness of the second post, and the failure of the roller towel in the lavatory, and have long discussions about Miss Selfridges and eye make-up. The days were made bearable by little unimportant victories — one of the typists asking me to go to the cinema; Miss Parkside, the office crone, inviting me to supper at her flat in Peckham; a client ringing up asking if I could be spared to show some VIP Germans round London.

I soon discovered, however, that I’d never be able to pay Seaford-Brennen back on my present salary, so I took another job waitressing in Putney High Street. Here, for six nights a week, and at lunchtime on Saturdays, I worked my guts out, earning £40 a week by looking pleasant when drunken customers pinched my bottom, or bollocked me because the chef had had a row with his boyfriend and forgotten to put any salt in the Chicken Marengo. At the end of each week I sent my £40 salary in a registered envelope to Mrs Smith, and received a polite acknowledgement. Gareth was still in the Middle East with Xander so at least I didn’t worry all day about bumping into him.

Every night I fell into bed long after midnight, too knackered to allow myself more than a second to dream about him. But his face still haunted my dreams and every morning I would wake up crying, with the sun beating through the thin curtains, and the little mongrel Monkey, curled up on my bed, looking at me with sorrowful dark eyes, trying to lick away my tears. He was a great comfort. I couldn’t understand why Mrs Lonsdale-Taylor preferred her fat Pekineses. I realized now how much my mother had deprived me of, never letting me have animals.

August gave way to September; the drought grew worse; it hadn’t rained for three months; the common was like a cinder; the leaves on the chestnut tree shrivelled and turned brown. People were ordered not to use their hosepipes. Mrs L-T panted back and forth with buckets of water, grumbling.

On the Tuesday of my eighth week, Jakey Bartholomew sent for me. I went in quaking.

‘You can’t send this out,’ he said.

He handed me a photograph of a girl with very elaborate frizzled curls, one of the dreadful styles created by our hairdressing client, Roger of Kensington. Turning it over I saw I’d captioned it:

‘Sweet and sour pigs’ trotters’ — one of the Pig Industry’s equally dreadful recipes.

‘Oh God, I’m sorry,’ I said.

Jakey started to laugh.

‘I thought it was quite funny. Have a beer, get one out of the fridge.’

I helped myself and sat down.

Jakey leaned back. ‘Our advertising associates want to borrow your legs on Friday week.’

‘They what?’

‘They’re pitching for a stocking account. All the guys reckon you’ve got the best pair of legs in either office. They want you to model the tights for them during the presentation.’

I felt myself blushing scarlet. I never realized any of the men in the office had even noticed me; they’d certainly kept their distance.

‘They want to take some photographs this afternoon,’ said Jakey, ‘and get them blown up by next week.’ I said that was OK by me. ‘If they land the account, we’ll probably get the PR side. And if the client likes the idea, they may use you in ads, which could make you quite a lot of bread.’

‘Thank you so much,’ I stammered. I felt I had conquered Everest.

‘Are you feeling all right?’ he said, as I went out. ‘You’re looking knackered.’

‘I’m fine,’ I said quickly.

‘Well bring me the Roger of Kensington file then.’

He was right of course. Gradually I was coming apart at the seams. In the last week or so I had noticed a growing inability in myself to make decisions, even small ones. The problem of where to find the file suddenly began to swell like a balloon in my head. The familiar panic began to surge inside me. I’m going crazy, I whimpered. I put my hands on my forehead and waited. Keep calm, it’ll go in a minute, don’t panic.

I felt as if I were trying to get out of a dark slimy cavern, and my nails kept grating down the inside. My mind raced from one fear to the other, in search of a grip to secure myself from the blind horror that swirled around me. I leant against the wall, trying to take deep breaths, praying no one would come out into the passage. Gradually the panic ebbed away. I went into the general office. It was empty. With shaking hands I dialled the number of the psychiatrist who’d been recommended to me in the old days. I made an appointment for Thursday lunchtime.

The first visit wasn’t a conspicuous success. The analyst was middle-aged, handsome, well-dressed, with teeth as white as his shirt-cuffs, a soothing deliberate manner, and a photograph of a beautiful wife and child on the desk. I was too uptight to tell him very much, but he gave me enough tranquillizers to last a week, on condition that I returned again next Thursday lunchtime.

‘It’s very kind, but I can’t afford it,’ I muttered.

I felt a totally doglike gratitude when he waved my protestations airily away and said:

‘Don’t give it a thought, Miss Brennen. In exceptional circumstances I take National Health patients, and your case interests me very much.’

The tranquillizers got me through another week. My legs were photographed in every conceivable type of stocking, and the advertising department professed themselves delighted with the result.

The following Thursday morning, just as I was setting out for the doctor, Xander rang, just back from the Middle East, and absolutely raving over his trip. He and Gareth had pulled off some fantastic deals he said, and Gareth was a star.

‘I simply adore him,’ he went on. ‘I’m thinking of divorcing Pammie and asking him to wait for me, and darling, he can sell absolutely anything, even a pregnant rabbit to an Australian sheep farmer, if he felt so inclined. We had a terrible time to begin with. I didn’t realize the Middle East was dry. For twenty-four hours we didn’t have a drink, then the pink elephants started trooping into my bedroom, and Gareth had a quiet word with the resident Sheik. From then on we had whisky pouring out of our ears.’

‘Was it terribly hot?’ I said.

‘Terrible, and if I see another belly dancer, I’ll go bananas.’

‘Did Gareth have lots of birds out there?’ I said, suddenly feeling my voice coming out like a ventriloquist’s dummy.

‘No, actually he didn’t. I think he’s got some bird in England he’s hooked on.’

‘Any idea who?’

‘Well, this ravishing redhead met him at the airport, bubbling over with excitement, flinging her arms round him.’

‘Mrs Smith?’ I said in a frozen whisper.

‘No, much younger. Laura, I think she was called.’

‘Lorna Hamilton?’

‘Yes, that’s it. Gareth was supposed to be giving me a lift into London, but I left them to it.’

Almost sleep-walking, I got myself to the analyst. On the way I passed a church; the gutter outside was choked with confetti. Gareth and Lorna, Gareth and Lorna, a voice intoned inside me — they sounded like a couple by Tennyson.

The analyst had darkened his waiting room. After the searching sunlight it was beautifully cool. His receptionist got me a glass of iced water, and then I heard him telling her to go to lunch. I lay down on the grey velvet sofa. This time I found myself able to talk. I didn’t tell him about Gareth, but raved on about my childhood.

‘I wasn’t allowed to be loving as a child,’ I sobbed. ‘My mother didn’t love me. She never kissed me goodnight or tucked me up. Neither of my parents loved me, they fought like cats to have custody of my brother, Xander, but they fought equally hard not to have me. .’

‘Go on,’ said the analyst noncommitally. I could feel his pale blue eyes watching me, smell the lavender tang of his aftershave.

‘I know what happens to people who aren’t loved enough,’ I went on. ‘They just close up, and love or hate themselves too much. They’re incapable of getting it together with anyone else. .’

After three-quarters of an hour of my ramblings, he glanced at his watch.

I got up to go.

‘I’m sorry, I must have bored you to death. You can’t possibly put me on the National Health.’

‘I thought we’d dispensed with all that,’ he said gently. ‘You’ll come again next week?’

‘Oh please, if you can spare the time.’

He scribbled out a prescription. ‘Here’s another week’s supply of Valium.’

He turned towards me, the prescription suddenly trembling in his hand. He was trying to smile; his blue eyes glazed, his face pale, he was sweating and there was a tic in his cheek. Then he walked round the table, stood in front of me and put a wet hand on my arm.

‘I was wondering,’ he said, that tic was going again, ‘if I might see you — outside consulting hours. I am sure I could show you there was no need to be so lonely.’

Behind him, smiling sunnily, was the photograph of his wife and children. I had trusted him implicitly.

‘I d-don’t think it’d be very wise,’ I said, backing away from him, ‘I’ve never found married men very satisfactory.’

I wrenched open the door behind me, amazed to find it unlocked. I saw fear start in his eyes, the Medical Council passing judgment. Then he squared his shoulders.

‘Of course,’ he pressed the bell on the desk, magicking up the instant receptionist to show me out.

I ran down the street prescriptionless and sobbed helplessly in the nearest garden square.

By some miracle I got back to the office just before Miss Parkside, the office crone. She arrived grumbling that she couldn’t find a size 16 skirt to fit her anymore, and brandishing a large Fuller’s cake to distract everyone’s attention from her lateness.

‘I suppose I ought to have worn my all in one,’ she said, plunging a knife into the hard white icing, ‘but it’s too hot in this weather. It must be well up in the nineties. Come on, Octavia, you need feeding up.’

She handed me an enormous piece. In order to save money, I’d trained myself to go without lunch and breakfast. I usually had something to eat free in the evening at the restaurant while I was waitressing. Every mouthful of the cake seemed like sand in my throat. All the typists looked sympathetically at my reddened eyes, but said nothing.

My task for the afternoon was to ring up the papers and chase them to come to a press preview the next morning. I found it distasteful and embarrassing. In the middle Xander suddenly rang me. He sounded drunk.

‘I know you don’t like personal calls, darling, but this is a very special one. You’re going to be an aunt.’

‘A what?’

‘An Aunt! Pammie’s pregnant.’

I gave a scream of delight that must have echoed through the whole building.

‘Oh Xander, are you sure?’

‘Quite, quite sure, she’s even being sick, poor darling.’

‘How long’s she known?’

‘Well, just after I went to the Middle East, but she wanted to be quite sure before she told anyone.’

I’d never known him so chipper.

‘Good old Pammie, isn’t it marvellous,’ he went on, ‘Ricky rang me up just now and was so nice, he even congratulated me about work, said the Middle East trip had been a great coup. Look, darling, I mustn’t keep you, I know you’re busy, but come over and celebrate at the weekend.’

I put the telephone down feeling utterly depressed. I knew I ought to be delighted, but all I could think was Xander was getting so far ahead of me in life, with a job that was going well, and a baby on the way. I felt sick with jealousy. I wanted a baby of my own. Listlessly I finished making my telephone calls, and started stapling press releases together for the preview tomorrow. The afternoon sun was blazing through the window. I could feel the sweat running down my back. Miss Parkside and the typists had already started grumbling about the prospects of the journey home.

The telephone went again. Miss Parkside picked it up.

‘For you,’ she said, disapprovingly. ‘Make it snappy.’

It was Lorna. I could recognize the breathless, bubbling schoolgirl voice anywhere. This time she was jibbering with excitement and embarrassment.

‘Octavia, I must see you.’

I felt my hands wet on the telephone.

‘Where are you?’ I said.

‘At home.’

Memories came flooding back, the white house deep in the cherry orchards, Gareth beating the hell out of me, then putting me to bed, Jeremy trying to rape me.

‘But I’m coming to London tomorrow,’ she went on. ‘Could we have lunch, I’ve got something I must tell you.’

‘Nice or nasty?’ I asked.

‘Well, heaven for me, but I’m not sure. .’ her voice trailed off.

‘Tell it to me now.’

‘I can’t, I’m in such a muddle,’ she said. ‘Please, let’s meet for lunch. I’ll come and pick you up.’

‘I’ve got a very heavy day.’

‘You can slip out just for a drink. I’ll pick you up at one o’clock. And please Octavia, don’t, don’t be furious with me.’

The telephone went dead. I stood for a second, then just made the loo in time, and threw up all the Fuller’s cake. For a second I crouched, wracked by retching and sobbing. So it was true about Gareth and Lorna, it must be what she was trying to tell me. With agonizing slowness, I pulled myself together. You must finish those press releases, I said over and over again, as though it was really me that needed stapling together. I splashed water over my face and rinsed out my mouth. God, I looked terrible. My suntan had turned yellow. My eyes were red and puffy. My hair, filthy and dark mouse at the roots because I couldn’t afford to have it re-streaked, was bleached like straw at the ends. One of the secretaries poked her head round the door.

‘Parkside’s on the warpath,’ she said. ‘Some VIP’s just arrived. Can you make him a cup of coffee and take it into Jakey’s office?’

I couldn’t find my dark glasses. The wretched VIP would have to put up with reddened eyes. I knocked on Jakey’s door and walked into his office. The next moment the cup of coffee had crashed to the ground, for sitting behind the desk was Gareth. He leapt to his feet.

‘Are you OK lovely? You haven’t burnt yourself?’

‘I’m fine,’ I muttered. ‘But it’ll ruin the carpet.’

I grabbed a drying-cloth that was lying on top of the fridge and, kneeling down, started frenziedly mopping up the coffee. Anything for Gareth not to get a glimpse of my face. I hadn’t seen him for over two months; he’d have a fit to catch me looking so awful.

‘Leave it,’ he said. ‘It’ll dry in a minute.’

He put a hand under my elbow and pulled me to my feet.

‘I’ll get you another cup of coffee,’ I said, making a bolt for the door.

But he got there first, standing in front of me, shutting the door firmly. As usual his presence made the room shrink.

‘Sit down,’ he said, tipping a pile of files off a chair. ‘I want to talk to you.’

‘What are you doing here anyway?’ I said. I still hadn’t looked him in the eyes.

‘Visiting my old mate Jakey Bartholomew.’

‘You know him?’ I said sharply. ‘But I didn’t, I mean. .’

‘You should read your own company notepaper,’ said Gareth. He handed me a sheet that was lying on Jakey’s desk. Sure enough in the middle of the list of directors was printed G. Llewellyn.

‘T-then you fiddled me this job,’ I blurted out. ‘I thought I g-got it on my own. .’

‘Merits, yes of course you did,’ he said gently. ‘Jakey’d have never employed you if he hadn’t liked you.’ He held up one of the blown-up photographs of my legs.

‘I must say I like these. I’d recognize those pins anywhere.’

Everything was moving too fast for me. I was trying to work out what influence Gareth must have had over my working at Bartholomews.

‘How are you enjoying it anyway?’ he said.

‘It’s fine. How was the Middle East trip?’

‘Hell,’ said Gareth. ‘And bloody hot and exhausting. Your brother was the only redeeming feature.’

‘He’s nice, isn’t he?’

‘He overreached himself one night. He charmed one sheik so much that later the sheik insisted that only Xander should have the culinary pièce de résistance at dinner.’

‘What was it?’ I said.

‘A sheep’s eyeball,’ said Gareth.

I started to giggle.

‘He’s over the moon about the baby,’ I said, trying to keep the trace of wistfulness out of my voice.

‘Yep, it’s a good thing. It’ll patch up things between him and Ricky, too.’

There was a pause. The room was suffocatingly hot. I still hadn’t looked at him. A schoolgirl embarking on her first love affair couldn’t have behaved with more gaucheness. I felt hollow with longing and misery.

‘It’s very hot isn’t it?’ I said.

‘Very,’ said Gareth.

This wasn’t getting us very far. I got to my feet, edging towards the door.

‘I must get you some coffee.’

‘I don’t want any.’

‘I–I’ve got some work I’ve got to finish.’

He followed me into the general office, passing Miss Parkside on the way out, bearing her floral sponge-bag off to the Ladies.

‘It’s going-home time,’ he said.

‘I’ve got to finish these,’ I said, picking a page off the four separate piles of paper until they shook in my hand as though they were being fluttered by an electric fan.

Gareth looked at me for a minute.

‘You’re getting them all out of order,’ he said, taking them from me, and restacking them. He shoved them between the stapler and banged it down with one hand. Nothing happened.

‘Bloody thing’s run out,’ he said. ‘Come on, you can do them in the morning. I’ll buy you a drink.’

The bar was crowded with commuters who couldn’t face the journey home yet. Gareth found me a bar stool, I curled my feet round one of the legs, trying to control the hammering in my heart. In a minute I knew I’d wake up from a dream, and be crying back in bed in Putney. He handed me a gin and tonic and shot soda into his whisky. I took a slug of my drink at once, gripping it with both hands to stop them shaking.

I glanced up at the smoked mirror behind the bar; my eyes met Gareth’s. For a second we gazed at each other with a steady fascination, as though we were two quite different people, in another world for the first time. I felt if his sleeve touched mine the whole bar would burst into flames.

I tugged my eyes away and took another gulp.

‘You’ve lost a lot of weight,’ he said.

‘Have I?’

‘Too much.’

‘It’s the heat.’

He glanced at the beige sausage rolls and curling sandwiches in the glass case.

‘D’you want something now?’

I shook my head. A fire engine clanged past the door, followed by another.

‘D’you think it’ll ever rain again?’ I said.

I noticed for the first time how tired he looked, the black rings under his eyes, almost as dark as his eyebrows.

‘Is Seaford-Brennen too much of a sweat?’ I said.

‘Well it’s not exactly a day trip to Llandudno,’ he said. ‘Jakey’s very pleased with you, by the way.’

I felt myself blushing. ‘He is?’

‘Yep, and so am I. You haven’t just turned over a new leaf, Brennen, it’s a bloody great tree.’

He looked at me reflectively for a minute.

‘Why have you been crying your eyes out all afternoon?’

I took a hasty swig of my drink, the glass was too deep and it ran all over my face.

‘I’m trying to get my head sorted out,’ I said, frantically, wiping gin away with my sleeve. ‘So I started going to a shrink.’

‘Jesus, you don’t need a shrink.’

‘H-he thinks I do. He pounced on me today.’

I started to tremble again. For a moment Gareth’s hand tightened on my arm, then he said,

‘The bastard. Report him to the medical council.’

‘I don’t think you can report shrinks, but it was a shock. I sort of trusted him.’

‘You give me his name and address, and I’ll get him kicked out,’ said Gareth. He was really angry. God, he was being so nice, any minute I’d start crying again. I took a bite of my lemon peel.

‘Lorna rang me this afternoon,’ I said. ‘She was in the country.’

Suddenly he looked evasive and shifty. He got out a packet of cigarettes, and when I refused one, lit one for himself.

‘She said she had something special to tell me,’ I went on, ‘but she wouldn’t tell me over the telephone in case it upset me.’

Gareth shook his ice round in his glass.

‘Do you want another drink?’

I shook my head, the lump was getting bigger and bigger in my throat.

‘She sounded over the moon, like Xander,’ I continued. ‘I guess she was trying to tell me she was getting married.’

‘Yep,’ said Gareth. ‘That’s about it.’

‘Soon?’ I said.

‘Pretty soon. Lorna’s one of those girls who wants to keep her virginity for marriage. She’s worried she can’t hold out much longer.’

‘Bully for her,’ I whispered.

‘She feels terribly guilty,’ he went on. ‘She’s worried stiff about upsetting you, and she knows Hesketh and Bridget are going to say she’s too young.’

‘You can’t win them all,’ I said in a choked voice.

‘Look Octavia, you’re a beautiful, beautiful girl. There are plenty of other guys in the sea, and masses on land for that matter.’

‘Sure,’ I said numbly, the tears beginning to course down my cheeks.

He took my hand; it was all I could do not to fling myself into his arms.

‘I’m really sorry,’ he went on. ‘Look I’ve got nothing to do tonight. I’ll buy you dinner and we can talk about it.’

‘No you won’t. It’s very kind, but no thank you,’ I said, wiping away the tears with the back of my hand. ‘I’ve already got a date,’ and breaking away, I slid off the bar stool and fled out of the bar.

‘Octavia, wait,’ I heard his voice calling after me. Then I plunged down into the Underground.