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.
Nick walked out of the bathroom and sat down, his legs having become suddenly weak, totally devoid of substance; and then rang Clio again. She didn’t answer.
“Look, Beatrice, I’m not having it. Nick won’t want it. I know he won’t. You know what he’s like; the last thing in the world he’d want is a child.”
“That’s not quite the same thing as not knowing he’s got one. In the making, at least.”
“Beatrice, I can’t tell him. Believe me, I can’t.”
“Well, I do beg to differ. Look—I’d love to stay with you, but I can’t, I have to be in court in under an hour. We can discuss it all tonight. Are you going to stay down here, or do you want to go up to bed? Christine’ll look after you. She’s taking the children to school now, but I’ll leave her a note. Josh is away, somewhere up in the Midlands.”
“Fine. Thank you so much, Beatrice.”
“That’s OK. Now promise me, rest.”
“I promise.”
Good thing Beatrice was going out, thought Jocasta. She felt much better. She had an hour still; she’d have a shower, borrow one of Beatrice’s rather severe tracksuits, and set off. God, and change the cab arrangement. Better do that first.
Josh was still asleep when Beatrice rang. He’d had a bit of a night with the sales force, his head was agony.
“Josh, this is Beatrice. Look, I’ve got something to tell you. You are coming back tonight, aren’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Right, well, Jocasta will be there.”
“Jocasta! Why?”
“She’s pregnant.”
“Pregnant!”
“Yes. And—wait for it—it’s not Gideon’s. It’s Nick’s. And she’s clearly planning a termination.”
“Nick’s! How terrible. Can’t we stop her?”
“I’m not sure. But the point is, he doesn’t know. And he really should. She swears he wouldn’t want it, but he ought to have a chance to say so himself. He can’t stop her legally, of course, but—anyway, do you have his number?”
“I think so. You really think he ought to be told?”
“I really think so.”
“Lord. Poor Jocasta.”
Clio was frantically worried; Jocasta appeared to have gone missing. She had tried her several more times and each time there had been more bleeps on the answering machine and no reply on her mobile.
She actually picked up the phone to call Nick once or twice and then put it down again hastily. He had called her, but she hadn’t picked up the phone. God, she was a coward. Or was she just being a good friend, keeping Jocasta’s counsel?
She wished she could talk to Fergus about it all. He would know what to do. That was one of the wonderful things about Fergus, he was so sensible. And sympathetic. He was such a Jekyll and Hyde, he had been so sweet about the Morrises, for instance. Stop thinking about Fergus, Clio, concentrate on Jocasta and what’s going on.
Her phone rang: she jumped, but it wasn’t Nick, it was Josh. Did she have Nick’s mobile number? Or even his flat? It was urgent…
“Well…”
“Oh, Clio, come on.”
“Do you know where she is?”
“Yes, she’s at our house.”
“Thank God. I’ve been so worried about her. Yes, of course, I’ll give you his number. But don’t say I gave it you. And you can tell him what you like. Only, I swore I wouldn’t—”
“Thanks. You don’t happen to know when—if—she might be having a termination, do you?”
“Well, yes. She is. This morning, I’m afraid. And she’s going to be sterilised—”
“Jesus! Where?”
“I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me. I think she thought I might tell Nick; we’d had a row—”
“Look, call her at our house, Clio, would you? Try to find out where she’s going, try to delay her. And I’ll ring Nick.”
Jocasta was feeling much better. She could go to the clinic. She’d be fine. She had three-quarters of an hour before the cab came. She might just have a bath rather than a shower, it would be more relaxing.
Sitting in the bath with the door shut and Capital Radio on loudly, to distract her, she didn’t hear the phone ringing.
“Nick? This is Josh.”
“Josh! Thank God. Maybe you can help. I’m terribly worried about Jocasta, I don’t know where she is and—”
“She’s at our house.”
“At yours?”
“Yes. Now the thing is—that is—Oh God, this might be a bit of a shock, Nick, but she’s—well, she’s pregnant. Sorry to spring it on you, but…”
“I did—think she might be,” said Nick. He was speaking rather slowly. “I just found some tests. I’m at her place now. But why are you ringing me?”
“Because it’s yours.” Nick felt as if he was falling through a large silent space, with Josh’s voice echoing in the heart of it.
“My baby? Are you absolutely sure?”
“Well, Jocasta is. She told Beatrice.”
“Good God,” said Nick. “Dear, sweet Jesus.”
“Yes. And she’s about
to have a termination.” There was a silence. “Nick? You still there?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m still here.”
“Nick, I’m so sorry. Bloody awful thing to hear out of the blue. But Jocasta’s at our house, if you want to stop her.”
“Of course I want to stop her, for God’s sake!”
“Well, call her. Got the number? I think you really have to put your skates on, Nick, and—” But Nick had already cut him off.
“Mr. Hartley, hello. This is Ed Forrest. I just heard from Mum, she said Mrs. Hartley might have to go into hospital. I’m so sorry. How is she now?”
“Nice of you to call, Ed. Yes, she isn’t very well. Dreadfully low, I’m afraid. Just as you must be. How are you feeling?”
“Not too bad,” said Ed quickly. He didn’t like talking about how much he hurt; that was his property, part of Martha and of how much he had loved her, not to be shared.
“Your visit was the one thing which seemed to cheer my wife up. I was so grateful to you, Ed. Oh, and could you thank Kate? Her letter seemed to help, as well. It was kind of her to write. I’ve been meaning to write to her, but I’ve been so busy. I think Grace feels Martha’s friends bring her closer, somehow.”
“Yes, well, that’s nice. And I will tell Kate, yeah. I’m not sure if I’ll be up again this weekend, Mr. Hartley, but if I am, I’ll certainly come and see her again. Cheers. Take care.”
“It’s Grace who needs to take care. But thank you, Ed, so much.”
Poor old chap. Poor, poor old chap. He’d tell Kate. She was a nice kid. Pretty too. Bit spiky. Like her mother.
“Miss Forbes, isn’t it? Yes. And you’re booked in for—yes, a termination this morning. And a sterilisation.” The nurse smiled at her encouragingly.
“Yes,” said Jocasta, “that’s right.”
“If you’d like to come with me, I’ll take you up to your room. We can do your admission; check everything’s in order, ask you to sign the consent form, all that sort of thing. You’ve had nothing, since six o’clock, to eat or drink?”
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