Sheer Abandon (7 page)

Beatrice was not beautiful, but there were things about her that were: her eyes, large, dark, and warm (distracting from a heavy nose and jaw); her hair, long, thick, and glossy; and her legs, longer even than Jocasta’s and as slender. She was, at the time she and Josh met, already making an awesome reputation for herself as a criminal barrister. Josh was drifting through life, ostensibly being groomed to take over the family company. He had given up law even before leaving university, and had read philosophy instead. He had then spent a year auditioning for various drama schools, all of which rejected him, and, finding himself unemployed and unable to finance his fairly expensive lifestyle, had finally gone to his father expressing a rather unlikely and sudden interest in the Forbes business.

Ronald Forbes had not greeted this news with the enthusiasm Josh had hoped for, but he said he’d give him a taste of it and see how he liked it. The taste was not too sweet; on the first day Josh was not given the plush room he expected in the London office, but a lesson in driving a forklift in the factory at Slough. After a month, he progressed to the assembly line and thence to the sales office, where he learnt to use the company computer. He had perversely quite enjoyed the factory period, but this was mind-numbing; he stopped trying, kept calling in sick and taking longer and longer lunch hours around the pubs of Slough. His father sent for him and told him if he didn’t pull himself together he’d be fired; Josh told him that would be a happy release.

That had been the day of the dinner party at which he’d met Beatrice.

Less than a year later they were married. People who didn’t know them very well could never quite understand their relationship, why it worked; the simple fact was that they needed each other. Josh needed order and direction; and Beatrice, who had been born ordered and self-motivated, needed the emotional and social support of a husband who also had plenty of money, criminal litigation being the least financially rewarding branch of the law.

She was hugely attracted to Josh, she found him surprisingly interesting, and he was potentially very rich. Josh had discovered that Beatrice was a great deal less confident than she seemed, that she had a sexual appetite which was quite surprising given her rather stern personality, and also that she was the first person he had met for a long time who seemed to think he had any real potential for anything.

“I think you could do wonderful things with that firm,” she said (by the Monday evening she had looked it up on the Internet and assessed its potential), and sent him to his father to apologise and to ask for his job back; a month after that, when he was working genuinely hard, she invited Ronald Forbes to dinner with her and Josh. They impressed each other equally.

“I can see he’s difficult and incredibly authoritarian,” she said to Josh afterwards, “but he’s got so much drive and energy. And I love the way he talks about the company, as if it was someone he’s in love with.”

“It is,” said Josh gloomily.

Ronald Forbes in his turn found Beatrice’s intellect, clear ambition, and intense manner engaging; he told her she was exactly what Josh needed and said he hoped he would be seeing a great deal more of her in the future. Beatrice told him she hoped so too.

Six months later Josh was appointed deputy sales manager for the south of England and given the longed-for London office, and Beatrice told him she thought they should get married. Josh panicked, and said maybe one day, but what was the rush, things seemed fine to him as they were, and Beatrice said not really, as she was pregnant.

“As if,” Jocasta had said to her mother, who deeply disliked Beatrice, “a girl like her would get pregnant by accident. I bet she decides exactly when she ovulates as well as everything else. God, he’s an idiot.”

But Josh surprised everyone—including Beatrice—by acknowledging his responsibilities and agreeing that they should marry. They had a small but beautifully organised wedding at Beatrice’s home in Wiltshire, and a honeymoon in Tuscany. Ronald Forbes was as delighted as his ex-wife was not.

Beatrice had worked until she was eight months pregnant and returned to her chambers two weeks after the birth of Harriet—known as Harry. Two years to the day after Harry’s birth, Charlotte—inevitably called Charlie—was born.

That had been two years ago. Josh was now deputy managing director of Forbes Furniture, and working just hard enough to keep both Beatrice and his father satisfied. Beatrice had switched from criminal to family law, as being more compatible with family life and running their large Clapham house and hectic social life with apparent ease. The fact remained that domestic abuse cases were funded by legal aid and therefore still not especially lucrative; Josh paid most of the bills.

Jocasta wanted to dislike Beatrice, but she never managed it; she was, for all her bossy manner and workaholism, surprisingly kind and genuinely interested in Jocasta’s life and career. Nick adored her, he said she was the sexiest sort—“I bet she puts on a gym slip and sets about old Josh with the cane”—and was charmed by the way she always read his column, and discussed whatever story she had most recently read with great seriousness, as indeed she did Jocasta’s. There was absolutely no doubt in anyone’s mind, both within and outside the family, that Beatrice was the perfect wife for Josh.

“Why did I do it, Jocasta?” he moaned now, between sips of coffee. “Why am I such an idiot?”

“No idea,” said Jocasta. “But I have to say, it’s Beatrice I feel sorry for. I’d have slung you out the last time. And you realise Dad will be on her side, don’t you? He won’t let her starve.”

“Don’t think I haven’t thought of that, either,” said Josh. “I don’t hold a single card, do I? What can I do?”

“You can’t actually do anything. Except wait for a while. And keep telling her how sorry you are. You’ve got one wonderful thing in your favour. And it just might be enough.”

“Jesus, I hope so. I’d do anything, anything at all, if I thought there was a chance she’d forgive me.”

“I suspect she’s heard that before.”

“Yes, all right. Don’t kick a man when he’s down. So—what is this one wonderful thing?”

“I think,” said Jocasta, and her voice was slightly sad, “that she loves you.”

Martha raised her lips to the silver chalice and took a sip of wine, struggling to concentrate on the moment, on the fact that she was taking the Blessed Sacrament. She never could, of course. Not completely. She had moved so far from her father’s church, her parents’ faith, that she only went to church when she was staying for the weekend in Binsmow. It pleased them, and it charmed the parishioners; the fact that she felt an absolute hypocrite was immaterial. And in a way she enjoyed it, savouring the peace, the reassurance that nothing had changed.

She stood up now, walked slowly back to her seat, her head carefully bowed, taking in nonetheless the fact that the church was three-quarters empty and, apart from a few—a very few—teenagers, she was the only person there who could be called young. How could her father do this week after week, year after year? How could his own faith withstand what seemed to Martha the humiliation of knowing that his life’s work was for the large part rejected by the community? She had asked him once, and he had said she didn’t understand: St. Andrews was still the centre of the parish, it didn’t matter that the congregation was so small, they turned to him when they needed him, when illness or death or marriage or the christening of a new baby required his services, and that was enough for him.

“But, Dad, don’t you want to tell them they should have done a bit more for the church before expecting it to do things for them?”

“Oh, no,” he said and his eyes were amused. “What good would that do? Alienate them, and fail them in their hours of need? Martha, I believe in what I’m doing and I’ve never regretted it. And it enables me to do some good. Quite a lot of good, even. I like that. Not many professions allow it.”

“I suppose you mean mine doesn’t,” she said irritably.

“I didn’t. I wouldn’t dream of drawing such a comparison.” But she knew he would.

She had come down this weekend very much from a sense of duty; her sister had called her to say that her parents were a bit low.

“Mum’s arthritis is bad, and Dad gets so upset because he can’t help. I try to cheer them up but they see me all the time, I’m not a treat like you are. You haven’t been for months, Martha.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve been—”

“Yes, I know how busy you’ve been.” Her sister’s voice was sharp. “I’ve been quite busy too, actually, trying to cope with work and the children. Even Michael gets down more than you do.”

“Yes, all right,” Martha said. She was tempted to say it was easy for Michael, their brother, who was in his first year of teaching, and had a great deal of spare time, but she didn’t. In any case, Anne was right: she didn’t come down much.

“I promise I’ll come very soon,” she said finally. “I really do promise.”

“Good,” said Anne and rang off.

Martha wished she could like Anne more. But she was so—so sanctimonious, so much too good to be true. She was married to a very hardworking, poorly paid social worker, and they had three children, no help in the house, only one car, and Anne had a job as a special needs assistant at one of the local schools to make ends come a little nearer to meeting. On top of that she did a lot of volunteer work and even helped her father in the parish, now that their mother was finding it difficult to cope. To Martha it looked like the life from hell; especially being married to Bob the Social Worker, as she thought of him, rather like Bob the Builder. Martha actually felt Anne would be better off with Bob the Builder; at least he would be some practical use around the house. Bob Gunning added acute unhandiness to his other shortcomings, and all the DIY jobs were done by poor Anne. There really did seem to be very little joy in her life.

Martha could see how excessively irritating her own gilded existence must seem to her sister, not just the apparently limitless money, with only herself to spend it on, but the way she did find so little time to visit, to help their parents—other than financially, which in any case they would accept only under extreme pressure. And although she had come down this weekend, it would be the only one for some time, she knew; the general election was looming and that always resulted in a lot of work, as the money markets became jittery and the big corporations swung into action to accommodate any changes.

Not that they would be very remarkable; Blair continued to sit high in the polls, smiling purposefully, making empty promises. He would get in again; there was no doubt about it.

“Things are pretty bad around here,” her father said.

“In what way?” She took his arm as they walked back.

“The countryside has been dreadfully hit by the foot-and-mouth business. There’s an air of depression over everything.”

“Really?” said Martha. She had read about the foot-and-mouth tragedy of course, but sheltered as she was in her glass tower in Docklands, it had somehow lacked reality.

“Yes. Poor old Fred Barrett, whose family’s had a farm just outside Binsmow for five generations, has struggled on until now, but this has finished him. He’s selling up. Not that anyone will buy the farm. And then I’ve got God knows how many parishioners waiting to go into hospital. Poor old Mrs. Dudley, waiting eighteen months now for a hip replacement, in real pain, and still they tell her another six months. It’s criminal, it really is.”

“Everything’s a mess,” said Martha, thinking of Lina and her daughter Jasmin. “Absolutely everything.”

She walked into her mother’s bedroom; Grace was lying in bed, looking pale.

“Hello, dear. I’m sorry I’m not seeing to breakfast. I slept so badly; the pain wakes me, you see, and then I get back to sleep around six and don’t hear the alarm.”

“Oh Mum, I’m so sorry. Can I get you anything, tea, coffee…?”

“I’d love a cup of tea. I’ll be down in a minute.”

“No, I’ll bring it up,” said Martha. “Spoil you a bit. Is the pain very bad?”

“Sometimes,” said Grace. “Not always. You know. Grumbles away.”

“What does the doctor say?”

“He’s referred me to a consultant, but there’s a year’s waiting list at least. In the old days, when we still had the local hospital, it would have been much quicker. But it’s gone, of course. Dr. Ferguson gives me painkillers, which help, but they make me feel sick.”

“Mum, won’t you let me pay for the orthopaedic consultant at least? You could see him so much more quickly. This week probably.”

“No, Martha. We don’t believe in private medicine. Or jumping the queue—it’s immoral.”

“You might not believe in it,” said Martha briskly, “but it would stop you being in pain. Wouldn’t that be worth it?”

“Martha, we can’t be beholden to you. It’s not right.”

“Why not? I was beholden to you for all those years. And suppose it had been me? When I was a little girl. In pain, not able to see a doctor for more than a year. Wouldn’t you have thought anything was worth it to help me? Wouldn’t you have set your principles aside?”