Lady of Hay (76 page)

Jo sighed. “I hope he never comes back.”

“Or not for a very long time. You’ve decided to go on and write it, then?” Nick was standing looking down at her desk. He picked up one of the books from the pile.

She nodded wearily. “It’s the only way I’ll be free,” she said. “Otherwise Matilda is going to haunt me for the rest of my life.” She hesitated, glancing at him. “Bet wants me to mention you in the story, Nick. Do you mind?”

He laughed. “
W I A
is
about the only periodical that hasn’t mentioned me yet. But isn’t the story a bit over the top for them? I’d have thought such a tale of love and despair and unmitigated male chauvinism would have turned all those
Women in Action
readers off for good.”

Jo smiled. “Perhaps. Bet thinks it will turn them on. But in fact, all it does is prove that some women at least were just as capable in those days, and had enormous managerial responsibilities, and that men were male chauvinist pigs every one, as ever. The readers will love it.”

“And my role? The arch MCP, I suppose?”

Jo busied herself in the drinks cabinet, holding up empty bottles to the light.

“I shall be suitably diplomatic about your role. Would you rather be the villain or the romantic hero?”

“You decide. As long as you know which I am in real life.” Nick looked down at her as she raised her eyes to his. For a long moment they stared at each other, then he reached down and took her hand. “That is empty,” he said, firmly closing the cabinet. “If ever I saw an empty cabinet, that is it. I’ll nip up to the liquor store and get something.” He gave her a rueful smile. “While I’m there, glance at this. It’s the storyboard for the TV ad Desco wants us to put on.”

As the door closed behind him Jo stared at the sketches he had put into her hand. She felt numb. It was all reduced to a stupid, cheap joke. John. Handsome, powerful, malicious John, pilloried by a tatty TV advertisement; reduced to a trite little sketch, to be screened between
Coronation Street
and the evening quiz show. She shivered unhappily as she put them down.

Nick was back in ten minutes with a bottle of gin, four bottles of tonic, and a carafe of chianti.

Jo let him in silently.

“I take it you don’t like the idea?” He glanced at her as he produced a lemon from the pocket of his jacket. “Is there any ice?”

She nodded. “It just seems rather…small.”

“Jo, Mike has laid it on the line. He wants this idea or out. Our boys think it will work. It’s an amusing script even for the people, if there are any, who don’t know what the hell we’re talking about. If I veto it, we lose the account.”

“Then it must go on.”

“Is it any worse than what you propose to do with your articles and your book?” He took her hands gently.

Jo shook her head.

He gave a small smile. “Jo, don’t you think it’s what we need? To send ourselves up a little bit? Humor is an awfully good anodyne.”

“I know. It’s just…”

“I know what it is, Jo.” Releasing her, Nick turned toward the kitchen. “I’ve been there, remember?” He changed the subject abruptly. “Are you going to come to New York with me—” He broke off with a curse as, behind them, the phone rang. Swinging back into the room, he picked it up.

“Hello?” There was complete silence on the other end of the line. They both heard the connection go dead.

Nick slammed down the receiver.

“Wrong number,” he said cheerfully. “Now, where was I?” He put his hands gently on Jo’s shoulders. “Well, will you come?”

She nodded slowly. “Yes.” She moved back slightly. “Will we ever be able to forget all this, Nick?”

He turned away and, picking up the bottles, led the way into the kitchen. “In time it will distance itself like a bad dream, I expect. I hope.” He gave his boyish smile. “Till then we must just make sure nothing else happens—apart from the happy ending.”

They ate their supper in silence, neither suggesting they turn on any music, watching the light fade in the room as darkness came.

The phone rang again. After a moment Nick stretched across and lifted the receiver. Once again, when he spoke the line went dead. “It’s Sam,” Jo whispered into the silence. He sat back, not looking at her, his eyes on the open French doors onto the balcony. The streetlights gave a pale, false moonlit wash to the stone of the balustrade. He did not dare move. He did not dare even think about her. Suddenly danger crackled in the atmosphere between them, held at bay only by the quiet.

Then it was gone. Nick turned and looked at Jo covertly. She was sitting uncomfortably, drawn to the edge of her chair by the urgency of the phone bell, her shoulders tense, the angle of her head defiant as she stared past him, as if she were listening to something far away inside herself.

Nick was suddenly galvanized into movement. “Jo! Jo, for Christ’s sake, don’t do it!
Jo!
” He caught her shoulders and shook her hard. “Jo, can you hear me?”

Her hands had come up automatically and she clutched convulsively at his shirt front. “Nick—”

“Hold on, Jo. Don’t let it happen. Fight it, Jo. Fight it!”

She let go of him abruptly and clapped her hands to her head.

The blackness was whirling around her; there was a roaring in her ears, waves of sound annihilating her, like torrents of angry water toppling over onto a beach. There were chains on her wrists and rain, rain in the shadows, rain in the wind howling around her, tearing at the huge red-and-gold standard with the clawing leopards of England as it strained high in the darkness, tearing her clothes, and above all the sound of thunder. But Nick was still beside her. She could see his mouth moving. He was talking to her, his hands outstretched to hold her. It was Nick…Nick…

The telephone bell cut through the sound, echoing in the room for the third time that night. Neither of them took any notice of it. To Nick it echoed obscenely in the silence, for Jo it drove the whirling noise away. As suddenly as the dislocation had come, it passed, leaving her shaking like a leaf.

She collapsed into Nick’s arms, tears pouring down her face. “It wanted to happen again, Nick. I was at the castle at Carrickfergus. You were there too…”

“But you fought it, love.” He gathered her tightly against his chest. “You fought it.” Behind them the phone fell silent. “It won’t happen again. You know now you can fight it. You can. It’s all right, Jo. It’s all right. You’re safe.”

She was still clinging to him desperately. “Don’t go, don’t leave me—”

“I won’t leave you, Jo.” He smiled down at her reassuringly. “Come on. It’s all over now. You’re safe.”

“Make love to me, Nick.”

He tensed slightly. “You know I want to, but—Jo, I have my own demons to fight too. I’m afraid of what I might do.”

She was shaking her head, still clinging to his neck. “You won’t hurt me, Nick. You won’t. Just make love to me. Make me part of you. Please. You have to—” Her voice rose suddenly. “Please, Nick. Now. Here.”

“No, Jo.” Gently he held her away from him. “Not here.”

He led her through into her bedroom and, closing the curtains, turned on the bedside light. She was standing quite still, looking at the floor. Her shaking had stopped. He put his hands on her shoulders. “You’re sure this is what you want?”

She nodded. “Undress me, Nick.”

He frowned. She was standing before him completely submissive, no longer hysterical, not moving as he raised his hand tentatively to the zipper at the back of her dress. The soft red silk slid to the floor. Beneath it she wore nothing but a black lace slip. He pulled the straps down over her shoulders and the slip followed the dress, leaving her quite naked. Keeping an iron control over himself, Nick led her gently to the bed and pulled back the covers, watching as obediently she turned to climb in. Across her shoulders was a fading welt, the mark of Sam’s belt. At the sight of them Nick felt a wave of blind fury sweep over him. For a moment he did not move. He clenched his fists, feeling the icy drench of perspiration across his shoulders as he closed his eyes.

“Nick?” He heard Jo’s whisper from the bed.

She had pulled the sheet over herself and was staring at him. He could see the sudden fear behind her eyes.

He forced himself to smile. “It’s okay, Jo.” He sat down beside her. “It’s not you. I just had this tremendous urge to kill my brother.” He touched her face gently, then slowly he began to unbutton his shirt. “I won’t hurt you, Jo. I promise.” He reached out to turn off the lamp. Then he pulled her into his arms.

***

She slept lightly, waking twice in the night to reassure herself that Nick was still there, snuggling against his warm, relaxed body before drifting back into a restless, dream-haunted sleep. Once she cried out and Nick turned to her without waking and held her close against him. They both woke early. Jo was pale and there were dark rings under her eyes as she made their coffee and toast while he was shaving. He glanced at her once or twice as they had their breakfast, concerned at her unnatural quietness.

“Jo, are you all right?” he asked at last.

She nodded. “Tired, that’s all. I didn’t sleep very well.”

He smiled. “Not my fault, I hope.”

“No, not your fault.” She made herself smile back over her coffee cup. “Nick, Ceecliff took my car. If you don’t need yours, would you lend it to me this morning?”

He glanced at her sharply. She was taut as a wire again, her knuckles white on the handle of her cup.

“Of course you can borrow it.” He reached into his pocket for the keys. “Where do you want to go?”

“I’ve got one or two things to do.” She made a visible effort to pull herself together. “I’ve been away so much. If I’m going to Suffolk tomorrow, I must get some things sorted out today.”

“Okay.” He finished his toast, drained his coffee, and stood up. “I’ll call you later. If you’re very good, there might even be a glass of champagne for you at the office this evening.” He paused as he was about to put on his jacket. “Do you want me to come back here this evening?”

“You know I do.” She stood up and reached up to kiss him. “I want you to come back here always, Nick.”

***

As soon as he left she showered and dressed in a blue linen skirt and blouse. She straightened the apartment, put her camera and notebook in her bag, and picked up the keys to the Porsche. Then she hesitated. She looked at the pile of books on the table.

She knew what she had to do. She had to find out where Matilda had died. No more trances, no more hypnotism. Just plain fact, to finish the story off. When she got there she would know. She opened the notebook and stood staring down at the scribbled lines of writing; notes taken so many weeks ago, which had meant so little then. Now they were a shorthand mockery of a lifetime of love and hate and hope and fear.

She ran her finger down the page. “Matilda and her son were sent from Bristol to a dungeon at Windsor”…Windsor or Corfe. She gazed across the room unseeing. Windsor or Corfe. She would know at once. She would feel Matilda’s fear. That would be enough. There would be no last trance; no more. Just the final stark sentence in her story.

She closed the notebook resolutely and, picking up her bag, let herself out of the apartment.

The Porsche ate up the miles to Windsor, streaking down the fast lane of the M4 without regard to the speed limit. From far away the huge towers of the castle showed from the road, shimmering in the haze that hung over the willow-lined water meadows which bordered the Thames. Jo swung the car into the old town and parked it in a side street below the massive castle walls. For a moment she did not move. She rested her forehead against the steering wheel and closed her eyes, trying to steady the uneasy pounding of the pulse beneath her ribs. Then, taking a deep breath, she swung the car door open and pulled herself out. The town was very crowded and she was jostled back and forth on the pavement as she made her way resolutely toward the gatehouse at the entrance to the castle.

The lower ward was thronged with people. Gray stone; walls; towers; the flying buttresses of St. George’s Chapel; emerald grass, clipped as if by nail scissors. Up toward the hill on which stood the huge round tower. Cameras; children; everywhere people staring; people laughing; people talking; people only superficially aware of the ghosts that walked around them. Hitching her bag up higher onto her shoulder, Jo stared up at the vast bulge of the gray walls. High above, rippling from the flagpole, was a flag. She felt her stomach tighten as she stared up, half expecting to see again the snarling leopards of John’s standard against the stormy sky. Her mind made a tentative shadowy probe toward the dream, rejected it, and drew back. It was not John’s standard. She could see the brash red, white, and blue now of the Union Jack with, behind it, wisps of high summer cloud and sunlight.

Slowly her hands unclenched in the pockets of her skin as she walked around the castle perimeter, expecting nothing now, the moment past, the ancient stones absolved of her particular nightmare.

It was after five when she got home. She threw down the keys on the table and went straight to the phone.

“Jane? Is Nick there? It’s Jo.”