Sheer Abandon (39 page)

“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Jilly. “I still get rather tired. And you’ll have more fun without me.”

“I’m not so sure about that. Well, till Tuesday, then.”

Chris Pollock was in his office late that Sunday night when the call came.

“Hi, Chris. It’s me, Jocasta.”

“Jocasta, where the fuck have you been? And what do you think you’re playing at? And where’s the fucking story?”

“I’ve been here. In Ireland. In Gideon’s house.”

“In Gideon Keeble’s house? My God, Jocasta, that must be some story. You’ve been there all this time?”

“Yes. And I’m really sorry, Chris, but there isn’t going to be a story. Not from me anyway. Well, you can say she’s safely home again, but that’s all. And the other thing is, Chris, and I’m truly sorry about this too, but I’m afraid I’m going to give in my notice.”

She had been quite frightened, that first evening. Sitting there, trapped in the vast house, living out this extraordinary adventure, with no idea what she should do; just waiting, waiting for time to pass: it had been much scarier than any other job she could remember.

She had drunk a cup of tea that Mrs. Mitchell had brought her and wolfed down the biscuits that had accompanied it on the tray, had begun to study the books that lined the walls—wonderful books, some of them, first editions of Dickens, or Trollope, or Defoe, beautifully illustrated volumes of things like
The Arabian Nights
and
Grimm’s Fairy Tales
, and Kate Greenaway, the pages tipped, rather than bound in, all the poets, complete sets of encyclopaedias, of catalogues of art sales, books about vintage cars, books about racing, books about paintings. And interspersed with them, in glorious carelessness of their value, paperbacks by the hundred; he liked all the popular stuff, John Grisham and Patricia Cornwell and Stephen King and Maeve Binchy—well, he would of course, she was Irish—and Jilly Cooper. She picked the latest Grisham off the shelves and set it down on the arm of the sofa, then moved on to the stack of CDs on the other side. Very catholic, his musical taste as well: ranging from church choral music, through Mozart, and Mahler, into jazz, swing, and to the present, to Bruce Springsteen, Bob Dylan, and “My God, Leonard Cohen,” she said aloud.

“And what is so surprising about that?” she heard Gideon’s voice asking her and she swung round and smiled at him and said, “I absolutely love him. He’s so—so wonderfully dismal. Not many people do. We’re in a very small minority, you and I.”

“Sondheim?” he asked.

“Adore him.”

“Opera?”

“Don’t get it.”

“Bob Marley?”

“Of course.”

“Well,” he said, “we are clearly made for each other. Musically, if in no other way.”

She looked at him nervously. He wasn’t smiling.

“I have come to see if you would like a bed for the night. We have a few to spare.”

“Well, I am tired. But what’s the alternative?”

“There isn’t one,” he said. “I’m not going to let you out yet. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. I can see you can’t.”

She accepted with absolute equanimity his low opinion of her. She had broken into his house in order to steal something of infinite importance and delicacy, his relationship with his runaway daughter, and she had no right to feel even remotely indignant.

“Very well, then. And in the morning, we can perhaps agree on some strategy. But not yet. Things are too…too delicate. Too difficult. I will tell Mrs. Mitchell to show you to your room. Good night, Jocasta. I hope you sleep well. And I hope you will forgive me—I have disconnected the landlines. So there would be no point your trying to make any calls.”

“Fine,” she said.

The room was on the second floor, high-ceilinged, shuttered, and very cold, with an exquisite fireplace (devoid of a fire), and a surprisingly high, hard bed. The bathroom was next door: even colder, with an enormous bath and a thronelike loo. Mrs. Mitchell, who clearly thought Jocasta a trollop, ushered her in, asked her if there was anything she might be wanting, and left again very swiftly. Jocasta undressed with great speed, fell into bed, and went straight to sleep.

She awoke literally shivering; it was six o’clock. She got out of bed, folded back the shutters, and realised why: the windows were wide open. Expecting a wonderful view, she could see only thick grey mist, and it was raining. She shut the windows, pulled her clothes on—she wasn’t risking that icebox of a bathroom and, good reporter that she was, she had things like clean knickers and a toothbrush in her rucksack—and went stealthily along the corridor, down the stairs, and managed to find her way to the kitchen. No one was about, not even the dogs.

The kitchen was vast, and warmer than the rest of the house, thanks to an extremely elderly looking cream-colored Aga. The floor was slate, the walls whitewashed, and there were the inevitable shutters at the window. It looked a little like a photograph in
Interiors
, except that it was devoid of the bunches of dried flowers, pots of herbs, copper pans, and Shaker-style furniture that would have given it page appeal. It was devoid of anything, in fact, apart from a very large scrubbed table and three chairs, one of which was broken. Jocasta thought of the leather sofas and complex music systems in the playroom and the study, the fine furniture she had glimpsed through what was obviously the drawing-room door as Mrs. Mitchell led her upstairs, and felt almost sorry for her. Almost.

She filled the vast kettle that sat on the Aga, managed to find a slightly chipped mug, took some milk out of the 1950s-style fridge, and went to the back door. She looked along the terrace; it was so drenched in mist she couldn’t even see the end of it, and the rain was growing heavier. Well this was no moment for exploring, trying to find a tradesman’s entrance, or exit, or even a path round the grounds. She went back inside, walked back along the corridor, into the playroom. That, too, was cold. And it was May! God, this was going to make a good story. No wonder Aisling had searched for lovers in warmer climates!

There was a phone ringing, quite persistently. Did that mean he had reconnected the landline? Now that was worth investigating. At least she could make a quick call to Chris. She went out of the playroom, followed the sound down the corridor; she had passed three doors before she reached it. Of course! This was his study. She looked up and down the corridor, then slipped inside the room and closed the door. Odd, surely he had an extension by his bed. Would he really not be hearing it? She waited for four more rings, and then picked it up, waited. Silence.

“Hello,” she said cautiously, “Mr. Keeble’s residence.”

“Who’s that?” The voice was young, light, cautious. Fionnuala? Could be. “Mummy? It’s Fionnuala.”

Fionnuala. Jocasta Forbes, this really is the scoop of your career.

“No. Shall I get her for you?”

“Who is that?”

“A friend of your father’s. Shall I get him?”

“No thanks.”

Gideon’s voice cut in, saying, “Hello? Hello?”—and then the phone went dead.

She stood there, still holding the receiver, feeling oddly frightened. She was just putting the phone down, wondering why she wasn’t doing it more quickly, when the door opened and Gideon came in, wearing nothing but a white towelling robe; he was barefoot, his hair wild, his face white, his eyes black with fury.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” he demanded, and for a moment she thought he was going to hit her. “How dare you? Get out. Just get the fuck out. Now!”

It was the first time she had ever seen him other than relaxed, easy, charming; it was an alarming transformation. So this was the famous temper. She stood her ground.

“I
was
going. I wish I could go further. Unfortunately I seem to be a prisoner here.”

“And what do you expect? Breaking into my home, prying into my most personal life. What do you think you’re doing?”

“As you said last night,” said Jocasta, calm now, astonished at the extent of it, “I’m doing my job. Which does consist, unfortunately, of prying into people’s most personal lives. I’m sorry, Gideon, very sorry, and I’m actually not enjoying it. Any of it.”

“I had thought better of you,” he said, and his tone was full of deep contempt.

“Oh really? And why should that be? I seem to remember your congratulating me on some of my stories when we met at the Tory conference last autumn. What’s changed, Gideon? I’d really like to know.”

He stared at her for a moment, and then said, still icily hostile, “So, who was that?”

“It was your daughter.”

“And what did she say?”

“Not a lot. She asked who I was. I said I was a friend of yours. I offered to fetch you.”

“And?”

“And she said…” She hesitated. “She said, ‘No thanks.’ And rang off. Sorry, Gideon.”

His face changed; just for a moment, she caught him off guard, saw that she had hurt him, saw how much.

“Well, thank you for that, Jocasta. Depriving me of a chance to speak to my daughter.”

“Gideon, I didn’t deprive you. She didn’t want to. Don’t shoot the messenger.”

“And what in the name of sweet fuck were you doing answering my phone?”

“It was ringing,” she said. “No one else was. I assumed you and your wife must have left again.”

“I was in the shower. My wife—or more accurately my ex-wife—was no doubt on her own telephone. Speaking to her very unpleasant husband. Anyway, Fionnuala has been found, by the police. At Belfast airport. Mr. Zebedee is in police custody, although as Fionnuala is swearing he hasn’t touched her, I doubt if he will remain there for long. So very soon you can go and write your wonderful story. What a lot of colourful detail it will have. Now just get out of here, will you. Right out.”

“Yes, all right.”

She turned, just as she reached the door, to look at him. He was slumped at his desk, staring at the phone; she saw him dash his hand across his eyes. “Gideon,” she said, very tentatively.

“I said get out,” he said, and half rose towards her, his expression intensely angry.

She stood her ground. “I am so sorry,” she said again.

“For what?” he said and sat down heavily. “Just what are you sorry for? Breaking into my house? Planning to trade on my good nature? Which, as you are discovering, is rather less good than you thought. I’m afraid I find your remorse rather hard to believe, Jocasta.”

“I expect you do. But I’m also…so sorry for you.”

“Well, you have a strange way of showing that,” he said. “I thought you were a friend, at the very least.”

“I thought so too. I never will be now, will I?”

“Absolutely you will not. No doubt Mr. Pollock said to you, ‘You know him. You can get into his house. You can make him talk.’ Or words to that effect. Am I right?”

“Yes. You are, I’m afraid.”

“And you thought something along the lines of, Well, yes, I can. He fancies me. I can get him to talk. Didn’t you?”

“Yes, Gideon, I suppose I did. And I’m ashamed of myself.”

“It’s such a pity,” he said. “I liked you so much, Jocasta. And, yes, I did fancy you. Who wouldn’t? I was even foolish enough to think—Well, yes, that was very foolish.”

“No,” she said quietly, knowing what he meant. “It wasn’t foolish at all.”

Just for a second his expression softened, then: “Well, I hardly think that makes your behaviour seem any better. Rather worse, in fact. It really hurts to think you were willing to trade on my admiration, purely in order to advance your career, to take on a situation so painful to me, and so intimate, simply to have a few more cuttings on file.”

She remained silent.

“Oh, this is ridiculous,” he said suddenly. “I have no real interest in explaining to you just why I am so angry. If you can’t see it for yourself, then what would be the point?”

“Of course I can see it,” she said. “And I feel absolutely…wretched.”

“I suppose that is something,” he said and gave a look of such withering dislike she felt sick. “Now I really would rather you left me alone. I have a great deal to do.”

He turned away from her, and she saw him shake his head quickly, as if he were trying to rid himself of her and thoughts of her.

Jocasta looked at him, and was reminded of countless similar incidents, when her father had ordered her from his presence, had made it plain he wanted none of her, and she felt a rush of courage, and knew what she should say to him.

“Gideon, there are other things I’m sorry about.”

“And they are?”

“Fionnuala,” she said quietly. “I feel very sorry about her. And for her.”

“And what do you know about it? What right do you have to feel sorry for her? I think you should stop this, Jocasta. I am in no mood for ignorant comments.”

“It’s not so ignorant,” she said. “I know something of what Fionnuala feels. Not exactly, of course, but I know how it is to be her.”

“I don’t think you do,” he said. But his face had changed; he was clearly ready to listen.

“Of course I do. I also have a father who I hardly ever saw. Who seemed to have no interest in me. Except when I did bad things, of course.”

“Be careful, Jocasta,” he said, “be very careful.”