Sheer Abandon (84 page)

Only, of course it wasn’t a baby: it was a cluster of cells. She was—what was she? Three weeks pregnant. Three and a half weeks. Whatever it was, it was pinprick size. A tiny, pinprick-size cluster of cells. It was not a baby. And she could get rid of it. Quickly and easily.

She must get rid of it. Obviously.

What on earth would Nick do or say, if he knew? Nick, who still couldn’t contemplate any sort of commitment, not even living together, certainly not getting married, how would he react to the news that he was a father? Well, not a father, but going to be a father. It was absolutely unthinkable.

She decided to go and see Clio.

Clio—of course—gave her all the wrong advice.

Like she shouldn’t do anything too hasty. Like she should wait a few more days, these tests weren’t entirely reliable, whatever they said, it was very early days. Like was she really sure it was Nick’s. Like she ought to tell Nick.

“Tell Nick! Clio, are you mad? Of course I can’t tell Nick. He’d be horrified, he’d run away, he’d hate it, he’d hate me. No, I must just have a termination as soon as possible and—”

“Jocasta, I think you should tell him. If you’re really pregnant and it’s really his, you should tell him.”

“But why?”

“Because it’s his baby too. It’s wrong not to. It’s a terrible thing to do, deciding to get rid of a baby, without telling its father.”

“Clio, you don’t know Nick and I do. He would not want a baby. He doesn’t even want
me
. And if you’re even contemplating telling him yourself, you’d better just stop right away, at once, you’ve got to promise me not to, promise, Clio, all right, now, at once, on your life—” She was crying now; Clio went over to her, put her arms round her.

“Of course I won’t tell him. I promise, on my life, I won’t.”

“Never, ever?”

“Never ever. Come on, sit down, have a cup of tea.”

“Coffee, please. Nice and strong.”

“Fine.” She went into the kitchen; Jocasta followed her, sat down at the table.

“You might not be, you know. When was your period due?”

“Last Thursday.”

“That’s a very short time. It could all be a mistake. You don’t feel…funny or anything? Sick, or tired or—”

“Absolutely not,” said Jocasta.

“I should wait a few more days, then do another test. Go and see your doctor, or your gynaecologist, see what she says. Various things can affect these tests—I presume you’re still taking the pill. Here’s your coffee.”

Jocasta took one sip of it, put it down, made a face.

“God, that tastes disgusting. What have you put in it, Clio? It makes me want to heave.”

Clio looked at her very soberly, in silence. Then she said, “Jocasta, I’m sorry, but I would say that rather clinches it. You definitely are pregnant.”

Sarah Kershaw confirmed Clio’s diagnosis.

She had been Jocasta’s gynaecologist for years; she was in her early forties, high-powered, sympathetic.

“I’ll do a lab test, of course. We can do it now, this afternoon. Think you can pee?”

“God, yes,” said Jocasta. “I never stop.”

“That’s another symptom, I’m afraid. Sorry, Jocasta. We’ll do the test, anyway. Now, what do you want to do about it?”

“I want to have a termination. And I want to be sterilised at the same time.”

“That’s a very drastic decision. You’re upset, your hormones are in a state of total upheaval—”

“I’m not upset, Mrs. Kershaw. Or in a state of upheaval, actually. I feel very calm. That’s what I want to do.”

“Well, it’s your decision of course. Have you—talked it over carefully with your husband?”

“No. We’re getting divorced. So no point.”

“He might feel differently.”

“What about? The divorce?”

“Obviously I can’t tell you that. I meant about the baby.”

Jocasta was silent; there was no way she was going to tell Sarah Kershaw that the baby was not her husband’s, that it had been conceived in adultery, one dizzy afternoon.

“Look,” Sarah Kershaw said, “this is your decision, obviously. You’re clearly distressed about your marriage, but has the marriage actually broken down? Irretrievably?”

“Sorry,” said Jocasta, “I haven’t come to discuss my marriage.”

“I know that. But even if you don’t realise it, you’re not thinking entirely clearly. Perhaps not the best way to be taking extremely important decisions.”

“I’m thinking very clearly. I’m feeling perfectly well. I don’t understand all this fuss about pregnancy making you ill. I haven’t felt sick once and I’ve got loads of energy.”

“Well, you’re very lucky. I’m happy for you. Even so, believe me, you’re not quite yourself. And this is a bigger decision than perhaps you actually realise. Especially the sterilisation.”

“Mrs. Kershaw, please. I don’t want bloody counselling. I don’t need it. I want a termination and I want to be sterilised. What do I have to do?”

“If I was just having the termination,” she told Clio, “I could have what they called a con-op, first a consultation, then the termination, all on the same day. But as I want to be sterilised, they’ll counsel me, as they call it, and then book me in for another day. But there’s no problem. I can do it.”

It sounded terrible to Clio. “What did she say about telling the father? Does he have a right to know?”

She knew he didn’t, but she was hoping Jocasta’s mind might have been at least alerted to the possibility.

“She said I didn’t have to, and he couldn’t stop me having the termination. It’s totally up to me. The doctors and me. All I need is a legal justification and of course I’ve got one. ‘Change of life circumstances,’ it’s called. So in about ten days, with luck. Will you come with me?”

“I don’t think I can,” said Clio and slammed the phone down. She found it hard to believe that, even in her manically self-absorbed state, Jocasta could be asking her to go with her to get rid of her baby. Could be so grossly insensitive not to have remembered Clio’s grief on the subject of her own infertility. It hurt almost more than she would have believed.

The phone rang again almost at once: she picked it up, feeling remorseful. She had misjudged her, Jocasta had phoned to apologise…

“Clio, don’t know what happened then. Look, I’ve heard from Gideon, he wants to see me, discuss things. I’m absolutely petrified, he wants me to go round to the house tomorrow afternoon, can you come up afterwards?”

“No,” said Clio, “I can’t. I do have a life of my own, you know, Jocasta. I can’t actually drop everything, just whenever it suits you. Sorry.”

There was a silence: then Jocasta said, her voice absolutely astonished, “OK, OK. Easy. I thought you’d want to help.”

Clio said she was getting a bit tired of helping, and put the phone down for the second time.

She was a fine friend, Jocasta thought. When she really needed her, where was she? Having a hissy fit in Guildford. Well, too bad. She could manage without her. She could manage without anyone. She was just fine. She was getting her life back. As soon as she’d had this…thing done next week, she would go to see Chris Pollock. She couldn’t imagine how she could ever have thought she could give up her job. And her freedom and her independence. She must have been completely mad. Gideon had driven her mad.

She wondered what on earth he was going to say to her tomorrow. She hadn’t been making it up when she told Clio she was terrified. But it had been a nice and very friendly e-mail; she really felt she should agree to see him.

Nick was still in Somerset. He had been showing off to the children when they were all out riding one afternoon, and fell off, breaking his radius. An extremely painful four hours later, he was back at the house with his arm in a sling and ordered not to drive, or indeed do anything much, for two or three weeks.

“You are an idiot,” his mother said, “galloping off like that over the moor. I bet it was a rabbit hole, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, I think so,” said Nick humbly. “Sorry, Mummy.”

“I’ll get you some tea. And they gave you painkillers, I presume.”

“Yes. But it’s wearing off already. I couldn’t have a whiskey, could I?”

“I think that’s a terrible idea, on top of painkillers. Go on up to bed.”

“Thanks. You couldn’t bring my mobile, could you? I must let them know at the office.”

“Of course. Although I really can’t think it could matter much if you’re not there for a bit. Those dreadful people you write about, they’re all away. There was a picture of the Blairs this morning, in Tuscany I think, or was it the Bahamas? I don’t know why they can’t holiday in this country.”

She brought Nick his mobile with the tea; he checked it to see if there was a message from Jocasta. That was the real reason he wanted it. There wasn’t—again. God, he missed her. God, it hurt. Much more than his arm.

Jocasta drove up to Kensington Palace Gardens. She had dressed very carefully, in a short black linen shift that was just slightly too large for her. She knew her boobs were slightly bigger than they had been and she was terrified Gideon would notice. Notice and guess.

She knocked on the door tentatively. Mrs. Hutching opened it, smiled at her rather awkwardly.

“Hello, Mrs. Keeble.”

“Hi,” said Jocasta. She had tried to get Mrs. Hutching to call her Jocasta; it had never worked, and now the poor woman was embarrassed, whatever name she used.

“Mr. Keeble isn’t here yet. He asked me to give you tea in the garden room. He said he wouldn’t be long.”

“Lovely. Thank you.”

As she walked through the hall, she glanced at the letter rack; there were two postcards in it. Two sepia-tinted postcards. She pulled one of them out. It was a picture of Exmoor and it was Nick’s writing.

“This is for me,” she said. “Why didn’t you send it on?”

“I don’t think it is for you, Mrs. Keeble. It’s addressed to a Mrs. Cook. It’s certainly this address. I thought perhaps one of the agency cleaners we have in August might claim it.”

“It’s OK. It’s from a friend of mine. A sort of—joke.”

“Oh, I see. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s OK.”

OK! When she had been waiting for this for two and a half very long weeks. Why hadn’t she thought of this: of course Nick would have sent it here, he thought she was living here.

Dear Mrs. Cook,

Thank you so much for a very pleasant afternoon. I enjoyed it enormously. I hope your health has improved and that you are able to get out and about in this lovely summer weather. It is wonderfully beautiful down here; I know you don’t admire the countryside, but the moors are amazingly lovely. The air is so very clean and clear; I wish I had been able to persuade you to join me here occasionally in the past.

Yrs, with every good wish,
James Butler

The other card was slightly less enigmatic.

Dear Mrs. Cook,

I am worried that you might not have got my last card and hope you continue in good health. Do let me know.

James Butler

She slipped them into her bag, feeling much happier, and went into the garden room to wait for Gideon—who was actually very nice, friendly, and courteous. He said he was sorry things had got so bad between them, that he had never intended it and he saw himself as at least partly to blame. He had been doing a lot of thinking, and if she wanted a divorce, then he would not contest it, however sad he might feel. He was sure they could come to an amicable arrangement over a settlement; she must let him know…

At this point, Jocasta could bear it no longer. The old Gideon had come back: kind, gentle, charming. How did it happen, where did the demons come from? Clearly she released them in him; it wasn’t a very nice thought.

“I don’t want a settlement, Gideon,” she said. “I don’t want anything. Nothing at all. Really. I couldn’t possibly take any money from you.”

“Of course you could.”

“I couldn’t. Honestly. I really don’t want anything.”

“Jocasta—”

“No, Gideon, I don’t. I feel bad enough already.”

There was a silence, then he said, “Well, you may change your mind. You look tired—are you all right?”