Sheer Abandon

by Penny Vincenzi

  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.”

  Jocasta had decided to go and see Clio; it was too important not to. She hadn’t got anything else to do, for God’s sake. She was just leaving, when Beatrice rang.

  “Jocasta, how are you?”

  “I’m fine. You? You amazingly wonderful and selfless woman.”

  “Don’t know about that. Not too thrilled with Josh.”

  “I’m sure you’re not. But it is a long time ago. Sixteen years, or whatever.”

  “Yes, I know. But it still hurts, I don’t know why. I suppose because—oh I don’t know. It just doesn’t help me to trust him. Silly, I know. But clearly, this sort of thing is in his genes.”

  “Not silly at all. I’d feel exactly the same. But he has been behaving himself lately, hasn’t he?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Beatrice quickly, “he really has.” She managed a laugh. “I sound like his mother, don’t I? Or his big sister.”

  “You take a much better view of him than his big sister,” said Jocasta. “You must love him a lot, Beatrice.”

  “I suppose I must. Anyway, it’s obviously best for Kate. Josh tells me she’s really happy about it.”

  “Yes, I think she is. You haven’t met her yet?”

  “No, she’s coming to tea next Sunday. I do want to meet her properly and we thought it would be easier if she came here.”

  “I think you’ll like her,” said Jocasta, “she’s sweet. Very bright. Presumably you’re not going to tell the girls?”

  “Not yet. Now, Jocasta, I’ve actually rung up to ask you something. Are you going back to Gideon?”

  Jocasta was caught off her guard. “Of course not. Absolutely not.”

  “I see. We’ve been worrying about you. We’d hoped that things might be better.”

  “Well, they are better. We seem to be friends again. Probably because we haven’t seen each other for weeks and weeks. But we are getting divorced. And I’m altogether fine, I feel extremely happy, as a matter of fact, happy as a lark, just don’t worry about me, please.”

  “Good. I’m delighted.”

  “Anyway, sweet of you to call. I’ve got to go now, sorry. Speak soon, you’re a total heroine.”

  “I wish,” said Beatrice.

  Ed was drinking his third coffee of the day and wishing he could feel the slightest interest in what he was doing, when his mother called. She did most mornings; he wasn’t sure whether it helped or not.

  “How are you today, dear?”

  “Oh—you know. Bit bad, I think.”

  “I know,” she said gently. “It comes and goes, doesn’t it? Mostly it comes, especially at the beginning.”

  “Yes. Well, you should know, Mum.”

  His parents’ marriage had been particularly happy; it was, he had told Martha, how he knew about love. “Proper love. The on and on sort. The you
and me sort.”

  “I do,” said Maureen softly. “And I tell you what, Edward, after a while, the memories become happier. They really do.”

  “Good,” he said, “something needs to. Thanks, Mum.”

  “I popped in at the vicarage this morning. Poor Mr. Hartley’s so worried about his wife. She had a fall this morning, and apparently she won’t eat, she’s just turned her face to the wall. The doctor says he’s going to have to put her in hospital, in a day or two.”

  “Oh dear. I’m sorry.”

  “Anyway, the real reason I rang you was that Mr. Hartley says the one thing that’s cheered Mrs. Hartley up lately was your visit. He said he thinks it was you being so close to Martha, it brings her back, in a funny way.”

  “That’s nice,” said Ed. He wished someone could bring Martha back for him in any way at all. Funny or not.

  “Yes, well, take care of yourself, love. I’ll ring in a day or two.”

  Nick had decided he must get back to London. It was all very well being at home with his parents when he was haring round doing things and enjoying himself, but being marooned there, confined to the house, was rather different. Most of the family had left; he had nothing to do but read and go for solitary walks.

  And think: to a large degree about Jocasta. And what a fool he’d been. An absolute bloody fool. Why hadn’t he moved in with her, married her for God’s sake, if that’s what she wanted? From his lonely perspective now, that looked a pretty attractive proposition. All his three brothers, one of them younger than him, were married, and they seemed perfectly contented. And they had all these children, jolly little things. He often thought he’d like some children. He got on with them terribly well.

  He kept conjuring Jocasta up, warm, laughing, happy, talking nonsense—and as she had been that last afternoon, lying in bed, her lovely body naked, her astonishing hair splayed across the pillow, her huge eyes brilliant as she looked at him, holding out her arms to him, telling him she loved him. Yes, she had said that, there had been no doubt about it—wanted him, talking her way through lovemaking as she so engagingly did: “That’s lovely, so lovely. God it’s gorgeous, fantastic…here I go now, Nick, I can’t bear it…go on, go on…”

  He snapped his mind shut. This was ridiculous. She’d gone back to Keeble, and who could blame her. He had to get on with his life. And he’d start by going back to London. The very next day.

  Jocasta reached Clio’s flat at six o’clock; it had taken her much longer than usual. She had developed a headache, driving into the sun, and was feeling rather nauseous. She wondered if this was the beginning of the pregnancy sickness. If she was going to start feeling ill, then the—well, what she was going to do tomorrow was even better timing.

  She pressed the bell. “It’s me, Jocasta. Can I come in?”

  There was a silence, then: “Sure.”

  She was looking rotten: white and drawn. She had obviously been crying.

  “Oh, Clio,” said Jocasta, “I’m so sorry to have been so beastly, and insensitive, and sorry about you. Please forgive me. I don’t deserve it, but please do.”

  Clio managed a smile. “Of course. I understand.”

  “I expect you do,” said Jocasta, “understand what a brat I am, what an unfeeling, pathetic brat. I need my bottom smacked very hard. Would you like to do it?” she added, with a smile. “I’m sure it would do me good.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” said Clio. She managed a weak smile. “What would the neighbours say?” And then two tears trickled down her face.

  “Oh Clio,” said Jocasta. “Here, let me give you a hug.” She opened her arms and Clio went into them, and sobbed for a long time.

  “It’s so unfair,” she said, “so, so unfair!”

  “I know. I know it is. It’s dreadful for you. There really is nothing you can do?”

  “Apparently not. My tubes are buggered and that’s it.”

  “Well you should know. What—what about IVF?”

  “It’s a possibility of course. Quite a good one—in theory.”

  “And in practice?”

  “It’s a pretty miserable business. Someone’s got to love you an awful lot to submit themselves to it. Dodgy, too. I mean it doesn’t work all nice and neatly the first time. There are very long waiting lists. And going privately, it’s thousands of pounds a time.”

  “Couldn’t you jump the queue? Being in the business and everything?”

  “Of course not!” Clio sounded quite shocked. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Anyway, I don’t know why I’m being so pathetic; who’s going to give me a baby anyway? In some new relationship? I’m already thirty-five.”

  “Fergus?”

  “I’m afraid not. That’s dead in the water.”

  “Clio, are you sure? That’s not the impression I got.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I rang him to see if he could help me get through to you. He said you weren’t getting on very well, said something about a clash of ideologies? Anyway, he’d been trying to ring you. He said you wouldn’t speak to him. Doesn’t sound quite a corpse to me.”

  “Maybe not now. But it would never work, Jocasta. In the first place, I can’t approve of what he does.”

  “Why?”

  “It seems to me the very worst sort of cashing in on other people’s misfortunes. I know you see it differently but—”

  “Clio, it is different. It’s helping people through them.”

  “What? People like footballers who’ve been shagging six girls at a time, presenting their cases in the best possible light?”

  “But it’s not all that. Look at what a lot he’s done for Kate, and he hasn’t even been paid yet, not a penny, I’ve just discovered. By my beloved nearly-ex-husband. Well, he has now. I hope.”

  “Gideon! What’s he got to do with Kate?”

  “He said he’d pay Fergus until Kate could. That was the whole basis for the deal. And the poor guy hasn’t had a penny out of him. Anyway, don’t you think that was amazingly nice of Fergus? When he’d never met Kate, didn’t know the first thing about her?”

  “No,” said Clio, “it was only money.”

  “Oh, shut up! Now, come on, what else does the poor bloke do wrong? Apart from earn a crust the only way he knows?”

  “Nothing, really,” said Clio feebly. Jocasta left quite soon after that: her headache was worse, and she was very tired. They had, by common assent, not discussed her situation; she had made up her mind, she told Clio, and nothing was going to change it.

  “I know you think it’s wrong of me, but we’ll have to agree to differ. At least we’re friends again.”

  “You—wouldn’t like me to come back with you? Be with you tonight?”

  “Oh, God, no. I am so not worried about it. Honestly. And it would be awful for you. I’ll be fine. I really will. Just totally, totally fine. Bye, Clio darling, and please go on forgiving me. Lots of love. I’ll call you in a day or two. And give Fergus a ring. Go on.”

  Nick was on his way to London. He was driving; his mother had been absolutely horrified, but he said his arm was fine out of its sling, he could do most of the driving with his left arm. “I’m sorry, Mummy, but I’ve got to get back. So much to do. And I swear I’ll go and see my own quack first thing tomorrow. OK?”

  Pattie Marshall sighed. “I can’t stop you, I know, but I think it’s very foolish. And you’d better not have an accident. The police would throw the book at you.”

  Nick promised not to.

  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.