Sheer Abandon (42 page)

“Well, I think that’s enough.” Carla smiled at Kate.

They had a wonderful morning, combing Topshop and then just in case it looked as if they’d paid for the publicity, to Oasis and River Island as well. The last two had been a bit of a rush, as Kate had promised Jilly she’d be home by soon after lunch to get on with her studying; but Carla knew they had enough. Kate had chosen almost everything herself; it always showed, Carla thought, the eye for clothes, not so much in the actual outfits as in the accessories. Belts, scarves, tights, sunglasses: the choices had been unerring, some things which Carla wouldn’t even have considered, but which looked wonderful on Kate.

“I think so too,” said Kate. “I’m so excited. What time do you want us?”

“As early as possible. I’ve ordered a cab and I’ve booked someone from Nicky Clarke to do your hair, and a lovely girl to do the makeup, which I promise won’t be much. Now let’s get you onto your tube. I don’t want your grandmother worried. She’s terrific, Kate. You’re very lucky.”

“I know,” said Kate. “She always seems younger than my mum.”

“You look a bit like her too. Same colouring.”

“Pure coincidence,” said Kate.

“Why?”

“I’m adopted,” said Kate. “Look, I’d better go. Thanks, Carla. It’s been great. Bye!”

Carla looked after her thoughtfully as she disappeared down the escalator, a whirl of blond hair and long, long legs. Adopted? That was interesting. Another dimension to the story, perhaps. She must find out more about that tomorrow.

“The Girl with Tunnel Vision,” the article was subheaded. And went on to describe how Martha had been driven all her life—“no serious boyfriends while she was at school, in case they distracted her, working at least a twelve-hour day, and even now, still only one week’s holiday at a time…”

Jack Kirkland had organised it: the woman’s editor was a friend, had said they’d seen the one in the
Sketch
and were looking for a woman in politics to interview. Martha had said why not Janet and he’d said Janet was interviewed out; they wanted someone new, someone younger.

“Well, don’t tell Janet that,” she’d said.

“Why not? Anyway, I already did.”

“Jack! Just think how she’d feel.”

“Too late,” he’d said. “But she didn’t seem to mind. She agreed, more or less, said she was sick of doing them.”

Anyway, she hadn’t been so scared this time; she’d felt in control of the whole thing. And it read well. She was learning—fast.

She binned the paper, resolving to buy another later. She was out for a run; it was just six, a perfect May morning. Pounding over Tower Bridge, taking in the glorious view downriver, the wonderful tapestry of old and new buildings carved against the sky, glorying in having the city almost to herself, she thought she had never felt quite so happy. She had taken all these risks with her life, stepped outside her own closely defined comfort zone, breathed in the heady air—and found herself still safe. It was hard to believe. She should have trusted herself earlier, she thought; she’d missed a lot. She’d even done something which had astonished her, and been to an audition for
Question Time
, the main political TV show. The publicity department had been over the moon when she was invited; had said people struggled for years to get on the programme. And she’d actually enjoyed it; challenging though it had been, sitting round a table in a dining room in Lime Grove, with the producer and some other potential guests. It wasn’t as if she’d had to say a word about herself, she had simply had to talk politics, prove her views were strong enough and that she was sufficiently articulate. She’d felt she’d done quite well, but it had been weeks since then, so probably she hadn’t.

Anyway, she was altogether feeling rather bullish. She’d be going on holiday with Ed soon, as he so wanted her to.

“What harm would it do?” he said. “We’d have fun. Heard about fun, Martha? It’s what other people have. You ought to investigate it. Just a week, I promise I won’t ask for more. Go on: be reckless.”

So far she’d said no; but this morning, standing here, astride her life and its success, she could just about imagine—well, maybe more than imagine…

“Well, that’s about it,” said Marc Jones. “You were great, Kate.”

“You really were,” said Carla. “Fantastic. Those last shots, when you started dancing—well, I’ll want to put them on the front page.”

“Oh please do!” said Kate. She was flushed, flying, triumphant. For the first time in her life she felt properly confident. Someone in charge of her life, someone who mattered; not someone of no consequence, with no proper footing in the world, no proper roots.

“I doubt we’ll get that. But you’ll certainly be a double-page spread—hopefully the centre of the paper. Aren’t you proud of her, Jilly?”

“I’m terribly proud of her,” said Jilly. “I thought she was marvellous. She looked as if she’d been doing it for years.”

She did feel very happy about it; entirely justified in her decision. She had seen something happen to Kate that morning, just as Kate had felt it herself; she had shaken off some of her insecurities, her doubts about herself, become someone new. If Helen was upset, Jilly would tell her all that, tell her what it had meant to Kate. A lot more than simply being photographed in the paper. In a funny way, Kate had found herself. It was lovely to see.

Carla was taking them all out for tea: lunch had been a sandwich.

“I thought we’d go to the Ritz,” she said. “I’ve booked a table.”

“The Ritz!” said Jilly. “I haven’t had tea at the Ritz since I was a girl.”

“I’m sure it hasn’t changed,” said Carla, smiling. “I don’t suppose even the waiters have changed.”

“Still tea in the Palm Court?”

“Still tea in the Palm Court. We can have a champagne tea, if you like.”

“Oh I don’t think we should do that,” said Jilly.

“Granny! I think we should. We’ve got a lot to celebrate. Haven’t we, Marc? You’ll come, won’t you?” She was flirting with him. Jilly thought, How sweet.

“’Fraid I can’t,” said Marc regretfully. “Got to go back and get this lot processed. But another time, Kate. Another session. I’m sure there’ll be one.”

“Are you really?”

“Absolutely. The other Kate will be looking to her laurels soon, you mark my words.”

“Oh, wow!” said Kate. They did have the champagne tea. Sitting amongst the excesses of the Palm Court, with its crystal chandeliers and huge palms, painted murals and wonderfully old-fashioned pianist. Champagne, and a pile of tiny sandwiches, scones with cream, very fancy iced cakes, meringues and éclairs, and a pot of fragrant Earl Grey.

Jilly was struggling weakly to refuse a second glass when Carla got her notebook out.

“You may as well, Jilly, I’ve got to ask a lot of boring stuff now. Like Kate’s age, where she goes to school, what she’s interested in, and what she wants to do. Anything that you might think would give her a bit of colour, as we call it in the trade.”

“Well, my full name is Kate Bianca Tarrant,” said Kate. “Make sure you put the Bianca in, won’t you? Kate’s such a dull name.”

“Of course. We could reverse them if you like—Bianca Kate sounds better than the other way round.” She seemed pleased. “Why Bianca? It’s quite unusual. Did it mean something special to your mother?”

“No, not really. I think…she just liked it,” said Kate. She sounded guarded suddenly. “Anyway, my birthday’s August the fifteenth.”

“And you’ll be sixteen?”

“Yeah. Then I can do what I like!” She grinned happily.

“And what would that be?”

“Oh no doubt about that. Be a model. Now I know how great it is.”

“Fine. And what other interests do you have? Hobbies?”

“Don’t have many. Clothes. Clubbing,” said Kate vaguely. “My sister’s the one. She got a music scholarship, and she plays the piano and the violin and belongs to two orchestras.”

“Yes, she’s very talented,” said Jilly fondly. “We’re extremely proud of Juliet.”

“Is she adopted too?” asked Carla.

Jilly looked at her sharply. “I didn’t know you knew that.”

“Kate told me about it yesterday, didn’t you, Kate?”

“Yes, yes, I did. Juliet’s not adopted, no.”

“Right. Well, you obviously get on.”

“Quite,” said Kate. “She makes me look a bit hopeless.”

“No she doesn’t, darling,” said Jilly, patting her knee. “You’re just very different.”

“Hardly surprising,” said Carla, “since you’re not real sisters. Kate, do you know who your real mother is? Are you in touch with her?”

“No,” said Kate shortly.

“Would you like to be?”

“No, I wouldn’t. And it’s
birth
mother, not
real
mother,” she added, rather severely. “My real mum and my real dad—that’s what they are to me—they’re the ones who brought me up, they’re the ones I care about.”

“Of course,” said Carla soothingly, “and I’m sure they know that.”

“Of course they do,” said Jilly. She could see that Kate was getting upset. “They’re a very happy family.”

“I’m sure. So, any boyfriends, Kate?”

“No. No one serious, anyway.”

“And what sort of boys do you like?”

“Oh…” A picture of Nat swam into Kate’s head. “Cool ones, obviously. Tall. Dark. With really cool clothes.”

“And what do cool boys wear?”

“Well, combats. Really good boots. Sleeveless T-shirts. Leather jackets. And they drive cool cars.”

“And what’s a cool car? A Porsche?”

“No!” Kate’s expression was a mixture of pity and disdain. “That’s an old bloke’s car. No, maybe an Escort, or a Citroën, that’s been, like, souped-up, something with a spoiler, that sort of thing.”

“Sounds great,” said Carla. “And which clubs you go to.”

“Oh, all over the place,” said Kate airily. “The Ministry of Sound. The Shed in Brixton.”

“They have a wonderful time these days,” said Jilly, relieved that the conversation had turned away from Kate’s adoption. “Of course we did, too. In our own way. I used to come dancing here, you know.”

Kate sighed and said she’d like to go to the loo. “It’s over there,” said Carla, “just down those steps to the right.”

“Cool. See you in a bit. I might clean some of this muck off my face.”

“Kate seems a little defensive about her adoption,” said Carla casually, after several minutes of hearing how Jilly and her husband had been two of the earliest members of Annabel’s.

“Yes, well it’s not surprising, especially under her particular circumstances.”

“What particular circumstances?”

“Oh, she—” Jilly stopped, took a large sip of champagne. “Carla, this is not for publication, is it?”

“Of course not. It’s got nothing to do with the article.”

“No. Well, she has absolutely no idea who her mother is. None of us do.”

“Oh, really? I thought these days it was all very open, that they can go in search of their birth mothers.”

“Normally, of course, they can, but because she was just left like that—Oh, Kate darling, there you are. We really should go. I’m worrying about Juliet.”

“I’ve got a car waiting,” said Carla. “It’ll take you home. Look, I’ve got all I could possibly need. I’ll send some of the pictures over tomorrow, and I could have a couple mounted for your parents, Kate, if you like. As a coming-home present.”

“That’d be cool,” said Kate. “Thanks.”

Jilly said that she didn’t know what Kate would do if the word “cool” hadn’t been invented, drained her glass of champagne, and followed Carla, slightly unsteadily, out to the front of the Ritz.

What a wonderful day it had been: she felt sure it would prove a huge turning point in Kate’s life.

What was she going to write about Kate? Carla wondered, looking at the photograph. Just an extended caption? Or a bit more? She wasn’t really particularly interesting. Just one of a million other fifteen-year-olds. Best to concentrate on that. “An extraordinary ordinary girl,” she wrote, “who could be working in a branch of Topshop, or—”

No, it wasn’t good enough. It just wasn’t. She’d read that so many times in other fashion editors’ pages. It was a cliché. And she wanted to capture in words as well as pictures the quality of Kate, to make her special, her toughness, her prickliness. All because of the adoption, she supposed. Well, they obviously wouldn’t want that written about. And there was nothing special about that really, either. If they’d known who the mother was, it might be different.