Sheer Abandon (52 page)

It was Wednesday evening. Clio was packing her things and leaving Jocasta’s house, rather regretfully. She had loved the whole of the three days. The morning at the Highbury Hospital had been fascinating, and she had sat in on all the interviews. There were several very sad cases, reminiscent of the Morrises; she had shared her frustrations with the consultant over the problems of getting medication safely organised for the elderly, and the frustrations with the red tape binding up the carers. She had told him how she had taken to visiting her patients personally, with their carefully allotted doses in containers, and he had been impressed.

“You really care about them, your patients, don’t you?”

“I do. That’s the thing about general practice that I like best, you get really involved, can make a difference.”

She had also spent a day in the psychiatric unit of a small hospital in Harrow and was given access to research material on various trials that were being conducted there.

“Dementia and its affiliated horrors are still some of the biggest problems in geriatrics,” the consultant told her, “even with all these new drugs. It leads to such dreadful social problems, of course, and isolation from society.”

It had been fascinating—and stimulating. She realised she did desperately want this job.

She had done some shopping while she was in London, had bought herself a new suit and shoes for the interview, if she got it; she decided to try them on and was buttoning the jacket when she heard a key in the front door. Jocasta? Couldn’t be. Not Nick, please not Nick, she’d be so embarrassed.

“Hello?” she called down rather nervously, and “Who’s that then?” came a voice up the stairs.

It was Josh.

“Who called?” said Martha. “Who did you say?”

She had rung her parents to make sure they were all right and that they hadn’t been too bothered by constituents the weekend before, and her mother had told her a Clio Scott had rung.

“She was very nice,” she said, “apparently you went travelling with her.”

How dare she? Worming her way into her most private life, ringing up her parents, for God’s sake. What did she want, that she was pursuing her like this, like a stalker almost? It was outrageous, she had no right.

“She only wanted you to ring her, dear,” her mother had said half apologetically, clearly surprised by Martha’s reaction. “She said it would be wonderful to see you. I don’t know why you’re so upset. I thought she sounded very nice. We had a little chat about your travelling days.”

“You what?” Martha felt hot suddenly, hot and shaky. “What on earth were you doing, discussing that with her? What’s it got to do with her? Or you, come to that?”

“Martha, dear, are you all right? You don’t sound yourself. I suppose it’s the journey. You must be exhausted.”

“I’m perfectly all right,” said Martha, “I just don’t like people pestering me. Give me her number, please Mum, and I’ll tell her to stop. It’s too bad. What? No, of course I won’t be rude to her. Why should I be? Yes, I’ll be home next Friday. I’ll call you before then.”

Clio was making Josh a cup of coffee when her mobile rang.

He had come, he said, clearly deeply embarrassed, to try and find a belt he had lost. “I stayed here recently and I thought it might be here. It was a birthday present from Beatrice—that’s my wife—and she keeps asking where it is. I was just passing, sorry if it’s an inconvenient moment.”

Clio said it wasn’t inconvenient at all, that Jocasta had very kindly lent her the house for a couple of days.

“She’s been such a good friend to me. I don’t know what I’d have done without her.”

“Is she with this Keeble fellow?”

“Yes.”

“Odd that,” he said. “I mean, he’s jolly nice, of course, but Nick was so…so right for her. And giving up her job. The last thing I’d have expected.”

“Well, I’m sure she knows what she’s doing,” said Clio carefully. “Now, do you take sugar?”

That was when her phone rang.

“Phew,” she said, switching it off a few minutes later. “I just got what we used to call a bollocking.”

“Oh yes? Who from?”

“From Martha Hartley. Remember Martha?”

“I do,” he said, after a moment’s pause, “of course.” Then he looked at her slightly awkwardly. “Er—Clio…”

“Josh, don’t say a single word. That was another lifetime. It’s really nice we’ve met again now.”

“Happy days, weren’t they?” he said, with a grin, taking a sip of coffee.

“So happy. Wonderful kickoff to grown-up life.”

“Anyway, what on earth was Martha on about?”

“I’ve been trying to contact her. Just because—well, just because I thought it might be fun. Anyway, I rang her PA and I rang her parents, and it seems I shouldn’t have. She said I had no right to be contacting them, could I please not worry them again, and that she was far too busy to meet me at the moment. And then rang off.”

“Blimey. Obviously a complete nutcase. Well, her loss, Clio, not yours.”

He was a charmer, she thought—still. Impossible to dislike.

Beatrice reflected, as she got ready for her dinner, that her mother had been absolutely right. Life seemed so much better already. What would she have done this evening, for instance, with the nanny going off for interviews? Got some strange babysitter in, which would have upset the children? They were so happy with Josh: he was absurdly indulgent with them, but he also was a good father, attentive, loving, and really very hands-on. He had been from the beginning, ready to share nappy-changing and mopping up, as well as the fun things.

The atmosphere in the house had definitely lifted since he came home, officially on a trial basis—for both of them, she had added, she didn’t want to sound too domineering. And he was so desperate to please her, to show her how happy he was to be back; it was very sweet. Of course he was a bit of a philanderer—but her mother was also right about that, it wasn’t everything. Or so she was teaching herself to think. He was also wonderfully generous, while being surprisingly organised financially; he was very good-tempered and extremely kind. And admired her and was actually proud of her success. So the balance sheet could be said to show a large credit in his favour at the moment.

She heard him coming in, in good time as he had promised. He ran up the stairs, came into their room, gave her a kiss.

“Hi. Your resident babysitter reporting. You look gorgeous.”

Beatrice knew she didn’t, she wasn’t the gorgeous type. But it was nice to hear, nonetheless. She returned the kiss.

“Thank you,” she said, then stood back and studied him. He was so good-looking. She still fancied him, actually. Which was lucky. They hadn’t had sex yet, not since his return. She hadn’t been able to face it. Quite.

Suddenly it seemed possible. More than possible. A nice idea even.

“Josh,” she said, as he walked towards the door, “try not to go to sleep before I get home. I’d—I’d like to tell you about the evening.”

His eyes met hers; he smiled. He knew exactly what she meant.

“I won’t be asleep,” he said.

“Clio? Clio, it’s me, Jocasta. How are you?”

“I’m fine. Back at work. Had a lovely time at your house. How’s New York?”

“New York’s wonderful. Really wonderful. Clio, I’ve got some news. Big news. We’re married. Me and Gideon.”

“Married! But—”

“Don’t but. We just did it. Went down to Vegas, actually. Anyway, I’m Mrs. Gideon Keeble now. How cool is that?”

“Very cool.”

“Well! Don’t you have anything else to say—like congratulations or something?”

Clio felt a pang of remorse. What must Jocasta think, ringing her with such momentous news, clearly expecting her to be delirious with joy for her, and the best she could manage was “very cool.”

“Of course I do. I’m absolutely so happy for you. Both of you. It’s wonderful, really wonderful. Give my love to Gideon, won’t you? Tell him he’s a lucky man.”

“I will. Anyway, we’ll be home in a week, and we’re going to give the most ginormous party. In Gideon’s London house, probably. Haven’t quite got a date yet, but pretty soon. Keep everything clear, won’t you?”

“Of course I will,” said Clio. “And—and congratulations again.”

Mrs. Gideon Keeble. How insane was that? As Jocasta might have said.

Jocasta would actually have said it was reckless, daft even, if she’d read about it in the papers: someone of thirty-five, independent and ambitious, marrying a millionaire—well, a billionaire, actually—of fifty-one, who had three ex-wives and a difficult daughter. She’d have said it must be for his money, that she couldn’t possibly fancy him, that the sex must be rubbish.

Well, it certainly wasn’t for his money; she knew she would have married him anyway. Although she did rather like the glamour it had brought her, the first-class travel, what she called the ten-star hotels, the limitless amount of clothes she could buy, the beautiful cars, the knowledge that whatever she wanted she could have. And she was, she knew, rather besotted with Gideon’s power. It gave him another dimension, made him intriguing and exciting. In every way.

She did fancy him—a lot. He was very fanciable. Amazingly so for someone of his age. The sex was—well, it was fine. Not specially, incredibly interesting, but maybe older men didn’t do interesting. Anyway, she’d had plenty of interesting sex with Nick. It just didn’t matter. It wasn’t important. It was good and she really enjoyed it. They both did.

And she certainly didn’t miss her job; she found Gideon much more interesting and rewarding, and being his wife much less demeaning and demoralising than door-stepping unhappy people.

She wasn’t sure what she was going to do all day, but there were lots of possibilities. She wanted to buy a house that wasn’t his, but theirs. She wanted to see a lot of the world. She wanted to entertain all the immensely interesting and famous (and not famous at all, come to that, but still interesting) people that he seemed to know. She wanted to talk to him forever.

When she met him at Heathrow after he got back from Barbados, he was smiling so much his face seemed fractured in two, and the first thing he said to her was, “You’re a magician!”

Hardly right, of course. Her advice had been pretty standard agony aunt stuff—with a bit of personal experience thrown in—but apparently after a sticky start Fionnuala and he had talked more in five days than they had since she was ten.

Obviously the three polo ponies had pleased Fionnuala more than a bit, but she had actually asked him if there was anything he’d like to do on his last day and they’d gone up to Crane Beach, where the surf came in and the water was green, and swum and sunbathed all day and had a fish-and-fries lunch at the Crane Hotel on the top of the cliffs. She’d told him what she really wanted to do was be a doctor, and Gideon had nearly cried with pleasure.

Jocasta hadn’t met Fionnuala yet, of course, and it would obviously be sticky when she did, but she’d worry about that when it happened.

So here she was, sated with happiness, with two days of shopping to do, and then home to England. And their wedding party.

She was still slightly reeling from the fact that she was married. It had rather seemed to happen, in retrospect at least, as she told Clio, “by accident. I mean, there we were in Vegas, wandering about after lunch one day, having the most lovely time, and I suddenly thought, This is like a honeymoon, and I said so to Gideon, and—well, I don’t know, we just decided to do it. We did the classic Vegas thing, walked into a register office, and asked two people off the street to be our witnesses. And I came out Mrs. Gideon Keeble. Just like that. It was terribly exciting. And Gideon really wanted it. He’s a Catholic, you know, and—”

“Jocasta,” said Clio, laughing, “I don’t think a register office in Vegas would quite satisfy the Catholic Church.”

“Wouldn’t it? No, probably not. But it was a statement of commitment. A wonderful one. I’m so happy, you can’t think.”

She had been half shocked, half amused by Gideon’s confession of his Catholicism.

“Gideon, you don’t really believe all that stuff, do you?”

“I don’t exactly know,” he said, serious for a moment. “It’s pretty deep-seated, you know, when you’ve imbibed it with your mother’s milk. Are you telling me you don’t have a God of any kind?”

“No way.”

“So your life is your own, is it? Entirely down to you?”

“Not any longer,” she said, suddenly serious. “It’s yours now instead.”

“Oh dear,” he said, and the intense blue eyes suddenly filled with tears. “Oh dear, Jocasta, you mustn’t say things like that. It’s a bit too much for an old man.”

“There is just one thing,” she said. “You don’t want me to have babies, do you? Because I really don’t want to.”

“Jocasta, the last thing I want is any more babies. To have to share you. That’s a promise.”

The date of the party was set for June 22; Jocasta had rethought the thing and decided on the Berkshire house as the setting.

“It’ll be a midsummer night’s dream,” she said joyfully. “How lovely! Maybe we should theme it, tell everyone to come as fairies.”

Gideon said she could do whatever she liked, but there was no way he was going as Oberon. “I don’t have the legs for it.”

The guest list currently stood at three hundred and rising; Jocasta kept remembering people she wanted to ask. People she had been at school with, at university with, had worked with. She had invited the entire staff of the
Sketch
, including Nick. She had agonised over that; she knew he wouldn’t want to come, but she could hardly exclude him.

She rang him up, said how she’d love him to be there and why; he was short with her, thanked her, said he was going home to the country that weekend, but that he hoped she would be very happy. For the first time since she had married Gideon, Jocasta felt miserable: she thought of all the years with Nick, the fun they’d had, how close they had been, and how much she hated hurting him. She put the phone down and cried for quite a long time.

The formal invitations to the Keeblefest, as Gideon persisted in calling it, went out in the last week of May. It was a little tight, but Jocasta said everyone would want to come so much they’d cancel almost anything except their own wedding.