Sheer Abandon (62 page)

Clio stood in reception, trying to impress upon the woman, who had no knowledge of any interview board, the urgency of her case. “Just call Professor Bryan’s secretary,” she said. “She’ll know where I should be.”

God. If only she had her notes. If only. She felt so confused, so brain-dead.

“Clio! Come along. They’re giving you till half past, I made them some more tea.”

It was Beaky’s secretary; she must send her some flowers.

“Clio!”

It was Fergus, waving something at her. Her notes.

“Oh my God,” she said, “how did you manage that?”

“I once got a medal for running, the only prize I ever won at school,” he said. “I’ll wait here. Good luck. That jacket suits you,” he added. “Looks much nicer on you than on her.”

“Your boyfriend?” asked Beaky’s secretary. “What a sweetie.”

They all looked at her very coldly when she went into the room. Even Beaky. There were five of them: some familiar, some not. The chief executive of the hospital, an outside assessor, the clinical director, one of the other consultants—and Beaky.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, sinking onto the chair they indicated. “I can explain if you like—”

“Not now,” said the administrator. “I think we have been delayed enough. If we could just begin…”

Astonishingly, once she started, she felt coolly together, all her facts and theories marshalled, her experience summoned, made to seem clearly relevant. She answered all their questions smoothly and easily, expressed her view that as much a part of geriatrics as medicine was the social side, the importance of enabling elderly people to continue in the community by way of careful monitoring, drug therapy, and support from the social services. She had done some research of her own on late-onset diabetes and on stroke management, was absolutely up-to-date on treatment, both in the UK and the States; she could see that impressed them. She discussed her days in the outlying hospitals, said how impressed she had been with the care home in Highbury and its policy of patient independence. And finally, expressed her personal view of the frustration of the carers, prevented from giving out drugs by red tape and meaningless regulations.

“I know this is more politics than medicine,” she said, “but it is so important. I firmly believe we would see smaller clinics here, fewer beds needed, less pressure on the homes if we could only overcome it.”

And then heard, to her horror, her own voice shake as she said it, felt her eyes stab with tears, thinking with fierce regret that the Morrises might still be safely at home together, had she only been able to ensure that they had got their medication at the right time and in the right doses every day.

“I’m sorry,” she said, seeing them look at her oddly, “I’ve had a bit of an upsetting day with a patient. It’s why I was late.”

“Perhaps, Dr. Scott,” said Beaky gently, clearly seeing his opportunity to push her forward, “you would now like to tell us about it.”

She waited outside with the three other candidates. The one who was clearly Dr. Smartarse sat drumming his fingers on his leg, looking at his watch. The other two read their newspapers and weren’t very friendly either. She supposed she had held them all up.

Finally she spoke into the tension.

“I’m so sorry I was late,” she said, “but you see—”

The door opened; there was an interminable silence; then: “Dr. Scott, could you come back in, please.”

She was never sure afterwards when it had gone wrong: when the hugs and kisses outside the hospital, the sense of warm euphoria and sweetly shared triumph ended, and the chill began. He had even bought her some flowers. “I knew you’d earn them,” and insisted on driving into Covent Garden—“perfect place to celebrate.”

She thought of Saturday’s dinner there and hoped he was right.

“Here’s to you, Consultant Scott.” Fergus raised a glass of champagne to her. “I’m very proud indeed to know you.”

“Thank you. A whole bottle! Fergus! Your eyes are bigger than your stomach, as my nanny used to say.”

“Your nanny! How very grand,” he said. “Where I come from your nanny is your gran.”

“Fergus. I only had a nanny because I didn’t have a mother,” said Clio. She could feel herself blushing. Had that been it? She had certainly felt awkward suddenly, less happy.

“You had no mother?”

“No. She died when I was a baby.”

“That’s terribly sad.”

“Not really. I know that sounds dreadful, but I never knew her, I didn’t know any different. Anyway, that’s not what I want to talk about. Oh, Fergus! I’d never have done it without you. Never. I just don’t know how to thank you.”

“You don’t have to,” he said. “I feel rewarded enough that you got it. You were a long time,” he added. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d popped out the back way.”

“Fergus! Of course not. There’s a lot to discuss at these boards, you know, it’s not just like a simple interview—” She stopped, fearing she sounded condescending.

“I daresay. The only interview I ever attended was for the position of filing clerk. It lasted about two and a half minutes. Since then, I’ve just wheedled my way into places.”

“I’m afraid wheedling isn’t a recognised interview technique for doctors,” she said. Damn. She’d done it again. She smiled at him, still afraid it sounded schoolmistressy.

“Yes, well, our worlds are obviously pretty far apart,” he said. And this time he didn’t smile back.

She had begun to feel panicky. It couldn’t all go wrong today. Not now. Not after all he’d done.

“You were so kind, Fergus,” she said again. “So, so kind.”

“Now let’s not OD on the praise,” he said. “It was just what any friend would do.”

A friend. Any friend. That was how he saw her. He had just been helping a friend.

“And what are you doing this evening?” he said.

“Oh, just getting back.”

“But—you have to?”

“Oh yes,” she said quickly. She didn’t want him to feel he had to amuse her, go on helping her to celebrate. She’d imposed on him enough.

“Right. Well, I must get back to the office too.”

“You certainly must. I’ve robbed you of hours of useful occupation.”

“Debatable I’d say. That it was useful.”

“What? Your occupation? Don’t be silly.”

“It’s not exactly a useful occupation, is it? Not like being a doctor.” He sounded edgy, almost defensive. “But anyway, it was a pleasure helping you. It really was.” A long silence; then: “Can I give you a lift to Waterloo?”

“Oh, no. Honestly. That would be too kind. I’ll just make my own way, get a cab probably. I’d much rather actually.”

“Right,” he said, “fine.” His voice had become cool, distant.

It was all going wrong. Horribly wrong. She looked round the bar; it was full of pretty girls, with long brown bare legs and low-cut tops. She felt appallingly out of place, again, in her shabby skirt and kicked-out shoes. And her—oh, God, flesh-coloured tights. And the jacket he had lent her was a bit tight. That girl, whoever she was, had obviously been really skinny. She had to get out of here.

“Well, I’ll just go and get a cab. I don’t think I could walk another inch.” She stood up. “Thank you again for the champagne, Fergus. And for everything.”

“There’s a lot of champagne left,” he said indicating it.

“I’m sure you’ll manage.” God. Now he’d think she meant he was an alcoholic.

“You couldn’t stay for another glass?” he said.

She should have said yes then, she knew she should—he must be thinking she’d just been using him all afternoon and now she wanted to get away—but she could feel everything she said going from bad to worse.

“No, no, I couldn’t. I’d love to, but I really must get back. Back to…to the Laurels—you know, the nursing home. I said I would.”

“OK, fine. I can see that is really important. Well, I’ll see you to your cab.”

“There’s no need.”

“I know that,” he said and his voice was even slightly impatient. “But I will, just the same. I have been properly brought up, you know. Even if I didn’t have a nanny.”

“Fergus, that’s…that’s silly.”

“I’m a pretty silly fellow. Come on.”

Where had it all gone, she thought, all that happiness, all that triumph, all that closeness? She thought of him buying her mascara and lipstick in Boots, pounding up Sussex Gardens, desperate to give her her notes. How had she managed to wreck that, and so quickly? God, she was a disaster. It was hopeless. Completely hopeless.

“Here’s a cab,” he said.

“Thanks. Thanks for everything, Fergus. I do hope—” What did she hope? Nothing that wouldn’t sound boring. Or as if she was forcing herself on him. “I do hope you get everything done.”

Now, how crass was that?

“I will,” he said.

She got into the cab, leant forward. “Waterloo,” she said and turned to say goodbye, only he had wrenched the door open, was climbing in beside her.

“That’ll be extra,” said the cabbie, pressing his meter.

“That’s fine,” said Fergus.

“Fergus, what—”

“I want to talk to you,” he said. “Get to the bottom of this personality change you go through. It keeps happening. One minute you’re you, all warm and chatty, and the next all buttoned-up, holding me at arm’s length. What is it, what do I do?”

“It’s not you,” she said quickly. “Really it isn’t, it’s me.”

“What do you mean, you?”

“I can’t explain,” she said wretchedly, and she felt, to her horror, the tears well up and she fished in her bag for a tissue and blew her nose. “Hay fever,” she said by way of explanation.

“I don’t see any hay,” he said, taking the tissue away from her and wiping her eyes tenderly. “Come along, Clio, tell me what’s wrong, please. Otherwise”—he looked out of the window, they were on Waterloo Bridge now—“I shall throw myself into the river.”

Clio giggled in spite of herself, and then sniffed rather unromantically.

“I can’t tell you,” she said.

“Rubbish,” he said, and started to try to open the door.

“Mind out, guv, it’s locked,” said the driver.

“Clio! Come on!”

“Well—oh dear!” The tears were flowing fast now. “It’s just that—that—”

“That what? Are you in love with someone else?”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that—it’s just that I’m so—so dull. And middle-aged and—and—”

“What are you talking about?” he said, looking genuinely mystified.

“I’m dull, not exciting. Serious. Not like the people you know. Not like Joy the other night. I don’t know why you wanted to have dinner with me, Fergus, I suppose you were just being kind like today, and you were so kind, but—”

“Which entrance?” said the driver.

“Oh, Eurostar will do,” said Fergus. “Clio, I wanted to have dinner with you because I love your company—I adore your company. You’re so interesting and thoughtful—”

“Oh yes,” she said, “very exciting that makes me sound. Interesting and thoughtful—”

“It is to me, you silly bitch,” he said.

She stared at him. “What did you say?”

“I said you were exciting, to me. I find you very exciting. And today I was so proud of you and—”

“Yes, but what else?”

“I said you were a silly bitch. OK? I’m sorry.”

“Seven quid,” said the driver.

Fergus fumbled in his wallet, pulled out a tenner, thrust it at him. “That’s all right, keep it.”

“Fergus, that’s terrible,” said Clio, shocked by this piece of wanton extravagance. “You can’t just give him three pounds—”

“I can. Of course I can. Come on. OUT!”

She got out, meekly followed him into the Eurostar building, and then up the escalator. At the top he turned and faced her.

“Look,” he said, “I don’t know how I can convince you that I like being with you. That I find you terribly attractive. You’re driving me mad. What do you want, woman? A signed declaration? Here”—he pulled a sheet of paper out of the small Filofax he kept in his pocket—“here you are. I, Fergus Trehearn, find you, Clio Scott—don’t know what your married name is, but if I could get hold of your husband I’d punch the living daylights out of him, for doing what he has to you. I find you incredibly exciting and interesting and desirable and I would like to remove all your clothing right here.” He tore the paper off, handed it to her. “There. Will that do? Now then, we’d better go and find your bloody train.”

Clio stood very still and stared, first at him, then at the piece of paper; then she said, “Fergus, I don’t want to get the bloody train. And I don’t have to. I want to stay with you. And I want you to remove all my clothing. As soon as possible. Only not just here, maybe.”

“Well, where then?” he said, speaking very slowly. He raised his hand, tilted her face up to his.

Clio felt a lurch in what she could only describe as her guts. A strong, probing lurch. It led to part of her anatomy that had been dormant for quite a long time. It wasn’t dormant now. It appeared to be on the rampage.

“I believe you’ve got a flat,” she said very quietly. “And could you just say that once again?”

“What?”

“You know, about me being a silly bitch?”

“But why?”

“Well, because it proves you weren’t just being polite. It’s about the biggest compliment I ever had.”

“I can do a lot better than that,” he said, “you silly bitch.” And he started to kiss her.

Chapter 34

         “I don’t know what I think. Not really. It’s well confusing.”

“That’s why I asked you,” said Kate, her voice exasperated. “I want to be less confused.”

“Yeah, I know, but you can’t think something to order. I’m not like my dad. You’ve only got to say something to my dad, like—well, like police, or posh, and he’s off.”

“What does he think about being posh, then?” said Kate curiously.

“Not being posh, Posh. Like Posh Spice.”

“Oh, right. What does he think about her?”

“He says she’s addled Beckham’s brain, dressing him up in skirts and that. That’s why we lost the World Cup, he says, all her fault. I agree with him,” he added.

Nat usually did agree with his father.

“Yes, but Nat, that’s things he already knows about. What do you think he’d have to say about this contract and me? Just for instance.”

“Well, I don’t know. I could ask him.”

“No, don’t,” said Kate hastily. She sighed. “So suppose I was
your
daughter. What would you do?”

Nat considered this carefully. “I would worry about it. I mean you’re not sixteen yet. You’d only spend it on clothes and that, wouldn’t you?”

“No,” said Kate, “course not. I’d invest it.”

“Yeah, but what in? You wouldn’t know. Anyway, it’s not the money, is it?”

“Isn’t it?”

“Kate, you know that. What it’s really about is the publicity and that, isn’t it? I mean, you don’t want all that stuff in the papers again, do you?”

“Well, no. I don’t. But—”

“Kate, you don’t. And you heard what Fergus said. It’s not going to go away.”

“It won’t go away, whatever I do,” said Kate rather sadly. “And what am I supposed to do, stay in my bedroom for the rest of my life? Not do anything interesting?”

“Course not. But you don’t have to do something like modelling, do you? I mean you’re clever, and you’ve done your exams. You could be a teacher, or something.”

“Nat, I’ve got a lot more exams to do before I could be a teacher!”

“Yeah? My dad says they’re a waste of space, teachers, don’t teach kids nothing these days.”

“Well,” said Kate, “I don’t think I want to be something that your dad considers a waste of space.” She was getting bored with this conversation. “Let’s go for a drive.”

“Tell you something else,” he said, “there’s no rush. Keep ’em waiting, tell Fergus that and all.”

“That’s a very good point,” she said.

She reached across to kiss him; in her high heels, she was almost as tall as he was. “Thanks, Nat. What would I do without you?”

“Walk everywhere,” he said, and grinned. “Kate, I wish you could find your mum, then you wouldn’t mind all the crap, would you?”

“I s’pose I wouldn’t,” she said, “not so much anyway. But I don’t think I’m going to. Not now.”

“You don’t know that,” he said. “You never know what’s round the corner.”

“And who says that, your dad?” she asked, teasing him.

“No,” he said, very seriously, “my mum. Mind you, she needs to think that, married to my dad. But matter of fact, it’s true.”

Martha woke up on Thursday and thought that whatever else happened, this was the last morning
Question Time
would be hanging over her, like some vast brooding predator. Tomorrow it would be over; she might have made a complete fool of herself, she might have been taken off the air, but at least she wouldn’t be dreading it anymore.

God, she was scared. She wondered if anyone had ever actually thrown up on camera. That would be an interesting first.

She got up, put on her running things, clipped her tiny radio to her shorts, and set off for Tower Bridge while listening to John Humphrys on the row over Tony Blair and the Queen Mother’s funeral, which was still going on. And the ongoing Hinduja business. And the equally ongoing debate on ID cards. And Cherie and her remarks about the suicide bombers. And who might be Archbishop of Canterbury. And why it still mattered. The trouble was, as Janet had told her, you could think you were right on top of the news, and then the hot topic that night could be something you knew next to nothing about. That hadn’t helped to make her feel more confident.

She was going to the hairdresser on her way into the office. She had been told that the studio hairdresser was pretty useless. “They just comb it,” Janet had said. “Take a hair styler with you and loads of hair spray.”

Janet had been great: coaching her, giving her practice questions, telling her the one cardinal sin was to look at the camera, advising her on her jacket—“not blue, not patterned”—and to try to eat something beforehand, “or your stomach will rumble and your mike will pick it up. It’s a nightmare.”

Martha felt she was in a nightmare already: How much worse could it get?

For some reason, the other nightmare, the really hideous one, seemed to have receded. She supposed there just wasn’t room for it. It would be back, but she was grateful for the respite.

Janet had asked Nick to meet her for an early supper at the Savoy. “Not the Grill. The Savoy Upstairs. It’s very quiet there and we can talk as much as we like. Then I can be back in time to watch
Question Time
. You know Martha Hartley’s on tonight?”

Nick said he did. And that he was planning to watch it too. “She’s very bright. I’ve met her once or twice. She went travelling with Jocasta, way back in the eighties, did you know that?”

Janet said yes, she did.

It was a very long morning. Martha had a difficult client meeting booked, which she had expected to distract her, but it was cancelled at the last minute; she worked on a presentation document and prepared a report, but it wasn’t the all-consuming stuff she needed.

She had to leave at two; the BBC was sending a car for her. She sat watching the clock as it crawled the last half hour; this must be like waiting for the executioner, she thought. She had a fat bundle of briefing material, sent over from Jack Kirkland’s office, which she knew more or less by heart, and she had the day’s papers to read in the car.

She kept going to the loo, and checking and rechecking the holdall she had brought, containing her precious hair styler and three different tops to go with either of the suits she was taking for final approval (one bright red, which she loved but feared might be a bit much on camera, and one grey-and-white Prince of Wales check, which she also loved but feared might count as the busy pattern Janet had advised her against).

At five to two the phone rang; she let her voice mail pick it up. It was Ed.

“Hi, Martha. I just discovered you’re on telly tonight. Mum told me. Cool. Good luck. And—”

Suddenly she wanted to speak to him. Terribly.

She grabbed the phone. “Hi, Ed. I’m here. Just leaving now.”

“Yeah? How do you feel?”

“Terrible. Absolutely terrible. So frightened, you can’t imagine!”

“Is this the cucumber-cool Miss Martha Hartley, prospective parliamentary candidate for Binsmow? Martha, don’t be scared, you’ll be fine. Just keep your hands over your nose, dreadful if people spotted that.”

“Oh, don’t! And I won’t be fine, I know I won’t.”

“Would you like me to come?”

“What? To Birmingham?”

“Is that where it is? Cool, I love Brum, they have some great clubs there, we could go out afterwards.”

“Ed, I’ll be in no state to go clubbing.”

“OK, we’ll just sit in the greenroom and watch the reruns. Do you have anything planned for afterwards?”

“Suicide,” she said.

“Terrible waste. Look, I mean it—I will come if you want me to. I’d love to.”

She was silent for a moment, then: “I’d absolutely love it,” she said simply. “It would make all the difference. But God knows if you’ll be able to get in.”

“I’ll think of something. If I can’t get in, I’ll wait in reception and watch you on the monitor.”

“Oh, Ed.” Her eyes filled with tears. God, she’d missed him. And God alone knew what she was doing, letting him back into her life. It was hugely dangerous, she was overemotional, frightened, she might say or do anything. It was also exceedingly selfish. But she’d worry about that afterwards.

On the way up, she read the papers again. All of them. She also yet again read the stuff from Centre Forward House. And looked increasingly anxiously at her two suits and wished she’d brought a third.

“Goodness,” said Clio, “Martha’s on
Question Time
tonight. You remember Martha, don’t you, Fergus?”

“Could I ever forget her? I bore her in my arms up to her bedroom, and laid her on the bed, lucky man that I am. She’s very pretty.”

“Mmm…” said Clio.

“Not as pretty as you, though, I don’t want any neuroses starting up. And I’m sure her breasts aren’t nearly as nice.”

He had a bit of a thing about her breasts; he said they were the prettiest he had ever seen.

“They’re like you,” he said, gazing at them tenderly, as she sat bolt upright in his bed the night before, still slightly shocked by the turn of events. “Sweet and charming.”

“Fergus, how can breasts be charming?” she asked, laughing, suddenly relaxed.

“Yours demonstrate it beautifully. Can I kiss them?”

“Of course.”

He bent his head and kissed them, slowly and contemplatively, one at a time; her last distinct memory was of his tongue circling her nipples, teasing, caressing, infinitely gentle. And after that it became a blur, a joyful, greedy, melting, astonishing blur. And after that, peace, silence, stillness. And then: “You silly bitch,” he said. “You gorgeous, lovely, silly bitch. Think of all the time we’ve wasted.”

“Well, we can make up for it now,” said Clio.

“I think the red…” The floor manager considered Martha’s suits. “It suits you and it looks very zingy. Good. Now if you’d like to get changed, dinner will start in about half an hour. There are some really nice people coming, local dignitaries as well as your fellow panellists, and you can chat away and keep up-to-date with the news at the same time.”

“Oh—great,” said Martha.

She went into the dining room at about seven; it appeared full. A large table, laid as if for a formal dinner party, was in the centre of the room, with a group of people at one end, at least three with faces she found terrifyingly recognisable. She was introduced to them, given the glass of water she had requested, and left to sink or swim. Two of the faces smiled at her kindly, asked her how she felt, assured her it would all be fine, and then returned to their previous conversations. She longed to run away. She went to the lavatory and guiltily switched on her mobile. There was nothing from Ed. It was almost seven o’clock.

Ed was sitting in one of the biggest traffic jams he had ever seen. His mobile had inexplicably run out of juice, and he was desperate for a pee. Otherwise everything was fine.

Nick smiled encouragingly at Janet. “It’s nice up here, I’ve often wondered about it, but never actually got any further.”

“Few people have,” said Janet. “It’s good for a discreet rendezvous, for that very reason.”

“Indeed. Well, Janet, how are things at Centre Forward House? You’ve had a bit of bad luck lately.”