Sheer Abandon (37 page)

“Well—take it.”

“I—that is—it’s in Edinburgh. Working for the Beeb.”

“Edinburgh!”

“Yes. Very buzzy city, Edinburgh, these days. They even have a Harvey Nichols, my spies tell me. So, what do you think?”

“Well,” she said briskly bright, “I think of course you must take it.”

“You do?”

“Of course. Why ever shouldn’t you?” She wouldn’t mind; it would be fine. She could see him quite often. Not very often. But—enough.

“I can think of one very good reason.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s called Martha.”

“Ed, you can’t give up a really good opportunity for me. Anyway, we could still see each other.” When, though? Not evenings. Not many weekends, either. Given her work in Binsmow. Building up now. Her Saturday legal clinics. So she’d only see him…very occasionally.

“Well, I could. I thought I would. Actually. Give it up. But if you really think so. I mean, it would be great.”

“Right, well that’s settled then. Of course you must take it. We can have wonderful weekends, now and again, and you…you…” Her voice trailed off.

“I what?”

“You’ll do so well, Ed. It’s such a thing, working for the Beeb. You’d be set up for life.”

“Yes. Good. Thanks, Martha. You’re so—so grown-up.” He smiled at her, just a bit too brightly.

“I should be. At my age. Let’s go back now, shall we? I’m getting cold.” She’d feel better about it later, when she got used to the idea. She was the last person to cling to someone, the first to know how important taking opportunities was.

Bloody Pont de la Tour. It was jinxed for them.

“That was great,” he said sleepily. “Night, Martha.”

“Night, Ed.”

It hadn’t been: not great. It was as if it had all been slightly out of focus. Nothing sharp enough.

The pleasure dulled—just a bit.

She lay there, thinking about him being in Edinburgh, how far away it was, how with the best will in the world, they would drift apart, the sweet dizzy closeness lost.

She got up and wandered into the sitting room, stood at the window, staring at the lights, thinking how far away he would seem, how lonely she would be. She felt a stab of pure misery, sat down, huddled in her bathrobe, fighting it down. Well, she would get over it. She’d been perfectly all right before she met him. Absolutely all right. She just wasn’t a dependent sort of person. She had a horror of it.

And it was difficult, conducting a love affair with her life as it was; she was aware that she was fighting for time, pushing back boundaries. Mostly at the expense of sleep. She’d get a bit more of that, at least. But—

Damn, now she was going to cry. Shit. Ed mustn’t hear her, mustn’t know. He was obviously so keen to go, to take the job…

She got up, went to the loo and sat on the seat, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose. That was better—she could do this, for God’s sake.

The door opened; Ed came in.

“Sorry,” he said. “Just wanted a pee.”

“That’s OK,” she said. “I’m just leaving.”

“You OK?” he said.

“Yes, I’m fine. Of course.”

He switched the light on, looked at her. “Martha, you’re crying. What is it?”

“I don’t want you to go,” she said, and her voice was hopeless with misery. She felt appalled that she could give so much of herself away. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Ed. I’ll be all right in the morning.”

“You don’t want me to go?” he said, and his voice was very quiet, very gentle.

“No. Well, obviously not, I mean I’ve got used to us being together, so it’s a bit of a shock, but I’ll be all right. Sorry, Ed, sorry…”

“You’re actually saying you don’t want me to go?”

“Yes. Yes, I am. I know it’s wrong, but—”

“It’s not wrong,” he said. “It’s terribly, terribly right. God almighty, Martha, I’ve spent the last four months trying to tell myself that you really do care about me and now I know you do. Of course I won’t go, you silly moo. I don’t want to leave you, either. I want to stay here with you. Even in spite of your gigantic nose. And your pathetic tits. I wanted you to tell me not to go. More than anything I can ever remember.”

“Oh, Ed.” She looked up at him and suddenly it was an explosion in her head, and she had to say it, had to tell him.

“I—well, the thing is, I—I—”

“Come on. Spit it out. You what?”

“I love you,” she said, and her voice was almost desperate with both anxiety and the effort of saying it.

“You do? Say it again.”

“I love you,” she said, and he bent down and gave her a kiss and then started to laugh.

“This is one hell of a place for a love scene,” he said. “I love you, too. And now, if you could just shift your very well-toned little arse, I’d like to have my pee.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Jocasta, “so terribly sorry.”

She was sitting in what Gideon called the playroom; it was a rather grown-up playroom, with two huge sofas, a large television, a music system with two tall speakers and three stacks of CDs, a low table covered with what catalogues call executive toys, the walls lined with books. There was a huge fire burning in the stone fireplace, the lights were low and soothing. A large painting hung on one wall, of a beautiful blond woman in a black low-cut evening dress, the second Mrs. Keeble. Fionnuala’s mother.

“And what are you sorry for,” Gideon said, “exactly?”

He smiled at her; a formal smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m sorry about being here. I feel so—so awful.”

“Oh, that’s perfectly all right,” he said. “You are doing your job and I have to admire your initiative. You must tell me where you made your break-in, though. I didn’t realise it was so easy.”

“It wasn’t easy!” said Jocasta, mildly indignant. “It was very difficult. I had to climb a huge tree and then jump down that massive wall—”

“Now, I hope you are not looking for sympathy,” he said. “That would really seem a little unreasonable of you.”

“No, of course not,” she said. “Sorry, Gideon. Again.”

“Don’t keep saying you are sorry,” he said. She found his expression hard to read: it was not his usual benign smile, but neither was it at all hostile; it was simply detached. “But I don’t know how much I can offer you in the way of a story. We are all very quiet here. As you see.”

“Yes, of course. Well, don’t worry about it,” she said and then thought how absurd she must sound. “I’m so sorry about your daughter, Gideon. About Fionnuala. You must be terribly upset.”

“I’m not in the least upset,” he said. “It takes more than a naughty daughter to have any effect on me.”

She was reminded, once again, of her own father; he would have dismissed the whole thing thus as a naughty, childish prank, no more, not a desperate cry for help, not concerned for the danger of the situation. She began to like him less.

“You…haven’t heard from her?”

“Now, would I be telling you if I had?” He smiled again, the same polite, detached smile.

“No, of course not.”

This was a nightmare. What was she going to do? He sat, drumming his fingers gently on the arm of the sofa, apparently relaxed.

“You’re all right, are you?” she said. “I mean, you said you hadn’t been well.”

“I think I said the doctors said I needed a rest. Which I am not getting at the moment, of course. Now it might be a good idea,” he added, “if you gave me your mobile. I’m sorry if I appear discourteous, but I really would prefer you not filing any stories just at the moment.”

Jocasta flushed. “Of course,” she said. There seemed little else that she could say. She pulled her mobile from her rucksack and handed it to him.

“Thank you. Now if you will excuse me, Jocasta, I have work to do. Do let Mrs. Mitchell know if you want coffee. You know where she is, just along the corridor.”

“Yes, of course,” she said. “Thank you.”

Should she make a run for it? For the front gates, climb over, forget her scoop? Anything would be better than this.

And then she heard it: first the distant whirring, then the increased beating of helicopter blades, cutting through the silence.

Gideon stood up, white suddenly, his face very drawn. He looked out of the window onto the lawn behind the house; Jocasta stood up too, and in the sudden brilliant light that flooded the area, watched the helicopter land, saw the pilot jump down, and then shortly after, a slight figure wearing trousers and some kind of large jacket follow him and run under the spinning blades towards the house. It must be Fionnuala. Returned to her father.

Gideon didn’t move, just stood there, staring out. As the figure reached the terrace, she stood still herself, looking up at the house, and then began walking swiftly towards the side door. Not Fionnuala, but her mother, Aisling. Mrs. Mitchell appeared on the terrace, and walked towards her; they stood together for a moment or two, then walked back towards the house. Finally Jocasta couldn’t bear it any longer.

“Aren’t you—aren’t you going to go and meet her?” she said, and Gideon gave a great sigh, almost visibly shook himself, and then walked silently and very slowly out of the room.

For want of anything else to do, Jocasta stayed exactly where she was, shamefully aware that she was writing the most important article of her life, inside her head.

Chapter 21

         
DRESSED FOR SUCCESS
it said, right across the centre spread.
IS MARTHA HARTLEY THE FUTURE FACE OF POLITICS
?

And then under the headline, several extremely nice photographs of the future face. And figure.

She did look absolutely wonderful, Clio thought.

Sleek and self-assured, and sounded it too. Talking about her new career, her view on politics, her life in general, in absolutely clear, concise terms. Clio tried to remember those qualities in the rather nervy girl she had last seen on Koh Samui—and completely failed. How did anyone change that much? She certainly hadn’t, and neither had Jocasta, not really. Obviously Martha’s life had been very confidence-building. Well lucky her.

There was a lot of stuff about the Centre Forward Party too, about how it was the party of the future, for young professional people like herself, while still adhering to all the true Tory values. Very neatly and succinctly expressed.

Clio looked to see who had written the words beside the photographs; she expected to see Jocasta’s name, but it was someone called Carla Giannini, the fashion editor. She wondered what had happened. Maybe she should call Jocasta. It would be good to talk to her anyway; but Jocasta’s phone seemed to be switched off.

Martha and Ed had studied the article in bed that morning. Martha had been quite pleased with the pictures but furious about the mention of her car and her salary. “What right does the bitch have to put that in? I told her there was to be nothing personal. It wasn’t in the final copy I read. God, it’s outrageous. I’ve a good mind to call the editor and complain!”

Ed leant forward and took her face between his hands.

“Martha,” he said, between kisses, “you look utterly, utterly gorgeous, almost as gorgeous as you do without any clothes on. Now if they had shown that, you might have something to complain about. You’re successful, for fuck’s sake. What’s wrong with that?”

“A lot,” said Martha. “People won’t like this, Ed, they’ll think I have no idea what ordinary life is like, they’ll be suspicious of me, and they’ll—”

“Oh just shut up,” he said, pulling the paper away from her, pushing her back on the pillows, bending to kiss her on the stomach, the thighs, his tongue lingering tantalisingly on her pubic hair, probing it. “Anyway, I’ve got a complaint about it, too. You haven’t even mentioned your amazing stud of a boyfriend. Why not? Why does the Merc get bigger billing than I do?”

She stared at him, thinking he was serious, started to say, “But Ed—” and then saw his grin, smiled reluctantly herself.

“Now look,” he said, sitting up again, “I know you’ve got to go to Binsmow today, and I know you’ve got to leave quite soon. Two questions: Can I come too? And can we have a fuck before you go?”

“You certainly can’t come too,” said Martha firmly. “Your mother might start to put two and two together. This is serious stuff; I’ve got a school fair and two church concerts to go to, as well as my legal clinic. I can’t be distracted by you. And no, we can’t have a fuck before I go—I’m late already. I seem to remember plenty of that in the last four or five hours. And it was lovely, thank you very much.”

“Well, I don’t know,” he said. “There’s still time for me to accept that job in Edinburgh, you know…”

“Ed,” said Martha, very serious suddenly, “if you really want it, then you must take it. We’ll get by.”

“I don’t. I don’t want us getting by. I’m still reeling at the Right Honorable Hartley admitting to needing me.”

It had been a very big admission she had made to him, she thought, stepping into the shower. It frightened her in a way. What price control, now? She hoped it would be all right.

Kate had been looking at the pictures of Martha on and off all day. If her pictures were anything like as good as that, it would be awesome. She’d have the last laugh then, all right. And it would be this space—Carla had said when she called that she’d like her to be in the Saturday paper.

“Next Saturday, if possible. Are there any days you could get away from school early? Say by lunchtime.”

“Any day,” Kate had said. “It’s half term.”

“Wonderful! Then how about Tuesday? And we could go on Monday and pick out some things you like for the pictures. I thought I’d let you choose your own. Oh, and Kate, do bring one of your parents along with you to the session—I wouldn’t want them worried in any way about all this.”

“They’re away,” said Kate, “for a week.”

“Oh, I see,” said Carla, thinking that there must indeed be a God. “Well, is there anyone else, an elder sister, perhaps?”

“I could bring my gran,” said Kate. “She’s looking after my sister and me next week. She’s got a clothes shop and she’s really cool. She’d love to come.”

“Fine. Tell her to call me if she has any queries.”

Kate hadn’t spoken to Jilly yet; she’d been waiting for the right moment. Maybe this evening—that would be a good time. Juliet was playing in some crap concert and they didn’t have to go, thank God. It would be the perfect time to tell Jilly all about it and show her the paper and everything, so she could see how important it was. God, it was exciting!

Janet Frean read the piece about Martha Hartley. She didn’t normally take the
Sketch
but a very excited Jack Kirkland had faxed her a copy of the spread. He called her half an hour later.

“Didn’t she do well? Got all the points across. Very professional, I thought. Considering it’s her first exposure to the press.”

“Indeed,” said Janet. “And yes, she does look extremely nice. Pity she talked about her personal dresser: could alienate a few people. But she’ll learn. And it’s only a detail.”

“What’s so great about her,” said Jack, “is that she’s young and successful herself. Out in the real world. Not much of that in politics today. I think she’s a real find.”

“Indeed,” said Janet. “Jack, you must excuse me, I’ve got a line of people waiting for their breakfast here.”

Bob Frean, who was serving up the family breakfast, wondered what the loud crash was that emanated from her study downstairs and sent Lucy, the fourteen-year-old, to find out. Lucy came back grinning.

“She’s fine,” she said. “In one of her strops, that’s all. Threw a paperweight right across the room. She says she doesn’t want any breakfast.”

“Fine by me,” said Bob.

Nick read the piece about Martha Hartley with only mild interest. He had liked her when he’d met her; he thought she came across as less engaging in this piece. He was still slightly baffled as to how Jocasta had such trouble getting a story out of her—there was obviously more to them and their relationship than Jocasta was telling. The most likely explanation was that they’d been fighting over some man, Jocasta had won, and Martha had never forgiven her. Or something like that. Well, if push came to shove, most men would choose Jocasta, he thought miserably. He was missing her terribly.

He knew she’d been sent to Ireland, on the Keeble story, but she seemed to have disappeared into thin air. He’d asked Chris Pollock if he’d heard from her, and he said he hadn’t since she’d filed her copy two days earlier.

“Bloody useless it was too. I don’t know what’s the matter with the girl. She seems to have completely lost it. If you do speak to her, Nick, tell her she’s in danger of finding herself without a job if she doesn’t file soon.”

Nick was sure Jocasta hadn’t lost it, that she had found someone, somewhere, who knew something and was even now probably writing her story, beating the opposition with some extraordinary exclusive. He knew Chris felt the same, that there was no real question of Jocasta losing her job. One of Chris’s strengths as an editor was the trust he placed in his writers and reporters, his willingness to support them.