Sheer Abandon (87 page)

Jocasta walked into her house and sank onto her bed. She felt absolutely dreadful. Less sick now, but lonely, frightened, bereft. The thought of what she had to go through in the morning suddenly seemed rather—unpleasant. It wasn’t the pain; Sarah Kershaw had assured her it would be minimal. “You’ll just be sore. And bleeding rather a lot, at first. You have arranged for someone to drive you home?”

“Of course,” said Jocasta. “No problem. Absolutely no problem at all.” She had booked a cab: both ways. So what was troubling her about the morning? She wanted to be rid of the—pregnancy. She would never have to worry about another. She wasn’t afraid of the procedure. Nick would never know. She’d have her life back after it. She’d be fine. It was just a bit…sad. Yes, she did feel a bit sad. That was natural. You’d be pretty odd if you didn’t feel anything about getting rid of—ending a pregnancy. Actually, she was almost relieved that she did. That she wasn’t totally hardhearted after all. Of course it wasn’t a baby: she kept telling herself that. It was a pregnancy, that was the thing to hang on to, a medical condition, which she was dealing with, in a very adult way. The fact that if she didn’t deal with it, in something like eight months there’d be a small creature in the world that had been put there by her and Nick didn’t merit even thinking about. She wouldn’t think about it. There was nothing to think about.

She poured herself a glass of red wine, had a long bath, and grazed through the papers: she was still horribly awake. Maybe she should take a sleeping pill. Maybe not: on top of the red wine, which had made her feel sick. Maybe she should watch TV; that always sent her to sleep, it was like flicking a switch. There was a good movie on,
When Harry Met Sally
. She’d watch that. She always loved it.

Halfway through the orgasm scene, she switched it off. It was annoying her. Really annoying her. As if anyone would sit in a café and pretend to have an orgasm that loudly. Stupid. She poured herself another glass of wine and reflected she’d only faked one herself a couple of times: when she’d been just so tired and all she wanted was to go to sleep. It was amazing how they didn’t know. Couldn’t tell. She’d certainly never, ever faked with Nick. Their sex had always been amazing. Had made a baby even.

Stop it, Jocasta. It is not a baby. It really is not a baby.

She was still awake, and horribly frightened again. She looked at the clock. Only half past twelve. How was she going to get through the rest of the night? Shit. This was awful.

But it was the last one. The very last one.

Nick woke early. It had been a hell of a drive but he’d done it, and fallen exhausted into bed in Hampstead at midnight. But the pain in his arm had woken him up; he struggled into the kitchen, took a couple of the painkillers—they were bloody strong, made him feel quite woozy—and made himself a cup of tea. Maybe he should go for a walk, clear his head. God, he’d be glad when he could run again; at the moment it jarred his arm too much, destroyed the pleasure. Yes, he’d go for a stroll, buy the papers, come back and have breakfast, and then head down to Westminster. There was bound to be something going on, and it would be good to get back there. He’d really missed it: funny old place.

He walked down to Heath Street, bought
The Times
and the
Guardian
and the
Daily Mail
—between them they would put him back in touch with the country, his parents only took the
Telegraph
—then dropped in at the deli for a couple of croissants and went home.

He was halfway through the second croissant when a feature in the
Mail
caught his eye: Holiday Getaway Gear, it said, and was a piece about what to wear when travelling and how to look as good—or as bad—as the rich and famous. Lots of shots of people leaving airports, over the past few days: Madonna, Nicole Appleton, Kate Moss, Jude Law, Jonathan Ross, Jasper Conran—and Gideon Keeble. Terrifically well-dressed as always—probably better than most of the others—in a linen suit and panama hat. Bastard. All that money, and looks and style as well.

The captions said where they were all going: mostly to the sun. Workaholic Keeble, as they called him, was off to Melbourne on a business trip. God, he really was a workaholic. No Jocasta in sight; not famous enough, he supposed. Not that Keeble was, really; they must have been scraping the barrel, needed a last person to fill the page. Maybe she hadn’t gone: maybe she was still in London, in that absurd mansion. Or down in—Wiltshire, was it? Or Berkshire?

He could try. He could ring her; she had phoned and left that message he’d never responded to—well, it had been a bit cool, and unmistakable in its meaning, and he’d been a bit cross, actually, that she’d been so long in acknowledging his postcards. But he could ring, tell her that he was fine, back in London if she needed him. No, that would be wrong, why should she need him—well just back, thank her for calling—

It took him a few minutes to decide actually to do it; then telling himself they had agreed to be friends, and it was what any friend would do, he called her mobile.

It was switched off.

Well, best leave it then. Only maybe he could try the house. Just see if she was there. Why not? No reason, it was much less clandestine, really, than using her mobile. It proved how innocent his call was. Simply—friendly.

He dialled the Big House; a foreign voice answered. A Filipina-sounding voice.

“Mr. Keeble’s residence.”

Slightly odd phraseology. Surely it was the Keeble residence now?

“Good morning. Is Mrs. Keeble there?”

“Mrs. Keeble? No, Mrs. Keeble not here.”

“Oh, fine. She’s away with Mr. Keeble, then? Or in the country.”

“Mrs. Keeble not living here now. She—”

There was a sort of scuffle at the end of the line; then Mrs. Hutching, he recognised her voice, said, “Good morning! Can I help you?”

Nick’s heart was doing slightly peculiar things.

“Mrs. Hutching, isn’t it? Good morning. You won’t remember me, but I’m a friend of Mrs. Keeble’s, Nicholas Marshall, I came to the house once or twice. I wanted to speak to her, if she’s around.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Marshall, she isn’t here. She’s away.”

“With Mr. Keeble? Or in the country?”

“I’m not absolutely sure. I’m sorry. If you’d like to leave a message—”

Nick left a message and then put the phone down. He felt slightly dizzy. Must be the pills, of course. But the first woman, she’d said Jocasta didn’t live there anymore. Of course she was foreign, and might have meant something different, like she wasn’t living there at the moment. But then Mrs. Hutching had sounded pretty bloody odd, as well.

Shit. Had Jocasta actually left Gideon? She couldn’t have. She couldn’t. She’d have told him. Surely. And if she hadn’t told him, the outlook wasn’t too good for him anyway.

Nick stood, walked up and down his small kitchen a couple of times, and then rang Clio. She’d know. She’d tell him.

Jocasta had been awake for three hours; the longest three hours she could ever remember. She had just lain there and watched the clock tick the seconds past, longing for it to be later. It took its time. It was still only half past six. She felt altogether dreadful; her headache was worse and she felt terribly sick. If this were indeed pregnancy sickness, thank God this would be the last day of it.

She felt really frightened and alone. If only she had someone to talk to. To tell her not to worry, that she was doing the right thing, that she’d be fine. Even Clio, telling her she was doing the wrong one would have been preferable to this. But there was no one. And three more endless hours stretched ahead of her.

She couldn’t stand any of it any longer; she decided to go for a walk.

All Clio could think about when she woke up was Jocasta. How she must be feeling; for all her brave tough words, Clio knew she was frightened and upset. The more Jocasta talked and protested, the more upset she was. She was talking a lot at the moment.

She would call her, and arrange to go to see her that evening. She’d be feeling awful—even if she weren’t upset—sore, and tired. And no matter what anyone said, from Clio’s experience at any rate, it wasn’t true that what most women felt after a termination was relief. They did feel relief, of course: they also felt guilt and misery and regret.

She rang the house: the answering machine was on.

“Only me,” she said. “I’m just calling to see if you’re OK, wish you luck. I thought I’d come and see you this evening. No need to call back, I’ll be there about seven. Unless you don’t want me. Lots of love.”

She looked at the clock: nearly seven. She might as well stay up now. Get a good start on the day. She had a shower, was just starting to get dressed, when the phone rang. Hopefully Jocasta, having got her message.

But it wasn’t Jocasta; it was Nick.

Jocasta was in the middle of Clapham Common when she felt faint. She sank rather dramatically onto her haunches, dropped her head in her arms, taking deep breaths, and tried not to panic. Now what should she do?

“You OK?” A girl, a jogger, had stopped, was bending over her. Jocasta looked up at her, tried to smile, and then threw up onto the grass.

“Sorry,” she said, “so sorry. Yes, I—well, no, I don’t feel too good. Have you got a mobile?”

“Sure.” She rummaged in her bum bag, handed her phone to Jocasta. Even making the call was almost beyond her.

Clio felt dreadful. She was the worst liar in the world. She had done her best, had stumbled through her story that she hadn’t seen Jocasta for a while, that she didn’t know if she was still with Gideon, and that she didn’t know where she was. It had been totally pathetic. Nick had actually said that. He’d said, quite nicely, “Clio, that is just so pathetic. Of course you know where she is. Come on. At her house? In Clapham. Look, I can see you’re protecting her for some reason. She probably made you swear not to say. So if you don’t say anything I’ll assume it’s Clapham, OK?”

Clio was dutifully silent. Nick got into his car and set out for Clapham.

“You are just so stupid,” said Beatrice severely, helping Jocasta up the steps of their house and into the sitting room. It had taken her five minutes to get to the common and twenty-five to get back in the building traffic. During which she’d had to stop twice for Jocasta to be sick. “You should have told us before.”

“I couldn’t,” said Jocasta wearily, dropping down onto the sofa. “I just couldn’t bear to talk about it. Or think about it. Bit like Martha, I suppose.”

“I think you’re a little better off than she was, poor girl. I presume Gideon knows about this?”

“Well—”

“Jocasta! I can’t believe this. Of course you must tell him.”

“It isn’t Gideon’s baby,” said Jocasta.

Nick stood outside Jocasta’s house alternately ringing the bell and banging on the door. He was convinced she was in there, hiding, that she knew it was him.

After five minutes he decided to let himself in. Even if she wasn’t there, he might get some clue as to where he could find her. Or what had happened. Thank God he had never given the key back.

She wasn’t there: but she had clearly only just left. Her duvet was flung back, there was the usual incredible mess in her bedroom, several used cups piled up by the dishwasher. She always did that, never put them in it. It had driven him mad. Even the radio was on: Chris Tarrant burbling cheerfully away. She would obviously be back any minute.

God, his arm hurt. So much. They’d obviously known what they were talking about, telling him to rest it. Bloody agony. And he’d left his pills behind, of course. Jocasta always had plenty of painkillers; she was a bit of an addict. He’d take some of hers, have a cup of tea, and wait for her. He put the kettle on, went to the cupboard under the bathroom basin.

It was a shrine to her messiness; two or three Tampax packets, one of them empty, a very exhausted-looking toothbrush, a mass of hair bands, a spilt box of cotton buds, two packs of dental floss, both in use; a half-empty bottle of mouthwash, two rather evil-looking flannels, and—yes—rummaging a little, bravely on, two bottles of painkillers, not particularly strong ones, she usually had more than that, two large tubes of fake tan, several AA batteries, a packet of something that called itself a natural sleep remedy, an enormous bottle of vitamin C tablets and—what was this? God in heaven, what was this? It couldn’t be—no, it wasn’t—yes it was, it really indubitably, really horribly was, a pregnancy testing kit, and sweet Jesus, another, both used, the instructions for one crumpled up and pushed back into the box, the other still neatly folded, clearly unread.

What was this, what had been going on here, what had she been doing, why hadn’t she told him? Absurd, ridiculous, pointless, cretinous questions. And how long ago had this happened, when had she bought these tests, was the baby Gideon’s? Must be, that would explain her extraordinary behaviour, avoiding him. It surely couldn’t be his—could it? If there was one? And how did he know that, even? What had she done since? He would have put nothing past her, nothing at all. Why hadn’t she told him? It must be Gideon’s, must be, must be, otherwise she’d have told him surely, surely.