Sheer Abandon (18 page)

“Hi, Marcus. Sorry I’m late.”

“I’d say it doesn’t matter, but it does.”

“Oh, God, why?” She had a vision of being asked to say a few words, talk to a journalist, check a legal document.

He smiled, his plump, twinkly smile.

“Because you look so lovely. The room is about a hundred percent better for your arrival. Now, do you see anyone you know—”

“It’s hard. Oh, yes—Jackie Bragg. I’ll go and talk to her.”

Jackie was in high spirits. “I just met a guy from Japan who thought I should open Hair’s to You in Tokyo.”

“I agree with him. Absolutely.”

“Good. Hurry up and get onside and we’ll plan it together.”

Martha laughed. “Jackie, you’ll do much better without me. Lawyers tend to put the brakes on rather than the accelerator. You wouldn’t have started Hair’s to You yet if I’d been on your board.”

“Well, maybe. You know, Martha, you really should think of having your hair shorter. It would suit you. And a bit of colour—”

“Jackie! One of the three a.m. girls wants to interview you about life in the fast lane. OK? I know how much experience of that you’ve got.” It was Chad. “Oh, hello, Martha. Glad you made it. You look stunning, you really do. I’ll be back in a minute. Jackie, follow me.”

She didn’t expect him back; she started wandering round the room, surprised by how few people she knew. Jack Kirkland waved at her, but he was deeply embroiled in conversation with a BBC dignitary, and a couple of people from the ad agency said hello and moved swiftly on. She was trying to look busy, sipping her glass of champagne, when she heard a familiar voice.

“Martha. Hi. Nice to see you. You look great.”

It was Nick Marshall. She had met him a couple of times now, but had never talked to him for more than a minute or so—like her, he was terminally in a hurry. But she had always liked what she saw, the long lean body, the interested, interesting face.

“This has been quite a day,” she said. “You guys have all done a very good job for us.
Them
,” she corrected herself hastily.

“Martha, my lovely girl, hello.” Gideon Keeble gave her a giant hug. “My God, you look wonderful. This room is full of beauty. We poor lowly males can only look and wonder at you.”

“Gideon, you do talk nonsense—but it’s very nice nonsense. Thank you.”

“Gideon.” It was Marcus, puffing slightly, pink in the face from champagne and the heat. “Quentin Letts from the
Mail
wants a chat. Would you mind?”

“I would not. Martha, my darling, I’ll see you later. And Marcus, you stay here and look after this beautiful creature.”

“I will,” said Marcus. “Bit of bad news just now, I’m afraid. We’ve lost one of our most fervent supporters, out in the wilds of Suffolk, heart attack, poor chap. He’ll need to retire.”

“Oh,” she said, “you mean Norman Brampton.”

“Yes, that’s right. How do you know about him?”

“My parents live in his constituency. He practically dandled me on his knee. My father, I’m sure I’ve told you, is the vicar there, knows him very well.”

“I see.” There was a long silence, while he stared at her.

“Marcus, whatever is it? Have I got spinach between my teeth or something?”

“No, no. I was just thinking about something. Now look, would you mind if I asked you to chat to a couple of constituency workers? They’re a bit lost here, and I don’t want them feeling we don’t care about them.”

“Of course I don’t mind,” she said.

She was saved from too long a stint by Chad, who took her arm and drew her away.

“I wonder, could we have a word afterwards?”

“Could it be now? I’ve got to leave early, I’m afraid.”

“What on earth for?”

“Let’s just say a bit of arm-twisting. Client business. I’m sorry, Chad, but it’s terribly important.”

“You never stop, do you? You ought to get a different job, one that allows you a bit of leisure.”

“What, like politics, you mean?” she said, laughing. “Yeah, right. And spend my evenings shouting in the Chamber instead.”

“Not every evening. Martha, I’m serious. We would so much like to have you on board. We really want you to take on a constituency. Think about it.”

“I
have
thought about it. In fact I’ve finished thinking about it. Sorry. Look, I have really got to go. Back to the day job. Or rather night.”

She reached up to give him a kiss; and over his shoulder, she saw the room as if she had only just arrived, saw the people in it as if she had never seen them before, powerful, brilliant people, all involved in something really important, something she already felt a little a part of; and she felt something shift in her head. And he sensed it; brilliant tactician that he was, and he moved in on her.

“Well, look, could we talk in the morning? Meet maybe for brunch?”

“Yes, maybe,” she said, slowly, “but I’ve got a lunch appointment.”

“Client business?”

“No,” she said, “personal.”

She was meeting Ed, persuaded by him tonight.

He gave her a quick kiss. “Wonderful. Joe Allen at eleven, then?”

“Fine.”

He left her. She chose not to see Marcus waving at her across the room, because she could afford no more delay.

She had no idea, no idea at all that he had wanted to introduce her to Nick Marshall’s girlfriend, who was a journalist on the
Sketch
. Or that the girlfriend had been at the party at all: or indeed that Jocasta Forbes was moving, albeit on the outer edges, in the same orbit as herself.

Jeremy was working late, the night of the launch. Clio sat watching the TV news, trying to distract herself, watching them all being interviewed endlessly. She envied the woman, what was her name? Frean. Janet Frean. Her husband hadn’t told
her
to stop working when she had a baby. She had five, for God’s sake. Even Clio felt that was going a bit far. Her children couldn’t get a lot of mothering that way. But at least she had children.

Clio was depressed; she was dreading leaving the practice and her patients. The Morrises were now in a home, despite all her efforts, and she suspected the staff of overdoing the sedatives. They were subdued and silent when she visited them, not the bright, eccentric pair she had first met. Mark Salter’s patient, Josie Griggs, the girl with cerebral palsy, was in the same home. It hurt Clio even to look at her. She was in the dayroom, staring hopelessly at the television. She was the youngest person in the home by forty years. It was hideous.

The interview with Janet Frean ended and Clio got up to make herself a cup of tea. A new wave of depression hit her; her period had started that morning and the cramps were unusually bad. Jeremy didn’t know yet. God, this was a nightmare; she had to tell him, absolutely had to. But how could she? Now? When every month, every period, made it worse. Worse and more impossible. Why, in the name of God, hadn’t she done it before?

But no use going down that road, Clio. And somehow, now, it really was too late. She just had to hope: hope and pray. At least nobody, nobody at all could possibly know about it. Except of course for that gynaecologist. All the gynaecologists.

Thank God for medical ethics.

Jocasta went to dinner with Gideon Keeble. At Langan’s. Not alone of course. With about a dozen other people. Only they hadn’t included Nick. And she had been sitting next to Gideon.

Chad was there, and so was Mrs. Chad. She’d never met her before, just seen her in lots of gossip columns. Abigail Lawrence. Tall, dark, beautiful, very cool, very composed.

Marcus was there, and his wife, a lovely, warm, bubbly woman, who obviously adored him. She’d had an engrossing conversation with her about universities—their eldest child was doing her application forms—and after that they were friends for life. Jack Kirkland stayed only for a drink. He looked exhausted.

“Is there a Mrs. Kirkland?” she asked Gideon, and he said, “No longer, sadly. Brilliant woman, they met at Cambridge. She said she couldn’t compete with his mistress—”

“His mistress?”

“Yes. Well, there have been two. First the Tory Party, and now the Centre Forward.”

Jackie Bragg was there, with her new husband, much older than she was. He was her financial adviser.

“He liked the company so much he married it,” said Gideon, laughing, “and now he treats it rather like a train set.”

“And what about you, Gideon,” she said. “Do you have many expensive toys to play with?”

“Oh, a great many,” he said smiling at her, deliberately obtuse. “I have my cars—” He had a fleet of vintage racing cars which he put on show once a year for charity and which he occasionally drove at Irish rallies.

“I’d love to see them,” she said, and meant it. “I love old cars. My grandfather had a wonderful collection, but my father sold them all. Terrible thing to do.”

“Not for me,” said Gideon. “I bought a couple of them.”

“Really? I had no idea. Which ones?”

“The Phantom Rolls and the Allard. That was a wonderful auction. I never could understand how your father could have let them go. They have souls, those cars.”

“Yes, well, my father doesn’t care about anything, except money,” said Jocasta, “and he wouldn’t recognise a soul if he tripped over it in the street. Sorry. We’re not very good friends, my father and I.”

“No, so I gathered.”

“Who from?” she said curiously.

“Oh, a few people who’ve been talking about you.”

“And why should anyone have been talking to you about me?”

“I invited them to,” he said, and her head and her heart lurched in unison.

“Why?” she asked.

“I find you extremely interesting. As well as beautiful. I wanted to know more about you. Now tell me, is it true, has your brother really left his clever wife?”

“Not exactly. She threw him out. Rather sensibly. And says she’s going to divorce him.”

“Why was that so sensible?”

“Because he got caught playing away just once too often. I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course. I’m sorry. Now come along, you’re not eating. I’m sure your mother told you to finish everything on your plate.”

“My mother certainly didn’t. We ate most of our meals in the nursery. But my nanny did. And you—were you trained to eat up?”

“I grew up in a rather crowded environment in Dublin. There were nine of us, and we ate in two shifts. It certainly taught me to eat quickly. And to finish everything on my plate. Which was not always quite enough.”

He sounded not remotely bitter, or as if he was playing on her sympathy; quite cheerful in fact. He smiled at her again.

“Now, I am neglecting the charming lady on my left. But I shall come back to you later. Eat your greens.”

It had gone on like that, a series of brief, seductive conversations, and gradually the table thinned out; and finally there was only herself, the Lawrences, and the Dennings. And Gideon. They relaxed into chat, gossip, swapping anecdotes about the party. Gideon said several times what a shame Nick wasn’t with them, wouldn’t she like to call him again. She said untruthfully that she had, when she went to the ladies’.

“Perhaps he ran away with Martha,” said Marcus, laughing. “They disappeared at about the same time.”

“Martha? Martha who?”

“Martha Hartley. Lovely girl. Lawyer. She’s been doing a bit for us.”

“Martha Hartley is working for the Centre Forward Party?” said Jocasta. “How extraordinary. Nick never mentioned it.”

“Why, do you know her?”

“I met her once. Long ago. When we were just kids. How on earth did she get mixed up with you lot?”

“Her firm acts for us,” said Marcus. “Charming girl. Very bright. And very attractive, too.”

“And is she, you know, married or anything?”

“I haven’t heard anything of it. Since she, like all those lawyers, works round the clock, at least seven days a week, I think I would be rather sorry for him.”

“Oh Marcus, that is such an old-fashioned attitude,” said Jocasta. “Slippers by the hearth and nicely ironed shirts are history. You’re showing your age big-time.”

“Then I think I should show my own by agreeing with Marcus,” said Gideon, his eyes smiling at her. “And when you are sitting next to an old man like me, you should be careful what you say.”

She turned and looked at him.

“You’re special,” she said. “I couldn’t think of you as any age. Not young, not old. Just—just you.”

“Well,” he said, “I’m glad to hear that. And very prettily put, if I may say so. Now, does anyone want another brandy or shall I ask for the bill?”

He drove her home; he said he couldn’t possibly entrust her to a taxi.

His car, brought to the front of Langan’s by the doorman, was glorious: a prewar Mercedes in gleaming black, with spoked wheels and a running board. She had expected a driver, but there was none. Gideon said he didn’t like being driven, he preferred to remain in control. “And besides, I wouldn’t trust this car to many people.”

She climbed in, looked round her.

“This is gorgeous.”

“Thank you. Now, where do we go?”

“Clapham, please.”

God, this was amazing. Alone with him, in this incredible car. And when they got there, then what? Did she ask him in? Did he want her to ask him in? Was this a huge pass, or just a kind man giving her a lift?