Sheer Abandon (75 page)

That fitted too: she couldn’t possibly, not then. It would have been too late, he could have been anywhere, and what could he have done? And later—well, Clio could see why not later. The humiliation, the admission of incompetence, running after the glamorous Josh—who wouldn’t want her, who would be horrified—saying, “Do something, I’m about to have your baby.” Or even, “I’ve had your baby.” Some girls would do that, wouldn’t see it as a humiliation, but as a bringing to book, a demand for justice. Not Martha.

She fell into a feverish sleep, woke to find the car stopped and Fergus smiling down at her. “Whatever’s going on in your pretty little head? You’ve been muttering all kinds of nonsense.”

“I…had a bad dream,” she said, managing to smile at him. “Sorry. Can we stop and have a cup of tea? I’ve got an awful headache.”

Gideon Keeble arrived home at Kensington Palace Gardens at seven that evening, exhausted and on the edge of extreme bad temper. He had hoped to find Jocasta waiting for him with dinner organised; he found instead an empty house and a note to Mrs. Hutching.

Mrs. Hutching, don’t worry about dinner, going out. See you in the morning. JFK.

She was very tickled with her new initials, he thought, momentarily less irritated. He went into his study, expecting to find a note from Jocasta: there was none. Nor in their bedroom, nor in his dressing room. He called her mobile; it was on message. He checked his own: there were none.

It is virtually impossible for extremely—or even moderately—rich people not to expect to get what they want, whenever they want it. They may imagine themselves reasonable, patient, easy; the fact is that the various people who are dependent upon them work to make their lives so agreeable that they do not have to become unreasonable, or impatient, or difficult. This process is in direct proportion to how rich they are; and Gideon Keeble was extremely rich. As nobody that night was making the slightest effort to make his life agreeable, he lost his temper very thoroughly.

He didn’t lose it immediately. He called Mrs. Hutching down from her flat and asked, very nicely, for a light supper; he didn’t ask her if she knew where Jocasta was, that would have been humiliating. And then he went into his study to do some work and wait for her. She surely wouldn’t be long; she surely would call him.

She was a very long time; and she didn’t call. And her phone remained on message. He didn’t leave one for her; that too, he felt, was undignified.

At ten o’clock he went, exhausted, to bed; at eleven thirty he heard a taxi throbbing outside. He heard her come in, heard her pause—presumably while Mrs. Hutching told her he was back—heard her running upstairs. She came in; she was flushed, had obviously had more than a glass of wine. She smiled at him uncertainly.

“Hi.”

She bent down, gave him a kiss; he could smell the wine on her breath. It wasn’t very attractive. “Hello, Jocasta. And where have you been?” He managed to sound playful, good-natured, even; he saw her relax.

“Just having dinner.”

“With…?”

“With friends.”

“Oh, yes. Which friends? Nicholas Marshall, for one?”

“For one, yes.”

“Any others?”

“Of course others. Gideon, I’ve had a shitty day, you weren’t here, I didn’t want to be at home on my own—”

“Which other friends?”

“People from the old days, on the paper. You wouldn’t know them. What is this, some kind of inquisition?”

“I think I have a right to know who you’ve been with.”

“Oh, really? A right? That sounds very old-fashioned to me.”

“It does? I happen to think that as your husband I do have rights. Old-fashioned, yes. Reasonable—again yes. You seem to take a different view of these things.”

“Oh, Gideon, stop it.” She sounded exhausted; she sat down on the bed. The flush had faded now and she looked very tired. “I’ve had such an awful day. You can’t think how sad it all was, the funeral and everything.”

“I’m sure. I, too, have had an awful day. Trying to get on flights, changing at absurd places like Munich, all to get home sooner to you. And what do I find? An empty house, no note, nothing arranged for me, and you out with your previous lover—”

“It’s so dangerous.”

“What is?”

“Implying that I’m back with Nick.”

“And that’s not dangerous, I suppose? Your being with him? As you were the other day.”

“I—What?”

“You were with him on Sunday morning. I asked you where you were and you said you were at his flat.”

“Gideon, for fuck’s sake, I wasn’t at his flat. I was dreadfully upset; I needed to be with someone. We met at a coffee place.”

“Oh yes. And you were with him this evening, by your own admission.”

“Yes, I was with him. And about ten other people. At a bar in Soho. Perhaps you’d like me to call them, get witnesses—”

“Oh, get out of here,” he said, suddenly switching off the light, turning away from her. “Just get out. I’m extremely tired, I need some rest.”

Jocasta got out.

“I just can’t cope with this,” she said tearfully to Clio next morning on the phone. “I’m beginning to think I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

Clio had a full surgery; she couldn’t really give this the attention it deserved. Just the same it seemed too absurd to ignore.

“Jocasta, don’t be ridiculous, you’ve told me often that you love him, that you never knew what love meant before, that—”

“Yes, and it’s true. I do love him. So much. But I don’t see how I can live with him, be his wife. It’s a horrible, awful, pointless life and I hate it.”

“But Jocasta, don’t you think that’s a bit…childish?”

“Oh, don’t you start on that one. It’s Gideon’s line.” Clio felt a wave of sympathy for Gideon.

“Look, Jocasta, I can’t talk now. I’ve got patients waiting. I’ll call you later. Try to calm down. I’m sure you’ll feel differently later.”

“I’m perfectly calm!” Jocasta’s voice was rising now. “And I won’t feel differently. I wish I’d never told you if you’re going to start talking crap like that.”

She slammed the phone down. Almost gratefully, Clio pressed the buzzer for her next patient.

Five minutes later, Jocasta tried to ring her back. The receptionist said Dr. Scott was with a patient and that she’d get her to call back later. Jocasta burst into tears.

Gideon had left for work at seven, without even saying goodbye. She felt dreadfully alone, and shocked with herself at being so unpleasant to Clio of all people. What was happening to her? What was she turning into? Some kind of spoilt bitch, who had too little to do. Like the three other Mrs. Keebles, perhaps. God, it was difficult being married. If she’d realised…

The phone rang; she snatched it up. Clio. Thank goodness. “Clio, I’m so—”

But it wasn’t Clio, it was Gideon. “I’m sorry, my darling,” he said, “I’m so sorry. I behaved like a brat.”

“I was just thinking the same,” said Jocasta, a laugh rising through her tears, “about me, I mean.”

“No, no, you didn’t. You’d had a dreadful day and I should have been more understanding. Is there anything I can do to make you love me again? How about lunch?”

“Lunch?” Was that the best he could do?

“Yes. I thought we might go to the Crillon.”

“The Crillon? Gideon, that’s in Paris!”

“I do know that.”

“But it’s almost ten o’clock.”

“I know that too. If you can get over to City Airport, I’ll meet you there in an hour. Table’s booked for one o’clock. Please say you’ll come.”

“I…might,” said Jocasta.

It was a very good lunch; at the end of it, she leant across the table and kissed him.

“Thank you. That was gorgeous.”

“Good. So, am I forgiven?”

“Totally. Am I?”

“Nothing to forgive. Now—little walk across the Place de la Concorde? Or a little lie-down? You choose.”

“Lying down sounds nicer. But where?”

“I have a suite booked,” he said. “If you wouldn’t think that too corny.”

“I love corn.” Suddenly she wanted him terribly. She stood up, took his hand. “Come on, let’s go.”

Later, she lay smiling at him, thinking how much she loved him, wondering at the raging anger she had felt only a few hours earlier. How could that happen, how could this simple biological event, this fusion of bodies, heal hurt, soothe anger, restore tenderness?

“Clever old thing, isn’t she?” he said. “Mother Nature.”

“That’s just what I was thinking. Sort of.”

“Well, there you are. Like-minded or what? As you would say.” He bent and kissed her breasts, then said, “So—a new beginning, Mrs. Keeble?”

“A new beginning. And I will try to be better.”

“I don’t think,” he said, “that you could be better, in one regard, at least.”

And kissed her again.

At half past eleven that night, an ambulance arrived outside the Frean house. Janet had taken an overdose: whether or not it was too late to save her, nobody could say.

But Bob, pacing up and down the hospital corridor an hour later, as they administered various drugs and antidotes, thought that he really should have foreseen the possibility of it, and felt an appalling remorse. In spite of everything.

Chapter 40

         A dreadful rage was building up in Grace. She was angry with everyone: with her husband, who appeared to be coping with the loss of Martha far better than she was, by burying himself in his work; with Anne, who was still alive, while Martha was dead, and who kept telling her she must try to concentrate on the positive things in her life; with her son, who was not only still alive but also had a new girlfriend, who was a therapist of all things, and kept offering her skills to Grace, who most assuredly didn’t want them.

She was also very angry with everyone in the parish who kept on asking with infinite kindness how she was, when they could perfectly well see how she was, which was in a dreadful state of misery; with the GP who had called round and suggested she perhaps consider some medication for her insomnia, when the only good which could come of that, as far as Grace could see, was that if she took them all at once, then her misery would be well and truly over. She managed to say that, so the doctor would understand; he patted her hand and told her she was too good and too sensible to even consider such a thing. That made her angry too.

She was terribly angry with God, for allowing such a thing to happen, and also because He appeared to be withholding from her any of the comfort He was clearly showering down upon her husband.

She was angry, too, with Ed, for not telling them he was in love with Martha, and denying them the happiness it would have brought, however briefly.

And worst of all, she was angry with Martha: that she could have been so reckless, so stupid, driving when she was tired, driving that ridiculous car which went much too fast, trying to do so much with her life, spreading herself too thin. And for leaving nothing of herself behind, nothing except this awful, bleeding blank.

Every day she got angrier.

“My darling, could we have a little talk?”

Jocasta was lying in bed, watching Gideon while he dressed. This was increasingly a pattern; she had nothing to get up for, so she would wait until he had gone, and then lie in the bath for up to an hour, making non-plans, as she thought of them, to fill her day. It was actually quite nice, the watching; she would comment on his clothes, he would consult her on which tie he should wear, and tell her what he was doing for the rest of the day. On a good morning he would suggest what they might do in the evening, or even (occasionally) for lunch; he had been in London now for over a week and said he had at least another two before a big trip to the States she was to accompany him on. Life was rather more as she had imagined it.

“Goodness, Gideon,” she said, “when my father said things like that, it meant I was in serious trouble.”

He smiled at her, came over to kiss her. “Not serious.”

“Unserious trouble?”

“Not trouble at all. But are you all right, darling? You look very tired.”

“I’m not tired at all, thank you. I’m fine.”

“You said you had a headache last night.”

“I did. But it’s gone now.”

“Actually, I had a bit of a headache too, maybe it was that wine, I thought it tasted a bit off.”

He took his health rather seriously; Jocasta tried to tell herself that anyone who’d nearly died of a major heart attack would do. She still found it irritating.

“It might have been,” she said, “I didn’t notice.” She sighed. “Gideon, what did you want to talk about?”

“I know,” he said, a note of triumph in his voice, “you’re premenstrual.”

“Oh Gideon, for God’s sake! What is this, the ladies’ changing room? I don’t get premenstrual, I don’t have my period, I don’t have a headache, and I just want to get on with this conversation. OK?”

“All right. Sorry. Right. It goes like this. I want to give a couple of big dinner parties within the next month. In London. Mostly business, but a few friends. Could you liaise with Marissa, and then get planning with Mrs. Hutching on menus and so on. I’ll do the guest lists, obviously—”

“I’m sorry?”

“I said I’ll do the guest lists. These are mostly business affairs. I have to do them.”

“You said a few friends.”

“Yes, I know, but I meant—” He stopped.

“You meant
your
friends?”

“Well, yes. But I very much hope they will become our friends.”

“What’s wrong with mine?”

“Jocasta, please. There’s nothing wrong with them, but most of your friends wouldn’t fit in with a large, rather serious dinner party with a lot of middle-aged people.”

“And would I?”

He looked at her awkwardly. “Well, you’re different, aren’t you? I mean you’re my wife.”

“So you’re stuck with me at this rather serious dinner party, which I won’t fit in with? Thanks!”

“You’re being difficult.”

“I am not being difficult. And I would venture to suggest that if you want to have a dinner party which I won’t enjoy, you should have it at a restaurant. Or in your boardroom. Or I’ll go out.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” he said, irritable himself now. “I think we’d better stop this. If you’re not prepared even to organise a dinner party for me—”

“Even? What do you mean even?”

“Well, let’s say that so far, you haven’t exactly troubled yourself with domesticity, have you? Mrs. Hutching says when she tries to discuss menus, or the flowers, or even general arrangements, where we might be when and so on, you just tell her to go ahead and do what she thinks best.”

“That’s not true. I said I liked to do the flowers.”

“Yes, she did say that. But that you appeared to have forgotten lately.”

“For God’s sake! What’s wrong with her doing it all? She’s much better at it than I am.”

“That’s hardly the point. I would like
you
to be good at it, to run our lives. In the way you want. Obviously.”

“Gideon, there’s no question of running our lives in the way I want. We live your lives. In your houses, with your staff, in your way. I don’t come into it at all, except trying to fit in.”

“Well, as far as I can see, very little trying is going on. Oh, forget it. I’ll speak to Mrs. Hutching myself.”

“Yes, and give me the dates and I’ll make sure to be out.” He looked at her with intense dislike and slammed the bedroom door without saying another word.

She lay in her long bath, wondering what non-plans she could make for the day, feeling miserable. What was she supposed to be, some kind of secondary housekeeper? She didn’t know anything about that sort of thing, menus, guest lists, table linen, not even flowers. It wasn’t what she was about.

So what was she about? She really didn’t know anymore. She got out of the bath, wrapped herself in her bathrobe, and, greatly to her surprise, she started to cry. What was the matter with her? Maybe she was premenstrual. She probably was. Yes, that was it. She didn’t often get premenstrual, but when she did, it was awful. Only she’d been feeling like this for weeks. So it wasn’t that. It wasn’t at all. It was because she felt so useless. So lost.

She got dressed, went down to the kitchen, made herself some coffee, and drank it quickly before Mrs. Hutching could appear and offer her breakfast, ask her if she’d be in for lunch—God, it was awful, not living in your own house—and almost ran out of the front door.

As she stood waiting for a cab, Nick called her. She was so pleased to hear from him, she burst into tears again.

“What on earth’s the matter?”

“Oh, nothing. Just me. Sorry. Rewind, yes, Nick, nice to hear from you, how are you?”

“I’m fine,” he said, “thanks. I rang you because I had a clear-out at the weekend and I found a few of your things. Wasn’t sure what to do about them.”

“What sort of things?” She felt rather bleak suddenly, seeing his bright white flat, with its tall ceilings, looking over Hampstead Heath, where she had spent so much time during the past few years.

“You know. Jewellery mostly. One of your innumerable watches, a baby G. A gold bracelet, the one your dad gave you—”

“Oh yes.” She remembered that episode: her birthday, her father had cancelled a dinner with her and sent it instead, clearly horribly expensive; she had sat looking at it and crying and Nick had tried to comfort her, and they had ended up in bed.

“And a few bits of rather expensive-looking lingerie.”

She thought he might have wanted to keep that, as a memento. The tears started again.

“Just throw it in the bin, why don’t you?” she said and switched off her phone abruptly. It rang again.

“Jocasta, is something wrong? Want to talk? I’m free for lunch.”

“Well…” It was so tempting. So terribly tempting. And if Gideon saw her as little better than a glorified housekeeper, then why not? Why the fuck not?

“Yes, all right,” she said finally, “that’d be lovely.”

Bob Frean called Jack Kirkland.

“Sorry, Jack, you’ll have to manage without your female lead for a while.”

“Oh really? Is she not well?”

“I’m afraid she’s very unwell indeed,” said Bob. “She’s had a complete breakdown. She’s in the Priory.”

“What? I don’t believe it. She’s so strong, tougher than any of us. What a dreadful thing, Bob, I’m sorry. What on earth brought that on?”

“Life, I think,” said Bob and put the phone down.