Sheer Abandon

by Penny Vincenzi

  He was gone. The fat woman looked up from her paperback.

  “I’ve just realised why he looks familiar,” she said. “He’s the one in the Sun, isn’t he? The one who said—”

  Clio half ran to the bar, flung a twenty-pound note at the bemused Maurice Trent, and went out into the car park. Jeremy’s car had gone.

  “Martha?”

  “Yes. Yes, it is. Hi, Ed.”

  She had literally dreamt of this, imagined it so often over the past few days, while the phone so determinedly rang, delivering unwelcome other people to her, bleeped her endlessly with text messages from other equally unwelcome people, while e-mails leapt relentlessly onto her screen from nobody she wished to hear from: so that now, when it was really him, she wasn’t surprised at all. Just terrified.

  Her voice didn’t sound terrified; it sounded its brisk, orderly self.

  “I…I’m sorry about the other night,” he said. “I said some pretty bad things.”

  “Justified, most of them, I’d say.” Less orderly, the voice, then. Shaky, out of breath.

  “Even if they were…I shouldn’t have said them.”

  “Well, they did some good,” she said, “or maybe they did. I’ve—” No, she mustn’t say that. Start talking about herself, her career. “I’ve done a lot of thinking,” she said.

  “Oh. Well, I didn’t want to leave it like that. That’s all. I wanted us to stay—stay friends at least.”

  “Of course.” God, this hurt worse than she could have believed.

  “Yes. So—sorry.”

  “Ed, it’s OK.” She struggled to sound light-hearted. “I forgive you.”

  A long silence, then: “Great,” he said, “I’m glad. Maybe—”

  “Yes?” Don’t sound hopeful, Martha, for God’s sake.

  “Maybe we could have a drink one night.”

  “Yes. Let’s. Call me. Or I’ll call you.”

  “Fine. Right, well—well, cheers. See you later.”

  If only those words could have had their real meaning: if only she could see him later, see him smile, feel his lips brush her hair, take his hand, kiss him, hold him, lie down with him, have him…

  “Bye Ed,” she said. Very cool, very controlled again. Martha, again, in fact. Only Martha had never hurt like this before. Well, not quite like this.

  Thank God, she was so busy. How could she have coped with this misery if she wasn’t?

  Jocasta was walking into a bar when her phone rang.

  “Is that Jocasta? This is Jilly. Jilly Bradford.”

  “Oh, hi, Mrs. Bradford. How are you? Nice to hear from you.”

  “I’m very much better, thank you. Bored to death, of course. They won’t let me out of here until I can manage the stairs, and even then I can’t go home, I’ve got to stay with my daughter. Of course I’m fond of them all, but I want to be in my own home. Anyway, I just wanted to thank you for putting that nice photograph in the paper. It was very flattering, and it will certainly disabuse everyone of the notion that I’m some senile old woman. Kate bought about six copies. She’s the heroine of the hour at school, of course. Very indignant that your name wasn’t on it, though.”

  Jocasta laughed. “That often happens in a follow-up like this one. She’s so great, your granddaughter. I think she’ll do very well in life.”

  “I think so, too. I hope so, anyway. She deserves to.”

  There is a sensation that every good reporter knows: a kind of creeping excitement, a thud of recognition at something forming itself just out of reach, something worth pursuing: Jocasta felt it then.

  “She was telling me all about being adopted,” she said.

  “Was she? She obviously sensed a kindred spirit. She doesn’t normally like talking about it.”

  “Oh really? No, she was very open with me, brought the subject up herself, in fact.”

  “Extraordinary story, isn’t it?”

  “Well, not that extraordinary. Except that these days most girls don’t give their babies up; they keep them and raise them on their own.”

  “I didn’t mean that. I meant her being found in that way, at the airport. Didn’t she tell you that bit?”

  “Well—well, not in any detail, no.” Careful, Jocasta, careful…

  “Oh, I see. But she told you the rest? It’s so hard for her. She feels it very keenly, poor little thing. Being just abandoned like that.”

  “Yes, it must be…hard.”

  Her phone bleeped warningly. Shit. If it ran out of power now, she’d scream.

  “Terribly hard. She wants to find her, of course, but I think—”

  Another bleep.

  “Mrs. Bradford, I’m going to have to ring you back. My phone’s dying on me. If you—”

  “Oh, my dear, no need. I just wanted to say thank you. Come and see me when I get home to Guildford; I’ll tell Kate to organise it. Or we could have a jolly lunch in town. That would probably suit you better. Goodbye and—”

  The phone died. Jocasta wanted to throw it on the ground and jump up and down on it. It was her own fault, of course, totally her own fault; she’d known it was low; she should have done it that evening before she left, but—well.

  Now what should she do? She could hardly ring Jilly back, on a public hospital phone, and say, “Now, about Kate and her adoption, do goon…”

  The moment had been lost. And it was her own fault.

  Jeremy came in at about eight, the taut fury, which Clio had grown to dread, set on his face. She smiled awkwardly, said, “Jeremy, hello. You must be hungry. I’ve got some very nice jugged hare if you’d—”

  “Please don’t try that,” he said.

  “Try what?”

  “Pretending everything’s normal. It simply makes it worse.”

  “Jeremy, I wish you’d let me explain. I didn’t say anything about the hospital or Mrs. Bradford to Jocasta.”

  “I thought you met her in the pub.”

  “I did. But only to talk about old times.”

  “Which you couldn’t have done in the house? You had to sneak off without explaining she was an old friend?”

  “Well, yes. I thought you’d be suspicious, that you wouldn’t believe me. I knew you wouldn’t listen, that you wouldn’t let me go.” She was beginning to feel angry herself.

  “I wouldn’t let you go! Is that how you see me? As some kind of tyrant? I find that immensely insulting.”

  “Well, it isn’t meant to be. I’m just trying to explain how it happened, why I did what I did.”

  “And then you sat with her in the pub, this reporter friend of yours, and didn’t even discuss the wretched Bradford woman? You expect me to believe that?”

  “Yes! In fact I actually asked her not to write the story and certainly not to implicate you or me in it.”

  “And that was very successful, wasn’t it?”

  “Actually, yes. If you read the piece you’ll see she made no mention of either of us. I could get it if you like—”

  “You actually expect me to read that drivel?”

  “Oh shut up,” said Clio wearily, surprising herself.

  He was clearly surprised too; she so seldom went on the offensive.

  “I just can’t get over your deceiving me like that,” he said, changing tack. “It was so unnecessary.”

  “Maybe if you weren’t such a bully, if you didn’t treat me like some kind of inferior—”

  “That’s a filthy thing to say!”

  “But it’s true. You do bully me. You don’t respect what I do, you’ve made me give up a job I absolutely love, you’re dismissive of almost everything I say, you’re always in a bad temper—well, not always,” she added, anxious, even in her rage and misery, to be accurate, “but very often. You won’t allow me to do anything on my own, you blame me for everything that goes wrong in our lives, even the simplest thing, like someone sitting at our table in the pub. Can you wonder I didn’t ask you if I could invite an old friend round for a chat? I think it’s time you t
ook a proper look at yourself, Jeremy, I really do.”

  He said nothing, just stood staring at her in silence for several moments; then he turned and went upstairs to their room. She followed him; he had pulled out a suitcase and was putting things in it.

  “What are you doing?” she asked. She was frightened now.

  “I’m packing. I would have thought that was perfectly evident.”

  “To go—where?”

  “I’m not sure. But there clearly is no room for me here. I have nothing to contribute to our marriage. So I think it’s better I go.”

  “Jeremy, don’t be stupid. Please!” She could hear the panic in her voice.

  “I see nothing stupid in it. You’re obviously much better on your own. Doing your job, which clearly means much more to you than I do. It made me feel quite ill listening to you last night, telling me how sorry everyone was, how they hadn’t replaced you yet, how much they were going to miss you. My God, how are the sick folk of Guildford going to get on without you, Clio? Could you move, please, I want to get at my shirts.”

  “Fuck your shirts,” she said in a quiet voice, “and fuck you. And how dare you diminish my work like that.”

  “You never even consulted me over taking that job in the first place,” he said. “I had something altogether different in mind, not a part-time wife, obsessed with her career. I had hoped we would have had children by now, but I’ve been denied those. I wonder if you’re trying to cheat me there, as well. I wouldn’t put anything past you, Clio.”

  “You bastard!” she said, tears smarting at the back of her eyes, a lurch of dreadful pain somewhere deep inside her. “You absolute bastard. How dare you, how dare you say that!” Then suddenly everything shifted and she felt very strong, and she looked at him, in all his arrogant self-pity and cruelty, and knew she couldn’t stand another day, another hour of him. “Don’t bother packing any more, Jeremy, I’m going myself. I don’t want to spend another night in this house, where we could have been so happy and where you have managed to make us so miserable. I want to get out of it, and out of this marriage. It’s a travesty. I hate it.”

  And without taking any more than her bag and her car keys, she walked out of the house, got into her car, and drove away from him and their brief, disastrous marriage.

  Chapter 14

  She had tried to shrug it off; to tell herself it wasn’t that important, but she knew it was. An abandoned baby was a fantastically exciting story. Especially an abandoned baby who had grown up into the most beautiful girl, a troublesome, beautiful girl, who wanted to find the woman who had abandoned her.

  It was an absolutely wonderful story. It made her feel quite sick, so wonderful was it.

  Only—and this was where the occasional struggle Jocasta had with herself began—this could really hurt Kate: damage her dreadfully. The mother might not turn up at all and break Kate’s heart. Or she might be absolutely wonderful, claim Kate, and break the Tarrants’ hearts. Or she might be an absolute horror. How much better for everyone if Jocasta forgot about it, let them be. She knew too well the demons released from Pandora’s box by tabloid newspapers, by any newspaper, indeed; she saw it all the time.

  Jocasta thought suddenly of Clio and how she was coping with the aftermath of the story; Clio and her dreadful, arrogant husband. How did a sweet, clever girl like her come to be married to such a creature? She hoped she hadn’t caused any trouble between them. She might call her and see if she was all right. And then—Kate? She could talk to her direct; make the excuse of the work experience in the summer. She could get her to talk, she knew she could. Especially now she knew the sort of things she should ask her. And then not take it any further if it seemed really wrong. Yes, that’s what she could do; she told herself that, very firmly, while knowing it was almost certainly a lie. But she had to get the story; she just had to.

  Martha was listening to her own voice when her mobile rang, listening to herself making her presentation on her tape recorder, making notes of minor adjustments and at the same time carefully sorting through the contents of her briefcase. Chad again, she thought, it could only be him. And decided not to answer it. She was extremely tired of his endless phone calls. Working with him had become a lot less attractive this week. There was something of the old woman about him, very much at odds with his brusque manner and svelte appearance.

  She had finished her notes and was sitting on her bed, leafing through the political pages in the papers, when her landline rang. Bloody man, she thought, walking through into the living room, this was not what she needed.

  “Chad,” she said, snatching it up, “please—”

  “Martha, dear, it’s Mum. Your father and I just wanted to wish you well for tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Mum,” said Martha, “that’s very sweet of you.”

  “I know you’ll do well, dear. Everyone is so excited about it, about your going into politics. Anyway good luck, and mind you get a good night’s sleep.”

  “I will. I’m in bed now as a matter of fact. Thank you for calling.”

  She put the phone down and realised the message light was blinking. Someone had called before and she hadn’t noticed. Also Chad, no doubt. Well, she’d better check. Bloody bore he was. She’d have to say something if—

  “Martha, hi. This is Ed. I—I hoped we could talk. I’ll try your mobile.”

  “Oh my God!” she said aloud, and went back to bed, dialled his number, shaking violently; it was answered at once. “Hi, Ed. It’s me. Sorry, I didn’t realise you’d rung.”

  “That’s OK.”

  “Um—what can I do for you?”

  “I—” There was a long silence, then: “I just wanted to wish you luck. For tomorrow.”

  “Ed, who on earth told you?”

  “Mum. She called this evening, said did I know you were going to be the new MP for Binsmow.”

  Martha started to laugh. “Oh God,” she said, “mothers!”

  “Yeah, well. You should have told me.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, because of what I said. It was obviously unjust. I’m sorry, Martha. Sorry I said all those things. I was totally out of order. I can see that now.” There was a silence, then he said, “I’ve missed you so much. I thought I could do without you—but I can’t.”

  “Ed,” said Martha, “I am self-obsessed. I am a control freak. But I’m trying very hard not to be. If you hadn’t said—what you did, I’d have said no to Chad. Now then, I’ve got an important meeting tomorrow. I’ve got an early start—”

  “Yeah, OK,” he said, “sorry. I just wanted to—”

  “But even so, why don’t you come round? We can discuss my presentation. Among other things.”

  Well, she thought, switching off her mobile, at least she’d be in bed early.

  She drove down the M11 on Saturday morning, feeling extremely nervous. She had woken at six, leaving Ed fast asleep, gone to the gym and then suddenly realised a Mercedes convertible wasn’t exactly a tactful vehicle to arrive in. She wished she’d thought of it earlier. She would just have to dump the Merc in the car park of the Coach and Horses and use Chad’s car instead.

  She ran over her ten-minute presentation speech again and again and rehearsed answers to imagined questions. Certain rather insistent images and memories kept disturbing her concentration; she tried to ignore them. Even Ed telling her it was the best sex he had ever had; and falling asleep hearing him say—No, she would allow herself to replay this one at least, she thought, smiling foolishly at the memory.

  “I really, really love you,” he had said. “I know I do. I wasn’t sure before.” That had been the best. She would pick it all over and enjoy it properly later.

  She felt fantastic: energetic, alive, and smoothly, sleekly happy. She was wearing a pair of leather trousers and an extremely expensive Joseph sweater for the journey, but on a hanger in the car was more modest stuff, a navy suit from Hobbs, and a pale pink top with a slash neckline; she wore a little makeu
p, no nail polish, and her shoes and bag were from L.K. Bennett, rather than the more exclusive shelves of Gucci. She changed at the service station about ten miles before Binsmow.

  When she got to the Coach and Horses, Chad was already there, drinking orange juice; he stood up and gave her a kiss. “Like the outfit. Very good. You look straight out of central casting for a prospective near-Tory candidate. Want anything?”

  “Not to eat; maybe a tonic water. I feel terribly nervous.”

  “That’s good. You’ll perform better. Very valuable things, nerves. Get the adrenaline pumping.”

  “And when did you last feel nervous?”

  “Oh—day before yesterday,” he said, surprising her. “I often think I’m going to throw up whenever I have to speak in the House.” She felt strangely comforted. “I hope you had a good night last night.”

  “Very, very good,” she said, and felt herself flush as a particularly vivid memory hit her; surely a prospective candidate should not, a few hours before her presentation, be lying over her beautiful young lover, head flung back, body arched, invaded with sweet sweeping pleasure, and calling out with the raw, joyful noise of sex. But: “Yes, it was excellent.”

  “Good. Now any points you’d like to run through?”

  “Well, I don’t think so. I’ve mugged up on the town and everything and I just had a look at a proposed bypass site. It would do dreadful things, Chad. I’m sure I could get very worked up about that.”

  “Well, be careful,” he said, “you mustn’t assume that they’ll see it in quite the same way. A lot of these schemes may cut through hallowed woods and so on, but they relieve noise and pollution in residential areas. Just feel your way. Now do you want to run through your presentation with me?”

  “I think I’d better,” she said and handed him her notes.

  A jolly red-faced young man called Colin Black, dressed in a tweed suit and extremely well-shined shoes, arrived. He would be her agent, advise her on local matters, help at election time. He had been a Tory agent, become disillusioned, and “Come out to bat for you lot,” he said, grinning his rosy grin. He turned out to be a rather well-heeled farmer with a background in student politics. Martha liked him.