Sheer Abandon (45 page)

Chapter 25

         All she had to do was keep completely calm. Nothing could happen, if she did that. No one could possibly think she had the slightest connection with this rather sensational story in the tabloid press. There was no connection. None at all. The only person who might think there was anything disturbing her was Ed, because he had been so close to her. But he couldn’t be anymore. He would have to be out of her life. And then she would be safe. As long as she kept calm. Perfectly calm.

And didn’t look at the tabloids for the next few days. And certainly not at any pictures of that girl.

Kate had called as Jocasta waited for Clio; she sounded very shaky.

She said she was sorry she’d been so rude to Jocasta and that she totally believed that Jocasta had nothing to do with the story.

“I was just upset. It was all such a—a shock.”

“Of course it was. I was so sorry for you. The pictures were lovely,” she added carefully.

“Yeah, well. Pity about the rest. But it’s not so bad, I s’pose. I don’t have to go to school at the moment, because I’m on study leave, so I can avoid the really cowy girls. But I need your help, Jocasta. All these women keep ringing up, saying they’re my mother, about a dozen of them now, and I’m so scared one of them really is my mother and I’m going to miss her. I just don’t know what to do.”

“Well, I’m sure the paper will be keeping names and so on.”

“Yes, but I need to…to know,” said Kate desperately. “I can’t lose her now. And what about the model agencies, what should I do about that? Mum is so totally no use, and Dad’s gone completely ballistic, and Juliet said we should ask you. Could you help, do you think? Please, Jocasta, please.”

Jocasta was so touched by this plea that she was half inclined to rush straight over to Ealing and the Tarrants, but she called Gideon and he had wiser counsel.

“You can’t do it, Jocasta, don’t be insane. You’re too involved and the responsibility is just too much. And very dangerous. Now listen, I have the very man for you.”

“Gideon’s such an angel. You can’t imagine,” Jocasta said to Clio. “He’s so kind and so concerned for me. Just wait till you meet him, Clio, you really will love him, I promise.”

“I’m sure I will,” said Clio carefully.

“Meanwhile, you’re going to meet a friend of his. Who’s going to sort Kate out. Gideon’s having him call me. His name’s Fergus Trehearn.”

Fergus Trehearn was Ireland’s answer to Max Clifford, Jocasta explained to a rather bemused Clio, “Only he operates from here now. Not quite so successfully. But, well, anyway…You must know about Max Clifford,” she added, seeing Clio’s puzzled face. Clio said humbly that she didn’t and when she had heard what Max Clifford did—“He sort of manipulates everybody including the press”—she said she was surprised that anyone should want to.

“Fergus is a complete sweetheart, apparently,” said Jocasta, “and Kate certainly needs him. She—they just can’t cope with it all. Fergus will take the whole thing on, sorting all these women out, getting Kate the best contract with a model agency, deal with offers from other papers and magazines for her story—”

“She won’t want anything like that, will she?” said Clio.

“Not at the moment, no. But the thing is, you see, as far as the media is concerned, Kate will be Abandoned Baby Bianca for the rest of her life. Any story about her will refer to it and maybe one day, who knows, she might want to tell her story. And if her mother turns up—well, that could be huge. She needs her interests protected. Fergus will draw up contracts, that sort of thing. Stop unscrupulous people taking advantage of her and her parents. Anyway, I said Fergus should come to my house. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not,” said Clio bravely.

The last thing she wanted was to have to meet some flashy gold-medallion man and sit and listen to him talking about manipulating the press.

But it was not a medallion man who sat in Jocasta’s untidy sitting room, listening carefully as she talked; it was someone charming and courteous and well dressed, in a linen suit. He was in his early forties, tall, slim, and extremely good-looking, with close-cropped grey hair and dark brown eyes. He was Irish, garrulous, and funny and she found it hard not to like him. Jocasta introduced her as her brilliant friend who was a consultant physician and he appeared duly impressed, even as she protested and said she was nothing of the sort.

His manner, as he listened, was concerned and sweetly interested. It completely belied the ruthless opportunism that drove him. No one would have thought that this Fergus Trehearn, gently sympathetic over the dreadful wickedness of Carla Giannini, hardly able to believe the depths of her treachery, was the same one who had conducted a telephone auction between two major newspapers for the story of a beautiful refugee girl from Bosnia who had become a call girl (under cover of a chambermaid’s job at a West End hotel) and then staged a roasting by a posse of drunken footballers; or who had negotiated a hefty media deal for a young couple arrested for, and duly acquitted of, having sex on the hard shoulder of the M25.

“He will be perfect for Kate,” Jocasta said to Clio happily, after he had gone, “keep all the sharks at bay and make her lots of money. And what’s more, I know he’ll be able to persuade the Tarrants. Isn’t he a sweetheart?”

Jocasta called the Tarrants, explained what Fergus did and begged them to see him. Helen, exhausted and still deeply distressed, finally agreed. Jim said he would personally throw him out of the house, but Helen was learning to ignore such threats. They had to get through this somehow and it sounded as if Fergus Trehearn might be able to help. An appointment was fixed for six on Monday evening.

“I know it’s a little late,” he said apologetically to Helen, “but that’s the earliest I can manage. Do you have any of those inky vultures at your gate now?”

Helen, who had thought she would never smile again, recognised this as a description of the press and actually laughed. “They’ve gone,” she said, “but we’re still getting so many calls.”

“I’ll take them all off you,” he said, “if you’ll let me. I’ll see you at six, Mrs. Tarrant, and your husband too, of course. And after we have talked, then, if you’re happy with me, I’ll meet your beautiful daughter.”

“He’d deal with the press,” said Helen to Jim, “and the women. And Kate. With all these offers we keep getting.”

“And what’s that going to cost us?” said Jim. “Don’t tell me he’s doing it out of the goodness of his heart.”

“I’ll ask Jocasta,” said Helen uncertainly. She hadn’t thought of this.

“Oh, that’s a really good idea,” said Jim, his voice heavily sarcastic. “They’re probably hand in glove. You can see him if you like, Helen, but I won’t. And don’t expect a penny out of me for him, either.”

Helen sighed and went to telephone Jocasta. Jocasta was very reassuring about the money.

“He won’t want any, unless Kate starts to do well as a model,” she said, “then he’ll probably act as her agent and take a percentage. They work on a sort of no win, no fee basis, like all the lawyers are doing now.”

Had Helen been even slightly worldlier she might have found this a little suspicious; she was not to know that Gideon Keeble had already agreed to pay Fergus’s bill until something was resolved with Kate.

“Look,” said Martha, “I’m sorry. I’ve said at least three times now I can’t go away to Venice. Not at the moment. I don’t know why you can’t accept that.”

It had taken her all day to bring herself to make this call, and every word that she said hurt more than the last. She kept seeing him, sitting there, confused, bewildered by the change in her, and she didn’t quite know how to bear it. But it had to be done.

Suppose he’d read about it, asked her about it even, said he couldn’t imagine anyone doing such a thing. Or said how dreadful, how awful the mother must be.

No, it was very clear. The need for control was back. And to be in control, you had to be independent, answerable to no one. Ed loved her. And she loved him. And love was powerful, when it came to secrets. Huge, dangerous secrets. It saw them, it found them out.

She took another deep breath. “So I can’t go to Venice. Is that all right?”

“Of course it’s not all right! Two days ago you said you could.” Ed’s voice was very quiet. “What’s changed?”

“Nothing’s changed, Ed. I can’t go just now, please understand that. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, so sorry you couldn’t even be arsed to call me all weekend, didn’t return my calls. Why not, Martha, would you just tell me that?”

“There wasn’t an opportunity—”

“Oh, right. All weekend. Not a single five-minute—what do you call it?—oh, yes, window, not a five-minute window to pick up your fucking phone and say hi, Ed, sorry I can’t talk now, I’ll ring later. Is that right?”

“Yes,” she said and her voice was so cool, so steady, it amazed her, “that’s right.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he said suddenly, “I’ve had enough of this. Don’t you care that I was worried out of my skull? Don’t you?” His voice was less angry, was cracked with pain.

“Of course I care, Ed, but as I told you, I—”

“You’re made of fucking stone,” he said, “you know that?”

She was silent for a moment; then she said, “Ed, I really don’t like being abused like this. If you can’t cope with my life and the way I am, then we would do far better to end this whole thing.”

“What whole thing?”

“Our relationship, of course.”

“Relationship!” he said. “You call what we have a relationship? Right now, I’d call it a load of bullshit, Martha, total fucking bullshit. You tell me what to do and say and think, where to be and when, and I just tag along behind you, licking your arse. Well, you can find someone else to lick it, because I’m finding it extremely tedious all of a sudden. OK?” And he slammed the phone down.

Martha sat for a long time, completely still, just staring at it. Wanting more than anything to pick it up again, fighting the instinct to say she was sorry, she hadn’t meant it, and she loved him, wanted to see him.

But she couldn’t. It was too dangerous.