Sheer Abandon (32 page)

She put the phone down and had to take several deep breaths before she could even stand up.

“I told her. I told her everything. And she’s going to see what she can do. She was great.”

“Told you.”

It had been Sarah’s idea: for Kate to talk to Jocasta, tell her everything, get her to write about it, so that her mother could get in touch with her. Since the detective agency idea had never got off the ground. “And do your mum and dad know?”

Kate looked discomfited. “No. Jocasta did say I should talk to them some more. She said she wouldn’t like to do anything until she was sure they were happy.”

“Oh I wouldn’t take any notice of that,” said Sarah. “She’s a journalist and they’ll do anything for a good story. Honestly, Kate, if she wants to write about you, she will. She won’t wait for you to ask your mum.”

“I…think she will,” said Kate. Her heart was beating a little faster than usual.

“Kate, she won’t. Anyway, what’s it matter? I thought that’s why you told her in the first place.”

“Yes, it was. But, well, in the end, I think I would want to talk to Mum about it. It would be awful not to. She’d be really upset. Jocasta said that as well,” she added.

“But, Kate, that’s the whole point, isn’t it? Your mum would never agree.”

“She might,” said Kate. She was beginning to wish she had never had the conversation with Jocasta. “Anyway,” she said, slightly aggressively, “she said she wouldn’t do anything in a hurry.”

“I thought you were in a hurry.”

“Oh for God’s sake!” Kate was getting irritable. “Look, it’s up to Jocasta, OK? Not my parents.”

“That’s what I just said. Course it is. Crikey, Kate! Do you realise, you might even find out who your real father is, as well?”

“Yes,” said Kate, “I thought of that. How he must be a complete arsehole.”

“Most men are,” said Sarah knowledgeably.

“Hi.” Kate, waiting for her bus, looked up from her
Heat
magazine. Nat Tucker stood in front of her. He had his black hair cut very short and was wearing baggy combats and a white sleeveless T-shirt. He looked fantastic. Why did it have to be today, here, with her in her school uniform? Thank God she’d taken her tie off.

“Hi,” she said, pulling her headphones out of her ears.

“You all right?” he said.

“Yeah. Yeah, cool thanks.”

“Still at school?”

“Yeah. Doing my exams, aren’t I?”

“S’pose so. Want a lift home?”

She swallowed hard, simply to delay her answer, not sound too eager. “Well, maybe. Yeah. Thanks.”

“Car’s round here.” He jerked his elbow in the direction of a side road, started walking. Kate followed him. This was amazing. A-mazing.

“You’ve got a new car,” she said, looking at it admiringly.

“Yeah. It’s a Citroën. Citroën Sax Bomb.”

“Great,” said Kate carefully.

“My dad got it into the workshop, let me do it up. Like the spoiler?”

“Course.”

“I lowered the suspension seventy mill all round. Looks better, don’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“It’ll be lower when I’ve finished with it. It does hundred and eleven,” he said, with an attempt at nonchalance. “I upgraded the ignition and that. And the sound’s great.”

“So—your dad let you have it for nothing?”

“No,” he said indignantly, “I have to work for him, don’t I? Well, get in. Here, give us your bag.”

He threw her school bag into the boot, and got in beside her, switched on the stereo. The street was filled with the thumping, punching rhythms of So Solid Crew. He started the engine, pulled away with a loud screech, dangerously close to the kerb. A middle-aged woman jumped back, scowling at him, shouted something; he grinned widely at Kate.

“Can’t see for looking, can they, those grannies. So, what you going to do next? After the exams I mean?”

“Oh, don’t know. Go to college I suppose.”

“What?” His voice was incredulous. “You get out of school and go straight back in again?”

“Yes. I want to do A levels.”

“Yeah? What for?”

“Well…to go to uni.”

“What for?” he said, clearly genuinely puzzled. “I haven’t got any GCSEs even, and I got a good job, plenty of dosh.”

“Yeah, but Nat, I can’t go and work for my dad like you. I want to work for a newspaper or a magazine, something like that.”

“What, as a model or something?”

“No. A writer. Why should I be a model?” she said, stretching out her legs, surreptitiously easing her skirt a little higher.

“Well you’ve got the looks and that. Make a lot of money that way, you could.” Kate was silent; this was beyond her wildest dreams. “Where d’you want to go?” he asked.

“Franklin Avenue, please.”

“How’s Sarah?” he said.

“She’s OK.” He nodded. That’s why he wanted to talk to me, she thought, he wants to know about Sarah. Sarah was more his type: dark, small, loud. Kate tried to be as lippy with boys as Sarah was, but she never could quite manage it.

“She still at school?”

“Yeah. Then she’s going to go full-time at the salon. The one where she’s a Saturday girl.”

“What, she’s going to be a hairdresser?” he asked and his face was incredulous, as if Kate had said Sarah was planning on entering a convent. “How sad is that?”

“What’s sad about hairdressing?” said Kate defensively. “She likes it.”

“It’s a sad job,” he said, “running around old women all day, asking them if what they’ve done is all right, would they like a magazine to read, all that crap. My mum’s one and I used to go and see her after school when I was younger. Awful job.”

“Sarah likes it. She gets good tips.”

“Yeah?” He didn’t seem very interested in Sarah anymore. Kate’s heart lifted; maybe he’d just been making polite conversation. Not that it was really his style.

“Well, here we are,” he said, turning into her road, pulling up with a screech of brakes. He left the stereo running; she could see her grandmother looking out of the window. God. Suppose she came out, asked to be introduced to him.

“I must go,” she said. “Thanks for the lift.”

“Want to come out Saturday?” he asked. He was looking at her legs as she swung them sideways out of the car.

“With you?” she said. And then realised how stupid she must sound.

“Yeah. Clubbing over Brixton.”

Kate felt herself starting to blush with excitement. This was unbelievable. Nat Tucker was asking her out.

She managed to wait a moment, then said, “Yeah, thanks.” Her voice sounded astonishingly level.

“I’ll pick you up. Nine-ish. OK?”

“Yeah. OK.”

The effort of keeping her face expressionless, her voice level and disinterested, was so immense she found it hard to breathe. She was halfway up the path when he called her.

“Don’t you want yer bag?”

“Oh. Oh yeah. Thanks.”

He got out of the car, pulled it out of the boot, slung it over the gate. “Cheers. See you later.”

Kate was incapable of further speech.

“Martha? Hi, I’m Jocasta.”

“I think I’d have known that,” said Martha. She smiled, a charming, courteous smile. “You look just the same. Do come in.”

“I’m afraid I don’t look just the same.” Jocasta walked into the apartment. It was quite simply stunning. A mass of ash-blond wood flooring, white walls, huge windows, and a minimal amount of black-and-chrome furniture. “This is gorgeous,” she said.

“Thank you. I like it. And it’s near to my work.”

Martha was gorgeous too, in a cool, careful way. Very slim, wearing dark grey trousers and a cream silk shirt; her skin was creamy too, and almost makeup-less, with just some eye shadow and mascara and a beige-brown lipstick. Her hair, brown, straight, shining hair, streaked with ash, was cut into a neat, sleek bob.

“Which is where?” Jocasta asked. “Your work, I mean?”

“Oh, just over there.” Martha waved rather vaguely down at the world below her.

“Yes, but what’s it called, what do you exactly do?”

“I’m a partner with a city law firm. At the moment.” She ignored the request for the name.

“Oh, OK. Fun?”

“Not exactly fun. I like it though. Can I offer you a coffee or something?”

“Yes, that’d be great.”

“Fine. Just excuse me a moment. Make yourself at home. Do you need a table or anything to write on?”

“No, thanks, it’s fine.”

She disappeared. Snooty cow, thought Jocasta; and thought of that other Martha, slightly nervous, eager to be friends, mildly defensive about her background. She had been so polite, so eager to please. What had changed her so much? Clio had hardly changed at all.

And she had been fun. Undoubtedly fun. The very first night in Bangkok, they’d huddled together in one bed, the three of them, screaming at the cockroaches that had appeared when they put the light on, and then she’d pulled a bottle of wine from her bag and they’d shared it, drinking from the bottle, giggling and shaking at the same time.

“Right. Here we are.” She appeared again, with a dark wooden tray, set with white cups, a cafetiere, milk jug, a bowl of both brown and white sugar lumps. Jocasta almost expected her to put a bill down on the table in front of her. She was very still, Jocasta noticed, still and totally self-controlled. She was also, clearly, very nervous. It seemed strange, when she was so patently self-confident. Well, that was what interviews were all about. Finding out.

“Tell me,” Martha said, “what’s your brother doing? Is he a barrister?”

“God no,” said Jocasta, “much too much like hard work. He works for the family company. He’s married—just about. Got two little girls.” She smiled at Martha. “So you went to Bristol Uni, did you?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And did you like it?”

“Yes, very much. Look, is this part of the interview? Because I did say—”

“Martha,” said Jocasta as patiently as she could, “I’m just playing catch-up. I’ll tell you all about me if you like. And Clio.”

Martha visibly seized on this. “How is Clio?”

“Not very happy,” said Jocasta. “She’s getting divorced. She’s doing well at her job, though.”

“That’s so sad. About her divorce I mean. Have you met the husband?”

“No. He sounds like an arsehole.” She smiled expansively at Martha. “He’s a surgeon. Arrogant. Totally up himself. She’s better off without him. Mind you, I did upset him.”

“I thought you hadn’t met him?”

“I didn’t. But I wrote about his hospital. Long story. Anyway, he didn’t like it.”

“I don’t suppose he did,” said Martha. She picked up her cup of black coffee. Her hand was shaking slightly, Jocasta noticed. Her small, beautifully manicured hand.

“But she’s just the same, dear little Clio—remember how we started calling her that, on the second day in Bangkok?”

“No, I don’t think I do,” said Martha. She was clearly going to block any attempt at reminiscence.

“Anyway, did you do what you said, do Oz, and end up in New York?”

“You have an amazing memory,” said Martha, and there was a silence. Then she said, “Oz, certainly. I didn’t see much of the States. Look, Jocasta, I don’t want to be rude, but I don’t have an awful lot of time. So maybe we should start.”

“Of course. Fine. Let’s start with a few basic facts: your age, what you do, how you got drawn into politics, all that stuff. Then we can do some details. It’s a very good story, I think.”

She watched Martha slowly relaxing, growing in confidence as she took control, presented what was obviously a carefully rehearsed story. And it was a good one, from a spin point of view: the death of the office cleaner, her longing to do something to help, to change things, her growing involvement with Centre Forward, her returning to her roots.

Jocasta listened politely, asking questions about Centre Forward, about the number of MPs they had, how many they hoped to field for the general election; went on to some incredibly boring stuff about the election process. And then began to move, very stealthily, in. What she had so far wasn’t going to make her the next Lynda Lee-Potter.

“You’re obviously doing awfully well at your firm,” she said. “Won’t you miss it?”

“Yes, but I think it’ll be worth it if I can make a difference, even quite a small one.”