Sheer Abandon (19 page)

He chatted easily all the way, asking her about the
Sketch
, what she thought of it, how she got on with Pollock, her personal ambitions, whether she thought they would be fulfilled.

They finally reached her street and she realised they hadn’t talked about him at all and said so.

He said, “I would much rather talk about you.”

“But I must seem so self-centred.”

“Now that is nonsense. I encouraged you.”

“Well, thank you. And for the lift. And for dinner, of course. I…” She hesitated. No, she’d ask him. What harm could it do? “Would—would you like to come in for—for a nightcap?”

“Oh, now that would be very dangerous, don’t you think?” he said and his face was serious. “I would think that not very sensible at all. You are far too beautiful and far too beguiling to be in a room alone with me, Jocasta. Unless, of course, a few things were different. In which case I would like it beyond anything. Obviously.”

“I…suppose so,” she said. “Yes. But—” She stopped, looking at him rather helplessly. What could she say that wouldn’t appear brazen, or duplicitous, or any number of other unattractive things?

“Anyway, it’s late and you are very tired.” He leant forward, kissed her very gently on the mouth. “Now off you go. Sleep well. And tell young Nick that I think he is the luckiest young man in Christendom. Good night. Sweet dreams.”

She watched him drive down the street in the absurdly beautiful car and wished, passionately, that she had still been in it with him.

Next morning she felt terrible; not only hungover but terribly guilty. She should at least have told Nick. Have called him. He would certainly have called her. Probably lots of times. She made herself some weak tea, then propped herself up on her pillows and forced herself to listen to her messages.

“Jocasta! Hello sweet pea, where are you? I’m in the press room. I’ll wait till I hear from you.” OK. That was one. “Mrs. Cook, hi. I’m going down to Shepherd’s. Chris has booked a big table. Come and join us.” Two. “Jocasta, where the hell are you? It’s eleven o’clock and I’m at Shepherd’s. Ring me.” Three. “Jocasta, ring me. Please. I don’t know where you are, but I’m worried about you.” Four. “Jocasta, it’s almost one. I’m going home to Hampstead. I heard you’d gone off with Gideon and some other people. Thanks for letting me know. Perhaps you’d call me in the morning.” Now that had been wrong. To let him worry about her. She should have called him. Tentatively, almost nervously she dialled his number: mercifully it was on message.

“Hi, Nick, it’s me. I’m fine, sorry about last night. I got caught up in Gideon’s party and he said he’d left a message for you. They obviously didn’t deliver it. Sorry you were worried. I was fine. Speak later.”

That might, just might, do it. He might believe that. And if he didn’t—tough. Two people could play at noncommitment.

Still, this morning her mind, sobered and uncertain, was exercised with three things: Whether she had just been foolishly flattered by Gideon the night before, or had he had something more serious in mind. How cross Nick was going to be with her and how much it mattered. And—rather more mildly—what Martha Hartley might be like now, what she was doing, and whether it would be worth seeking her out for their very long-postponed reunion.

“No,” Martha kept saying. “No, no, no.”

“But why not?”

“I couldn’t possibly do it. That’s the main reason. And I don’t have time. That’s another main reason.”

She sat looking at them. When she arrived at Joe Allen, Marcus was there as well. That was a shock.

“Being an MP doesn’t take that much time,” said Chad, “especially if you’re not in government. Which we just possibly may not be.”

“Chad, please! I work six days a week as it is. I was working until the small hours this morning.”

“Oh, all right. Well, maybe you could cut it down to five. Or work locally instead.”

“I don’t want to work locally instead. I love what I do.”

“Do you? Do you really?” said Marcus. “You told me the other day you were falling out of love with it.”

“I know. But I didn’t mean it.” She felt as if she was falling into a deep, deep hole. She felt panicked, terrified.

“Look, Martha, you would almost definitely be selected,” said Chad. “You’re a dream candidate. Local girl, well-known family, young, dynamic—”

“Female,” said Marcus.

“Well spotted.”

“And is this what’s known as parachuting in?”

“It is. But us being a new party and squeaky clean, it would not be good to appear to be doing anything so manipulative. We would stress that you were only one of a field—a very level playing field. Only of course it wouldn’t be.”

Chad smiled at her again. “How does it all sound?”

“I keep telling you, not what I want. Anyway, I don’t understand, Norman Brampton’s a Tory.”

“A disillusioned one. He’d already signed up to our policies, and persuaded a goodly quotient of his constituency committee to do the same.”

“Maybe one day. Not now. I’ve got no political background—”

“You have now. And she did six months on the Citizens Advice Bureau you know, Chad,” said Marcus.

“Oh God,” said Chad, “you really are made in heaven.
Please
, Martha. At least think about it. I know you’d do it well. And I know you’d love it.”

She was silent: thinking. Thinking properly, for the first time, of what it would mean. Could mean.

A new life. A new purpose to it. A chance to do something, to make a difference. A stab at real achievement, a grasp at real power, real success. She had seen enough of politicians now to know she possibly did have what it took.

Chad saw her hesitation, saw her thinking, and said, quietly, “We’re being unfair. Rushing you, pushing you. Think about it, for a day or two. If you’re even of half a mind, give me a call, and I’ll sound Norman Brampton out.”

“And then what?”

“Then you can slap in your CV and he would ‘advise,’ in quotes, the disillusioned local Tory Party members to adopt you. And with your particular presentational skills, I think you’d walk it. Martha, you’re in with a flying chance. It’s God-given.”

“Do you really think God has any interest in politics?” said Martha with a feeble smile.

“Of course He has,” said Marcus briskly. “Immense. And just think, you’d have Him on your side, your dad being the vicar and all. Anyway, Chad’s right. We shouldn’t be rushing you like this. You go home and think about it. And take your time.”

“Yes,” said Chad, “any time before Monday morning would do.”

Ed was waiting at the table for her, sitting outside in the April sunshine. As always her heart lurched.

He had a bottle of white wine in an ice bucket by the table, and a plate of nibbles.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said, kissing him briefly.

“That’s all right. How was the party?”

“Oh, great. I didn’t stay for long. Had to get back for a meeting.”

“No! Not a meeting!”

He seemed slightly subdued, less good-natured than usual.

“Are you all right?” she said, taking his hand.

“Yes I’m fine, thanks. Do you want to eat?”

“No, thank you. I’ve just had brunch.”

“Oh really. With…?”

“Marcus Denning and Chad Lawrence. I’ll tell you why later. Bit of a—a dilemma.”

He didn’t ask what it was about; she was surprised.

“Well, I’d like to eat,” he said, slightly truculent.

“Of course. You go ahead. I’ll just watch.”

“You know it’s really fun, eating on your own,” he said suddenly, “being watched. It makes everything taste much nicer.”

“Ed, I’m sorry. But I couldn’t eat any more.”

“No, of course not. You must have had—God, what? A croissant? With some honey on it. No, probably not honey. Just the croissant and some black coffee on the side. I asked you for lunch, Martha. I haven’t seen you for ten days.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, realising he was genuinely upset. “Let’s share a big Caesar salad. I’d like that.”

“Whatever you want.”

“Ed, what’s the matter?”

“I told you, nothing. I—nothing.”

He ordered the salad and a big bowl of frites; she picked at them carefully. He seemed happier after a while.

“So, what have you been doing?” she asked.

“Not a lot. Going to work, getting pissed in the pub, you know, that sort of thing. Tell me about the party.”

“Oh, pretty exciting. Everybody was there, Ed—Jeremy Paxman, both the Dimblebys, Greg Dyke—you’d have enjoyed it.”

“Pity I couldn’t have come, then,” he said.

“Yes, it was,” she said, realising suddenly she was being tactless. “Although I wasn’t there long. Had to leave and persuade some whiz-kid tax lawyer to join our team. And then go back to see Paul Quenell—”

“What would we all do without you, Martha?” he said, and his tone was almost hostile. She stared at him. Something passed between them, something that hadn’t been there before. Irritation, resentment, and impatience: real life, she thought. Maybe the honeymoon was over. She felt a flash of panic.

“Come on,” she said, covering his hand with hers, “please tell me what the matter is.”

“It’s nothing,” he said after a bit and smiled at her, and suddenly he was Ed again, the Ed she knew and loved. “Sorry. Got out of bed the wrong side. Tell me about your dilemma. Then maybe we could go for a movie.”

“Wonderful. Yes, well, it is all a bit peculiar. I really would like to know what you think.”

He was surprisingly interested in the idea. He couldn’t see why she thought it was so ridiculous.

“Yeah,” he said, “why not? You’ve been talking about it long enough. Sort of. And you’d be good at it. And it would mean you could actually do something about the things you’re always going on about.”

“Like what?”

“Well, like your friend. The one you were so upset about, the one who died in hospital. And lots of politicians are lawyers, aren’t they? Tony Blair and Ken Clarke and Michael Howard—see, I’ve been mugging up on all these guys.”

Of course, it was true. There were endless ex-barristers and QCs in Parliament. She supposed it was because speaking in public came so naturally to them—that and the huge confidence that they all seemed to have imbibed with their mother’s milk. That she certainly didn’t have: the only confidence within Martha Hartley had come from a sense of achievement at her own success, the order and sense of purpose she had brought to her own life. Which she would lose if she started again…

“I couldn’t do it,” she said finally. “I really couldn’t. And it would mean leaving Wesley’s. Come on, let’s go to the movies.”

“Right. And then can we go to bed afterwards?”

“Oh, I should think so,” she said, leaning forward, giving him a kiss.

“Perhaps you should get yourself checked out,” said Jeremy.

“What do you mean?” She was surprised to hear her voice sounding so normal: calm and almost surprised.

“I mean checked out. Gynaecologically.”

“What on earth for? More salad?”

“No thanks. You know what for. Three months and you’re not pregnant. Maybe there’s something wrong.”

“Jeremy, three months is nothing. And I was on the pill, don’t forget. I think it would be surprising if I was pregnant.”

“Yes. Yes, I suppose so. Well, we’ll give it a bit longer.”

“Anyway, it’s fun trying,” she said and managed to smile at him. “Now, shall we go for a walk? I feel I need some exercise.”

“OK. Good idea. We could go up on the Hog’s Back.”

They walked along in silence for a while, then she said, “You know, I’d like to get a puppy.”

“A puppy? What on earth for?”

“I’ve always liked dogs. And it would be company for me when I leave the practice.”

“I’m not too keen on dogs,” he said. His tone was dismissive.

“I wasn’t actually thinking of you. I said it would be company for me.”

“Don’t start that. Implying you’re going to be lonely and bored. That you’re dreading giving up your job.”

“Well, I am,” she said, reasonably. “And I don’t think it’s necessary, but I’ve agreed to do it, to make you happy, and I don’t see why I shouldn’t have—”

“I think you should be happy to be spending more time at home, our home, not always rushing in exhausted.”

“I am not always rushing in exhausted.”

“Besides, you’re more likely to get pregnant if you’re less tired, if you’re calmer—”

“Jeremy, that is absolute crap. The world is full of frantically busy, exhausted women getting pregnant. Anyway, I don’t want to talk about it. It’s so unimportant.”

“What? That you’re failing to get pregnant?”

“Oh, Jeremy! For God’s sake can we please stop this?
Please
. Otherwise I’d like to go straight home.”

“All right,” he said. “What would you like to talk about instead? The weather?”

“No,” she said, “our holiday. I want to go to the Scottish Highlands. I’ve never been. What would you think about that?”