Sheer Abandon (24 page)

This was her current ambition: to be a supermodel. She had confided it to Jocasta, who had actually thought she could be very successful but hadn’t said so. She knew too much about the dark drug-fuelled world of some of the fashion industry, and wouldn’t have encouraged Kate into it.

“I really don’t see why she shouldn’t be in the photographs,” said Jilly. “She saved my life, it’s perfectly true. I’d like it very much. Jocasta, what do you think?”

“I think it would be lovely,” said Jocasta carefully.

“Mum! Please!”

“I do think it would be very nice to have Kate in the picture, Mrs. Tarrant,” said Jocasta, suddenly firm. “She’s so much part of the story. So let’s just get on with it, shall we?” There were certain times when you could bulldoze people into what you wanted, when their resistance suddenly lowered. She had felt Helen’s go then. “I’ll get the photographer in straightaway. Kate, go and comb your hair. You don’t want to meet the press looking less than your best.”

Kate giggled.

The photographer set up his camera. “This’ll make a great shot,” he said to Jocasta, while Jilly fussed over her hair for the umpteenth time and Kate settled on the bed beside her, putting her arm round her grandmother’s shoulder. “Probably get the front page.”

“Hope so. But get on with it—the mother’s not happy, and I don’t want to upset her.”

“The kid’s gorgeous. And you know something? She looks a bit like you.”

“God, I wish,” said Jocasta.

“Those should be lovely,” said Jocasta, smiling at them when he had gone. “You both looked very glamorous.”

“Well, thank you,” said Jilly. “I doubt it, rather. It’s when one is unwell that the years show.”

“I promise, they don’t show on you. And Kate’s wrinkles didn’t look too bad either. You both looked great. She really does look a lot like you.”

“Well, it would be nice to think so,” said Jilly, “but unfortunately that’s quite impossible.”

“Really? Why?”

“Well, you see—”

“Mummy,” said Helen, and her voice was very cold, “not now.”

Kate was staring at her mother; then she looked at Jocasta and smiled at her quickly.

“I’ll come and see you off.”

“Fine,” said Jocasta. “Goodbye, Mrs. Bradford, I’m so glad you’re recovering so well.”

“Thank you, my dear. And thank you for all your help. I’m sure you’ve helped a great many other people, indirectly. And if ever you’re in Guildford, come and find my shop. Caroline B, in the High Street.”

Kate was going to miss Jocasta; she really liked her so much. She wasn’t scared of anyone, just went for it and got what she wanted.

“Will you just be writing about Granny?” she asked. “To go with that picture?”

“Oh no,” said Jocasta, “we need to remind them of the whole story. Four days, which is what it will be, between this picture and the last, is a very long time in newspapers. So I’ll certainly be mentioning you and all you did.”

“Great! Thanks for persuading Mum. Um…could you do one more thing? Put my whole name in. There are so many Kates, it’s really boring.”

“OK,” said Jocasta smiling. “What is your whole name?”

“Kate Bianca Tarrant.”

“That’s a pretty name. Bianca, I mean.”

“Yeah. When I’m older I’m thinking I might call myself that. Your job must be so fun,” said Kate wistfully. “Maybe I could be a reporter, instead of a model.”

“It is fun. And you do get to meet a whole lot of people you never would normally. And hear some incredible things. But there’s a lot of dogsbody work, as there is in everything. I actually think,” she said looking at Kate consideringly, “you’d be rather good at it.”

“Cool! Well that’s what I’ll do, then. Could you get me a job?”

Jocasta laughed.

“Not at the moment. You’re a bit young. And these days, they want you to have a degree.”

“Degree! No thanks. I can hardly face A levels.”

“Well, it’s up to you. Tell you what, we do sometimes take on people for work experience. Maybe this summer holidays, if you wanted, I could get you a week. Not necessarily with me. Maybe even in the fashion department.”

“Oh wow, yeah! That’d be great. Don’t forget, will you?”

“I don’t suppose you’ll let me,” said Jocasta. “Here, take my card. All my numbers and my e-mail address. Is that any good to you?”

“Yeah, Dad’s got a computer. Thanks, Jocasta. I’m going to miss you.”

“Me too.”

“Sorry about Mum, just then. I don’t know what’s the matter with her. Honestly, she’s so weird—usually she tells everyone. It was because I’m adopted.”

“Oh, are you?” said Jocasta. She didn’t appear surprised, Kate noticed, just politely interested.

“Yeah.”

“You all seem very close anyway.”

“I s’pose we are, really. To be honest, I get on with Gran best. She’s such fun. My dad’s all right, but even stricter than my mum, and then I’ve got a little sister who’s just Little Miss Perfect, all clever and hardworking, with a scholarship to some posh school for her music.”

“Is she adopted too?”

“No, she’s theirs. She was born after they adopted me.”

“And…how do you feel about being adopted?” said Jocasta. “Sorry, do you hate talking about it?”

“Course not. It’s cool.”

“Do you know anything about your—your birth mother? Would you like to meet her one day?”

“No,” said Kate firmly. “I mean, what would be the point? After what she did to me.”

“And what exactly did she do to you? Did she hand you over when you were a baby, or—Sorry,” she said again, “is this upsetting you?”

“Course not,” said Kate. “Yes, that’s right. Well, I was still a baby anyway.”

She was beginning to wish she hadn’t embarked on this. She certainly wasn’t about to tell Jocasta, cool, clever, successful Jocasta, all the shameful, painful facts, about being abandoned like a piece of rubbish in a cleaning cupboard. “She was a—a student,” she improvised wildly, “from—from Ireland. She was a Catholic, so she couldn’t possibly have had an abortion. But she loved me and she wanted to know I was in a good home. In fact, she wouldn’t let me go to the first people who wanted me, she waited till my mum and dad turned up and she was really satisfied they’d look after me properly. All right?”

She felt aggressive now, and angry, as if Jocasta had dragged the information out of her in the first place. She turned away, looked across the car park. Suddenly she felt an arm round her shoulders.

“Kate. It’s OK. Calm down. I didn’t think anything bad about your mother at all. Not for a moment. She must have been very special to have you. And very brave to have let go of you for your own sake. Very brave indeed. Now look, it’s been fun getting to know you. Don’t forget about the work experience, will you? Give me a call when you feel you’re ready. Or even if you just want to go out to lunch or something. I hate to think I’m never going to see you again, I really do.”

She probably didn’t mean it, Kate thought, watching the black Golf zoom out of the car park; and they’d probably never meet again. Why should they, after all?

“Jocasta, you all right?”

It was Chris Pollock; he had called her in to congratulate her on the story.

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.”

“You seem a bit…distracted.”

“Oh, I’m a bit tired, I guess.”

“Reporters aren’t allowed to get tired. I’ve got a real beauty for you this afternoon. Some poor cow’s had a baby in Holloway, while shackled to the delivery bed. Her mum’s just phoned, wants to talk to us. Right up your street. She lives in Dalston—news desk has the address. Now, are you really OK? I don’t want this story messed up.”

“You’re such a gentleman, Chris. Don’t worry. It won’t be.”

She did feel tired: terribly tired. And depressed. Nick hadn’t called. And she had missed him. In spite of his refusal to do what she asked, to commit himself to her, in spite of the heady excitement—fading now—of the lunch with Gideon.

So much about him was right for her: he understood her, knew her completely, admired what she did. But in one way he failed her. One huge way. He might tell her he loved her, but what he did made her doubt it. And there was nothing, nothing at all, she could do about it. It made her very sad.

DALSTON
1
MILE
, said a sign. Forget Nick. She had more important things to think about.

She got home very late that night; Nick was waiting at her house.

“I wanted to see you,” he said, giving her a kiss. “Am I forgiven?”

In that moment, in her weariness, she was only pleased to see him: everything else was wiped out. “You’re forgiven,” she said, going into his arms.

“I’m really working hard on myself—”

“Nick, let’s not even talk about it. I’m just glad you’re here.”

“That’s nice, very nice. I’m glad I’m here too. And you don’t have any retailing billionaires hidden anywhere?”

So he had noticed. Had even—possibly—minded.

“Not one.”

“I’m pleased to hear it. He’s just a tad too attractive, to my way of thinking.”

“Is he?” she asked, her eyes very wide. “I hadn’t really noticed. He’s just—”

“I know. An ordinary old billionaire. You look all in, sweet pea.”

“I feel it. I’ve had an awful day. Well, not awful. But upsetting.”

“What, steely old Jocasta, aka Lois Lane, upset? Here, have a glass of wine. I’ve left you just about enough.”

“I know. But…well, anyway, this poor woman, she had a baby in prison. She was actually in chains, Nick, while she was having it. And it was an awful birth, went on for hours and hours and in the end they had to—Well, I won’t go into detail. But her mother did. I’ve got it all on tape. She was screaming and screaming for help. And the baby practically died. I just didn’t know how to sit there, how to go on listening. I actually had to ask to go to her bathroom and I was sick. And then I had to write it and something was wrong with my e-mail connection, so I had to phone it in.”

“Poor baby.
You
, I mean. Come on, drink that all down. And then I’m going to take you out to dinner. All right?”

“All right,” said Jocasta. “But first I’m going to pull that tape out of its cassette and shred it. And don’t let me even near the paper in the morning to read the story. OK?”

“OK. I love you. And I’m sorry again, about—well everything.”

She stared at him. He so seldom said he was sorry. It was even rarer than his telling her he loved her. Her day and its traumas promptly faded into near-nothingness.

“I love you too,” she said. “And I’m sorry too. Let’s not go out to dinner.”

“Let’s not.”

It had come without warning. Friday, the fateful Friday, had been the most beautiful day, windy and sun-dappled; although it was her last day at the practice, Clio felt oddly happy. It might not be so bad. She did after all enjoy being at home. And it would give her a chance to—well, see if she could sort things out, she’d have some time. All might not be lost. And Jeremy would be better tempered and happier. Which would help a lot. She did still love Jeremy. She did. She knew she did.

At lunchtime, on a whim, she called him. She’d had her farewell drinks at the surgery the night before—Mark was away on that Friday on a course and he had wanted to be there.

“We’ll miss you so much, Clio,” he had said, handing over a big scented candle and a box of chocolates. “And this comes with all our love. You’ve been the most marvellous member of the team, and we’re as fortunate as your patients. God knows how we’re going to replace you. Well, we’re not. As you know. Series of locums, right up till the end of June. Still, no doubt the practice loss will be your gain. And Jeremy’s, of course.”

Clio, eyes filled with tears, said she wasn’t sure that either of those statements was correct, and said how much she would miss them too. In the end it had all been quite jolly, but she had felt very tearful again at bedtime (which she managed to conceal from Jeremy) and fate had managed to send her not one but three of her very worst patients that morning. It would be quite nice to be rid of them, at least. And then in the afternoon she was on call, and was planning to drop in on the Morrises and Josie Griggs at the Laurels, to make sure they were doing as well as they could possibly be; so there would be no painful last departure from the practice.

Jeremy agreed to lunch. “It would be good to get out for an hour or so. One o’clock all right with you?”

“Of course. Order me a chilli jacket if you get there first.”

“Fine. Look forward to it. Thanks.”

She drove towards the pub singing. She could do a lot of this sort of thing in the future, make him happier. And that in turn would make her happier.

Clio got to the pub first; Jeremy walked in at about one fifteen, looking harassed. She waved at him.

“I’ve got you a drink. Virgin Mary!”

“Thanks. But I’ll have to just have a sandwich—they’ve added to my list.”

“Oh no. Poor you. OK, I’ll go and change the order.”

“I’ll come with you. I want more ice in this.”

It was the unofficial hospital local. Several people recognised them, said hello. Clio noticed that a couple of them looked at Jeremy rather oddly. She supposed it must have been the article; they hadn’t been out since. She prayed no one would mention it and wished fervently she hadn’t suggested this, of all pubs.