Sheer Abandon (89 page)

“Kate, my darling, come along in. You’re looking perfectly gorgeous, as usual. How are you?”

“I’m good, thanks, Fergus. Now who’s that—Excuse me, sorry—”

It was extraordinary, the way the young responded to their mobiles, Fergus thought, as if every call was far more crucial than anything else they might be involved in. You saw them, sitting in a group, a large group, and half of them, at any given time, were on their mobiles. Very odd. And they didn’t seem to think breaking off whatever conversation they were having was remotely antisocial.

“Sorry. I’ll switch it off now. That was Ed. You know Ed? Martha’s boyfriend.”

“I do. Rather handsome, as I recall.”

“Handsome or what! Yeah. Anyway, apparently Mrs. Hartley, that’s Martha’s mum, she’s really low. And I wrote to them both. I was thinking, you know, that she was my gran really, another gran, and she seemed really lovely, and I felt so sorry for her, and Mr. Hartley said my letter had really cheered her up, can’t think why, and could Ed let me know. It’s a pity we can’t tell them, in a way—”

“I do hope you won’t,” said Fergus anxiously. “I don’t think that would be a good idea, at all.”

“Fergus! I’m not that stupid. Anyway, I’ve come to talk about the contract with Smith. I really do think I should sign it. I feel so different now and…”

Nick roared along Knightsbridge and cut up into the park; please God don’t let the Horse Guards be going along it. They were. He sat there in agony for a moment or two, then did a U-turn and screeched back, cutting up into the Bayswater Road. The traffic there was fairly solid too: he shot across it, and took a back route, weaving round the narrow streets and squares, cutting up other motorists (surprised at their outrage, he was driving as he always did, only faster), nearly killing two dogs, one cat, and frightening the life out of a rather grand-looking old lady, stepping out into the road without looking, as grand old ladies tended to. She shook her fist at him, and when last seen in his rearview mirror, she was pointing out his car to a passerby. He shot across Baker Street, wove his way along Welbeck Street, and then struck north, his mind wiped clear of everything except the need to get to Gower Street in time. At one point he found himself confronted by a No Entry sign and a one-way street; it seemed entirely logical to take it on. He was lucky.

In Gower Street, he had to find the clinic, right at the top it had been, the man had said. Where was the bloody place—ah, there. No meters of course, only double yellow lines everywhere.

He abandoned the car and faced a traffic warden who asked him what he thought he was doing. “Saving a life,” he said.

The man had clearly heard this before. “I’ll have to give you a ticket,” he said.

“Great. Fine. I’d really like that. Just go ahead.” The warden stared at him and then started to write the ticket, shaking his head.

And there it was, a discreet, freshly painted door, with GG & O Clinic on a brass plate. GG & O—what sort of bloody nonsense was that? He pushed on the bell; the door opened with a self-important burr.

There was a reception desk in the hall, with a vast urn of flowers on it; to the left of the urn was a smiling young woman in a navy suit and a flowered shirt, with a bow at the neck. “Good morning,” she said. “How can I help you?”

“By telling me where—where my wife is,” said Nick. He somehow felt they’d be more helpful if he assumed husband status. He sat down breathing heavily. He felt rather odd.

“Would you like to give me her name?”

“Keeble. Jocasta Keeble.”

“And who is she seeing today?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you. I don’t know.”

The woman started to press the keys on her computer. Enough keys, it seemed to Nick, to be writing a book. Or certainly a very long article. What a bloody waste of time and energy those things were. All she needed was an appointment book and a pencil.

“Keeble, you say, Keeble. No, I don’t have anyone of that name this morning.”

Her phone had just rung. “Gower Gynaecology and Obstetrics. Mr. Cartwright? Yes, if you could just wait a moment.” More key-tapping.

“Look,” said Nick, “this is so urgent, I can’t begin to tell you. Please, please tell me where she is.”

“Just a moment, please. So sorry, Mr. Cartwright, just putting you through now.” She smiled at him; a less friendly smile.

“Now: no Keeble today. Definitely.”

“Well how about Forbes?”

“Forbes, Forbes…oh, yes. Yes, here she is. Good. If you’d like to sit down over there, I’ll let Mrs. Miles know you’re here. Do help yourself to tea or coffee.”

“I don’t want any coffee and I certainly don’t want Mrs. Miles. I want my—wife.”

“Mrs. Miles is looking after your wife today. Please try to be patient. Hello? Susan, it’s about a Mrs. Forbes. One of Mrs. Miles’s patients. Her husband is here. Is she in theatre? Ah, yes, I see. Thank you.” She sat back in her chair, gave Nick an even more gracious smile.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Keeble. Your wife has already left.”

He could see at once what she had done. She was looking…odd. A mixture of defiant and excited. The paracetamol bottle was placed neatly on the bedside table, with its cap on. She glanced at it. He picked it up. It was empty.

“Oh, Grace, Grace, my darling, you shouldn’t have done that, I know why, but—God, let’s ring Douglas—dear God—”

Grace started to cry.

Douglas Cummings’s advice was succinct. “Get her into hospital. At once. It’s a lethal drug. However she seems, just bring her in. Do you want an ambulance?”

“No,” said Peter wearily, “it’s only five minutes away. I’ll drive her.” He hoped very much it wouldn’t be the last thing he did for her.

Nick walked slowly back to the car. It had been clamped. He decided he couldn’t sort it out yet; he would just leave it.

The one good thing about being clamped was that the car was safe.

He felt rather sick, and terribly tired. Apart from that, nothing: not sad, not angry, just—nothing. His arm hurt. He hailed a cab, directed it to Hampstead. He sat in it, staring out of the window, at the rather depressing upper reaches of Gower Street, looking at people, lucky people, who had normal relationships and happy families.

He tried very hard not to think about Jocasta and even harder not to think about the baby she had just thrown away. He failed. His mind felt as if it would never think of anything else again. Of her, and how much he had loved her—still loved her, so, so much—and how he would have behaved, what he would have wanted, if he had known. And he knew he would have wanted it. Very much. Even now, thinking about the baby, a baby that no longer existed, he felt new and totally unfamiliar things. He wasn’t quite sure what they were, but there seemed to be pride there, and a fierce protectiveness and a degree of awe at what they had accomplished, Jocasta and he. Yes. No doubt. He would have wanted it: his baby.

It would have been absolutely terrifying: it would have meant not only commitment, absolute commitment, abruptly and forcibly entered into, but a new and entirely different life. There would have been no period of adjustment for the two of them, no time to learn to live together, no time for him to come to terms with his new condition. He would have had to make the leap from single man to husband and father, with scarcely time in between to take breath. It would have been very difficult. But it was what he would have wanted.

And as he sat there, astonished at the sadness of it, of what he had lost, they had both lost, he thought it was as well he wasn’t going to see her, for he would not be able to answer for what he might do to her; and then he leant forward and tapped on the window and said to the cabbie, “Could you change that, take me to Clapham, North End Road, instead. Please.”

She would probably be all right, they said, because he’d acted so quickly.

“The trouble with paracetamol is that it doesn’t seem to have had any effect and all the time there’s appalling liver damage going on,” said the young doctor. He had come out of the room where Grace lay, to find Peter, head in hands, weeping quietly. He was very young, the doctor; he normally found patients’ grief extremely difficult to deal with, but his father was a clergyman and this sweet man seemed somehow familiar.

“I really think she’ll be all right. We’ve given her a very powerful antidote, washed her stomach out, of course, and she’s sleeping now. Try not to worry. She seemed quite peaceful.”

Peter nodded; he was unable to speak.

“Look,” said the doctor, “I know she’s frail and not so young, but she has a huge spirit. I could tell that, just from being with her, and she kept saying she was sorry. Try not to worry,” he said again.

“Yes,” said Peter, wiping his eyes. “Yes, thank you.”

“Get yourself a cup of tea, I would.”

Peter watched him as he hurried off in response to another patient, another crisis; he hardly looked old enough to be in charge of a medicine chest, let alone a busy Casualty clinic.

Suddenly the young man turned and came back to him.

“There was something I forgot to tell you,” he said to Peter. “Your wife said it had been an accident. She said that about three times. She’s obviously regretting it terribly. I think that’s good news. The really serious cases are when they don’t want to be brought round.”