Sheer Abandon (71 page)

The
Sun
’s stringer in Colchester had got the story about Martha. He called the news desk. Chad Lawrence had one of the best-known mobile numbers in Westminster: he was also one of the best-known faces. At midday a reporter from the
Sun
called.

“I expect you’ve heard about Martha Hartley, Mr. Lawrence.”

“No,” said Chad shortly, “I haven’t.”

“No? Well, she’s in hospital. Critical condition. Terrible car crash. We’re doing a paragraph for tomorrow’s paper, wondered if you had a quote you could give me about her.”

“That’s appalling,” said Chad, and he was indeed very shocked. “I had no idea, no. Is she all right?”

“Like I said, she’s critical. Not well at all, from the sound of it.”

“God!”

“So could you give me a quote? I know she’s one of the new stars of your party.”

“No, I couldn’t,” said Chad and put the phone down. He called Jack Kirkland and told him.

“Good God, how dreadful. How did you find out?”

“I had a call from a bloke on the
Sun
. He wanted a quote about her. I said I wouldn’t give him one.”

“Why on earth not? I’ll call them myself.”

Funny bugger, Chad thought, putting down the phone. He felt genuinely upset. He was very fond of Martha.

Kirkland spoke fulsomely and at some length about Martha; about her brilliance, her promise, how she was the future of the new party; the reporter, who was only planning a paragraph, grew impatient.

“Thanks very much, Mr. Kirkland,” he said, cutting into a pause.

“That’s my pleasure. Oh, and perhaps you should talk to Janet Frean. She’s the female face of our leadership. She’s been very good to Martha, helped her along, and taken a motherly interest in her. You should speak to her. I’ll get her to call you.”

“That’s terrible,” said Clio. “I’m so, so sorry. We tried to call her last night, couldn’t get an answer. We know why now. Oh, God. Can we send flowers or something?”

“I don’t think she’s quite up to flowers,” said Jocasta soberly.

She would have liked to talk to Gideon; he was very fond of Martha. She looked at her watch: no. He’d be fast asleep; it was about four in the morning in Seattle. She felt very lonely, and very upset. She decided to call Nick back.

“Bob, hello. This is Jack Kirkland. Sorry to intrude on your Sunday morning.”

“That’s fine, Jack,” said Bob Frean. “I’m on nanny duty. Nice to talk to a human being. What? Oh, good God. How appalling. Poor Martha. Is she on the danger list? God, how dreadful. Yes, of course I’ll tell her as soon as she gets here. She shouldn’t be long.”

Nick picked up the phone. “Janet, Martha’s had an accident. A car crash. She’s very seriously hurt. I imagine this changes everything, for the time being.”

“Of course. How dreadful. Yes, we’ll speak later.” Janet drove on, feeling thoughtful. Actually, it would make the whole story more brilliant still. Give it an added edge. A poignancy even. She could see it now. Yes. It would work very well. As long as Martha lived, of course.

At this rate, Ed thought, his tyres screaming between lanes on the A12, he’d be joining Martha in intensive care. Which wasn’t going to help either of them. He tried to calm down, but all he could think of, all that was in his head, running and rerunning, was his conversation with Martha, his last words to her: “Just give it a rest. OK?” What sort of man said that to the woman he was supposed to love? A pretty bloody rotten one.

“Bastard,” he kept saying aloud to himself, “you bastard.”

Helen called Jocasta’s number; she was very apologetic, this being Sunday morning, probably Jocasta and her new husband were busy, giving a grand lunch party or something. But there was no time like the present.

“Helen, it’s fine. Honestly. But—”

“I won’t keep you a minute. I just wanted Martha Hartley’s phone number. I thought it might help Kate if I went to see her, tried to—”

“Helen, I’m afraid you can’t go and see her. Well, not at the moment, anyway, although I think it’s a lovely idea. She’s in hospital. She’s had an accident, she’s been very badly hurt.”

“Oh,” said Helen. “Oh dear—Is it very bad?”

“Very bad, I’m afraid,” said Jocasta.

Helen put the phone down, wondering how Kate would react to this, and decided that until they knew a little more, she wouldn’t tell her.

“I thought we might ask Jocasta over for lunch,” said Beatrice. “She’s all on her own, and it’d be nice to see her.”

“Good idea,” said Josh. He was heavily involved with Jeremy Clarkson, as he always was on Sunday morning.

Beatrice came back into the room a few minutes later, looking shaken.

“She can’t come. She’s with Nick.”

“Nick? What on earth’s she doing with him?”

“I’m not sure,” said Beatrice, “helping him with a story, I expect.”

“What, with Gideon away? Bit odd, I’d have thought.”

Beatrice gave him a look that meant he was no arbiter of any kind of behaviour and said, “Anyway, apparently that girl Martha Hartley’s in hospital. You know, the one who was ill at the party, who rushed off in the morning—”

“Yes, yes. Why is she in hospital?”

“She’s had an accident. A car accident. She’s in intensive care. Unconscious. Poor thing. I mean, I didn’t actually meet her, but you knew her, didn’t you?”

“Well…hardly. Haven’t seen her for seventeen years. But we had a little chat at the party. How ghastly. Is Jocasta going to keep us informed?”

“I expect so. Anyway, she was very upset. I was quite surprised how much; she said after the party she really hardly knew her.”

“Yes, well, it’s always a shock when something like this happens to someone you know,” said Josh. “I feel a bit shaken myself, to tell you the truth.”

“You do look a bit pale,” said Beatrice briskly. “Why don’t you take the children to the park for an hour or so, while I do lunch? Bit of fresh air will do you good.”

Jocasta was also surprised to find how upset she was.

“It’s not as if we were friends,” she said to Nick. “I hadn’t seen her for nearly seventeen years, and she was pretty vile when I went to interview her. But she has had a basinful, poor girl. It was probably worrying so much that caused it, she wasn’t concentrating. Ed was so upset. Distraught. He obviously really loves her. It’s a weird relationship, though, isn’t it?”

“I don’t see why.”

“Well, he’s so much younger than her, for a start. And what can they possibly have in common?”

“You’re a fair bit younger than Gideon,” said Nick, “and what do you two have in common, after all?” His tone was quite hostile; Jocasta stared at him.

They had met for coffee at Starbucks in Hampstead; Nick was writing a quick piece about Peter Hain and Europe. “Well, I’m not doing anything,” Jocasta said, “so I’ll come up to you.”

She wasn’t sure why she wanted to be with him; she told herself it was because of their joint involvement in this extraordinary drama. Talking to anyone out of its loop would have felt irrelevant that morning. They sat in the sunshine, drinking lattes. It was like the old days, Jocasta thought, the old Sundays—and then crushed the thought firmly.

“I’m still worried about Janet,” said Nick, “I just don’t trust her.”

“Nick! No one’s going to rat on someone when they’re lying in intensive care. They just aren’t.”

“I’m not sure. Anyway, I don’t know that I spelt out how bad Martha was to the bloody woman. I might just ring her again.”

But the usual enraging voice told them that the number they were calling had been switched off and suggested they leave a message, adding brightly, “or why not send a text?”

Nick threw his own mobile across the table. “Bloody woman. Bloody, bloody woman. What is she up to now?”

Ed knew he couldn’t risk it, the petrol gauge had been running on empty for miles; he would have to stop at the next garage. He pulled in and could smell the burning rubber of his own tyres as he got out of the car. He put twenty litres in, decided that would get him there, and ran into the pay station.

“Fifteen quid, mate.”

Ed fumbled for his credit cards. “Shit,” he said, and then again, “shit.”

“Left your cards at home?” The expression on the man’s face was not attractive.

“Yes, I have, Look—I’ll leave you my watch. I won’t be long.”

“Yeah? If you could see the pile of watches I’ve got here, mate, you’d wonder why I didn’t open a shop. Funny thing, their owners never come back. Never pay for the fuel either. I’ll have to call the police, I’m afraid.”

“But my girlfriend’s in intensive care, I’ve got to get there!”

The man shook his head. “We get a lot of them and all. Now if you just wait over there, while I make the call…”

Ed stood staring at him, frozen to the spot. Then he said, “Can I go and look in the car again. I might find some cash.”

“Only if you leave your keys.”

“Yes, OK.”

He threw them at the guy, walked out to the car, feverishly started searching it again. Nothing. Not in the glove compartment, not on the backseat, not in the boot, not in the door pockets…

And then—“Shit,” he said. “Fuck me.”

Falling out of his
A to Z
was a twenty-pound note. What was that doing there, how did it get there? Then he remembered. It was Martha; she’d tried to pay for some petrol, months ago, but he wouldn’t let her and she’d stuffed the money into the
A to Z
. She’d even written “Love from Martha” in her neat writing in the corner. It was—well, it was—

“It’s a bloody miracle,” he said, staring at it, and rushed up to the man who was tidying a row of cigarettes behind him.

“Give me my keys, please,” he said. “Quickly.”

“Oh. Right. Don’t you want any change?”

But Ed was gone.

When Janet got back to the house, it was unnaturally quiet. The only child present was Lucy.

“Hi, Mum. Go well last night?”

“Yes, fine. Everything OK here?”

“Yes, I think so. We weren’t expecting you yet. Jack Kirkland rang. Wants you to ring him.”

“OK, I will. Any other messages?”

“Don’t think so. Anyway, I’m watching
EastEnders
, see you later.”

A major earthquake in the next street would not keep Lucy from
EastEnders
.

Janet went up to her study, rang Jack.

“Hello, Janet. You heard about Martha?”

“Yes. Very sad. Is there any more news?”

“No. I just wanted to make sure Bob had told you about the
Sun
.”

“The
Sun
? No.” Surely they couldn’t have got a hint of the story already?

“Yes, they want you to ring them with a quote. About Martha. I’ve already given them one, but I thought it would be nice if you did, too. As a fellow woman politician. Do ring this chap, he’s waiting to hear from you. His name’s…”

Janet scribbled down the name, her head whirling. If ever there was a piece of serendipity, it was here.

Martha was not very well, Sister told Peter and Grace. Her blood pressure was falling again; she had bleeped the doctor. Yes, if they wanted to see her for a moment…

“Dear God,” whispered Grace.

Ed had arrived at the hospital. He screeched to a halt in the only space he could see, which stated clearly that it was reserved for medical staff only, and rushed into the building.

“I’ve come to see one of the patients,” he said to the woman on reception, “Martha Hartley.”

“Hartley, Hartley—let me see…”

An officious-looking man came up behind him. “That your car, sir? The old Golf?” He put the emphasis on the word “old.”

“Yes,” said Ed, without looking at him. The woman was clicking keys endlessly on her computer.

“Going to have to ask you to move it, sir, I’m afraid. That’s a consultant’s space.”

“Yes, well, he’s not here, is he?”

“She’s on the second floor, Ward F. But you won’t be able to see her.”

“Can I go up there?”

“There’s no point.”

The door to reception opened sharply. “Who’s parked in my space, Evans?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Thompson, sir. This gentleman—”

“Look, I’ve got a seriously ill patient in surgery and I can’t waste time with bloody cars. Get it moved, will you? Here are my keys.”

“Yes, Mr. Thompson. Right away.” He turned to Ed, put his hand on his shoulder.

“Now, sir, would you please move your car? At once. As you can see, you’re disrupting serious medical procedures—”

“Oh fuck the cars!” said Ed. He threw the keys at him. “Move it yourself. Sorry,” he added, seeing the man’s face, “but my girlfriend’s desperately ill, I have to get to her.”

“You won’t be able to,” said the woman again. But Ed was gone.

“Is that the news desk? Yes? This is Janet Frean, I think you’re expecting my call. It’s about Martha Hartley, the girl in the car crash. Yes, I’ll wait.”

Ward F was very quiet; even hospitals seemed to respond to the mood of Sunday mornings. Ed ran along the corridor, desperately trying to find anyone, anyone at all.