Sheer Abandon (17 page)

“You just don’t get it, do you? That’s the whole point. That’s how I make you feel. And I hate it. I hate myself being that person.”

“Look,” he said, “I’ll be the judge of how I feel and whether I like it. OK, you’re a bossy old bag. I don’t mind—I find it rather sexy, actually. I specially like it when you stop being bossy. When”—he looked at her thoughtfully—“when we’re in bed. You’re very different in bed, you know, Martha. You get all—biddable. You want to please me. It’s sweet. Very, very sweet.”

“Oh,” she said.

“And you know something else? Here you are, this hyper-controlling, brilliantly clever woman, running the world, knowing more than I ever will, and the whole of the British legal system cowering before you…And you know how I feel?”

“No.”

“I feel really proud. Proud you want to be with me. Proud you want me. It’s gorgeous.”

Martha felt her eyes fill with tears. She sat digesting all this for a long time in silence. Then she smiled at him.

“So am I forgiven?” he said.

“Yes. You are. Totally. Thank you.”

“It’s OK. I’ll leave now. Leave you in peace.”

“Oh,” she said. She felt rather surprised, and discomfited.

“I think it would be best,” he said. “Really.”

“No,” she said, “no, it wouldn’t. I’d like you to stay.” She wasn’t used to asking for anything from him. It was difficult. “Please, Ed, please stay—I don’t want you to go away again.”

“You’ll be telling me you need me next,” he said, and very slowly and gently started to undo her bathrobe. “Now,” he said, minutes later, “what are those incredibly voluptuous things I see there? Between your neck and your waist. Can they be breasts? And please may I kiss them?”

Chapter 11

         The Centre Forward Party had actually been launched, at the Connaught Rooms, the same location that the Social Democratic Party had used twenty years previously. There was no hidden agenda in this; it was simply central, large enough, famous enough, and splendid enough. The KFL trio, as they came swiftly to be known, who had made it happen and who had equal billing—“until we’re elected”—were Jack Kirkland, Janet Frean, and Chad Lawrence.

They boasted twenty-one backbenchers, most of whose constituencies had agreed to let them stand under their new colours until the next election. Chad Lawrence’s constituency was one of the few to force a by-election and he had won easily.

Their timing was perfect: with their slogan of “People First, Politics Second,” they had swept a rather tacky board and for a moment in history, at least, had everything going their way. Their timing was not just careful but lucky. Infighting and despair had swept the Tory Party, and fresh horror stories about hospitals, schools, and crime had beset New Labour.

And the Queen Mother’s funeral had sparked a wave of patriotism; people were in the mood for something uplifting and new. In a new political party, Kirkland said, they just might feel they had got it.

Nobody could have asked for more publicity. Every notable TV and radio programme featured the launch, and three newspapers had come down heavily on their side; others were more sceptical, but still welcomed what everyone was calling a fresh breeze in politics. The name was a huge success and the sketch writers had a field day, comparing the first press conference variously to a photo call for the World Cup and to the lineup of the runners in the Grand National.

There was much purplish prose about months of plotting in smart houses in Pimlico, dark corridors and underground committee rooms in Portcullis House; it all sounded rather easy and far removed from the reality, the all-night sessions in various flats and restaurants, the endless patient planning, the ongoing struggle to get people onside, the heroic battles to enthuse the constituency party workers.

There had been some very nasty stories planted about the three of them and there were also a great many unfounded rumours about who was leaving which party for the new one. All the main protagonists, Kirkland, Frean, and Lawrence, were on the front pages and many of the inside ones as well.

All had attractive families, wheeled out, smiling dutifully, for photo opportunities; Gideon Keeble said that he was proud to be involved and so did millionairess hairdresser Jackie Bragg, who said that she knew a good idea when she saw it, and she was proud to be part of this one. There was an interview with Keeble in
The Times
, complete with a photograph of him in front of his Irish mansion flanked by two Irish setters, and a quote that what you needed, in both politics and the press, was above all courage; and one with Bragg in the
Mail
, which plugged her company Hair’s to You rather heavily (a condition laid down by her, in return for a photo shoot in her house), but in which she said that for something to succeed in today’s world, it had above all to be sexy, and the Centre Forward Party was certainly that. The city had analysed the fortunes of Keeble, Bragg, and other big backers, and the extent to which they had been prepared to put their money where their mouths were; there was also much talk of anonymous donors.

Wherever the money had come from, it had come: to the tune of twenty million pounds. Quite a large percentage of this had come from private individuals, more than fifty thousand of them, who had pledged sums ranging from twenty-five pounds to a thousand on their credit cards. Chad Lawrence said repeatedly in interviews that this said more about the popularity of their cause than anything. It was observed by more than one commentator that this was a team which included people outside the world of politics, who were businesslike and successful in their own lives and had a better than average chance of actually getting things done. Many of the people tasked with setting up the party on their own patch were still doing the day job, and came with no personal experience in politics; this was a big factor in the fresh thinking. And this group, of course, included Martha Hartley.

On Friday, April 19, a very big party was thrown in Centre Forward House, a new building in Admiralty Row. This was partly a thank-you to all the workers, partly a further PR initiative. Apart from the politicians and the backers, a handful of city men and as many celebrities as the combined address books and e-mail directories of the core team could muster were invited, together with every journalist from the world of print and radio and television. The food was good, the wine excellent, and the atmosphere heady. If you hadn’t been invited and were an obvious contender, you hot-footed it out of town.

Jocasta Forbes was there; she would have been there anyway, brought by her boyfriend, but her editor (who was also present) had briefed her to write a big piece about it for the gossip column the next day. “And find a few unusual people. I don’t want to read about Hugh Grant or the Frosts, God help me.”

Several people had remarked that Jocasta was looking less dazzling lately; she had lost weight and had a weariness about her. But her stories were better than ever; that day alone she’d had two, one about a woman who was suing her credit card company—“If people can sue the tobacco people, why not, they shouldn’t make it so easy for us to borrow”—and another about a scientist who had successfully cloned his own cat and was offering his services to the owners of elderly moggies on the Internet.

She did look dazzling that night, however, dressed in a very short black leather skirt and jacket and a sequinned top which showed most of her bosom and quite a lot of her tummy. She arrived with Nick, but promptly left his side and, inside an hour, had enough quotes to fill six columns. She relaxed, drained a glass of champagne, took another, and began to wander round the room. Nick was doing his political groupie number with Janet Frean, and Chris Pollock was locked in a fierce argument with Carol Sarler of the
Daily Express
.

“Well, if it isn’t my favourite reporter. How very, very lovely you look this evening. I’ve been hoping against hope that you’d be here.”

It was Gideon Keeble, smiling down at her, looking wonderful as always, holding a bottle of champagne in his hand.

“Hello, Mr. Keeble,” she said rather uncertainly, allowing him to fill her glass. “There are waiters to do that, you know.”

“I do know, but this is such an excellent way of extricating myself from boring people and involving myself with interesting and beautiful ones, such as yourself. And please don’t call me Mr. Keeble, it makes me feel most dreadfully old. Gideon, please. And where is your charming boyfriend?”

“God knows,” said Jocasta, “but wherever he is, he’s talking. And not in the least concerned with me.”

She didn’t mean to sound edgy, but she did. Gideon Keeble’s eyes met hers.

“What a foolish young man he is. I hope he’s heeded my advice now, and put a ring on your finger.”

“Not quite,” said Jocasta determinedly smiling, “but if he had, one thing is quite certain, I wouldn’t like it. His taste in jewellery is execrable.”

“Well, that is a serious shortcoming in a young man. I pride myself on my own. Jewellery is like perfume—it should complement the wearer’s style.”

“And what would you think my style was?”

“Well, now, let me see.” His brilliant blue eyes were on her, half serious, half not. “I think you are a diamond girl. Glittering and brilliant. But—not big diamonds. Nothing vulgar. Small, intense ones. With white gold.”

“It sounds wonderful,” said Jocasta, “but Nick isn’t in the diamond league. Sadly.”

“I wasn’t thinking of Nick,” he said. “I was thinking of you. I would like to settle some diamonds on you here”—he touched one ear gently—“and a few more, let me see, yes, there.” And he picked up her hand and settled it in the valley of her breasts. It was an oddly erotic gesture, far more so than if he had touched her himself.

There was a silence, then she said, briskly careless, “Well, that would be lovely. Very lovely. Now—perhaps you could tell me about a few more of the people who are here. And going to be here. I am half on duty, you see.”

“What a shame. I was hoping to spend quite a bit of time with you.”

“You can, if you like. Just take me round and introduce me to a few importantly famous people. Or famously important, whichever you prefer.”

“Very well. Do you know Dick Aoki, chair of the Jap-Manhat bank, as it is rather disrespectfully known?”

“No. What on earth has be got to do with a new British political party?”

“Nothing. Yet. Come along. I’ll introduce you.”

She liked Aoki; half Japanese, half American, he was amusing and self-deprecating.

“I’m buying a house in Wiltshire,” he said. “Do you think the English country-house set will accept me?”

“Of course,” she said. “If you spent enough money entertaining them. They’re all tarts really, that lot.”

“Oh really? An interesting view. I fear they might not. But it is a very beautiful house and if I am forced to live there in total isolation, I will not mind. You’ve seen Gideon’s house in Cork, I presume.”

“No,” she said, “no, I haven’t.”

“What a dreadful shame. Gideon, you should take her there. They would suit each other.”

Gideon looked at her consideringly.

“You’re right. I would never have thought of it. Very well, Jocasta, you shall come as soon as I can arrange it. Would you like that? You must bring Nick, of course. I am not looking to compromise you.”

“I’d love to come,” she said. She smiled at him and he smiled back, holding her eyes for just slightly too long. Why wasn’t Nick around, noticing this?

“Now let me find you some more copy. Ah, there’s a nice story over there…” He introduced her to an American film star who looked like a blond Richard Gere, who “happened to be in town”; an Irish racehorse owner, en route to Dubai, whom he described as acquisition-bound; and several English bankers.

“Now, who next?” he said, his eyes scanning the room.

“Gideon, there’s no need for any more,” she said, laughing. “You’ve done brilliantly.”

“Good. I’m delighted to hear it. Now, what are you and Nick doing after the party? I’m taking a few people out to dinner, would you like to join us?”

She certainly would, she thought happily. Without Nick if she could possibly arrange it.

Martha Hartley arrived at the party very late. She had been delayed by a call from Ed, checking on the arrangements for the weekend. He had been upset that she hadn’t been able to take him to the party: so upset that she had thought at first he was putting it on.

“I bet you’d be able to take one of those important old guys you know,” he said. “I bet it’s only because it’s me. I’m not quite up to standard.”

“Ed, that is so not true. Invitations are like gold dust. I couldn’t take you if you were—well, Prince William.”

“Now, why do I find that hard to believe?” he said.

She sighed. “Sorry, bad example. But some of the partners are dying to come and can’t, honestly.”

There was a silence, then: “OK.” But he clearly wasn’t convinced. Matters weren’t improved by her being unable to see him for more than a week; she genuinely was too busy. He had become very cross and even sulky about it. Sulking was one of the few things he did that reminded her how young he was. Only the promise of a whole weekend spent in his company had mollified him.

“And you’d better not shave so much as five minutes off it.”

She promised she wouldn’t.

Her main concern at that moment, however, was whether she was dressed appropriately. She had chosen a black crepe Armani trouser suit, very simple, lent a certain pizzazz by the addition of some very over-the-top diamanté drop earrings. Her brown hair in its sleek swinging bob was caught back on one side by a matching clip, and her new Jimmy Choos—perilously high, with diamanté ankle straps—made her feel sexy and daring.

When she arrived, the room was so thick with people that movement seemed impossible. There must have been at least three hundred people. She spotted Marcus and went over to him.