Sheer Abandon (26 page)

“Fuck your shirts,” she said in a quiet voice, “and fuck you. And how dare you diminish my work like that.”

“You never even consulted me over taking that job in the first place,” he said. “I had something altogether different in mind, not a part-time wife, obsessed with her career. I had hoped we would have had children by now, but I’ve been denied those. I wonder if you’re trying to cheat me there, as well. I wouldn’t put anything past you, Clio.”

“You bastard!” she said, tears smarting at the back of her eyes, a lurch of dreadful pain somewhere deep inside her. “You absolute bastard. How dare you, how dare you say that!” Then suddenly everything shifted and she felt very strong, and she looked at him, in all his arrogant self-pity and cruelty, and knew she couldn’t stand another day, another hour of him. “Don’t bother packing any more, Jeremy, I’m going myself. I don’t want to spend another night in this house, where we could have been so happy and where you have managed to make us so miserable. I want to get out of it, and out of this marriage. It’s a travesty. I hate it.”

And without taking any more than her bag and her car keys, she walked out of the house, got into her car, and drove away from him and their brief, disastrous marriage.

Chapter 14

         She had tried to shrug it off; to tell herself it wasn’t that important, but she knew it was. An abandoned baby was a fantastically exciting story. Especially an abandoned baby who had grown up into the most beautiful girl, a troublesome, beautiful girl, who wanted to find the woman who had abandoned her.

It was an absolutely wonderful story. It made her feel quite sick, so wonderful was it.

Only—and this was where the occasional struggle Jocasta had with herself began—this could really hurt Kate: damage her dreadfully. The mother might not turn up at all and break Kate’s heart. Or she might be absolutely wonderful, claim Kate, and break the Tarrants’ hearts. Or she might be an absolute horror. How much better for everyone if Jocasta forgot about it, let them be. She knew too well the demons released from Pandora’s box by tabloid newspapers, by any newspaper, indeed; she saw it all the time.

Jocasta thought suddenly of Clio and how she was coping with the aftermath of the story; Clio and her dreadful, arrogant husband. How did a sweet, clever girl like her come to be married to such a creature? She hoped she hadn’t caused any trouble between them. She might call her and see if she was all right. And then—Kate? She could talk to her direct; make the excuse of the work experience in the summer. She could get her to talk, she knew she could. Especially now she knew the sort of things she should ask her. And then not take it any further if it seemed really wrong. Yes, that’s what she could do; she told herself that, very firmly, while knowing it was almost certainly a lie. But she had to get the story; she just had to.

Martha was listening to her own voice when her mobile rang, listening to herself making her presentation on her tape recorder, making notes of minor adjustments and at the same time carefully sorting through the contents of her briefcase. Chad again, she thought, it could only be him. And decided not to answer it. She was extremely tired of his endless phone calls. Working with him had become a lot less attractive this week. There was something of the old woman about him, very much at odds with his brusque manner and svelte appearance.

She had finished her notes and was sitting on her bed, leafing through the political pages in the papers, when her landline rang. Bloody man, she thought, walking through into the living room, this was not what she needed.

“Chad,” she said, snatching it up, “please—”

“Martha, dear, it’s Mum. Your father and I just wanted to wish you well for tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Mum,” said Martha, “that’s very sweet of you.”

“I know you’ll do well, dear. Everyone is so excited about it, about your going into politics. Anyway good luck, and mind you get a good night’s sleep.”

“I will. I’m in bed now as a matter of fact. Thank you for calling.”

She put the phone down and realised the message light was blinking. Someone had called before and she hadn’t noticed. Also Chad, no doubt. Well, she’d better check. Bloody bore he was. She’d have to say something if—

“Martha, hi. This is Ed. I—I hoped we could talk. I’ll try your mobile.”

“Oh my God!” she said aloud, and went back to bed, dialled his number, shaking violently; it was answered at once. “Hi, Ed. It’s me. Sorry, I didn’t realise you’d rung.”

“That’s OK.”

“Um—what can I do for you?”

“I—” There was a long silence, then: “I just wanted to wish you luck. For tomorrow.”

“Ed, who on earth told you?”

“Mum. She called this evening, said did I know you were going to be the new MP for Binsmow.”

Martha started to laugh. “Oh God,” she said, “mothers!”

“Yeah, well. You should have told me.”

“Why?”

“Well, because of what I said. It was obviously unjust. I’m sorry, Martha. Sorry I said all those things. I was totally out of order. I can see that now.” There was a silence, then he said, “I’ve missed you so much. I thought I could do without you—but I can’t.”

“Ed,” said Martha, “I
am
self-obsessed. I
am
a control freak. But I’m trying very hard not to be. If you hadn’t said—what you did, I’d have said no to Chad. Now then, I’ve got an important meeting tomorrow. I’ve got an early start—”

“Yeah, OK,” he said, “sorry. I just wanted to—”

“But even so, why don’t you come round? We can discuss my presentation. Among other things.”

Well, she thought, switching off her mobile, at least she’d be in bed early.

She drove down the M11 on Saturday morning, feeling extremely nervous. She had woken at six, leaving Ed fast asleep, gone to the gym and then suddenly realised a Mercedes convertible wasn’t exactly a tactful vehicle to arrive in. She wished she’d thought of it earlier. She would just have to dump the Merc in the car park of the Coach and Horses and use Chad’s car instead.

She ran over her ten-minute presentation speech again and again and rehearsed answers to imagined questions. Certain rather insistent images and memories kept disturbing her concentration; she tried to ignore them. Even Ed telling her it was the best sex he had ever had; and falling asleep hearing him say—No, she would allow herself to replay this one at least, she thought, smiling foolishly at the memory.

“I really, really love you,” he had said. “I know I do. I wasn’t sure before.” That had been the best. She would pick it all over and enjoy it properly later.

She felt fantastic: energetic, alive, and smoothly, sleekly happy. She was wearing a pair of leather trousers and an extremely expensive Joseph sweater for the journey, but on a hanger in the car was more modest stuff, a navy suit from Hobbs, and a pale pink top with a slash neckline; she wore a little makeup, no nail polish, and her shoes and bag were from L.K. Bennett, rather than the more exclusive shelves of Gucci. She changed at the service station about ten miles before Binsmow.

When she got to the Coach and Horses, Chad was already there, drinking orange juice; he stood up and gave her a kiss. “Like the outfit. Very good. You look straight out of central casting for a prospective near-Tory candidate. Want anything?”

“Not to eat; maybe a tonic water. I feel terribly nervous.”

“That’s good. You’ll perform better. Very valuable things, nerves. Get the adrenaline pumping.”

“And when did you last feel nervous?”

“Oh—day before yesterday,” he said, surprising her. “I often think I’m going to throw up whenever I have to speak in the House.” She felt strangely comforted. “I hope you had a good night last night.”

“Very, very good,” she said, and felt herself flush as a particularly vivid memory hit her; surely a prospective candidate should not, a few hours before her presentation, be lying over her beautiful young lover, head flung back, body arched, invaded with sweet sweeping pleasure, and calling out with the raw, joyful noise of sex. But: “Yes, it was excellent.”

“Good. Now any points you’d like to run through?”

“Well, I don’t think so. I’ve mugged up on the town and everything and I just had a look at a proposed bypass site. It would do dreadful things, Chad. I’m sure I could get very worked up about that.”

“Well, be careful,” he said, “you mustn’t assume that they’ll see it in quite the same way. A lot of these schemes may cut through hallowed woods and so on, but they relieve noise and pollution in residential areas. Just feel your way. Now do you want to run through your presentation with me?”

“I think I’d better,” she said and handed him her notes.

A jolly red-faced young man called Colin Black, dressed in a tweed suit and extremely well-shined shoes, arrived. He would be her agent, advise her on local matters, help at election time. He had been a Tory agent, become disillusioned, and “Come out to bat for you lot,” he said, grinning his rosy grin. He turned out to be a rather well-heeled farmer with a background in student politics. Martha liked him.

“Sorry we couldn’t have met before,” he said. “All been a bit of a rush. Look, they’re ready for you, looking forward to meeting you. They’re mustard-keen on the new party, even though they only represent about a third of the old committee. They’ve seen the three others already. Only one of them should cause you any concern. Young chap. Teacher. The other’s a woman, very good, very sound, but a bit of a wild card. Comes from the north.” Clearly coming from the north was tantamount to coming from Sodom and Gomorrah. “Anyway, nothing more for me to say except good luck. Chad will have briefed you on the form, no doubt.”

Martha said he had, but added tactfully that she’d be grateful for any further advice. “Best I can give you is have as few notes as possible; speak from the heart. They can see through anything else.”

“I won’t have any notes,” said Martha. “It’s all in my head.”

“Jolly good. Well, best go. Good luck.”

On the way her phone bleeped: it was a text from Ed. “Good luck. I love you xxx.”

They arrived at two thirty at a large building in the old Market Square, where Martha had gone with her mother every Saturday morning to buy fresh fruit and vegetables, and went upstairs to a large room, where a rather tired-looking middle-aged woman was pulling chairs into a semicircle. Chad offered to help her. She was clearly dazzled by his presence. When Martha offered to help as well, she seemed rather disdainful and said she could get the small table out for her notes if she liked.

The room filled up quite quickly with an equal number of men and women. They were mostly middle-aged, friendly in a rather distant way, smiled at her briefly and then carried on talking to one another. Only one very imposing woman even talked to Chad. They were clearly both being put in their place.

At three o’clock exactly, the imposing woman, who proved to be Geraldine Curtis, the chairman, clapped her hands and said would everyone take their places; they all sat down in the semicircle, with Martha placed at her small table in the middle. She felt rather like the boy in the “When did you last see your father?” painting. Chad indicated to her to sit down, then stood beside her, smiled his brilliant smile, and made a brief speech thanking them for giving the party a chance, outlined their general policy, and said he was confident that, with the backing of people like the residents of Binsmow, they could radically cut Tony Blair’s majority at the next election. They continued to sit looking stone-faced.

And then it was Martha’s turn. She started fairly confidently, she played the local card, threw in a couple of childhood reminiscences—the market shopping, the grammar school, and picnicking in the meadows on the edge of the town—hoping for some kind of reaction she could build on. She got none. They just sat and listened to her, fairly expressionless; they didn’t smile, nor did they frown. She had decided to be honest—no point pretending a lifelong passion for politics—simply said that she had felt her interest in the subject growing over the past year, along with her association with the Centre Forward Party. She said she had done some Citizens Advice work in Binsmow, and had some practical experience of people’s problems and how to solve them. She referred to Lina and her distress over the sink estates and poor schools that she and others like her had to endure, and said that had been the turning point that had led her into politics.