Sheer Abandon (85 page)

“I’m absolutely fine,” she said quickly.

How on earth would he react if he knew she was pregnant? With another man’s baby, the ink on their marriage licence hardly dry? Or thought it might be his? It was terrifying. God, she was a disaster!

“Good. I would really like you to have something. So if you change your mind—”

“I won’t,” she said. “I know I won’t.”

“Well, at the very least take the clothes,” he said. “They are clogging up cupboard space and they don’t suit me at all.”

She smiled. “Oh, Gideon. This is so sad. We should just have had an affair.”

“But you didn’t want an affair,” he said, “you wanted a marriage. Come along, Jocasta, admit it.”

“I…admit it,” she said.

“But I encouraged you.”

“Yes, you did. And most of the time, it was great fun.”

“I’m glad you thought so,” he said. “I enjoyed it too. Most of it. Now drink up your tea, and then you must excuse me. I have to go back to the office. And before that I have to pick up some luggage. I’m—”

“Going away tomorrow,” she said and laughed. “Oh, Gideon. I’m so sorry. I behaved so badly.”

“I behaved badly also. And I am sorry for it. Well, it was a short marriage but mostly a merry one. Thank you for coming today. I just wanted us to part friends.”

“Friends it is,” she said and went over to his chair, bent to kiss him. “Goodbye, Gideon.”

“Goodbye, Jocasta. And I would be hugely grateful if the press didn’t hear of this just for a little while.”

“They won’t. I promise.”

They wouldn’t. The press getting hold of it was the last thing she wanted. Especially one member of the press.

Just the same, Nick had sent a postcard. Two postcards. And had clearly been thinking about her. That was nice.

The minute she got into her car, she called his mobile; it was not Nick who answered.

“Hello. Pattie Marshall. Can I help?”

“Oh, sorry, Mrs. Marshall. It’s Jocasta here, Jocasta Forbes.”

“Hello, Jocasta.” The voice was very cool; they had never liked each other. “I expect you’re wondering why I’m answering Nicholas’s phone. He’s broken his right radius—”

“What’s that?” Pattie always used medical terms; it had been one of the many things that got up Jocasta’s nose.

“It’s one of the bones in the forearm. He fell off a horse—bit of a shame. It isn’t serious, but he’s asleep at the moment, and he asked me to switch off his phone and I forgot.”

“I’m so sorry. So, he’s staying with you?”

“Yes, of course. I’m certainly not up in London with him.”

“Of course not. Please give him my best wishes. Tell him I’m sorry. And thank him for the postcards. When will he be back in London?”

“Oh, not for a couple of weeks, I should think. I’ll get him to call you.”

“Well, only if he—if he feels like it. Thank you.”

“And are you at home?”

“Yes,” she said, and then quickly, “tell him I’m at the Big House. He’ll know what I mean.”

“Very well.”

When Nick woke up, Pattie Marshall told him that Jocasta had called and sent her best wishes. And that she was staying at the Big House.

“She says you’ll know what that means.”

Nick did; it meant she was staying at the Big House—not leaving it. He’d lost her, again.

Chapter 44

         This time tomorrow it would be over. Just—over. She wouldn’t be pregnant anymore. Fantastic. She hadn’t really felt pregnant anyway; it had never been real. It had been a nonhappening. One missed period and now nearly another. That was all. She’d never felt sick, she’d never felt anything; people made an awful fuss about nothing, as far as she could see. And she certainly hadn’t felt emotional. Not in the least. She just wasn’t maternal; she didn’t have any maternal feelings. She’d have been a terrible mother.

Jocasta looked down at her stomach; it was totally flat. It was impossible to believe there was anything alive in there, certainly not a baby. A child. Hers and Nick’s child. Maybe it was all just a fantasy, something she’d imagined. But she’d done three tests altogether and Sarah Kershaw had done hers; there was no doubt. Nick’s baby was in there.

She wondered what on earth Nick would say if he knew she was pregnant. He’d be absolutely terrified. He’d want to just run away. And what if he knew she’d had a termination without telling him? Well, that was a bit—tricky. He might be cross. He might say he’d had a right to know. But he still wouldn’t want it. So it was certainly infinitely better he didn’t. Much better. He’d never know; the only person who did know was Clio, and she’d never tell. Nick was still down in Somerset: that was lucky. She was sorry he’d broken his arm, or whatever it was, but it was lucky.

Clio was still being weird, very cold and distant when she’d called her, not even interested in how Josh was getting on with Kate. She didn’t know what the matter with her was. She’d asked Fergus and he’d said he had no idea; he hadn’t spoken to her for a bit. He’d sounded quite down, but when she asked him if there was a problem, he said of course not. Obviously there was; they’d had a row or something. It would blow over.

Anyway, she’d be fine tomorrow. They had warned her she might feel very sore, but that it was a relatively minor procedure.

The counselling had been crap. Had she really thought about it? Was she absolutely sure about sterilisation? It was a very big step. Jocasta said she knew that and she had thought about it. It was what she wanted. Definitely.

“I see that you and your husband are separating,” the woman said.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Which is a perfectly acceptable reason for a termination, as far as we’re concerned. Now how is your general health, Miss Forbes? Any problems, anything we should know about?”

They had told her she would be in for the whole day; that she would have a general anaesthetic, because of the sterilisation; that someone should come and collect her, she wouldn’t be able to drive herself home. Well, if Clio wouldn’t come with her—and she wouldn’t—she would go on her own, get a cab home. She’d be fine.

She wondered if Martha had felt like this: that it was just a matter of time and then it would be over. Probably. Only Martha’d had to have a baby first. Whenever she thought about that, Jocasta felt physically faint, clammily nauseous. All alone in that dreadful screaming pain: How had she stood it, how had she coped with the mechanics of it, the reality? It was just—unthinkable. She could never have done it. Never. Well, she didn’t have to. After tomorrow. Fine. Just fine. Much better.

The phone rang sharply; she picked it up. It was Clio.

“Hi, Jocasta. It’s me.”

“Oh—hello,” she said, just a little cool.

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“Oh yes? What about?”

“This baby. I know it’s nothing to do with me, but Jocasta, I still think you should tell Nick, it’s his baby too. It’s wrong not to. I—”

“Clio, I’m not very interested in your opinion on this, and you’re right, it isn’t anything to do with you. It’s me that’s pregnant, and it’s my body and my decision. Nick’s a commitment-phobe. He wouldn’t even live with me. He will not want a baby.”

“But—”

“Look, what would be the point? Just tell me that? All I’d be doing is upsetting him. And you’re upsetting me, come to that. For nothing.”

“Not for nothing, Jocasta, for a baby. And you might—you just might change your mind. At least don’t be sterilised yet.”

“Oh for God’s sake, Clio. I’m not having it. You know I can’t, and anyway, I don’t want it, can’t have it, and tomorrow I’m just going to—to have the termination, and that’ll be it. Over, finished, done and dusted.”

“I wish you wouldn’t talk about it like that,” said Clio quietly. “It’s a baby you’ve got in there, Jocasta, not some sort of parasite.”

“Babies are parasites, as far as I’m concerned. Right from conception.”

“Oh shut up,” said Clio. She suddenly sounded quite hysterical. “Just shut up, will you?”

“You started this,” said Jocasta, “so don’t tell me to shut up. Perhaps you’d like me to have it, and then you could adopt it. What about that for an idea?”

“It’s about the only way I’m going to get a baby,” said Clio, and her voice cracked with hurt, “adopting one.”

There was a dreadful silence; in the middle of it, Jocasta remembered. Remembered what she should never have forgotten for a moment, remembered what would have made the whole thing of telling Clio, saying she was going to have an abortion, savagely cruel. Asking her to go with her when it was done, for God’s sake. How had she done that? How had she been so totally, utterly callous to Clio, poor sweet Clio who wanted babies more than anything, but could never have them?

What was the matter with her, how had she turned into this monster? It was Gideon’s fault, he’d done it…

“Clio,” she said, “Clio, I’m so, so sorry. I forgot. I’m so totally wrapped up in myself at the moment. God I’m a cow, a foul, hideous cow, Clio, I’m so sorry—”

“It’s all right,” said Clio and rang off. When Jocasta tried to ring her back, the answering machine was on and her mobile was on message.

She felt so guilty, she felt sick. She actually thought she was going to be sick. How could she have done that, been so brutal, how could she have forgotten? Clio was supposed to be her best friend, and she’d hurt her in that awful, vicious way.

She kept ringing the number, kept saying, “Please Clio, pick up the phone,” but she wouldn’t.

Jocasta rang Fergus; it seemed the next best thing to speaking to Clio. He was short with her.

“I’m afraid Clio and I aren’t really in touch at the moment.”

“Oh Fergus, why on earth not? What’s happened? You were made in heaven!”

“Call it a clash of ideologies,” he said, rather stiffly, “so, not made in heaven at all.”

“I’m sorry. Are you going to tell me any more?”

“I don’t think so.”

“But the thing is, Fergus, I need to contact her. I’ve done something really dreadful and I need to speak to her and she won’t speak to me. Won’t even pick up the phone. Could you help?”

“I don’t think I could,” he said, and his voice was very sad. “She won’t pick up the phone to me, either. I’m sorry, Jocasta. I’d love to help, but I can’t.”

He sounded dreadful; she felt quite anxious about him. “How are things generally, Fergus, darling? You’re wonderfully busy, surely?”

“Oh, you know. Difficult. Not a lot of work coming in, to be honest with you.”

“I’m sorry. And Kate isn’t coming to anything, is she? In the financial sense. Not doing the Smith work?”

“’Fraid not. No.”

“I hope my soon-to-be-ex-husband paid you for her,” said Jocasta suddenly. “I do remember him promising to, but he might need chasing on it. Just at the moment.”

“Well, he hasn’t, Jocasta, as a matter of fact. Obviously it’s slipped his mind, rather more important things on it.” She could hear his voice, determinedly light, almost amused.

“Oh, Fergus, I’m so sorry. That’s unforgivable. I’ll ring his PA—”

“I have rung her, of course. I’m sure it’ll be through soon.”

“Look,” said Jocasta, “I’ll ring Gideon myself. It’s all right; we’re back on speaking terms. And I’ve still got a joint account chequebook. I’ll write you a cheque on that, if all else fails.”

“My darling, I don’t think you’d better do that. He might be very cross.”

“He can be as cross as he likes. I don’t care. You need your money. You’ve got bills to pay. And we landed you with Kate. Anyway, I’m sure he’s just forgotten. I’ve probably driven everything out of his head. He does have his faults, but he’s certainly not mean. I’ll call him right away.”

Gideon said he was very sorry; he’d have a cheque sent round to Fergus within the hour.

It might help both him and Clio a bit, Jocasta thought. At least she’d been able to do something for them.

Peter Hartley was sitting in the kitchen, as close to despair as he had ever been, when Maureen Forrest arrived with a large bunch of dahlias.

“I brought these for Mrs. Hartley. I’m sorry I’m so early, but I’m on my way to work. Ed said she didn’t seem too good when he came on Saturday.”

“She isn’t, I’m afraid. She’s—well, she’s so frail. And this morning early, she just fainted dead away.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Is she all right?”

“I’m afraid she is very down. I can’t get her to eat—Dr. Cummings says he’ll have to hospitalise her soon, if it goes on.”

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Hartley. You’ve got enough to cope with yourself, without this.”

“Oh, I’m all right. It was nice of Ed to come and see her at the weekend. Somehow he seems to get through to her when no one else can. I suppose because he was so close to Martha. She feels he’s a link.”

“Well, I’m glad it helped. Ed’s very down himself, of course. Although—it’s a dreadful thing to say, but he’s young. You and I both know he’ll get over it one day. Not completely, of course, and he’ll never forget her, but—he’ll find someone else. Of course I wouldn’t say that to him, he wouldn’t believe me, and it sounds rather—” She stopped.

“Heartless?” he said and smiled.

“Yes. But it’s not. He’s only twenty-three; what you and Mrs. Hartley have lost is so much worse. When John was dying, I kept thinking, At least it’s not Ed. Does that sound very bad?”

“Of course not,” said Peter and patted her shoulder. “Yes, it’s the worst loss of all. I—well, I’m afraid I’m finding it almost unbearable. It’s the wrong order of things. I can’t make sense of it.”

“I’m so sorry for you both. Anyway, I’ll pop in again in a day or two. And I’ll tell Ed what you said. He’ll be pleased.”