Sheer Abandon (58 page)

She did want to tell someone though, about her interview. That was one of the worst things about being on your own, she had discovered: day to day was all right, even bad days could be coped with, but happiness, however small, needed to be shared.

She decided to call Jocasta; her phone was switched off.

She couldn’t tell Mark or anyone at the practice about her interview, and she was just beginning to feel her bright pleasure tarnish slightly, when, as if by magic, perfectly on cue, Fergus called.

“I just wanted to thank you for your company last night. And to make sure you were safely home.” Clio told him she was indeed safely home, and that she had been called for an interview for the consultant’s job.

“I wonder why I’m not surprised,” he said, and she could hear him smiling.

Jocasta had invited Kate to lunch the Monday after the party; Gideon was in his London office and she travelled up with him. She was sitting at a table at the Bluebird when Kate got there.

“Hi! You look nice. Seen anyone today? About your modelling?”

“No, not till Friday now. Then it’s this cosmetic company, Smith, and I think I’m getting a spot. I told Fergus and he said they’d be able to see past it.”

“He’s absolutely right,” said Jocasta, “of course they will. He’s still looking after you all right, is he?”

“Yeah. Really well. He’s cool. Mum likes him. I think she fancies him, actually.”

“Goodness! Now what do you want to eat? And then tell me if you enjoyed the party and if your mum and dad did. And your very handsome boyfriend.”

Kate said it had been a really cool party and that Nat had enjoyed it a lot.

“He’s lovely, your Nat,” said Jocasta, “I really like him.”

“He’s all right,” said Kate, and then looked at Jocasta and smiled, quite nervously for her. “I worry a bit he hasn’t got any ambition, though. I mean, he’s nineteen and he’s not getting anywhere, just quite happy to go on working for his dad’s garage.”

Jocasta said, carefully, that she thought Nat had plenty of time and that Kate shouldn’t worry. “Anyway, if his dad’s got a garage and Nat took it over one day, that’d be great, wouldn’t it? Always money in cars.”

“I s’pose so. But he lets his dad think for him—he doesn’t have his own ideas. Whatever we’re talking about, he tells us what his dad says. It’s seriously annoying sometimes.”

“I’m sure it is. Men are annoying,” she added. “They can’t help it. But Kate, how are you feeling about everything now? About your mother and so on? A bit better?”

“I don’t know. I mean even after all this, she could still be anyone, she could be Madonna, and she could be the woman who cleans the toilets down at the park. It’s horrible. Really horrible, not knowing, always wondering…” Her voice shook. She picked up Jocasta’s glass and took a large gulp of wine. “Sorry.”

“Sweetie, don’t be sorry. I’m really sorry. Oh, dear. You’re no nearer, are you?”

“No nearer,” said Kate. She was obviously extremely upset.

“Oh, no!” Chad’s voice was quiet, shocked. “God almighty, I don’t believe it. How, in God’s name, did that get out?”

“What?” Abigail got up, walked round the table, and leant over him, reading over his shoulder. “What is it? Oh, yes. I see. Oh dear…”

“How the fuck did it happen?” he asked. “I mean, nobody had seen it except just the few of us.
Nobody
. And the research company, obviously. But they wouldn’t. They just wouldn’t!”

“Wouldn’t what?”

“Leak it.”

“Does it have to be a deliberate leak?” said Abigail.

“Absolutely deliberate. But who?” The phone rang. “Jesus. Get that, Abi, would you?”

She picked it up. “Abigail Lawrence—oh. Oh, yes, Jack, he’s here. What? Yes, I’m afraid he has…”

And against a background of Chad, quietly reasonable at first, then his voice rising in indignation—“No, I did not! Of course I didn’t. Not to anyone. For fuck’s sake, Jack”—she read the story on the front page of the
News
, by Martin Buckley, the political editor.

CENTRE FORWARD’S LOSING STREAK CONTINUES

Left-of-centre breakaway political party Centre Forward, which made its debut only a few months ago, is enduring serious teething troubles. Launched on a platform of sleazeless and crony-free politics, it has been dogged by scandals. A few weeks ago, Chad Lawrence, charismatic MP for Ullswater North (voted the sexiest man in Westminster last year by
Cosmopolitan
magazine), was discovered to have founded the new party’s think tank with money from a Chinese-owned company, based in Hong Kong.

Despite its flying start in the polls, the party is beginning to flag, as the scandals bite. A Focus Group Research, commissioned by the putative party leader, Jack Kirkland, showed a ten percent loss of potential followers. Originally Centre Forward captured the public imagination, but it seems now that the electorate’s cynicism with the entire political system in this country is extending to the new party.

Unless Centre Forward achieve a big breakthrough in the next few weeks, it could be destined to find its place as the shortest-lived political party in history. Which, given the considerable talent within its ranks, would be a tragedy of some magnitude.

Martha Hartley, reading the report in the
News
with a sinking heart, could not but reflect that a further—and shocking—scandal within those talented ranks could actually prove fatal.

Nick was waiting in the press dining room at the House of Commons for a rather dreary example of a Blair’s Babe when he saw Martin Buckley leaving alone.

“Hi, Martin. Nice story today. Intriguing. I’m rather sad about it. I’d have put money on them at least continuing to nip at the others’ heels.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. A casual observer might imagine someone was out to do them down.”

“He wouldn’t need to be a genius, your casual observer. The list of suspects would be very long.”

“I know. Well, here’s my lunch date. See you around.”

The Babe looked after Buckley. “That was an interesting story about Centre Forward this morning, wasn’t it? Of course I’m not surprised, it was all much too good to be true.”

“Indeed. I agree,” said Nick.

“I like Martin. He’s always very fair to both sides.”

“I think that’s not quite accurate. He’s much more often on your side, if you ask me.”

“Not necessarily. I saw him on Monday, lunching with Michael Fitzroy.”

“Oh really?” said Nick. “Well, maybe I’m wrong.”

Interesting. Fitzroy, having lunch with Buckley.

Michael Fitzroy having lunch with Janet Frean. Didn’t necessarily mean anything, of course. But—interesting, very interesting. Maybe a little chat with Teddy Buchanan might be even more so…

“Martha! What do you think?”

“Oh—I’m sorry, Paul.”

She met his eyes across the conference table. They were sharp with irritation. This was the second time today she’d lost concentration.

“Maybe you’d like a bit more time.” Her. Martha Hartley. Needing more time: not delivering absolutely on the minute. This was serious.

“No, of course not. I’m so sorry. No, I don’t think there’d be a tax advantage in holding back. We need to push things forward, surely. It’s a time-sensitive merger; they need it settled before the Christmas deadline. There’s more money in that, ultimately, than any tax savings.”

“And what about changing distribution channels, how much is that going to cost them?”

Shit! Shit! She’d meant to send her trainee into the data room that morning to check on everything—and forgotten. What was the matter with her? What? As if she didn’t know.

She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Paul. I haven’t checked that yet. Maybe I do need a little more time. Perhaps tomorrow morning?” If she had to spend the night in the data room herself, she would.

He sighed. “Yes, all right.” He looked at her rather searchingly, and then said, “Martha, I agreed to help you in your political ambitions because I felt sure that, short-term, you’d be able to cope. Please don’t let me down. Or I might have to revise my thoughts on the whole thing. See you in the morning, then?”

“In the morning, Paul, yes. Seven thirty.”

If only it was her political ambitions that were absorbing her time and concentration. If only.

“Clio, this is Fergus. Again.”

“Oh—hello, Fergus.”

Damn, she sounded breathless, nervous. Not cool and in control.

“I wondered if you were free on Saturday evening. For dinner.”

“Dinner would be lovely. Thank you!”

She put the phone down and tried to compose herself before her next patient came in. She looked in the mirror; she was slightly flushed. Now come on, Clio, this won’t do. Fergus is just looking for a pleasant evening. Probably his regular girlfriend is away or something. Calm down. You’ve got to start taking things in your stride. It’s just a dinner date, not a proposal of marriage. Be cool.

She pressed her buzzer. “Send my next dinner date in, would you, Margaret?”

“I’m sorry, Clio?” said Margaret and she could hear her smiling. “What did you say?”

“I must fly.” Gideon leant over to Jocasta and kissed the top of her head. She was burrowed into the pillows of the vast bed in their room at Cruxbury and still half asleep. “See you in forty-eight hours.”