Sheer Abandon (82 page)

“Not at all. Pleasure.”

“They look expensive, I’ll take great care of them.”

There was a slightly awkward silence. “Let’s choose,” Jocasta said, “then we can relax.”

“Glass of wine, young Kate?” said Josh.

“Yes please.” She grinned at him. “It’s really weird, you calling me young Kate. It makes you sound like some elderly uncle. Which you’re not.”

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s cool.”

Another awkward silence. Jocasta hadn’t expected this, had expected Kate would chatter away as she usually did.

“I finally decided about the contract,” she said, into the silence. “Did Mum tell you? Or Fergus?”

“No, what did you decide?”

“Not to do it. Now I’m really worried it was the wrong decision. I mean, it’s just so much money to say no to. Think what it could have done for us all, me and Mum and Dad. And Juliet, of course. She’s going to be very expensive with her music.”

“Well, it wouldn’t have done anything for you,” said Josh, “not if you hate it as much as you say. And I’m sure your mum and dad would rather take care of everything, anyway. They wouldn’t like being indebted to you. Uncomfortable for them, I’d say.”

“I hadn’t thought of that. Yes, of course. If there’d been no question of that money, they’d be finding a way to pay for her somehow, wouldn’t they?”

“Of course.”

She smiled at him. “Thanks for that. I feel better now.”

“And
Style
?” said Jocasta. “When’s that shoot?”

“I told Fergus I couldn’t do it.”

“Why? Kate, they’ll have everything booked.”

“Yeah, I know. Don’t you start. I just don’t feel I can do it, I feel so down still.”

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry. What sort of down?”

“Well—you know.” She looked at Josh, clearly uncomfortable at discussing it in front of him. “The usual. Like I said to you, no further forward really.”

“No?” said Josh. “But you know who—who your mother was now.”

“Well, yeah. But she’s, well, she’s gone, hasn’t she?”

Jocasta decided this was getting too heavy too soon. She changed the subject.

“I’m thinking of going back to work.”

“Really? Why?”

“I miss it.”

“I thought you would,” said Kate, rather complacently. “You’re much too clever to be sitting around all day, waiting for your husband to come home.”

Josh laughed. “Beatrice would agree with you. She doesn’t wait for me, either.”

“No? What does she do?”

“She’s a barrister.”

“So she must be pretty clever.”

“She is. Cleverer than me, I can tell you that.”

“I’m sure she’s not,” said Kate politely. “But anyway, Jocasta, that’s really cool. I mean, I’m sure Gideon wouldn’t have expected you to give it up for long—and it’s not as if you’ve got a baby, or anything.”

“No,” said Jocasta quickly, “absolutely not!”

“Would you like to have one?”

“Oh, I don’t think so, no.”

“What, never?” Kate was looking at Jocasta interestedly. “Because you’d be a very good mother, I think.”

“Now why do you say that?” asked Josh.

“Well, she’s so cool. She wouldn’t fuss. And she’s so sympathetic, always knows how you feel. And she’s fun. My mum’s great, but she’s a bit…old. She doesn’t know what’s going on.”

“But if Jocasta did have a baby, she’d be old too, when it was your age,” said Josh. He was so genuinely interested in the conversation, he had almost forgotten why they were there.

“Yeah, I suppose. But I think Jocasta’d stay young.”

“Well, I’m not going to have a baby and that’s that,” said Jocasta.

There was another silence, then: “Gideon’s got a daughter about my age, hasn’t he? She must be pretty spoilt.”

“Well, in some ways. In others, far from it. He never sees her, she lives with her mother, when she’s not at her boarding school.”

“Were you two spoilt?” Kate asked, looking at them. “I mean, your dad’s pretty rich, isn’t he?”

“Not like Gideon is,” said Jocasta, “and we weren’t spoilt, no. I suppose we had everything we wanted. But our parents were divorced and we—
I
—never saw my dad. My dear little brother did, though.”

“Yeah?” said Kate, turning to Josh. “And do you get on with your dad?”

“Oh, you know. OK.”

“I think that’s awful,” said Kate. “I can’t imagine being sent away like that, not seeing your parents every day. I mean, mine are gruesome in some ways, but we’re all together and we know what we’re all on about at least. My mum has this thing about us eating together and I’m just beginning to see the point of it. I didn’t when I was younger. What sort of a dad are you?” she asked Josh. “I mean, you’ve got kids, would you send them away to school? Probably you would, I s’pose.”

Josh took a very deep breath; if ever the Almighty had delivered a cue, this was it.

“What sort of a dad am I?” he said. “Well, that’s a very interesting question. I try to be a good one. I like to be with my children a lot and I don’t want them to be sent away to school. Um—Jocasta, what sort of a dad would you say I was?”

Jocasta had heard the cue, heard the deep breath also. “Pretty good, I’d say,” she said. “Really pretty good. Now—Kate, when you’ve finished that, let’s go, shall we? Go for a walk or something?”

She looked at them, clearly puzzled by this swift ending to the meal; she had been looking forward to the pudding.

They called for the bill; Josh paid it in silence. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so frightened, not even when he had been left at his prep school for the first time, at the age of seven. He led the way outside.

“I’ve got my car,” he said, “let’s go down to the river, shall we?”

“Cool car,” said Kate. It was a Saab convertible and he put the hood down. At the river, he parked it, rather recklessly, on a yellow line, on a corner.

“It’ll be OK,” he said. “Come on, let’s walk.”

He pulled Kate’s arm through his; Jocasta did the same. Kate looked at them both and smiled.

“We look like a family,” she said.

“Funny you should say that,” said Jocasta.

“Why?”

“Well—Kate, this is going to be a shock.” They were on the river walk now. “Let’s sit down,” said Jocasta, indicating a seat. “Come on. Kate, darling, hold my hand. Josh, this is your story. Off you go.”

Kate sat in silence listening, looking up at him intently and occasionally at Jocasta. He stumbled along: it was difficult. He told her that he and Martha had been quite close, had done some travelling together—he and Jocasta had agreed that a one-night stand was not an attractive notion—but that afterwards he had moved on to Australia, and she hadn’t been able to get in touch with him.

“No mobiles, you see. All we had were poste restante addresses, and nobody knew where anybody was going to be, or when.”

“And I think, then, she decided to manage on her own,” said Jocasta, “she was a very independent lady. That much you must have learnt. And as I told you the other day, she felt she couldn’t tell her parents.”

“That’s so weird,” Kate said, “I’ve thought about that so much. About feeling it was worse than just—just leaving your baby, I don’t understand it.”

“I know,” said Josh, “it does seem jolly odd. I think you just have to accept it. They might be lovely people, they are lovely people, but Martha obviously felt they wouldn’t have been able to stand it, the shame and so on, because he’s a vicar.”

“This is so much the sort of thing I wanted to talk to her about,” said Kate sadly. “Only she would have been able to help me understand, only she could have made sense of it. And why didn’t she come forward when the story was in the paper? None of it makes sense to me still. And what did I do, the one time I met her? I just shouted at her and said all I wanted to know was who my father was.”

“And—what did she say?” said Josh.

“She said she couldn’t tell me. She said he—
you
—didn’t know and she didn’t think it was right to tell you after all these years.”

There was a silence; then Kate said, “I was shouting at her. A lot. I wish I hadn’t now. And she said she wished I’d let her try and explain. She said, ‘Could you just listen to me, for a little while?’ I said no and left in a strop. I wish I had,” she said and started to cry, “let her try. It might have helped.”

They all sat there for a while, staring at the river, then she said, “The thing is, though, that whatever she said, it comes down to the same thing: she was ashamed of me. Ashamed of having me. That isn’t very nice to know.”

“Well, I’m not,” said Josh and put his arm round her, kissed the top of her head. “I’m very proud.”

When she got home, Helen and Jim were reading. Helen smiled at her; Jim didn’t look up from his paper.

“How was it, dear?”

“It was—fine. Yes. I s’pose Jocasta told you, he’s my dad. Her brother Josh.”

“Yes, yes, she did. But we thought they should tell you. How do you feel about that? Oh, dear, what a silly question.”

“No, it’s not. When I’ve got used to the idea, I think I’ll be quite pleased. He’s nice. I mean really nice. And he came to tell me straightaway, the minute he knew. I think that’s lovely. Not like her. Still,” she added, “I even feel a bit better about her now.”

“What’s he do, then?” said Jim. “This paragon?”

“Jim,” said Helen warningly.

“He works for his dad. He doesn’t like it much. He wishes he’d been a photographer.”

“His dad seems to pay him plenty of money,” said Jim. “Nice car, that.”

“Yes, it’s cool.”

“Well, I expect you’ll be seeing a lot of him now,” said Jim, “now you’ve found him.”

“Quite a lot, I expect, yes. I hope so, anyway.”

She looked at Jim and then went over to him and wriggled onto his knee, put her arms round his neck.

“He is very nice,” she said, “and he’s quite good-looking and I can see he’s fun. But you’re my dad. You so are still my dad.”

Chapter 43

         “And what happened exactly?” The doctor looked anxious: for a doctor, very anxious.

“She fainted. I heard a thud and rushed upstairs and—there she was. Out cold on the floor. She must have hit her head as she fell.”

“Well, her pulse is rather low, and of course, where she hit her head there’s going to be a nasty bruise. But I don’t think she’s concussed. She’s got very…thin,” he added. “Worryingly so.”

“I know. She’s just not eating. It’s a nightmare, Douglas. I’ve tried everything. It’s as if she—”

“Doesn’t want to go on? Poor Grace. I don’t know how you’re standing it, yourself.” Douglas Cummings was of their generation, had looked after all their children.

“Well,” Peter Hartley sighed, “I’m not too sure, either. I suppose one just does. But Grace really isn’t coping. And she has this obsession that I have my faith to sustain me, which she doesn’t. She says she’s lost hers. That it’s easier for me. And maybe she’s right. I wouldn’t say easier is the word, though. A little less dreadful, perhaps. Anyway, that makes her angry. And she’s feeling totally bereft. She did adore Martha. Mothers don’t have favourites, but—”

“If she did, then for Grace, poor soul, it would have been Martha,” said Dr. Cummings. “Well, she was an exceptional young woman.”

“Indeed she was. I find it so hard to bear, you know, all that brilliance, just lost, nothing to show for her life. The only time Grace cheers up at all is when young Ed comes round. She sees him as a link with Martha. But he’s gone back to London, of course, so—Oh God—I just don’t know what to do for her, how to help her…”

“I’m afraid,” said Dr. Cummings, “that time is the only cure. Although we must try to get some nourishment into her. Self-starvation is one of the hardest things to deal with. Whatever the age of the patient,” he added. “Try to get her to take one of the food supplements. I’ll put my thinking cap on, I certainly don’t want to hospitalise her. But—”

“Oh, dear God, no. Please don’t even think about it!”

“I’m afraid we might have to,” said Dr. Cummings.

After he had gone, Peter went upstairs and looked at Grace. She was asleep now; her face oddly pinched-looking, an ugly bruise forming on her forehead where she had hit her head. She looked very small, almost shrivelled; she was also cold. He fetched another duvet from the spare room and laid that gently over her, then decided to sit with her for a while. She had seemed confused while the doctor was there; he didn’t want her to wake alone.

She had always been so full of life. Even when her back had hurt her so much, she had struggled on, insisting she was fine, refusing to let it win, as she put it. She had taken too many painkillers, he kept telling her she shouldn’t, but she had said it was the lesser of two evils. Nothing had ever got the better of her, until now. She sighed, opened her eyes. He smiled at her.

“Hello, Grace.”

She didn’t smile back; she just stared at him, rather blankly, and then turned on her side, away from him.

“Would you like some tea, dear?”

“No thank you,” she said, very politely. “I don’t want anything. Just leave me alone, Peter, please.”

Clio felt irritable. Fergus and she had arranged a little holiday in Italy, towards the end of August, just a long weekend, really, but she had been looking forward to it so much, a proper stretch of time together, to enjoy each other, away from all the hysteria of Jocasta and Gideon and Josh and Kate. Sometimes she wondered if she shouldn’t stay peacefully in Guildford, working as a GP. It might not be exactly the sharp end, but it wasn’t one long exhausting drama, either.

She was due to start at the Royal Bayswater on October 1; plenty of time to work out her notice, put her flat on the market, find somewhere in London to live. And go on a little holiday.

Only Fergus had called and said he might not be able to make it.

“Oh Fergus! Why on earth not?”

“I might just have got a very hot new client. Which could run for several weeks.”

“And that takes precedence over our holiday? Great!”

“Clio, I’m sorry, but I have to be practical. I don’t have any money in reserve. If I don’t work, I don’t get paid. I haven’t done at all well lately, you know. Kate’s let me down—”

“Fergus! I think that’s stretching things a bit. She’s a little girl. She’s been through no end of an upheaval. She needs support, not pressure.”

“Of course. But it is difficult, you know: you arrange things, and we’re not talking chicken feed here, this is big money, important assignments, and everything goes hang on the whim of a sixteen-year-old.”

“Exactly. A sixteen-year-old. Anyway, who or what is the client?”

“Oh it’s another rent-boy story. Been totally screwed in both senses by his manager, he’s a singer, and now the bastard’s—”

“Fergus, please don’t go on.
That’s
what’s coming between us and Italy?”

“Yes. It’s work, Clio. I know you despise it, but it earns me my crust and, as I’ve said before, I don’t know any other way. I can’t, unfortunately, get a highly paid job as a hospital consultant, and be a pillar of the community, as you can.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Clio, “don’t start that!” And she put the phone down.

Half an hour later, she rang to apologise, but got the answering machine. She decided not to leave a message.

Fergus was in a financial mess. He was seriously out of pocket over Kate. Gideon’s promise to pick up the tab until she began to make money for him had not been honoured, and though he knew Gideon had simply forgotten, Fergus didn’t feel able to ask him for it. He had, the last time he’d checked, about seven hundred pounds in the company bank account, and a large overdraft on his personal one. He’d have to get an extension to the overdraft, simply to pay the rent. He felt angry with Clio, and bitter at her judgmental attitude towards him and his work; and he was buggered if he was going to run back to her just because she’d snapped her fingers.

She rang him again the next morning. “I’m sorry,” she said, “about yesterday.”

“That’s all right.”

“Look, if I pay for the holiday would that help?”

Fergus felt a flood of rage towards her. “No, Clio, it wouldn’t. In the first place, I still need to be around, I’ve got this client now, and in the second, I’ve no wish to be beholden to you.”

“That’s ridiculous! I’d like to pay for you.”

“Well, I wouldn’t like it. However kindly it’s meant. I’m trying to run a business, Clio. I know you have trouble recognising it as such, and you see it as little better than running a brothel—”

“Of course I don’t!”

“Well, that’s the message that comes over very loud and clear. You obviously don’t realise it. So let’s cool it for a bit, OK?”

“Absolutely OK. I just wanted to relieve you of feeling you had to put any pressure on Kate.”

“That’s a filthy thing to say!” he said and rang off.

Jocasta was wandering aimlessly round the supermarket when it hit her. Hit her with the force of a rather large truck. And left her almost physically reeling.

She was feeling very miserable. It was the middle of August and everyone was away; she couldn’t have seen any of her old friends if she’d wanted to. She really must make contact with them all in September; she couldn’t avoid them forever. Even if it did mean admitting to everyone that her marriage was over.

Even Clio seemed to be avoiding her; she had been rather odd, almost distant, said she wasn’t coming to London this weekend, when Jocasta had asked her, and hadn’t invited her down to Guildford, either.

She had heard nothing from Nick: not even the promised postcard. Every day she told herself she’d ring him in the morning and every morning she didn’t. She mustn’t. She wasn’t going to appear to be chasing him.

She had heard nothing from Gideon, either, not even from his solicitors; but there had been a picture of him, in the
Evening Standard
, the day before, smiling and looking rather pleased with himself. He looked a lot happier than she was. The caption said he was going on a business trip to the East Coast of America. She had thought of the houses she had lined up for him to look at there and just for a moment she felt sad instead of angry. She could have gone with him and they could have seen them at the same time, maybe even chosen one; that would have given her something to do.

And then the really dreadful thought came, that perhaps even now it wasn’t too late. She had crushed it hastily, but it had still disturbed her. She must be feeling very bad.

Come on, Jocasta, concentrate. Coffee, tea, better get some milk; the last lot had been off. Bread, got that. Toiletries—shampoo, soap, Tampax—and that was when it hit her.

Now, this was absurd. One day, one day late: well, two. Actually, she could remember that last time so clearly, it was the night she had walked out on Gideon, that terrible Thursday. Two days was nothing. Nothing.

Actually, though, it was, when you were so regular you could literally set the clock by it. Well, that was the pill of course. No need to worry, she was on the pill. You didn’t get pregnant on the pill. You just didn’t. Unless you forgot to take it. Which she never, ever did, it was too important.

Or—and this was the second ramming by the truck—you had a stomach upset. Which she’d had. A truly terrible one. Throwing up, diarrhoea, the lot, for two days. And hadn’t even taken the bloody thing for one day. Actually, two. She decided there was no point, especially as she wasn’t having sex.

Only—she had, hadn’t she? Sex with Nick, amazing sex with Nick, a few days after the stomach upset, right bang in the middle of her cycle.

Oh God. Oh—my—God!

Calm down, Jocasta. You’re one day late. All right, two days late. It’s nothing. It happens sometimes. Maybe not to her, but to other people. So it could perfectly well happen to her too. That was all it was: she’d missed a period.

Anyway, no need to worry about it. She could do a test. You could do them on the very day your period was due, and it was something like ninety-eight percent accurate. She’d go to Boots, buy a test, take it home and it would be negative and then everything would be all right and her period would probably start straightaway.