Sheer Abandon (46 page)

By the end of the weekend, Kate was feeling better. She couldn’t help it. Yes, it had been awful, the shock; yes, she felt hideously ashamed still, that everyone knew what had happened to her, that everyone must be pointing her out, saying that’s the girl whose mother just threw her away; she still felt as if she was walking down the road with all her clothes off, naked and exposed; and yes, it was horrible to have trusted someone like Carla and then found yourself totally let down. It was appalling to think that one of those women who had phoned up might be her birth mother, and that she was having to wait quietly when the most tumultuous discovery in her life might be within reach. She wanted to rush into the offices of the
Sketch
and demand to see the list, see the women, organise the DNA testing. But it was also quite nice, she had to admit, to have not just the
Sketch
but papers like the
Sunday Times
describing you with words like “beautiful” and “dazzling,” and to see your pictures in them, as well.

And to have model agencies ringing up, asking you to go and see them, and even magazines, asking if they could come and interview you—that was pretty cool.

And then there was Nat. It had almost been worth it all, to have Nat calling her twice a day and taking her out in the Sax Bomb and saying what about going to the Fridge this Saturday. She’d said that would be cool, that she’d most definitely come; she’d worry about her parents and what they might say when the time came. The thing they didn’t understand—that nobody seemed to understand—was what a nice person Nat was. The first thing he’d said when she’d got in the car was, “You all right?” and, “Yes,” she’d said, yes, she was fine, thank you. And he’d said, “I meant about the story in the paper, like, about your mum,” and it had completely wiped her out, that he’d understood how she might be feeling, had thought about it. He’d obviously read the article properly, because he’d said, with that grin of his, that he’d liked the way she’d talked about his clothes and his car.

Then he leant forward and started to kiss her; he was a very good kisser. Nice and slow and careful, his tongue moving round, sort of stroking hers. Kate hadn’t experienced good kissing before and it was wonderful. They were parked on the edge of a park, under some trees; it was terribly romantic.

“You going to do more of this modelling, then?” he said, when he had finally finished, and lit a cigarette.

“Course,” she said.

“Cool. I wouldn’t mind coming along, if they ever wanted a bloke,” he added.

Kate said she didn’t know how it worked, but she could ask, if the occasion arose.

“Yeah, right,” he said, and drove her home in silence. Or as close to silence as the Red Hot Chili Peppers, at top volume, would permit.

“So are you looking forward to your lunch with your professor tomorrow?” Jocasta asked.

“Half. And half dreading it. I keep thinking he’s asked me to lunch to soften the blow, to say there’s no point my applying for the job.”

“I really don’t think people spend money giving you bad news,” said Jocasta. “Polite little notes, more like it. No, he wants to encourage you. Goodness, Clio, a consultant. I shall be proud to know you.”

“I’ll be pretty proud to know me too. If I am one again.”

The only place she felt pleased with herself was at work. It was odd: she felt somehow in charge when she was working; it was like going downhill on a bicycle after struggling up the other side, not easy exactly but exhilarating, everything running smoothly and to order. She sighed; Jocasta looked at her.

“You’ll be fine,” she said, “I know you will. Let’s go for a drink. Just a few quiet ones.”

They went to one of the pubs on the common, sat outside in the gathering dusk. A sliver of moon was hanging in the turquoise sky, the sun a vast display of crimson, hugging the horizon.

“It’s like a child showing off,” said Jocasta. “Look at it, saying let me stay, let me stay. Do you remember those sunsets in Thailand, Clio, so unbelievably dramatic, especially when it had been raining? I must take Gideon to Thailand, he’d love it.”

Like everyone in love, she managed to bring every discussion round to the subject of the beloved.

“I can’t wait for you to meet him. He’s so—so exciting. And interested in absolutely everything. I mean, he’d be talking about your work right now, getting really involved.”

“Don’t you ever miss Nick?” asked Clio curiously. “He seemed lovely to me.”

“He
was
lovely. Just not lovely enough. And the way I love Gideon is quite unlike anything I felt before. For anybody. It’s so—so violent, Clio. It’s just taken me over. I feel I’m where I ought to be, when I’m with him. It’s as simple as that. I didn’t feel like that with Nick. I thought I did, but I didn’t.”

“But you had so much in common with Nick and you cared so much about your work. What are you going to do, Jocasta, stop working altogether, be with Gideon wherever he is?”

“Yes, probably,” said Jocasta vaguely. “I haven’t thought about it.”

“Martha, are you all right?”

Paul Quenell’s voice seemed to be coming from far away. It was a long time since Martha had felt like this: swimmy-headed, clammy, as if she was going to be sick. Probably not since she had been at St. Andrews for early communion and having terrible period pains. She sat down abruptly.

“Yes,” she said, “yes, I’m fine. Thank you. Just a bit…a bit…sorry, Paul.”

What was it doing here, on his desk, the
Sunday Times
, open at the article about—about—Was he going to show it to her, ask if she knew anything about it?

“Jane,” he called through the open door, “bring a glass of water in, would you?” And then, gently stern: “You’ve been working too hard.”

“Well, yes, maybe just a bit.”

“It’s all this extracurricular stuff,” he said, and smiled his swift apology of a smile. “You shouldn’t do it, you know.”

“Maybe not.”

“Thanks, Jane. Just put it down there. You can take this now…” He folded the paper, held it out to his long-suffering secretary. “I’ve seen all I needed.” All he needed? Why should he need anything? What did it have to do with him? She felt hot, violently sick again.

“Jane spotted this piece about the new senior partner at Kindersleys.” Paul sat down at his desk again. “Hannah Roberts, one of these superwomen, five children at least. Come across her?”

“Once or twice,” she said, and relief flooded her, cool, soothing relief.

“Anyway, I’m going to stop the extracurricular stuff for a day or two. I’m sending you on a little trip. Not a long one, a week at the most. But you should be able to grab a couple of days of rest out of it.”

“A trip? Where?”

It was actually the last thing she wanted; she only felt safe doing completely familiar things, in completely familiar places. Even going to a new restaurant the day before had been unsettling.

“Sydney.”

Sydney! It couldn’t have been worse. That was where—when—She hauled herself back to the present. “Why?”

“You don’t look as pleased as I hoped. It’s such a wonderful place. You’ve been there, I presume?”

“No! Well…” She mustn’t start lying. That could become very dangerous. “Well, only for about two days. Long ago. On my way somewhere else.”

“Oh I see. Well, you’ll love it. It’s on Mackenzie business, of course.”

“Of course.” She was regaining her cool now, back in control, Mackenzie was a worldwide property chain—“intergalactic” as Paul had once said. “They’ve got some massive new takeover in their sights on the waterfront over there, they need advice.”

“Can’t the Sydney office manage?”

“Of course. But Donald wants someone from London. He likes to see us earning our fees, as you know.”

Martha smiled. “I do indeed.” Donald Mackenzie was famous for querying every invoice.

“He asked for me, then when I said it was out of the question, he specified you. I’ll get Jane to book your flight and hotel.”

On her way back to her own office, she felt dizzy again; she managed to make it to the ladies’ and sat on a loo seat for a long time, her head between her knees.

Just keep calm, Martha, just keep calm…

“None of those women had left names.” Fergus Trehearn smiled at Kate. “And of course, no numbers or addresses.”

“Oh,” she said. She wasn’t sure how she felt: disappointed, she supposed.

“The thing is,” he said gently, “it’s a criminal offence, abandoning a baby. So they’re not going to be terribly upfront about themselves. Although they may not have understood that. But each and every one of them failed the nappy test. Most of them said it had been a disposable nappy, a few had apparently put a towelling one on you.”

“Yes, I see.” She felt dreadfully bleak. It somehow underlined her poor, destitute, baby self, not just that she’d had no nappy on but that this fact was being used in this horrible mechanical way to catch her would-be mother out. All her would-be mothers.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “this must be so difficult for you. But I think I can assure you that you haven’t missed your real mother. Whoever she is, she hasn’t declared herself.”

“What about the first few? Before we thought about the nappy thing? One of them might have been her.”

“Kate, if that is true, she will call again. She’s not going to give up at the first hurdle.”

“She might. It might have taken all her courage to make that one call, and then when—when…” She fought back the tears.

“That is a possibility, of course,” said Fergus gently. “But I think a remote one. And Kate, it is still possible that you will hear. Very possible. People behave strangely under pressure. Any sort of pressure. I’m no psychiatrist, but I would imagine that if you’ve kept something like this to yourself for sixteen years, it could be pretty difficult suddenly to acknowledge it. It might seem better to wait until the fuss has begun to die down. And then again, I suppose, she might not have seen the article immediately.”

“Not very likely,” said Kate. “It’s been in most of the papers. And mentioned on the radio as well.”

“Indeed. Now that is a relevant observation—
Woman’s Hour
are very eager to do something about it, to talk to you, Helen, and to Kate—”

“No,” said Helen sharply.

“Why not?” said Kate. “Just why exactly not?”

“Because I don’t want this thing prolonged,” said Helen wearily. “You’ve been upset enough, Kate, and—”

“So it’s over, is it?” said Kate. “I hadn’t realised that. What do you mean, Mum, for God’s sake? You don’t want it prolonged! How ridiculous is that? What about me? Yeah, I’ve been upset. But if anything good comes out of it at all, it’ll be finding my mother. And I think the radio would be good. I could say what I wanted, not what the paper said I had. Like I really want to see her still.”

“It’s a very nice programme, Helen,” said Fergus. “Jenni Murray is a superb interviewer—she’s gentle with her interviewees and very sensitive about her material. If Kate still hopes to find her mother, then it could be a good way forward. There’s something honest about radio. As Kate says, they can’t distort your words. She could make a direct appeal to her mother. It could be very emotive. But Kate, if your mum doesn’t like the idea, then it would be wrong for you, too.”