Sheer Abandon (14 page)

“Anyone could have done it. I wangled it specially—Chris wasn’t that keen. But that’s not the point.”

“Yes, it is. Jocasta, I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, but I really—”

“Oh, shut up, will you?” She wasn’t sure why she was feeling quite so hostile; she just was.

He stared at her. “OK. I will. Bye.”

And he walked away from her, his tall body melting into the crowd, his mobile held to his ear.

Something had to be settled, they couldn’t go on like this. It had happened one too many times, his behaving as if she was just some casual girlfriend he was moderately fond of, who should be incredibly grateful if he suggested they went home together. She felt used, disregarded, undervalued. She kept hearing Gideon Keeble’s words: “He should make an honest woman of you.” Probably, she thought, misery making her emotionally reckless, the entire conference, the whole newspaper industry, had been watching them, thinking exactly the same. It was a humiliating thought.

Anyway, she didn’t want to be made a completely honest woman. Not with a wedding ring. Not quite yet anyway. But Nick could at least make a start: commit to her, suggest they move in together.

She drifted off to sleep at about four, and got through the day somehow, expecting him to call any moment; he did, at about five thirty. “I’ll be very late. Sorry. Big debate on security.”

“That’s absolutely fine by me,” said Jocasta and put the phone down.

She spent a long and miserable evening, and another wretched night, waking on Saturday with her mind made up. She went for a walk, deliberately leaving her mobile behind. When she got back midmorning, he had called and left a message on her answering machine. “Hi. It’s me. Do you want to see me? I’d like to see you.”

She called his mobile; it was on message. “Yes,” she said. “We need to talk.”

He arrived with a bottle of red wine and some flowers that clearly came from a garage, and bent to kiss her rather cautiously.

“Hi.” He handed her the flowers. “For you.”

“Thank you. Would you like some coffee?”

“That’d be great.” He watched her as she made the coffee in silence; then: “Jocasta, what is this all about?”

“Me, Nick. That’s what it’s about.”

“I can see that. Do I come into it at all?”

“That’s up to you. Look, would you like to tell me exactly where you think we’re going?”

“Well—forwards. I thought.”

“Together?”

“Obviously.”

“What exactly does that mean?”

“It means I love you—”

“You do?”

“Jocasta, you know I do.”

“I don’t,” she said. “Actually. I know you enjoy my company, I know you like having me around, I think I know you like sleeping with me. But I certainly don’t know you love me. What have you ever done to make me know that? Nick, we’ve been together for about two and a half years and you still treat me like some new girlfriend. We’ve never even been on holiday together.”

“Well,” he said equably, “I hate the sun. You hate the countryside. What would be the point?”

“Nick, it isn’t about holidays. It’s about life. You know. Planning a future together. Being together all the time, not just when it’s convenient. Saying, yes, Jocasta, I do want to be with you. Properly.”

“I’d rather be with you improperly,” he said, coming over to her, trying to kiss her.

“Don’t try and charm me out of this, please, Nick. I’ve had enough of it. I want you to say or do something that…that—I want you to make a commitment to me,” she said. “I want you to say—” She stopped.

“Say what?”

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” she said, her voice rising with her misery. “Enjoying seeing me squirm, enjoying making me say things that—that—”

“Jocasta,” he said and his voice was gentle suddenly, “I’m not enjoying it at all. It’s making me feel very miserable seeing you so unhappy. But if you want me down on one knee, asking you to become Mrs. Marshall, I really can’t do that. Not yet. I don’t feel ready for it. And if I did do that, propose, just to make you happy—well I don’t think it would do much good to either of us.”

“But Nick, you’re thirty-five. When are you going to feel ready for it?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “The idea simply fills me with terror. Maybe because so many of my friends have got married and then unmarried again, with enormous unhappiness. I don’t feel settled enough, I don’t feel well off enough, I don’t feel—”

“Grown-up enough?” she said, her voice heavy with irony.

“Well—yes, yes, that’s about it. Actually. I don’t. I’m sorry.”

Jocasta suddenly felt very tired. They were no further along than—the last time they’d had this conversation. Further back if anything.

“Jocasta,” he said gently. He put his hand on her arm. “Jocasta, I’m sorry. I wish—”

She interrupted him in a haze of rage and despair. “Oh just shut the fuck up, will you? Stop saying you’re sorry when I know you’re not!” She was crying now, out of control, hurting dreadfully. “Go away, why don’t you? Go away and—”

“But—but what for?” His voice was genuinely bemused. “What would be the point of that? We love being together. And I really do love you, Jocasta. It’s very unfortunate for you that I’m an immature commitment-phobe. But I am maturing. There has to be hope. And meanwhile, why can’t we go on as we are? Or—is there someone else? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

“Of course not,” she said, sniffing, reaching for the handkerchief he was holding out to her. “I wish there was.” She managed a half smile.

“Well, I don’t. And there’s certainly no one else for me. Never could be. Not after you.” He reached out tentatively, stroked her cheek. “Please, Jocasta, give me just a little more time. I’ll try very hard to do some growing up. I do want to, I promise.”

“Well…” She hesitated. He leant forward and started to kiss her, tenderly at first, then harder, his mouth working on hers. Against her will, against all common sense, something stirred deep within her, something dark and soft and treacherous. He pushed his hand under her T-shirt, began encircling one of her nipples with his thumb. She shivered in anticipation, then pulled back from him; his eyes on hers were very bright, very tender.

“I meant it,” he said. “I do love you. I’m sorry if I don’t make it plain enough. Now—shall we go and lie down and recover?”

But all through the sex which followed, lovely and healing as it was, Nick gentle and tender, waiting for her a long, long time as she softened, sweetened under him, coaxing her body skilfully in the way he knew best, into a mounting, brightening pleasure; even as she felt her climax gather and grow and then spread out into starry, piercing release, she felt still wary, hurt; and as she lay beside him, his hand tangling in her hair, his eyes smiling into hers, she knew that however much he said he loved her, it was not enough. And that once again she seemed to love someone more than he loved her.

Chapter 8

         Clio sat staring at Jeremy; she felt terribly frightened. Throw-up, shit-in-the-pants frightened. He stared at her, his face cold and distasteful. When he was in this mood, his face became mean, his eyes narrow, his lips tight. She hated it. At this very moment she hated him.

It had all begun—rather absurdly—with the Morrises. They had been found in the middle of the town, wearing their night clothes. Mrs. Morris had failed to take her pills, woke up hungry, walked down to Waitrose, and was found tucking sweets and crisps into her dressing-gown pocket; Mr. Morris had, meanwhile, gone to look for her, also in his dressing gown, and was apprehended, as the police called it, driving in the wrong direction down a one-way street, frantic with worry. The social services had been called and the pronouncement had been made that the Morrises were not coping and would have to go into a home.

“But they can’t,” Clio said to Mark Salter, almost in tears. “They’re fine if they take their pills. I should have popped in every day, then they’d be all right.”

“Clio, stop it,” said Mark. “The Morrises are not your personal responsibility. I can’t think of anyone who’d have done what you have.”

“It’s not enough though, is it?” said Clio. “The poor old souls are going to end up in some hideous place, removed from everything familiar, and they’ll absolutely gallop downhill.”

“Dear Clio, calm down. You don’t know that.”

“I know it,” said Clio, “and I’m very upset. This whole system stinks. Where are they?”

“At home. The daughter’s with them apparently.”

“Better not visit, then. I’d want to ram her mother’s pills down her fat throat.”

“Clio, Clio.” He twinkled at her. “That’s not a nice thing to say.”

“She’s not a nice woman.” Just as she was leaving, her phone rang; it was a friend of hers, Anna Richardson, another geriatrician, from the Royal Bayswater Hospital where Clio had been working before moving to Guildford.

“Hi, Clio, how’s it going?”

“Fine, thank you. Lovely to hear from you, Anna. I’m sorry I haven’t called.”

“It’s OK. Neither of us has that sort of time. How’re things there? Still enjoying general practice?”

“Loving it. It’s more—personal. You feel more in control.”

Anna laughed. “You certainly can’t say that of hospital life. Look, I’ve rung to say goodbye for a bit. Alan’s been offered a job in the States. In Washington. Huge salary hike, loads of perks. So, obviously we’re going.”

“That’s fantastic.”

“I s’pose so. I’d rather stay here. But—you know. No choice really. I mean, who’s got the real career? Anyway, I’ve decided to put mine on hold, have a baby or two.”

“Really?” Clio tried to keep her voice casual; this was the third friend who had made this particular announcement in the past month. It made her feel panicky.

“Well, look, Clio, there was one other thing. Old Beaky’s retiring in a year or so.”

“Bless him.” Donald Bryan, whose vast nose had given him his nickname, was the senior geriatrician at the Royal Bayswater and their boss. He had been much loved.

“Yes. So if you wanted to get back into the swing of things, they’ll be looking for at least one person to replace me and if they promote from within to Beaky’s job, two. And—well, your name did come up.”

“Golly.” Clio sat staring out of the window; it was a grey miserable day, and suddenly it looked quite different. Brighter. More interesting. Of course there was no question of her taking what she thought of as a proper job again, and certainly not one in London, but still—it was wonderful to know that she should be considered sufficiently good at what she did to be a possible contender for a moderately senior position. “Who mentioned me?”

“Beaky himself. And a couple of other people. If you’re interested, Clio, I would say you only had to lift the phone and they’d ask you to apply. Anyway, I thought you’d want to know. Even if only for a bit of an ego boost.”

“Yes. I do. Bless you!”

After Anna had rung off, Clio sat at her desk, doodling on a piece of paper, and feeling, briefly, like a different person. Not a rather unsatisfactory wife, not the family dunce, not a junior member of a general practice, but someone clever, someone sought after, someone doing well in her chosen profession. Just for a very little while she felt sleeker, more successful, oddly confident. And she would tell Jeremy; he’d be pleased for her at least. She was sure about that.

She dropped in on the Morrises on her way home; they were both subdued and frightened, and their daughter hustled her out again as fast as she could.

“They can’t cope,” she said, “and it’s no use turning a blind eye any longer. They need to be in a home for their own sake. Now I’m sorry, but I have to get them to bed. They’re very tired and being quite difficult.”

She spoke of them as if they were naughty children. Clio left with a heavy heart.

She was late home: Jeremy’s face was like thunder. “I thought you were going to be early tonight. We were supposed to be going to the cinema.”

She had forgotten. “Jeremy, I’m really sorry. But I had a big surgery and then the Morrises, you remember, the poor old couple who—”

“Clio, I’ve told you before, I really can’t be expected to remember details of all your patients.”

“Of course not. But—Sorry,” she said again. “Is it really too late? It’s only seven—”

“Much too late,” he said. “Can we eat soon, or shall I make a sandwich?”

“Could we go out? I hadn’t planned on cooking, because of the cinema.”

He hesitated, then said, “Yes, all right.”

They went to the local Italian; he cheered up after a bit, telling her about a tricky knee operation he had performed that afternoon which had gone well.

“Oh, and I forgot to tell you. I’ve been asked to do another session at the Princess Diana.”

“Jeremy, that’s marvellous. I’m proud of you.” She meant it; she really was.

It seemed a good moment to tell him her news. Not that it was news, of course. Just a bit of gossip really. She waited until he had filled the glasses, then said, “Anna rang me today. You remember, Anna Richardson? She and her husband are moving to Washington.”

“Oh yes?”

There was a silence; clearly he wasn’t finding the conversation very interesting.

“Anna told me something quite…nice,” she said. “She said there were a couple of jobs going at the Bayswater. In geriatrics.”

Suddenly she had his attention. “And?”

“And—my name had come up, she said. Isn’t that nice?”

“Your name had come up? For a job in London? You’re seriously considering a job in London?”

“No. Of course I’m not. I was just pleased they’d thought of me. I thought you would be too. Obviously I was wrong.”

“You are.
Very
wrong. I find the whole idea absurd.”

“Absurd? Why?”

“Well, that you should be thinking about your career at all.”

“Why shouldn’t I think about my career? It’s important to me. Terribly important. I’ve trained for it, worked hard for it. Can’t you see that I want to do well?”

“Not really,” he said. “And I hope you mean it when you say you have no intention of taking a job in London.”

“Of course I mean it. I just was pleased I hadn’t been forgotten and that while I was there they valued me. It was nice to hear.”

“Right. And what exactly do you mean by wanting to do well? I thought we had agreed that any work you did was temporary and a means to an end. I hope you won’t be working at all soon. As you very well know. Now, shall we order a pudding, or shall I get the bill?”

“Get the bill.”

She was silent all the way home, hurt beyond anything. And thinking this wasn’t a marriage at all: or not the kind she had looked for.

She woke up the next day feeling dreadfully depressed. Apart from the row the night before, she was tired, and worried about the Morrises, who were being “assessed.” It was practice conference day, when they all met in the lunch hour to discuss patients and any problems, and it was a rather depressing meeting that day. Mark had a case even more heartbreaking than the Morrises, a young woman in her thirties with severe cerebral palsy. Her parents were elderly and could cope with her no longer; she had to be moved into a home, and the only suitable one locally was full of old people.

“She’ll just sit there, rotting. With carers, the parents might have managed. But—”

As Clio left the room, Mark asked her if she was all right. She managed a smile and an assurance that she was, then shut herself in the loo and had a good cry.

At four o’clock, as she was settling down to some paperwork, Jeremy phoned.

“Clio, I’m sorry. I’m going to be very late. Simmonds wants to have a meeting with me and suggested we have a meal afterwards. No idea when I’ll be back. Don’t wait up for me.”

Angry, useless thoughts shot into her head: Why was he allowed to work late, without warning, when she was not?

Margaret came in. “I’m off to the pictures tonight with a couple of girlfriends. Any chance of your coming? You look all-in, Clio.”

In a flurry of what she knew was rather short-lived courage, she said, “I’d love to. Jeremy’s out, so—”

“So good,” said Margaret.

They saw
Notting Hill
which was wonderfully distracting, and then went for a curry. It was really fun. Clio felt much better about everything. Even Jeremy. She ought to do this more, fuss over him and his attitude to her less. He meant no harm, he was just a bit old-fashioned. She had to keep a sense of proportion, that was all. She’d have to be a bit firmer with him.

As she turned into the drive, she tensed: Jeremy’s Audi was there and the house was a blaze of light. He always did that if she was home after him, went roaring round the house looking in every room, even the attic bedrooms, just to make the point.

She swallowed hard, went in.

“Hi.”

He appeared from the kitchen, scowling. “Where the hell have you been?”

“I’ve been—well, I’ve been at the cinema.”

“The cinema? Who with, for God’s sake? And why couldn’t you have left a note? I’ve been worried sick.”

“You could have called me,” she said, “on my mobile. And I haven’t been home, I stayed in the surgery working until I went out—”

“And you went to the cinema?”

“Yes. Why shouldn’t I?” She faced him, angry suddenly. “You were out with your cronies. Anyway, what happened, why are you home so early?”

“Simmonds cancelled dinner. I foolishly thought you’d be pleased to see me, that we could have a nice evening together. But, as usual, you weren’t here. I just don’t understand you going out, when there is so much to see to here. Incidentally, that wretched cleaner didn’t come again, the breakfast things were still sitting on the sink.”

Something snapped in Clio. “Stop it, Jeremy! Stop it. I’m not here just to run the house, and do what you tell me. You constantly diminish my job, you have no real interest in what I do, what I’m about.”

He was silent for a moment; then he said, “Clio, I’ve had enough of this, quite enough. I want you to stop working.”

“Jeremy—”

“No, Clio, I mean it. I want you to give up your job. You say we need the money, but it seems to bring in precious little to me, once you’ve paid the cleaner and so on, and bought expensive clothes that you tell me you need. And I shall be getting more from my private work. So tell Salter tomorrow, please.”

Clio fought to stay calm. “Jeremy, please! You’re talking nonsense. And besides, what on earth would I do all day, it’s not as if—”

She stopped; she had walked into a trap. He slammed it shut; she felt the steel bite into her as harshly as if it was physical.

“As if what? As if you had a baby? I was coming to that, Clio. I really think the time has come. You’re not getting any younger, you’re thirty-five—”

“Thirty-four,” she said automatically.

“Thirty-five next birthday. You of all people should know the risks involved in leaving it too late. And I would like to have a child before I’m forty. Which doesn’t leave much time. About two years, in fact.”

“But, Jeremy—”

“Yes? What are you about to tell me? That you don’t want one?”