Sheer Abandon (60 page)

Jack Kirkland was on the phone before seven on Saturday morning. “Know it’s a bit early, but wanted to catch you. I know you go off to Suffolk early. Have you seen
The Times
?” Martha had. “I’m extremely pleased,” he said, “extremely. It really puts over a new message. Makes us human, sensible, aware of real life. You’ve all, in your different ways, done a wonderful job. Well done, Martha. I know you don’t like this publicity business, but you’re going to have to get used to it. You’re a natural.”

“Oh, not really,” she said. “But I’m glad if I’ve helped. Um—have you spoken to Janet yet?”

“No, Bob said she was sleeping in. Bit unlike her: she’s more of a Martha, up with the lark, getting on with all her lives. Have you?”

“No, she wouldn’t—didn’t want to speak to me, either.”

“Well, she deserves a bit of a rest. So do you. You mustn’t do too much, Martha, but I know what these legal clinics mean to you—and to your constituents. Very valuable. Very clever idea.”

The girl from
The Times
had said that, and put it in her article. It was a very nice article, Martha thought, glancing at it again. Only it did rather flatter her.
THE HEADMISTRESS
,
THE PREFECT
,
AND THE NEW GIRL
had been the headline: Janet, of course, being the headmistress, was described as one of the leaders of the new party, “passionate about the need to nurture it, educate it, and improve its health both physically and morally.” It all sounded a bit, well, nannyish. And Janet looked nannyish in the photograph, wearing her “uniform,” her hair rather severely combed back. And then Mary Norton, talking about women’s role in politics, the need to expand their power base, for positive discrimination, about women as a force within the trade unions, how she would aim for double the number of crèches in the workplace, paternity leave, increased maternity leave. She sounded very feminist, very left wing. Martha was surprised Jack was so pleased about her contribution. Mary, with her curly, styleless greying hair, her twin set, her obviously makeup-less face, appeared very formidable. And then there was Martha, gazing into the camera, all wide brown eyes and sleek, streaky hair, in a slash-necked T-shirt and a sharply cut jacket, saying she cared most for the little people, male or female, mentioning Lina and the horror of the mixed ward, her own grammar school, wrecked by the “comprehensive ideal,” talking about her legal clinics in the town where she had grown up, and about how she viewed politics from “my new-girl point of view.”

She came across as charming, thoughtful, and modest; she looked lovely. The writer had singled her out as “perhaps the most human of the three, the one still living in the real world, the one most aware of what she wants from politics and with the charisma to win her seat, and put her ideas into practice. Jack Kirkland, the Centre Forward Party’s leader, is certainly right behind her: he says she represents the future of the party.”

That was what had worried her most: from the first moment she had read it, late the night before on Waterloo Station, worried her through a restless night. To be so singled out, favoured, was worrying her even more now, after Janet had refused to take her calls.

Because if she were Janet, she wouldn’t have liked being cast as the older statesman, wouldn’t have liked the nannyish implications—or the unflattering photographs. In spite of protesting that she didn’t care what she looked like, Janet did: she cared quite a lot. She had her bob cut at Nicky Clarke and blow-dried twice a week, and her uniform suits were all from places like Jaeger and MaxMara. Mary really didn’t care. She had true political integrity and was absorbed in her ideals. The simple fact was that Janet came over as the least charismatic of the three of them: and charisma was the bottom line in politics. It was what kept Tony Blair so resolutely in place.

Martha tried Janet’s number once more, left a second message on her phone—Bob was obviously weary of playing private secretary—checked her e-mails once more in case Janet had written. Nothing from her.

“Martha my dear, forgive me for not getting back to you before. I’ve had a beast of a morning. Wasn’t that a wonderful piece? I thought she got us all to an absolute tee. I was very pleased, especially with the way she got almost all my points across. And I know Jack was. Lovely picture of you. Not so hot of Mary and me—but that’s not the point, is it? Thank you so much for making the time.”

Martha was driving down the M11 and she felt the car could have taken off and flown,
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
–style. She should stop worrying about Janet; it was a waste of her precious energy. And there really did seem to be no need.

Clio looked at Fergus across the table, and wondered if she should tell him she didn’t have to catch the last train home, that she was once again borrowing Jocasta’s house in Clapham.

But it might look a bit…forward. Like an invitation. And he was expecting her to go, had twice said, very sweetly, they must keep an eye on the clock—and added that he didn’t like the idea of her being on public transport late on a Saturday night, didn’t she worry about it? Clio had said she never did, she had spent most of her youth and much of her adult life on late trains and the last one was particularly safe, always packed with people. And her car was at the station. All of which was true.

But she was having such a lovely time; they were in Mon Plaisir, in Covent Garden, and its warm, golden charm, its wonderful food, its pretty young waiters had relaxed her totally. She had been horribly nervous, of course. She had no idea what you wore to a London restaurant these days—studying the fashion magazines all week, it seemed to her shorts, high boots, and a sou’wester would have been just as appropriate as a little black dress. What had happened to clothes? Why didn’t she know about them? As Fergus so clearly would.

She had gone down to Caroline B to buy herself something, but Jilly Bradford hadn’t been there and she didn’t trust the taste of the rather aggressively middle-aged woman who was standing in for her and who had none of Jilly’s taste and chic. She bought some tops, all of which she thought would go with a black crepe suit she called her Doubt Suit (when in doubt, wear it), but somehow none of them did. At six o’clock, when she should have been in the bath, she was frantically ironing a cream silk shirt, which was five years old. Fergus told her she looked lovely and she tried to believe him. He was, of course, looking wonderful in a cream linen suit and black silk shirt, which made her feel more dowdy than ever.

But she stopped worrying about her clothes after about three minutes. Fergus had been absolutely sweet all evening, attentive, flattering, and amusing (why did he like her, why?), making her laugh, making her make him laugh (how did he do that?), asking her opinion very seriously on whether he should buy a flat he was considering in Putney.

“Don’t ask me,” she said, laughing, “I don’t know anything about London property. Of course, if I get this job, I’ll have to.”

“Ah,” he said, smiling at her, “but you have huge common sense, and I can’t afford this flat, not really, not at the moment, anyway.”

“Then don’t buy it.”

“I knew you’d say that,” he said.

“So why ask me?”

“I thought I could talk you round and convince myself at the same time. It is absolutely beautiful, right on the river, and with a little roof garden—well, more of a balcony really. You’d love it, Clio.”

She had pondered the relevance of this briefly, and decided, rather sadly, that it was a figure of speech.

He then moved on to all the shows in the West End: What had she seen, what would she like to see?

“
My Fair Lady
,” she said promptly, and then realised how hopelessly suburban she must sound and blushed.

“Me too,” he said. “So shall we go together? I would also love to see
Les Mis
,” he went on. “See how up-to-date I am?”

Clio had been afraid he was just being kind again, humouring her, and said she’d like it too, nonetheless.

“And
Chicago
.”

“Then we have a busy time ahead of us,” he said, and glanced at his watch. Now he was bored, she thought, checking on how much longer the evening had to be. But, “It’s getting late,” he said. And that was when he said he didn’t like the idea of her being on the train.

So should she say it, or not? That she didn’t have to catch the train at all; but how, exactly? What did she say? She sighed, without meaning to; then, as he looked at her, said, “I must go to the loo. Excuse me.”

She was a while, tidying up her face, spraying herself with perfume, studying herself in her middle-aged suit; when she came out, there was a girl at the table, sitting in her place, a beautiful girl, with a perfectly carved die-straight bob, wearing a silk wraparound dress. She was sitting sideways on the chair and Clio could see her perfect legs and the high heels of her silver sandals; she glanced down at her own black court shoes and wanted to run away. Probably he had told this girl to come and meet him there. “This woman I’m having dinner with has to leave at eleven,” he would have said, “get back to the suburbs, we can go on somewhere then.”

She took a deep breath, went over to the table.

“Clio, this is Joy. Joy Mattingly. She and I are old workmates, aren’t we, darling?”

“We certainly are,” she said, smiling at him, and then up at Clio. “The fun we’ve had, Fergus, eh?” Her voice was rather deep, with just a touch of an Irish accent; she picked a sugar lump out of the bowl, dipped it in Fergus’s coffee, and licked at it slowly. Clio watched her, transfixed.

“Well, I must go,” Joy said, standing up slowly; she was incredibly tall. “See you around, Fergus darling. Have fun.”

He stood as she left and kissed her, and then sat down again, gesturing at Clio’s chair.

“Sorry.”

“No, no,” she said, “don’t be silly. But I must go, Fergus, it’s late and—”

“And you’ll miss your train,” he said, and his voice was very flat. “Of course. I’ll see you to a cab. Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

“Of course I will,” she said.

“Right,” said Fergus, and she saw him blow a kiss at Joy across the restaurant and felt more miserable than ever, “let’s find you a cab.”

And when one pulled up almost instantly, he said quite briskly, “Right, well, safe journey, Clio, I’ve so enjoyed it. We must do it again sometime.”

He hurried back into the restaurant. Clio sat staring at the crowded streets, at all the happy couples in it, holding hands, laughing, their arms round each other, and found it quite hard not to cry.

Inside the restaurant, a depressed Fergus was telling a patently bored Joy Mattingly that he feared Clio, so brilliantly clever, so obviously successful in her career, found him frivolous and rather uninteresting.

“I don’t usually admire clever women, but she is something quite, quite different,” he said, ordering them both a large brandy. “It’s the combination of brains and beauty; it’s a very rare thing. Well, it’s clearly not to be. I had my hopes, but…”

He sighed and drained the glass and then refused Joy’s invitation to join her and her party at Annabel’s. She stared at him; she had known Fergus for many years and she had never yet known him turn down an opportunity to network.

He must be in love.

Chapter 33

         “No, young man, I can’t tell you that. Honour among thieves and so on.”

Teddy Buchanan’s face was flushed as he drained his second glass of port. God, this had been a lot of money for nothing, Nick thought.

“Teddy, I only want a name.”

“Only a name! You boys never give away your sources, do you? Don’t start asking us to do it for you.”

Unless it suits you, thought Nick, unless you want to land someone in it, or start a new plot, or fuel an old fire. Then you tell us anything. “No,” he said, “no, of course not.”

“Still, it’s been a jolly good dinner. Thank you.”

“We couldn’t possibly agree to that,” said Helen. She was flushed and on the verge of tears. “Not possibly. Could we, Jim?”

“No, we couldn’t. She’s too young and too vulnerable. And we don’t want any more publicity for her of that sort.”

Fergus had expected them to be upset. In a way, he was impressed. Not many people would turn down three million dollars. In a way he even agreed with them. But…

“Helen, Jim, this is a lot of money,” he said gently.

“We know that,” said Helen. “It’s part of what we don’t like.”

“Yes, but think about it. Please. Just for a moment. Any dreams you might have had for Kate, this could buy. Any travelling, university education, all that sort of thing. And what are you going to tell her?”

“Well—can’t we say they didn’t want her?”

“Not really. Think about it. Look…” He hesitated. “What do you think she’d say later in life, if she found out you’d turned this down without consulting her? She’d be very angry. Rightly so, many would say.”

“Yes, but we have to think what’s best for her now,” said Helen. “She’s very vulnerable. She’s a child, Fergus, not an adult…”

After he had gone, Helen and Jim studied the pictures of Kate. “This is very difficult,” said Helen.

“Martha? Martha Hartley?”

It was Martin Farrow, head of publicity at Centre Forward House. They needed to talk to her urgently. A request had come through for her to appear on
Question Time
that week; Clare Short had pulled out at the last minute and they’d like Martha.

“They say you acquitted yourself extremely well at the lunch at the studios. They said you were very articulate and opinionated. They want you, Martha.”

“Oh, God.” Why hadn’t she just sat there like a pudding, not saying anything? She felt absolutely terrified. “They should have Janet Frean,” she said. “Obviously. Please, tell them to ask her.”

Farrow said, slightly awkwardly, “We did suggest her, of course. But they said they’d rather have you. They said you were a new face, and they’ve already got two political heavies. They’d seen the piece in
The Times
on Saturday, and we sent some tapes of you on local radio and your show reel and—it’s you they want.”

“Well, I can’t do it,” said Martha flatly. “I’m frantically busy here, and anyway, I don’t want to. And I couldn’t, I’d be useless.”

“Martha, I keep telling you: they think you’ll be marvellous. They know you’ll be marvellous, they’ve heard you talk!”

“That’s quite different. I wasn’t nervous then. And what would Janet say?”

That was the worst thing—too hideous to contemplate. How Janet must be feeling: turned down for
Question Time
, the most desirable slot on television for a politician, in favour of her. Not Janet Frean, experienced, brilliant professional, but Martha Hartley, inexperienced amateur. She’d want to kill her. She’d want to—Oh, God, what might she want to do? What might she do?

“I can’t do it,” she said. “Sorry.”

Jack phoned, dismissing Martha’s decision to turn down
Question Time
as nonsense. Chad called moments later, reminding Martha how most people would give their eyeteeth for the chance she had. Mary Norton refused to accept Martha’s insistence that she couldn’t go on. Nick wanted a quote about her avoiding the program, then Paul Quenell and even her own mother phoned to scold her.

The only person in the world who didn’t seem to want to talk to her was Janet. She had called her at least five times. It was hardly surprising. What was she going to do?

“Martha, dear, this is Janet. I hear they’ve asked you to do
Question Time
. I think that’s marvellous. Of course you must do it. As long as you really think you can cope. It is very frightening. No one knows that better than I—I’ve done it a few times. Oh, but I’m sure you can. Once you get going, it’s absolutely fine. What? No, of course I don’t mind. I’m relieved it’s not me, as a matter of fact. I’ll so enjoy watching you. Now, if you want any tips, we could have a little session, maybe the night before, something like that.”

She didn’t mind! She didn’t mind! It was all right. God, she was so nice. So generous. Well, in that case—just maybe.

“Is this Kate? Kate Tarrant? This is Jed. Mr. Corelli’s assistant.”

“Oh, hi.”

“He wants to know where you got your jeans. He made a note and then forgot.”

“Harvey Nichols,” said Kate.

“Harvey Nichols! Well, that is just wonderful. We’ll go there tomorrow. Did you like the pictures?”

“I haven’t seen them yet.”

“Oh, I sent a few over to your agent.”

“Yeah? Well, I haven’t seen him today. I’ve been out shopping.”

“Oh, OK. I heard they were
very
pleased. The Smith people. You must be
so
excited.”

She ended the call and immediately called Fergus.

Kate was in upset mode: flushed, brilliant-eyed, hands clenched. “Thanks for telling me!”

“Telling you what, Kate?”

“You know. About the contract. Fergus said he’d discussed it with you, that I should ask you about it.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“And you didn’t think to talk to me about it?”

“We were waiting for the right moment.”

“Well,” said Kate, “here it is.”

“Your father’s not here.”

“I don’t care.”

“Well, I do,” said Helen, struggling to sound firm. “This is an important matter and I don’t want to discuss it without your father.”

Kate walked out of the house, slamming the door so hard the windows drummed in response.

The waiter eased a salmon steak onto the plate, poured the juices from the pan over it, all with great care, and then leaning over Nick in order to place the vegetables carefully on the table, said very quietly, “Mr. Marshall, there’s something in your jacket pocket.”

“Thanks. Thanks very much.”

Nick was lunching in the press dining room with one of the boys from the Foreign Office; he excused himself as soon as he decently could and walked slowly out of the dining room. His jacket was hanging on a coatrack. He picked it up casually, went into the gents’, and sat down in one of the stalls. This was not the first time this had happened: it was a classic way of imparting information discreetly. But it was always exciting—he felt as if he was in a miniseries or something.

There was a note folded neatly in the inside pocket of the jacket, marked Confidential.

“I’d love to have a chat with you sometime,” it said, “about Centre Forward and its future. I’ve got some stuff you’d find really interesting. Maybe you could call me on my mobile.”

It was signed Janet Frean.