They walked slowly away from the table: she felt better already.
“Clio! There you are, my darling. I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Come along, the nightclub awaits.”
She had been walking back from the ladies’, had seen him talking to Jocasta rather intently. Probably she’d told him to keep an eye on her that evening, she thought, suddenly less sure of herself.
“Fergus, I’m sure you’ve got lots of mingling to do,” she said, trying to sound cool.
“I haven’t. Let’s go and dance.”
“You really don’t have to, you know.”
“Now look,” he said, sitting on the grass, pulling her down beside him, “Clio, you have to get over this ridiculous inferiority complex of yours. You are an attractive, sexy woman. And a very nice and interesting one. Anyone would be pleased to dance with you, to talk to you. I watched Johnny Hadley drooling over you at dinner. Now come along, I saw you in the Charleston school. You were the star pupil at the time. Which is more than I could say for myself. Maybe you can give me a hint or two.”
“Well…”
“Oh, stop dithering,” he said, “or I really will go and find someone to mingle with. But I don’t want to. How do I get that into your extremely beautiful, but it seems rather thick, little head?”
He stood up, held out his hand. Clio took it and followed him meekly to the nightclub.
“Oh, this is so cool.”
Kate was overexcited, drunk not only with champagne and cocktails but with the noise, the music, the awareness that a great many people were looking at her, admiring her, pointing her out. “You enjoying it, Nat?”
“Yeah. Pity about the music.”
“Well, it’s an old-people’s party, isn’t it? What do you expect? It’s still fun, come and dance. Bernie, you coming?”
“No, not for the moment. Cal’s not feeling so well.”
“Where is he?”
Bernie indicated the bushes.
“I said I’d go with him, hold his head and that, but he said to leave him alone. Oh, here he is now. You all right, Cal?”
“Yeah, fine.” He was greenish white; he sat down unsteadily. “Wouldn’t mind some water. Well—maybe in a minute.” And he disappeared back towards the bushes.
“Well, my ex–star reporter, how is married life treating you? Is it really better than the Sketch?” Chris Pollock had invited Jocasta to dance; they were walking towards the disco.
“It’s wonderful,” said Jocasta. “Truly.”
“You don’t miss it at all?”
“Not at all. Honestly.”
“I suppose I should be happy for you. But we certainly miss you. Conference is not the same without your often daft suggestions. The newsroom is not the same without your legs—”
“Chris! That is so chauvinist.”
“Sorry. I was born that way. And the paper is not the same without your byline and the stories beneath it.”
“Really?” She stopped suddenly, looked at him, and for a moment she knew she did miss it, and how much: missed the excitement, the pursuit of stories, the absurd panics, missed the easy chat of the morning conference, moving, with the relentless rhythm of a newspaper’s day, into the tension of the evening one. Missed the gossip, the absurd rumours, missed the rivalry, missed the fun.
“Well…maybe just a bit,” she said finally.
“Thought so. Young Nick misses you. That’s for sure. He’s a man with a broken heart.”
“Well,” said Jocasta, “if he hadn’t been such a commitment-phobe, maybe it needn’t have been broken.”
“Are you telling me,” he said, his eyes dancing with malice, “you married Gideon on the rebound?”
“No, I am not. Of course I’m not. Don’t put words into my mouth.”
“Sorry, darling. Only teasing. I know love when I see it.”
“You? Oh, please!”
“Of course. Nothing more sentimental than a newspaper editor. You should know that.”
“Martha! It is you, isn’t it? How lovely!” A girl was standing in front of her; a small, slender girl, holding the hand of a rather handsome man with close-cropped grey hair. “I’m Clio. I hoped I’d find you.”
She would never have recognised her: tubby, shy Clio, transformed into this pretty, sparkly woman with diamonds in her hair. Martha managed to smile.
“Yes, yes, it’s me. Hello, Clio. I thought you might be here. This is Bob Frean. Bob—Clio Scott. We knew each other when we were younger.”
“We went travelling together,” said Clio, smiling. “In what is now known as a gap year. I’ve been so impressed with everything I’ve read about you, Martha. Especially the political bit. Are you in politics, Bob?”
“Thankfully not. But my wife is.” He looked rather uncertainly at Fergus.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Clio, “this is Fergus Trehearn.”
“Hi,” said Fergus. “Isn’t this a fantastic party? And doesn’t Jocasta look wonderful?”
“So where are you off to?” asked Clio. “The cinema? The disco?”
“The casino,” said Bob Frean. “I’m no dancer, I’m afraid.”
“Well, it’s worth looking in at the disco,” said Clio, “honestly. Just put your head in. We’re going that way, we’re off to the cinema next, they’re showing The Jazz Singer.”
“How marvellous,” said Bob. “I don’t think I can resist that. Martha, fancy a movie?”
“No,” said Martha hastily. Here was her escape: she could disappear, call a cab, tell Jack she wasn’t well, she’d surely done enough for the wretched party for one evening, she could get out safely, before—
“Clio dear! You look marvellous. And Fergus, how nice!” A glamorous woman was hurrying towards them.
“My goodness, Mrs. Bradford,” Clio said, “how lovely to see you, that dress is—”
“Would you just excuse me a moment?” said Fergus. “I see Helen on her own over there.”
“How sweet of you, Fergus,” said Jilly. “What a party, Clio! My dear, I didn’t think they did them like this anymore. So generous of Jocasta to invite us all. But I’m sorry, I’m interrupting your conversation—”
“No, it’s fine,” said Clio. “Mrs. Bradford, this is Martha Hartley, an old friend of mine and Jocasta’s. Martha, this is Mrs. Bradford—”
“Oh, Jilly, please. How do you do, Martha. I was just dragging Martin off to look in the disco, the children are all having a ball in there—such fun to watch.”
“I said the same,” said Clio. “Come on.”
“Do you mind, Martha?” said Bob. “It sounds like fun.”
“Of course not.”
They stood just inside the disco, taking it in, the strobe lighting, the gyrating bodies; the music was loud, very strong. Martha suddenly felt dizzy; she put out her hand to steady herself on one of the tables.
Bob noticed. “Do you want to sit down?”
“No, no, I’m just a bit hot. Maybe I should go back outside—” She did feel very dizzy; she sat down abruptly.
And then it happened.
“Gran! Come and dance. Come on, I’ll show you.”
“Darling, no. I couldn’t possibly—”
“Oh, hi, Dr. Scott. I didn’t know you were here. Isn’t this cool, isn’t it great? Are you enjoying yourself?”
“I certainly am.”
She must get outside. She must. She was tall, this girl in a silver dress, tall with long, long legs and wild fair hair. She looked like—she looked just like…
It wasn’t possible. Of course it wasn’t possible. Why, how could it be? Just a girl, they all looked the same, exactly the same. Sit quietly, Martha, sit still, don’t stare, they all look the same…
“Oh, here’s Fergus. You’ll come and dance with me, won’t you, Fergus? I’m having such a good time. Come on—” She twined her hand in his, pulled him onto the dance floor, walking backwards, laughing. She heard him say, “Kate, Kate!”
Kate. Kate.
&nbs
p; “We should go,” she said to Bob.
But another girl had come over now; another young one, very young. She seized Bob’s hand, and Martin’s too, pulled them after her. They were all laughing, the men clearly flattered, old men invited to dance by beautiful young girls.
The room spun, the music seemed to roar; it was hot, poundingly hot, she was going to faint, it was all blurry now, blurry and far away.
She managed somehow to stand up. “Sorry. Must get outside.” Away from her. Away from having to look at her.
“You look awful, Martha.” Clio’s face was concerned. “Here, sit down, put your head between your knees. Jilly, could you find some water?”
She was just beginning to feel a little better, standing again, trying to get outside when: “Gran, come on. Please. Your boyfriend’s doing awfully well. A real cool dude.”
“Just a minute, dear. We’re going outside for a moment.”
“No need for you to come,” said Martha. “I feel better now. Honestly.”
“You look better,” said Clio, “much better. Let’s go outside, into the air.”
She took Martha’s arm, began to usher her out.
“Darling, get another glass of water, would you?” said Jilly to Kate. “Miss Hartley isn’t feeling very well.”
“Yeah, sure,” said the girl. She grabbed a glass, followed them outside.
“Thank you, darling. Here you are, Martha, dear, drink this. Just little sips. That’s right. Deep breaths.”
“You do look better, Martha,” said Clio. “Less green. Good. It really was awfully hot in there.”
“Oh dreadful,” said Jilly. “Of course you don’t notice it,” she added to the girl with the flying hair. The girl called Kate. Sitting so near she could touch her. “Martha, have a little more water. That’s right. I don’t think you’ve been introduced to my granddaughter, have you? This is Kate, Kate Bianca Tarrant as she likes to be called these days. Kate, darling, this is—Oh my God. Clio, she’s fainted!”
Chapter 30
How on earth had this happened? She was in bed in a room in Jocasta’s house, with no chance of getting home. Unless she walked. Which she couldn’t. What could she do, how could she escape?
It had been all right at first, after she had fainted. Bob had helped her back to the table, and she had persuaded them all that she was fine, that she could just leave in her car, it was here already, waiting for her; she was simply exhausted, had been working too hard, and it had been terribly hot in the disco. It was too early for anyone to leave, it would break up the party, and she was fine. Really fine.
She sat calmly arguing her case, her teeth chattering, despite the heat. She knew what it was: shock. It was hard to conceal. She saw Janet watching her carefully, her dark eyes thoughtful; after a while, she stood up and said, “Martha, we’re going to take you home. There’s no way you’re going off on your own. Come along, I’ll bring your things—unless you want to stay a little longer and recover?”
“No,” she said, “I don’t want to stay.” She kept her eyes fixed on Janet’s face; she was afraid that if she allowed herself to look around her, she might see—see the girl again. She couldn’t allow that. She really couldn’t.
Somehow she managed to stand up; her legs obeyed her to that extent. What they wouldn’t do, it seemed, was walk; and she suddenly found she couldn’t breathe properly either, she was struggling for breath. And then she felt quite desperately ill; she had pains in her chest, and she could feel her heart thudding so hard and beating so violently that she could hardly bear it. She was having a heart attack, she thought, she was going to die, and her last thought was that it was not entirely a bad thing: if she died now, no one would ever know.
She started trembling violently, shuddering in every part of her, and heard someone saying, “Get that other girl, the doctor, for God’s sake!”
She came back to herself, very slowly; she was sitting on a chair, and someone, she didn’t know who, was holding a paper bag over her face.
“Try to breathe steadily,” said a voice, a female voice, vaguely familiar. “You’re fine, I’m pretty sure you’re just having a panic attack. That’s better. Good. Go on, deep breaths.”
Martha had heard of people having panic attacks; she rather disapproved of them, dismissed them as hysterical.
She tried to push the paper bag away. “Just leave it a tiny bit longer. It’ll help,” said the voice again and she realised who it was: Clio, Clio who had been looking after her earlier.
“You’re fine, Martha, you really are. Feel a bit better?” Her voice was calm, her smile, as Martha looked at her, very kind. She was nice, Martha thought, she shouldn’t have been so rude to her. She’d have to apologise, when she felt better.
“Yes, thank you. I do. A bit.”
Clio said, “Fergus, if you could help her into the house, she can lie down, get some rest. That’s what she needs.”
Into the house, she couldn’t go into this house, Jocasta’s house. It was much too dangerous.
“Please,” she said in a feeble whisper, “I’m fine, I’d just like to go home.”
“Not a good idea,” said Clio, “not yet, anyway. Now, this very kind gentleman is going to carry you—”
“Well you’re certainly not heavy,” said an Irish voice, picking her up gently. “What do you live on, air? Or do you allow yourself a little bit of water with it?” He smiled at her, clearly anxious to make her feel better, and he carried her easily through the gardens into the house, then Fergus and Clio were helping her to a couch in some large room and Clio said, “I’ll get you some water and a blanket, just stay there and don’t worry about anything.”
“I should go,” said Martha, “some people have very kindly offered to take me home, they’ll be waiting.”
“They’re not waiting, I told them you’d be staying the night,” said Clio firmly.
“I can’t stay the night,” said Martha. “It’s out of the question. Please, Clio, do let me go home.”
“You’re honestly not up to it,” said Clio, “and you can’t be alone.”
“Why not?” asked Martha.
“Because it might happen again. Now look, Martha, calm down, you can go home in the morning—I’ll take you myself, if necessary. But right now, you’ve got to stay put and rest. Jocasta’s organising a room for you, she won’t be long.”
God. Jocasta as well; both of them, in the same house. She felt as if she was held in some terrible trap.
“Hi, Martha.” It was Jocasta, smiling down at her, in a way she really didn’t deserve. Why did they both have to be so nice? “I’ve got a bedroom for you. Fergus is going to take you up there and—”
“Please,” said Martha for the last desperate time, “let me go home. You’ve been so kind but I’m all right now and—”
“You can’t go home,” said Jocasta. “Dr. Scott says so. Now I have some guests to attend to, but I’ll see you later. Or in the morning. Just try and rest. The room’s on the second floor, sorry.”
“It’s me you should be saying sorry to,” said Fergus.
“Oh nonsense, the exercise’ll do you good. Anyway, she can’t weigh more than about three stone. Sleep well, Martha.”
She gave in, allowed herself to be carried upstairs by Fergus and helped into bed by Clio. And now she felt more alone and more frightened than she had ever been in her life.
Everything had changed suddenly, she realised. That was the most frightening thing of all. She couldn’t deny it any longer. The child she had left behind was no longer Baby Bianca, totally anonymous, forever a baby; she had become Kate, a beautiful sixteen-year-old girl. She had been in the same room as her, breathed the same air, seen her, watched her, almost touched her; she had become reality.
She sat bolt upright, feeling the panic coming back, the breathlessness, the sweating.
“God,” she said aloud, “what do I do?”
And then the door opened and Janet came in.
Martha
was so pleased to see her, a friendly, reassuring person, that she burst into tears. Janet sat down on the bed, held her like a child, and told her to cry as much as she liked. Which Martha did, and for quite a long time: helpless, uncontrollable tears; and Janet just sat there, in complete silence, except for the occasional soothing, hushing noise, until finally Martha stopped crying and lay back on her pillows.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, “so terribly sorry.”
“Martha,” said Janet, smiling at her gently, “Martha, stop apologising. Please. You’ve done nothing wrong.”
Shocked into speech suddenly, she said, “Oh, but I have. That’s the whole point, Janet. You don’t understand.”
“Do you want to talk about it? This wrong thing you say you’ve done? Which I’m sure you haven’t.”
This denial, of what Martha knew to be true, made her agitated again; she started to shiver, to feel the breathlessness coming on.
“Janet, I have, I have! I’ve done something terrible, I—oh God!”
“Well, all right,” said Janet calmly, “you’ve done something terrible. Why don’t you tell me about it? Nothing seems as bad once you’ve shared it with someone, it’s a fact. And I would say I’m totally unshockable—having five children and spending a great deal of my life at Westminster has done that for me, at least. Try me. Try talking about it. Please, I can’t bear to see you like this. Tell me what it is.”
And suddenly, she did. She had to. She couldn’t fight it any longer.
She knew she shouldn’t, shouldn’t admit to it, to this extraordinary, dreadful, shocking thing that she had kept locked away inside her head for all those years, but the deniable had become undeniable, and she lay weak and wretched on her pillows in the dim room, with the noise of the party in the distance, the party where her daughter danced the night away, and told Janet what she had done.
Chapter 31
“She was weird,” said Kate, sinking back in the limo, “really weird.
Didn’t you think she was weird, Nat?”
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