Sheer Abandon (90 page)

Peter thanked him. But he knew Grace would actually have loved to go. Go to join Martha.

“Call for you, Clio. I think it’s your journalist friend,” said Margaret. “Shall I put her through?”

“Oh yes. Please do. Jocasta, hello, are you all right?”

“Oh, Clio, Clio—” Jocasta got no further; huge sobs came down the line.

“Oh, Jocasta, darling, what happened, what is it?”

“It was all so terrible, so awful. I was so frightened and I—Oh God. Clio, please come. As soon as you can. Sorry, Clio, so sorry, I’m all right really, I just—”

“Jocasta, you shouldn’t be alone. You should have someone with you. Where are you?”

“At home. I’m fine, honestly. I’ll be all right.”

“I can be there by about five,” said Clio. “Is that all right?”

“Yes. Thank you.” She sounded terribly weepy; Clio rang off and buzzed for her last patient.

Maybe she could get the new young locum to take her afternoon surgery.

“You can see her now, Mr. Hartley.” The young nurse smiled at him encouragingly. “She’s had a little sleep. She says she wants to go home, but because of her age and everything, we feel she should stay in for a couple of days. Just so we can keep a check on her liver and so on. We’ve got a room in Florence, we’ll move her up there as soon as we can.”

“Thank you,” said Peter. He wondered rather distractedly how many millions of hospital wards were called Florence, and went in to see Grace.

She was lying on her back, staring up at the ceiling; she was rather yellow-looking. “Hello, Grace darling.”

She turned her head and looked at him—and dissolved into tears. “Oh, Peter, I’m so sorry. It was wrong of me. Please forgive me.”

“Of course I forgive you. I’d forgive you anything. You know that. I love you so much, Grace.”

“I know. And I love you. But everything seems so hopeless. So dreadfully hopeless. I looked into that bottle and saw the answer.”

“I know, darling, I know.”

“It just hurts so much. I don’t know how to bear it. I don’t seem to have God anymore, as you do. Not helping me, as He is you. Please forgive me, Peter, please.”

“Grace, He isn’t helping me very much, either, at the moment. I can’t imagine ever feeling any better.”

“Really?” she said.

“Really. There have even been times when I felt I had lost my faith entirely.”

“Oh, Peter. I didn’t realise, I thought—”

“You thought wrongly. But I know He will help. Sooner or later. I just have to hang on. As you must. I can’t afford to lose you, as well,” he added with a weary smile.

Grace looked at him. It seemed dreadful to feel better because she knew Peter felt worse. But somehow, it helped. Knowing they were in it together, knowing she wasn’t enduring the worst of it all alone. She managed a smile back.

“I’m so sorry,” she said again, and then, “I must look so awful!”

“You always look beautiful to me.”

“Oh don’t,” she said, turning her head away. The endless tears started again.

Peter sighed. She still had a long way to go. But he felt an important marker in the road had been passed. They were at least together again. He could feel it.

“Edward?”

“Yes, Mum.” He could hear his own voice, slightly irritable; he must be careful. But this was getting a bit much: second time today.

“Edward, I’ve got some rather sad news. Poor Mrs. Hartley—”

“What’s happened now?”

“She took an overdose, Ed. So sad.”

“Oh no! Is she—”

“No, no, she’s going to be all right. But think how dreadful she must be feeling. Poor soul. She’s still in hospital, Dorothy told me, you know, she’s my friend from Weight Watchers—”

“Yes, Mum.”

“She’s a nurse. Of course she shouldn’t have told me, but I thought you’d like to know.”

“Yes, I’m glad you told me.” He felt sharply depressed. How long and how far were the effects of Martha’s death going to spread? “Yes, I’ll send her a card.”

“Could you? And perhaps you could ask that girl—Kate, was it?—to do the same? I found cards, the briefest note, so helpful. Just to know people are thinking of you.”

“Sure. I will.”

He’d ring her later; he couldn’t face it now.

“Clio, this is Fergus. I just wanted to tell you something—”

“Look, Fergus, I’m sorry, but I’m terribly busy. I’ve got to—well, do something, leave Guildford in a couple of hours and see a waiting room full of patients first. Another time—”

Fergus rang off without even saying goodbye.

Nick stood looking at Jocasta’s little house for a moment, listening to the taxi drive away. He felt almost frightened to go in, afraid of how he might feel about it and her, of how dangerously it all might have changed. Of how dangerously she had changed, from someone easy and irresponsible and transparent into someone capable of huge deception and terrible arrogance—and great courage. To do what she had done, entirely alone. He almost wanted to go away, to keep her as she had always been; but he knew he had to see her, face her, find out what she had become and why. He raised his finger and pressed the bell; there was quite a long silence. And then he heard her voice.

“Who is it?”

“Nick.”

A moment’s pause, he could hear her shock. Then he heard the chain being undone, watched the door open, saw her.

She looked dreadful; she was very white and her eyes were red and swollen with crying. Her hair hung lankly round her face, and she was twisting a handkerchief in both hands. She was wearing one of the most hideous tracksuits he had ever seen. She managed a half smile.

“Hi!”

“Hello?”

“Do you want to come in?”

“If I may.”

“Of course…” She led him into her sitting room; surprisingly tidy, by her standards. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“No thanks. How are you feeling?”

“Terrible.”

“Ah.”

There was a long silence; then she said, “Excuse me,” and rushed out of the room. He heard various unpleasant noises coming from the lavatory; she emerged finally, whiter than ever, stood twisting a tissue in her hands.

“Sorry.”

“The anaesthetic, I suppose,” he said.

She looked at him sharply. “You know?”

“Yes, I know. I’ve just come from the clinic.”

“From the—Nick, who told you?”

“I’m quite a good detective,” he said. “It’s part of being a journalist. As you know.”

“Yes, but—”

“Oh, I had a little help.”

“From Clio, I suppose?”

“No. Not from Clio. She wouldn’t tell me anything.” He looked at her and shook his head. “This is a fine thing that you’ve done, Jocasta. A very fine thing. Why on God’s earth didn’t you tell me? Don’t you think I had a right to know? About—about a baby that wasn’t just yours but mine as well. Ours. Don’t you think I would have wanted to know, to talk about it, to tell you what I felt? How could you decide all on your own what was best, for—for all of us? It was arrogant and it’s made me terribly unhappy.”

“Unhappy?”

“Of course. Jocasta, I love you. I love you so much. How could you think I should have no part in all this?”

“Nick—Nick, you don’t mean—you don’t mean you’d have wanted me to have a baby?”

“Of course I’d have wanted you to have our baby. I might not have chosen it, just now. But that doesn’t mean I’d have wanted you to—to throw it away. Given the choice. Of course I wouldn’t.”

“Oh,” she said, “oh I see. Yes.”

“And I can’t begin to think how you could have done that. Without talking to me.”

“No. No, indeed. Well—well, you see, the thing is—”

“The thing is, what? I don’t think I can cope with any justifications.”

“You’re not going to get any. The thing is, Nick,” she said, slowly and very gently, “actually, it is rather a fine thing I’ve done. I think.”

He stared at her. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I couldn’t do it,” she said, “not in the end. I just couldn’t. I got into that room, and I lay there, thinking, really thinking, about what I was doing, what was going to happen, and then after a bit, I just got up and left. So actually, Nick, I’m still pregnant. What are we going to do about that?”

Chapter 45

         Clio looked, with great foreboding, up at Jocasta’s windows. She was terrified of what she might find. It wasn’t going to be easy. She was actually finding it very hard. Even now. That someone, especially someone she was fond of, could so carelessly—literally—discard a baby, hurt her a lot. But Jocasta’s reasons, however tortuous, had seemed insurmountable to her; and it was Jocasta they had to look after now.

Very tentatively she pressed the bell; after a few minutes, she heard Jocasta’s voice. She sounded remarkably cheerful; she looked remarkably cheerful, as she opened the door. She was very pale, but—yes, unmistakably cheerful. She was recovering very fast, Clio thought, and tried to suppress her irritation.

“Hello, darling Clio. Let me give you a hug. Come in, it’s so lovely to see you.”

“I came as soon as I could—”

“I know. You’re an angel. Thank you.”

She led the way into the sitting room. Clio followed her. Jocasta seemed perfectly all right. She could have given her patients a bit more attention this afternoon after all.

“Well, how do you feel?” she asked.

“Dreadful. I keep being sick.”

“Oh, Jocasta, I’m sorry. You’ve been very unlucky. The anaesthetics don’t usually do that, these days.”

“Don’t they? I wouldn’t know.”

“You what? You mean, they didn’t give you anything?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“Jocasta—” Clio looked at her; her eyes were sparkling in her white face, she was smiling.

“I didn’t have it. I didn’t have the termination,” she said. “I’m still pregnant. I can’t think how I’m going to cope with it, but—I am. I walked out. Told them not to do it, just as they were coming in to get me. They were awfully cross,” she added.

Clio felt as if someone had given her irrefutable evidence that the earth was flat. She sat there, staring at Jocasta, trying to work out what she felt. Finally she realised: irritation. Major irritation.

“You cow,” she said, “you absolute cow. Letting me break the speed limit all the way here—I’ve probably got all my points at once, this afternoon—worrying me, crying like that. Oh, Jocasta!” She started to cry herself.

“Clio, darling, don’t, don’t, I know it’s hard, but—”

“No,” she said, going over to her, giving her a hug, “it’s not hard. Not at all. You getting rid of it was hard. I’m actually really happy for you.”

“Oh, good. Because I’m happy for me too. Very happy. I’d be ecstatic, if I could stop being sick. Serves me right for being so snooty about it.”

“Yes, maybe it does. Have you told Nick?”

“Yes. He came round.”

“What did he say?”

“Clio, he was terribly happy about it. He was actually excited. And until he knew it was all right, he was terribly upset. I can’t quite believe it—”

“Jocasta,” said Clio, “I hate to say this, no, I don’t hate to say it, I’m enjoying saying it, but I did tell you so!”

“Where is Nick?” she said, half an hour later, after she had made Jocasta some chamomile tea.

“God knows. Yes, I do. He’s had to go and sort out his car—it got clamped. He belongs to some weird thing that stays with the car for you, while they come and unclamp it, but it was too late, they’d taken it away, so he had to go and find it. Silly bugger,” she added fondly.

Her mobile rang. “Hi, Kate. How are you—oh God,” she handed it to Clio, “I’ve got to go back to the loo. Sorry.”

Clio made sympathetic faces and said, “Kate, it’s me, Clio.”

“What’s the matter with Jocasta?”

“She’s…got a tummy bug.”

“Oh no. Poor thing. I’ll come round and see her, shall I, bring her some flowers? I’ve got Nat with me, we’re in Clapham, just down the road from her, we’ve looked it up on the
A to Z
.”

“Kate, I really don’t think—” But she had rung off.

Jocasta was surprisingly pleased by the prospect.

“I’d love to see her. Honestly.”

“And Nat? Are you sure?”

“Well maybe just for a minute or two. I know why she’s coming, she called me yesterday: it’s about the Smith contract. She’s changed her mind, she’s going to do it.”

“Oh yes?” said Clio. She didn’t think she wanted to hear about Kate and her contract. Her contract and Fergus.

Thinking about Fergus made her feel suddenly terrible. She was happy for Jocasta, of course, and for Nick, but—here she was, alone again. Very alone. With no prospect of being less so. No doubt that was why Fergus had called her; to tell her what a wonderful contract he had fixed for Kate. He was so bloody insensitive. And self-centred.

Kate came in, looking radiant, holding a large but rather inelegant bunch of flowers.

“Darling, they’re lovely,” said Jocasta.

“I hope so. We got them from the garage. Nat chose them, while I was in the toilet.”

“They’re lovely. Thank you, Nat.”

“That’s OK. Sorry you’re not feeling so good.”

“You know something?” said Jocasta. “I’m feeling perfectly wonderful!”

“Really?” said Kate. “Clio said you had a tummy bug.”

“Oh, did she? No, I haven’t got a tummy bug. I’m going to have a baby, Kate. What do you think about that?”

“I think that’s really cool. Like I said, you’ll be a great mother. Don’t you think so, Nat?”

“Yes,” he said, his face very solemn, obviously thinking about it. “Let’s hope so, anyway.”

Jocasta smiled at him. “I’m hoping so, too.”

“Gideon must be pleased.”

“It—isn’t Gideon’s,” said Jocasta carefully. “Gideon and I are getting divorced.”

Kate looked very confused. As well she might, Jocasta thought. “So whose is it then?”

“It’s Nick’s.”

“Nick, who used to be your boyfriend? Who came to the funeral?”

“The very one.”

“Oh.” She digested this for a bit. “So—are you going to marry him now?”

“Probably. He’s a bit anti actual marriage. But he seems very keen on the baby.”

“Well, that’s a good thing, I s’pose…I’m sorry about Gideon, though. I really like him.”

“Oh, Kate, so do I. But it’s all right. We should never have got married in the first place. It was a stupid mistake. Mostly on my part. And we’re still good friends.”

“Cool.” She was clearly baffled, out of her depth.

Jocasta decided she should change the subject. “Now, tell me all about your contract,” she said. “Have you actually signed it, and when are you going to start with them?”

“I’m not,” she said. “I didn’t sign it. Fergus told me not to.”

“Fergus told you not to?”

“Yeah. I was all set to, went in to see him for a meeting, and he told me not to. He said I just didn’t realise what I was letting myself in for, he said it would all start all over again, with the press and that, and—well, he just wouldn’t let me. I’m really relieved now,” she added. “Even in spite of the money, deep down I didn’t want to.”

“Yes, well money isn’t everything, it is?” said Nat.

“It absolutely isn’t. Clio, where are you going? Clio—”

Clio drove as fast as she could to Fergus’s office. More speeding tickets, probably. She prayed he’d still be there. This wasn’t something that could be settled on the phone. As she reached the North End Road, and his building, she saw him standing at the first-floor window, staring down at the street. He looked terribly unhappy. She parked the car, careless that it was on the zigzag lines next to the crossing, and ran across the road, pressed her finger on the bell.

He was a long time answering it. Supposing he’d seen her, supposing he didn’t want to let her in? She wouldn’t blame him; she’d been so vile to him.

Finally he spoke on the intercom. “Who is it?”

“It’s Clio. Please let me in.”

“OK.” He didn’t sound exactly pleased to hear her voice. She took a deep breath, pushed on the door, and ran up the stairs. He was sitting in the minute room that he called his reception area, and looked at her rather coolly.

“Hello.”

“Hello, Fergus. I’ve come to—to apologise to you.”

“What?”

“Yes. I’m so sorry I said all those things about you being cynical and trading on people’s misery and all that. Very sorry.”

“I see.”

“Yes. It was terribly wrong of me, I had no right to say any of them.”

“No.”

This wasn’t going very well. Maybe she’d hurt him too much for him to forgive her. Oh, God.

“Fergus, I…Fergus, I really want you to know that I—I—well, that I care about you so much. I’ve missed you terribly. I was thinking only today how much I missed you, that I shouldn’t have been so stupid and—”

“That’s all right,” he said. He was still staring at her, his face expressionless.

This was terrible. She really had obviously upset him, beyond redemption. Well, it served her right. She was a pompous, self-righteous woman; she didn’t deserve someone as lovely as Fergus. She should have trusted him, she should have known better. She looked at him again. Still the frozen face.

“Well,” she said finally, her voice trembling, “that’s all I came to say. It needed to be said. I thought.”

She turned towards the door. If she could only get out without crying, that’d be something.

“Where are you going now?” he said.

“I don’t know. Home, I suppose, to Guildford.”

“You are not,” he said, “you are most definitely not.”

“What?”

“You’re staying here with me.”

“Staying here?”

“Yes,” he said, “staying here. I love you.”

“You love me?” she said.

“Yes. I love you. Love you an awful lot. You silly bitch,” he added.

“Grace, dear, you’ve got some visitors.” Peter’s voice was slightly tentative. “Can I bring them up?”

“Oh—oh dear. I’m not sure. I’m very tired.”

“We won’t stay long, Mrs. Hartley.”

“Oh,” she said, and they could all hear the pleasure in her voice. “Oh, Ed. How nice. Yes, do bring them up, Peter.”

“There’s two of us,” said Ed. “I’ve brought Kate with me.”

It had been arranged on the spur of the moment; he had called Kate to tell her that Grace was in hospital and she’d said she’d send a card; and then he said he was going up this weekend, after all: one of his mates was having a party, and he’d take it.

“Fine,” she said and then a bit later, she called him back.

“I was thinking,” she said, “should I come with you? Like, to see her. Just for a little while?”

“It’s a long way, Kate, for a little while.” Ed sounded doubtful.

“Doesn’t matter. Nat could bring me. He’s got some new wheels for his car and he wants to show them off.”

“Yeah. What’s he got then?”

“Saxo.”

“What, the bomb?” He sounded very impressed; they cared more about their cars than anything, Kate thought.

“Yeah.”

“Wow. I couldn’t—hitch a ride, could I?”

“Course you could. He loves showing it off.”

“Well, OK then. You’d better ask him.”

“Oh no,” she said, her voice absolutely confident. “He’ll be pleased. Honest. I’ll tell him to be.”

“Good. Well, thanks.” She was a one-off, Ed thought, switching off his phone.

Absolutely totally gorgeous and funny and really quite bright. He liked her a lot. Of course, he could never fancy her. Not really. She was Martha’s daughter and that made it unthinkable. But he did like her. Somehow, she comforted him. Made him feel just a little less desperate. She wasn’t Martha, but in a funny way she was. Part of her. There was something about her voice, for instance, a note in it that was Martha. And when she giggled, that was Martha too. And her eyes, those huge dark eyes, they were Martha’s eyes. It ought to hurt, and in a way it did. But in another, it absolutely didn’t.