Sheer Abandon (41 page)

“That sounds like quite a lot to me,” said Jocasta. “Not easy for her, that. Now, I wonder if I could go for a walk? I’ve been shut indoors all day. And—”

“I would say that was absolutely your own fault,” he said, and he kissed her then, very softly, on the mouth, leant back and smiled at her. “And I wonder if you would allow me to join you? I think we have rather a lot to talk about.”

“I do, too,” said Jocasta.

Chapter 22

         Nick was walking along the Burma Road, as the Westminster press corridor was known (“Because everyone ends up there,” he had explained to a breathlessly interested Jocasta what seemed a lifetime ago), when his phone rang. He looked at the number, it was her. She had finally deigned to contact him. He had heard from Pollock, a white-faced, raging Pollock, who clearly felt some of the blame must be due to Nick, as the person closest to her, not only that she had failed to deliver what would have been the most brilliant piece but that she was leaving the paper.

“As from now. And she’d better not show so much as an inch of her arse in this place ever again. It’s so unlike her, so unprofessional. I suppose you know what it’s all about?”

“Of course I don’t,” said Nick. “I don’t know anything at all. I’ve been trying to contact her, but her phone’s been switched off.”

“Yeah? What’s the silly bitch up to over there, then?”

“I honestly don’t know,” said Nick, “and I’m trying not to even consider the possibilities.”

“Do you think she’s with Keeble?”

“I…suppose it might be a possibility,” said Nick, and just saying the words was like pulling teeth.

And he thought that, actually, it might be something to do with him, for if he had asked her to marry him, even at some fairly distant date, she would be filing a story right now, and Gideon Keeble would not have earned a second of her consideration. But, even in his misery, he thought still that he couldn’t have done it.

And now here she was, on his mobile, several days after disappearing, several days of not caring for his anxiety, his concern.

“Yes?” he said shortly.

“Nick? Did—Chris tell you?”

“He did. I have to say I’d have expected to be your first port of call, Jocasta.”

“Sorry, Nick, but I had to tell Chris about the story. And then, well, I wanted to think.”

“What about?”

“About what I was going to say to you.”

“And it didn’t even occur to you that I might have been worried out of my mind? So what are you going to say? What are your plans? Perhaps you’d be good enough to share them with me.”

“I’m going to stay here for a few more days.”

“Am I to infer you’re there with Gideon Keeble? I mean actually
with
him? In his—” He stopped. He couldn’t bring himself to say the word “bed,” it hurt too much. “In his house?”

“Well, yes. I am. Obviously. And I couldn’t do the story because of—of Gideon.”

“But the story was
about
Gideon. You might just have realised that before you left.”

“Yes, I did. But I didn’t care then.”

“What, so in forty-eight hours from not caring about him at all, you cared so much that you’ve thrown your entire career away?”

“It’s a bit more complicated than that,” she said. “It wasn’t just about Gideon. I did realise what harm I could do to them all. By writing the story.”

“Oh, please!” he said. “You’ve developed a social conscience—is that what you’re saying?”

“Sort of, yes, only it was about Gideon as well. That was what made me realise. I suppose.”

“How touching!”

She was silent. Then: “Sorry, Nick. I’m very sorry.”

“Jocasta, how can you turn your back on us? How can you throw away a long and very happy relationship just like that? On a whim.”

“It wasn’t just on a whim. It absolutely wasn’t.”

“Oh really? So you’d been planning it for some time, had you?”

“I suppose so. In a way. Without realising it.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake! I’ve never heard such drivel.”

“It’s not drivel!” she said. “And if you thought for just a little while, you’d realise why it happened.”

“Dare I assume this has something to do with my refusing to trail down the altar after you?”

“Actually,” she said, “I’d be trailing after you. You obviously haven’t been to many weddings, Nick. But yes, just something. In a way.”

“How fucking pathetic,” he said, and cut her off.

Jocasta went to find Gideon. It was a glorious day, blue and green and golden, the kind Ireland did best. She lifted her head to the sun and it felt warm and welcoming. She found Gideon walking towards the stables.

“Hi,” she said, and tucked her hand into his back pocket.

“Hello, my darling. Did you do it?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And? You’ve been crying.”

“Yes, well, I feel bad and sad. It was—I mean, it’s been a long time, Nick and me. It’s hard to just end it. Even though I knew it was over before—well before—you. But I’m fine. I know I did the right thing. And it made me realise how much I actually do love you.”

“I’m very happy about that. And I love you very badly.”

“You can’t love someone badly, Gideon.”

“I can. As in, ‘I want that very badly.’”

“Oh, all right. I love you very badly too. And want you very badly.”

“That’s nice to know.”

How exactly had it come to this so quickly and with such astonishing ease? It had been like a film, moving the story forward in a series of short sequences, all intercut, with no dialogue, just wonderful emotive music. There had been the walk down to the lake, the two of them together, walking apart at first and then gradually moving closer together, until his arm was round her shoulders, hers round his waist; there had been the kiss, tender, not passionate, by the lake; there had been dinner, served by Mrs. Mitchell in the grand dining room; there had been his taking her hand and leading her upstairs, only to bid her good night on the second-floor landing, very properly; there had been her lying awake, staring into the darkness (and she supposed further intercutting of a shot of him also lying awake), and then her padding along the corridor, in search of him, opening several doors, the moonlight shafting most obligingly through the vast window at the top of the stairs; and then hearing someone behind her on the landing and turning in panic to see him smiling at her; and of course the sex scene, wonderfully passionate (the music rising to a crescendo here); and finally, before the film returned to proper time and words and all that sort of thing, them lying in bed together, smiling at each other, with the sun streaming in the window.

It was all slightly over the top, glorious setting, dashing hero, marvellous trappings—horses, servants, the incredible cars, he had actually allowed her to drive the Bugatti—but extremely wonderful just the same.

“I keep thinking I’m going to wake up,” she said to Gideon, “find it’s all a dream.”

“Well, you’re not,” he said, “this is real life. Although I should have tried to seduce you much earlier.”

“You did try. I think,” said Jocasta. “But in a horribly gentlemanly way. Always including Nick in your invitations. I mean, really! No wonder progress was slow.”

“I’m a patient fellow. I saw you, dancing in that ridiculous way at the conference, Jocasta, and I wanted you. And I knew that sooner or later I’d have to have you. It was as simple as that. I’ve just been waiting for the opportunity. My only fear was that Nicholas would have made an honest woman of you in the meantime.”

“He was never going to,” said Jocasta, “and until yesterday, I thought it mattered. Now I know it doesn’t. Not in the very least.”

And it didn’t.

“Fionnuala wants a new horse,” he said, as they walked back into the house. “A polo pony, actually.”

“How do you know?”

“She texted me.”

“That’s good, that she’s texting you. What did it say? Or would you rather I didn’t see it?”

“Of course not. Here you are.”

He passed her his phone; she looked at it.

“Hi Dad. Having fun here. Wd like polo pony for birthday. Any chance? Fionnuala xxx.”

“It’s nice she’s keeping in touch,” said Jocasta carefully.

“Isn’t it? I can’t think when she last put kisses after her name.”

“I think,” she said, “you shouldn’t just say yes. You’d just be buying her toys again. Why don’t you say you’d like to go and see her, look at some ponies with her?”

“I am not,” he said firmly, “going to that filthy place, forced to be courteous to that slimy poof, Carlingford.”

“All right. Tell her to come to Ireland, that you’ll buy her one here. That you want to be part of the choice.”

“She wouldn’t come.”

“Try her. Go on. Text her back. Here, I’ll do it, you’re so hopeless at it. I expect it’s your age.” She smiled at him, reached up to kiss him. “What shall I say?”

“You’re the expert. But I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

“Yes it is.” She began punching out letters, her face very serious. She held it out to him.

“How’s this? ‘Nice idea, but I’d like to choose it with you. What about you come here? Dad xxx.’”

“OK,” he said, after a moment or two. “Send it.”

Five minutes later a message came back. “No point. No polo ponies in Ireland. They’re all here. F.”

“See,” he said, “no kisses even. I told you.”

“Oh shut up,” said Jocasta. “You can’t give up that easily.” She wrote another message, handed it to him. “OK?”

He looked at it. “No, it is not OK. I told you—Oh, all right. See what she says.”

She smiled, reread her message—“I cd come there? xxx.”—and sent it.

It was half an hour later, as an increasingly bad-tempered Gideon stalked ahead of Jocasta down to the lake and sat scowling at the brilliant water, that a text message reached his phone.

“Cool. When? Fionnuala xxx.”

“See?” said Jocasta. “What did I tell you?”

“Yes, all right,” he said, smiling at her reluctantly. “Clever clogs. I hope you realise what this means? I’ll have to actually go to the bloody place.”

“I promise you,” said Jocasta, “it will be worth it.”

She was in love with him. Wasn’t she? Desperately, terribly in love with him. Of course she was. She felt extraordinarily happy. All the time. She just couldn’t believe it. And he was in love with her. He kept saying so. Telling her that he couldn’t remember ever being so happy, couldn’t believe that anyone so young and beautiful could be bothered with him, “Old and difficult and scratchy as I am.”

“You are not old,” she said. “You may be difficult, but I haven’t seen it yet. And I’ve seen a lot scratchier. So here I am, youngish—and beautiful, maybe—and amazingly happy to be with you. OK?”

“Very OK,” he said.

He was absurdly romantic; she would wake in the morning to find him missing and he would come in, smiling, with a great bunch of wild-flowers he had just picked. He chartered a small plane for the day and flew her over the Mountains of Mourne, simply because she said she had always wanted to see them. They went riding by moonlight, they drank champagne on a boat on the lake, he named one of his thoroughbred foals after her. “Until you arrived, she was the most beautiful female to come to this place all year.”

She felt her own past was completely left behind her; she had only the clothes from her rucksack and her phone, nothing else. It was as if she had been set down and told her life was to start over again. It was all too good to be true, exactly what her romantic soul craved. Just the two of them, for a little while, cocooned from the world, feasting on pleasure; looking back, she saw that it was their honeymoon.

And then there was the sex.

The sex was—well, it was good. It was very good. Obviously.

She was enjoying it a lot.