Sheer Abandon (33 page)

“I meant the trappings?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Well, this flat obviously didn’t come cheap. And you clearly like nice clothes—I know a pair of Jimmy Choos when I see them. And a Gucci bag, come to that.”

“Jocasta, I don’t think this is relevant.” She was looking edgy again, fiddling with one of her earrings.

“Of course it is. You must care an awful lot to give it all up. I think that’s great.”

“Well”—she relaxed a little—“as I told you, it’d be nice to be able to make a difference. And Gucci bags don’t exactly melt, do they? I just won’t be able to have the latest models anymore. If I get in, that is.”

“You’ll be doing a lot of driving up and down to Suffolk, won’t you?”

“Quite a bit. Every weekend.”

“And what about your personal life?”

“My what?” She had flushed scarlet. “Jocasta—”

“You’ll be moving down to Binsmow. I just thought if there’s a man in your life, he might not like that. It’s a pretty radical step. Or does he live down there?”

“No. I mean, I don’t have a man in my life. Not—not an important one. Just a few good friends.”

“That’s lucky. Or maybe it isn’t.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean—”

“I mean, it may be lucky for your political plans, but wouldn’t you like to have someone?”

“I really don’t want to comment on that.”

“Oh, OK. Well, from what you’ve seen of it, is politics really very sexy?”

“I don’t quite know what you mean—”

“Oh, Martha, come on, all that power, all those secrets, husbands living away from home, nubile secretaries and researchers at every corner. I find it very sexy, and I’m only on the edges of it!”

“Perhaps that’s why,” said Martha coolly. “I can only tell you I have no personal experience of that kind of thing.”

Jocasta gave up. “I remember you being rather shy. When we first met. So how different are you today from the young Martha? The one I went travelling with?”

“Jocasta,” said Martha, “I don’t want to go into all that.”

“But why not? I really don’t understand. It’s such a sweet story. Three little girls from school, meeting by chance, setting off round the world, and then meeting up again all these years later, all of us quite successful—no, it’s too good not to use, Martha.”

“I don’t want it used.”

“Honestly, I’m sorry, but there’s no reason not to. It’s not unsavoury or anything, it just makes you sound more colourful and interesting.”

“Look, I said right at the beginning I didn’t want this to be a personal article.”

“Did you do a lot of drugs or something?” said Jocasta. She was growing curious now. “Because naturally I wouldn’t mention anything like that.”

“Of course I didn’t do a lot of drugs!”

“Well, I did,” Jocasta said cheerfully. “And I got ill as well. Horribly ill. Dengue fever. You never had anything like that? Never had to go to one of their hospitals?”

“No. I—I didn’t stay long in Thailand at all, I went off to Sydney.”

“When was that?”

“What?”

“I said when did you go to Sydney? Don’t look so scared, I just wondered. I was there in the January.”

“I’m really not very sure. It’s so long ago. Jocasta—”

“And then did you go up to Cairns? And the rain forest?”

“Yes, for a bit. It was wonderful.”

“And you really didn’t feel that year changed you much? It didn’t affect what you might now call your political philosophy?”

“No,” said Martha firmly, “no, it didn’t. I’m afraid I really do have to go in a minute, Jocasta—”

“So what is your political philosophy? Could you encapsulate it for me?”

She was caught unawares by this sudden return to safe ground. “Well, yes. It’s that people, all people, ought to be given a chance. Lots of chances. Good education, decent health care, reasonable living conditions. No one should be written off, abandoned to his or her fate.”

“That’s really nice,” said Jocasta, smiling at her sweetly. “I like that. Thank you so much, Martha, you’ve been great. I can do a nice piece about this and I’m sure Chad will be very pleased.”

“Can I—can I see the piece? Before it’s published?”

“I’m sorry, we can’t do that. The editor doesn’t allow it.”

“Why not?”

“Well, just think about it. If everyone we wrote about every day had to read their copy, and maybe change it, then it had to be rejigged and shown to them again, we’d never get the paper to bed at all.”

“I would have thought this was slightly different,” said Martha, her voice very crisp now. “It’s not a news story, it doesn’t have to be rushed to…to bed as you call it.”

“You’re wrong there, I’m afraid. This is scheduled for the Saturday magazine section, and that goes to press tomorrow. Sorry.”

“Jocasta, I really would like to read it,” said Martha and there was an underlying anxiety in her voice. “You could e-mail it to me and I’d e-mail it right back.”

“Honestly. It would be more than my job was worth. You can ask Nick, if you don’t believe me.”

“I think it’s rather different in his case. He’s writing about politicians, news stories—”

“Well, you’re a politician. Surely. And this is a news story. You’ve only just been elected—”

“
Se
lected,” said Martha. “You see, it’s so important to get these things right. Please, Jocasta.”

Why was she so worried? It was odd. Jocasta raked back over the interview; she hadn’t said anything that could be remotely misconstrued. She’d been minimal with most of her information. In fact, it was going to be a pretty dull piece. She actually felt rather worried about it.

“I can only tell you,” she said, “that you have absolutely nothing to worry about. You’ve been the soul of discretion, Martha—you’re going to come out of this squeaky clean.”

“I don’t know why you should say that,” she said and there was a spot of high colour on her cheeks now. “Why on earth shouldn’t I come out squeaky clean, as you put it? Are you implying—” She stopped, visibly took a deep breath. “I hope you’re not going to imply the reverse.”

“Of course I’m not! Calm down.”

“I’m perfectly calm. Sorry. It’s just that you—well, this is a new game for me.”

“Of course. But—”

Martha’s mobile rang; she answered it at once. “Hi,” she said, her face immobile. “Yes, I know, but I’ve been very busy. What? No, I’m looking forward to it. Yes, about eight. I can’t talk now. I’ll see you later. Sorry, Jocasta,” she said.

“That’s OK. Martha, when did you get back?”

“When did I get back? Where from?”

“From travelling,” said Jocasta patiently. “I just wondered if you did anything between getting back and going to uni.”

“Of course not,” said Martha and she suddenly sounded almost angry. “How could I have? There was no time.”

“But—”

“Excuse me,” she said suddenly, “I’ve just remembered something.” She stood up and walked, very quickly, out of the room—and that was what did it for Jocasta. Turned over the memory: one that she had long ago decided was not a memory at all, but a mistake, a case of totally mistaken identity, made as she was pushed and jostled in a swarming, stinking street. She sat and turned it over, that memory, reviving it, breathing life into it and waiting for Martha to return.

She was quite a long time; Jocasta heard the loo flush, and then a tap running. When Martha came back in, she had renewed her lipstick, and clearly resprayed her perfume.

“Sorry about that,” she said. “I just remembered I had to check an e-mail.”

“That’s all right,” said Jocasta. “Well, I must go. And I promise you faithfully the article will be nothing but positive about you. You and the party.”

“Thank you. Right. Well, I’ll have to trust you.”

“Yes, you will. Now, what we must have is a nice picture of you. Chad gave me the one that was on your leaflet, but it looked a bit dire to me. Would you mind if we took one? It wouldn’t take a minute to do—our chaps are really quick. Someone could come to your office even—”

“Absolutely not. I have back-to-back meetings for the next two days.”

“Oh, all right,” said Jocasta with a sigh, “we’ll use the one Chad gave me. Well, bye, Martha. And we must have a threesome one evening, you and me and Clio. Such a shame we all lost touch. We’ve missed so much out of one another’s lives. Still—we’ve found each other now.” She walked to the door, picked up her jacket, and smiled at Martha. “Please don’t worry about the piece.”

She saw her relax. “I won’t,” she said, and smiled back. For the first time she looked more friendly, less aggressive. Jocasta took a deep breath. This was the moment.

“I just remembered something,” she said. “Off the record—don’t look so scared. You didn’t go back to Bangkok, did you? That year? In—let me see—yes, in late June?”

The smile went completely. Martha looked—what did she look? Angry? Frightened? No, worse than that, terrified. Trapped. As she had looked that day. And then angry.

“Go back? Of course not. I told you, I went to the States—I went home from there—”

“I must have been mistaken then,” said Jocasta, her voice at its sweetest. “I thought it was unlikely. But I thought I saw you there. I went back that way, you see. It was outside the station, Bangkok station. I called your name. Quite loudly, but whoever it was just walked away, disappeared.”

“Well, I expect she did,” said Martha. “If her name wasn’t Martha.”

Of course it had been Martha. Jocasta knew in that moment as certainly as she knew anything. And Martha knew she knew.

So why was she lying about it?

Chapter 19

         Kate couldn’t ever remember being so angry. How could they do this to her, how dare they? The most important thing in her whole life and they were wrecking it for her.

“I just don’t believe this,” she kept saying, “I just don’t believe you’re doing this to me.”

“We’re not doing anything to you, Kate,” Helen said, “except trying to look after you.”

“Oh right. So you do that by not letting me go out for a few hours with my friends?”

“Kate, we’re not talking about your going out for a few hours with your friends,” said Jim. “You’ve just told us you’re going to a club in one of the most crime-ridden neighbourhoods in London with some layabout—”

“Jim,” said Helen warningly. But it was too late.

“He is not a layabout!” shouted Kate. “He works for a living. You know? Earns money, does a job. That sort of thing. And what do you know about Brixton?”

“It’s very—very rough,” said Helen.

“What you mean is it’s got a lot of black people there. You don’t know any more about it than that. You’re racist, as well as everything else.”

“Kate!”

“The whole point about clubs in Brixton is they’re cool. Sarah’s been there lots of times. Dad, what do you think’s going to happen to me, for God’s sake? That I’ll take some Ecstasy and die? That I’ll be beaten up? End up on the streets? I’m going with Nat. He’ll look after me.”

“No,” said Jim. “You are not going with anybody, and that’s my last word.”

Kate glared at him, then said, “I cannot believe you are so pathetically ignorant,” and left the room. Very shortly the familiar thud of her music filled the house.

Jim looked at Helen. “You do agree with me, don’t you?” he said.

“Of course I do. It’s a terrible place, soaring crime rate—and she’s still a child. Oh, hello, Mummy.”

“What was that all about?”

“Kate wants to go clubbing in Brixton,” said Helen reluctantly.

She knew what her mother’s reaction would be. “Oh really? And you won’t let her, I suppose?”

“Of course not.”

Jilly sighed, put down the silver-topped cane she had taken to using, rather than a walking stick, and sat down.

“My mother forbade me to go to a club called the Blue Angel. It was considered very racy in its day—there was a wonderful black pianist there called Hutch who was supposed to have had an affair with the Duchess of Kent. Anyway, I went there about a year later and of course it was really quite all right, and I had a wonderful time. All that happened was that I decided my mother was rather foolish and lost some of my respect for her.”

“Mummy, I don’t think clubs in Brixton quite compare with the Blue Angel. It’s you who’s being foolish.”

“These things are all relative. Anyway, who does she want to go with?”

“Some dreadful boy who’s going to drive her there in his car.”

“Not the one who brought her home from school the other day?” said Jilly. “He’s frightfully good-looking. I can see why she wants to go out with him. I’d go myself if I could. Maybe that would be the answer,” she added, “I could chaperone her. It would be fun!”

“Oh, Mummy, really!” said Helen wearily. Her mother was going home in a few days’ time and she couldn’t help looking forward to it.

Jilly heard Kate come downstairs when everyone else had gone to bed. She heaved herself out of her bed in the dining room and went into the kitchen; Kate was making a cup of tea.

“Hello, darling. Make one for me, would you? I’m sorry about your date with your young man.”

Kate turned a swollen face to her. “Oh Gran,” she said, “what am I going to tell him? That’s the worst thing, thinking of something that doesn’t sound totally sad.”

“Maybe I can help,” said Jilly. “I’ve always been very good at lies.”

They came up with the best they could manage: that Jilly was going home that weekend and Helen had insisted Kate went too, to look after her. Kate rang Nat and struggled with this, but she could tell he wasn’t impressed.

“Can’t you tell them you won’t? That you’re coming out with me?”

“Not really,” said Kate sadly.

“OK. Fine. See you around.” His phone went dead. Kate went upstairs and cried.

She was walking down the street with Bernie next day, when there was a screaming of brakes and thumping of music; it was Nat in his Sax Bomb.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi.”

“You want to come out Sat’dy, then, Bern?”

“I might. Where you going?”

“Brixton.”

“Yeah. OK. Cool.”

“Cheers. See you later.”

He ignored Kate. The effort of looking disinterested was so great, she felt it as a physical pain. Especially when Bernie got out her mobile and rang about a dozen people and told them. How was she ever going to live this down? Everybody, absolutely everybody, would think she was so sad.

Chris Pollock came storming across the newsroom and threw Jocasta’s copy onto her desk.

“What the fuck do you think this is? If it’s your idea of a profile, Jocasta, you’d better go and find another paper to put it in. I’m not printing this crap. It’s dull, it’s uninformative, it’s got no life—”

“Bit like the subject,” said Jocasta under her breath.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing. No. I’m sorry, Chris. I didn’t think much of it myself. To be honest.”

“Well, what the fuck did you turn it in for then? And this picture. I mean, give me strength! I’m not running this unless you can get more out of her, or give it a decent angle. Preferably both. Anyway, I can’t waste any more time on it now, I’ve got to fill the fucking space somehow. Jesus wept!”

He walked off, shouting across the room at the picture desk as he went; Carla came out of her office.

“What was that about?”

Jocasta told her; Carla looked at her thoughtfully.

“Show me the picture.”

“Here. She’s about a thousand times better looking than that. Great figure too.”

“Well, darling, we’re looking at the answer, aren’t we? She can be my fashion feature next week. It’s a great story. We can dress her for her new life. Then your copy won’t matter.”

“Thanks,” said Jocasta.

“No, honestly, darling, it’s a great idea. Let me talk to Chris, then you can ring the bitch.”

“I don’t know that she’ll agree,” said Jocasta.

“Of course she will. It’s what she wants, from everything you’ve told me about her. Publicity without pain.”

Carla was right. It was exactly what Martha wanted. It was safer, less intrusive. And it would give her a chance, maybe, to see the copy. Jocasta sounded nervous, anxious even for her to agree. That would give her a lever too.

“Yes, I think that would be all right. I’d quite like that, I think, as long as it could be done at the end of the day.”

“Oh, Martha, I’m sure it could.” Jocasta’s voice was light with relief.

“Especially if it meant I could maybe see the copy. I mean clearly, there’s time now.”

“Well—yes. Yes, I’m sure you could. See my draft anyway. Right. I’ll tell Carla and she’ll probably contact you direct. She’s called Carla Giannini—she’s really nice. Thank you so much, Martha.”

“And then he said”—Jocasta paused, refilled her glass for the third time in twenty minutes—“I’d better find another paper to put the story in. I mean, it wasn’t that bad. I can’t believe it. My big chance and I’ve bloody well blown it. It’s not fair, it really isn’t. Well, is it? Nick?”

“I don’t think you can say it’s not fair. The thing is, sweetie, you turned in a bad piece. By your own admission.”

“It wasn’t bad,” said Jocasta. “It just wasn’t great.”

“And that’s no good. You write a big piece, it has to be great. Simple as that.”

“Thanks,” said Jocasta, glaring at him. “I thought I might get a bit of comfort and…and reassurance from you, not a lecture on journalistic standards. You’re supposed to be on my side, or so I thought—”

“I
am
on your side. That’s not the same thing as trying to discuss the situation properly.”

“Oh really? You could have fooled me. I’ve been waiting around for days to see you, and you were away for the weekend with your bloody mother—again. Two weekends in a row you’ve been up there.”

“For two good reasons. Rupert’s birthday and then Mummy and Pa’s anniversary. Anyway, you were invited. And actually, I found it quite difficult, explaining why you couldn’t come for a second time.”

So this was what she got for turning down a weekend with Gideon Keeble, resisting the temptation of a lifetime.

“Oh, well, I’m so sorry, Nick. Sorry I make your life difficult. It’s just that sitting around in a freezing dining room, while everyone talks about the hunt ball and who’s going salmon fishing, isn’t quite my idea of fun.”

“Jocasta, you’re being very unpleasant. It’s not like you.”

“I feel unpleasant. You’re not being very nice either, saying I shouldn’t file lousy pieces.”

“I said nothing of the sort. Don’t be so absurd.”

“Oh for God’s sake,” said Jocasta, “why don’t you just go away? Back to Mummy, maybe. I’m sure you’d rather!”

“Jocasta, please.” He smiled at her. “You’re being so ridiculous. Come here, let me give you a hug.”

“I don’t want a hug,” she said, and to her horror, she started to cry. “I want you to support me properly. I want you to be there for me, when I need you.”

“I
am
there for you.”

“Nick, you so are not! You just go on your own sweet way, doing exactly what you please, working all the hours of the day and night, seeing your friends, going home to Mummy, and coming round here when you feel in need of a fuck!”

“That’s a filthy thing to say!”

“It’s true. And I’m sick of it. If you really cared about me, you’d have made some sort of commitment by now—”

“Oh, so that’s what this is all about. The fact I haven’t gone down on one knee and put a ring on your finger.”

“No. Not entirely. But—”

“Jocasta, I’ve told you over and over again. I’m sorry. I would if I could. But I don’t feel—”

“You don’t feel ready. And when do you think you might? When you’re forty? Fifty? I’m absolutely sick of the whole thing, Nick, I really am. I feel so…so unimportant to you.”

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, picking up his car keys.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going home. I’m not going to listen to any more of this.”

“Good!”

And he walked out, not slamming the door, as she would have done, but shutting it very slowly and carefully behind him. Jocasta picked up a heavy glass ashtray and hurled it at the door. It gouged out a chunk of wood before falling onto the tiled floor and shattering. She was standing there, staring at it, when her mobile rang. She looked to see who it was: Chris Pollock. Now what had she done?

“Jocasta? I want you on a plane to Dublin. Tonight if you can manage it. Gideon Keeble’s daughter’s run away from school with a rock star. You know Keeble. Don’t come back till you’ve got the full story, OK? I don’t want a repetition of that fuck-up with Martha whatshername.”

“There won’t be,” said Jocasta.