“Absolutely.”
“Oh dear.”
“You thanked him very charmingly. And kissed him tenderly as well.”
“God!” This was getting worse. “It was just—just my heels, they were so high.”
“Of course. Very pretty though. The shoes, I mean. Did you enjoy the party? Otherwise, I mean?”
“Yes, I did. Did you?”
“Yes, I suppose so. Been to a few too many this week. I’ll be glad to get home.”
“Me too. Not my favourite place in the world, this. Although…” Her voice trailed off.
Across the lobby was the horribly familiar figure of Gideon Keeble followed by a hotel lackey pushing a luggage trolley: at least four suitcases, a Gladstone bag, a flight bag, and a suit carrier, all (apart from the Gladstone which was old and leathery) predictably Louis Vuitton. How absurd! Did anyone need that much luggage for four days?
She was about to make a run for it, to say she had to go to the loo, when Chad hailed him.
“Gideon, hello! You off? I was hoping I’d catch you. You’ll remember our young friend of last night. She was just telling me how enormously grateful she was for your help on the dance floor when her heel broke.”
Jocasta looked distractedly up at Gideon Keeble. How could she possibly not have recognised him? God, she must have been drunk. He was very tall, about six foot five, and powerfully built, without being in the least fat. He was tanned and looked as if he spent a lot of time outdoors, and he had an energy that was almost infectious; he wasn’t exactly good-looking, but he had large and brilliant blue eyes, and his dark curly hair was exactly the length Jocasta liked, a little longer than was fashionable, and just flecked with grey.
“Yes. Yes, I was,” she said helplessly, “very grateful. Thank you.”
“It was entirely my pleasure.” He had an accent tinged with Irish and he smiled at her, a brilliant, warm smile. “Is the shoe too sick to be cured?”
“No, I don’t think so. I hope not.”
“Where on earth are you going with all that luggage, Gideon, you old poser?” asked Chad.
“To the States for a week or two. There’s a tempting little morsel over there I’ve got my eye on. I’ll call you when I get back.”
“Fine. Look forward to it. Bye.”
“Goodbye. And goodbye to you, Jocasta. May I say I enjoy your articles very much.”
“You’ve read them?”
“Of course. I regard it as my business to read everything I can. I especially enjoyed your piece last week about that girl in the Bournemouth hotel. The one who said the only people who’d ever properly thanked her for what she’d done for them, in five years of conferences, had been Maggie and the Prescotts. That sounds a bit like a TV programme, doesn’t it? Maggie and the Prescotts—someone should commission it. No, it was excellent. Your piece, I mean.”
“Thank you,” she said, smiling. She got a warmth and excitement that was almost sexual when people admired her work. “From you that’s really praise.”
“Deserved. You’re a clever girl,” he added. “And what a lucky man Nicholas is. I was telling him only last night, he should make an honest woman of you.”
The dark blue eyes sparkled at her. He was flirting with her. How morale boosting was that? And he really was very attractive.
“I wish,” she said, laughing. But her heart squeezed suddenly. She wondered what Nick might have said. Whether she could possibly ask…No, she couldn’t. Anyway, she could guess. “I think he prefers me dishonest,” she said, trying to sound amused.
“Then he’s a fool. Girls like you don’t come along too often. With both brains and beauty. I can see my driver looking extremely constipated over there. I’d better go. Farewell to you both.”
“He’s very nice,” said Jocasta, looking after him. She felt slightly weak-kneed.
“Oh, don’t be deceived,” said Chad Lawrence. “That charm is hugely dangerous. And his temper is legendary. Now, let me buy you a coffee or a drink.”
Jocasta was miserable and irritable when they finally got to London: Nick had spent the entire journey in a huddle with a couple of other Sketch writers, getting steadily drunk. She had thought she would be able to sleep her hangover off, but she couldn’t; just sat there through the endless uncomfortable journey, with her eyes closed.
“Well,” Nick said as they got off the train, “it seems they’ve made their minds up. Full steam ahead.”
“Ahead where?” she said confusedly.
“The new party. They’ve got some funding now—Keeble has pledged a million or two, and Jackie Bragg’s coming up with an obscene amount. You met her once, didn’t you?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “Very clever girl, Jackie.”
Jackie Bragg had just floated her hugely successful brainchild on the stock exchange. Hair’s to You sent a fleet of highly trained hair stylists to visit offices at any point during the day to blow-dry the tresses of female (and male) executives too busy to leave their desks. Five years ago she had been a brand manager in a small manufacturing company, with a boss who had complained that she never had time to go to the hairdresser; she was now well up the Sunday Times Rich List with a second project (the same but different, she was often quoted as saying) planned.
“Indeed. And both are good commercial names—essential when they go on the charm offensive. The new party, that is.”
“I would have thought they’d have a name by now,” said Jocasta.
“Well, they haven’t. Can’t hack that. If you can, they’ll probably reward you with a damehood when they come to power. Oh, and did I tell you? Chris is persuaded it’s a good idea. Chad’s invited him up for a shooting weekend—you know how he loves all that country gentleman stuff even while he says they should all be strung up—and of course he and Keeble are old muckers. And—”
“Nick, this is all very fascinating, but I’m terribly tired. I think I’ll just go straight home to Clapham,” she said, expecting him to argue, or at least to say he would come with her; but he gave her a swift kiss on her cheek and said, “OK, sweetie, you do look done for. Call me tomorrow.”
Jocasta stared at him. “Nick! I can’t believe you just said that.”
“Said what?”
“What you just did.”
He looked at her. “Sorry, you’ve lost me. I thought you said you wanted to go back to Clapham.”
“I did. I thought you might want to come with me. Oh, it doesn’t matter.” She felt like crying; crying or hitting him.
“Jocasta—”
“Nick, I trekked all the way up to Blackpool to be with you.”
“That’s not true,” he said easily. “You had to cover the party.”
“Anyone could have done it. I wangled it specially—Chris wasn’t that keen. But that’s not the point.”
“Yes, it is. Jocasta, I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, but I really—”
“Oh, shut up, will you?” She wasn’t sure why she was feeling quite so hostile; she just was.
He stared at her. “OK. I will. Bye.”
And he walked away from her, his tall body melting into the crowd, his mobile held to his ear.
Something had to be settled, they couldn’t go on like this. It had happened one too many times, his behaving as if she was just some casual girlfriend he was moderately fond of, who should be incredibly grateful if he suggested they went home together. She felt used, disregarded, undervalued. She kept hearing Gideon Keeble’s words: “He should make an honest woman of you.” Probably, she thought, misery making her emotionally reckless, the entire conference, the whole newspaper industry, had been watching them, thinking exactly the same. It was a humiliating thought.
Anyway, she didn’t want to be made a completely honest woman. Not with a wedding ring. Not quite yet anyway. But Nick could at least make a start: commit to her, suggest they move in together.
She drifted off to sleep at about four, and got through the day somehow, expecting him to call any momen
t; he did, at about five thirty. “I’ll be very late. Sorry. Big debate on security.”
“That’s absolutely fine by me,” said Jocasta and put the phone down.
She spent a long and miserable evening, and another wretched night, waking on Saturday with her mind made up. She went for a walk, deliberately leaving her mobile behind. When she got back midmorning, he had called and left a message on her answering machine. “Hi. It’s me. Do you want to see me? I’d like to see you.”
She called his mobile; it was on message. “Yes,” she said. “We need to talk.”
He arrived with a bottle of red wine and some flowers that clearly came from a garage, and bent to kiss her rather cautiously.
“Hi.” He handed her the flowers. “For you.”
“Thank you. Would you like some coffee?”
“That’d be great.” He watched her as she made the coffee in silence; then: “Jocasta, what is this all about?”
“Me, Nick. That’s what it’s about.”
“I can see that. Do I come into it at all?”
“That’s up to you. Look, would you like to tell me exactly where you think we’re going?”
“Well—forwards. I thought.”
“Together?”
“Obviously.”
“What exactly does that mean?”
“It means I love you—”
“You do?”
“Jocasta, you know I do.”
“I don’t,” she said. “Actually. I know you enjoy my company, I know you like having me around, I think I know you like sleeping with me. But I certainly don’t know you love me. What have you ever done to make me know that? Nick, we’ve been together for about two and a half years and you still treat me like some new girlfriend. We’ve never even been on holiday together.”
“Well,” he said equably, “I hate the sun. You hate the countryside. What would be the point?”
“Nick, it isn’t about holidays. It’s about life. You know. Planning a future together. Being together all the time, not just when it’s convenient. Saying, yes, Jocasta, I do want to be with you. Properly.”
“I’d rather be with you improperly,” he said, coming over to her, trying to kiss her.
“Don’t try and charm me out of this, please, Nick. I’ve had enough of it. I want you to say or do something that…that—I want you to make a commitment to me,” she said. “I want you to say—” She stopped.
“Say what?”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” she said, her voice rising with her misery. “Enjoying seeing me squirm, enjoying making me say things that—that—”
“Jocasta,” he said and his voice was gentle suddenly, “I’m not enjoying it at all. It’s making me feel very miserable seeing you so unhappy. But if you want me down on one knee, asking you to become Mrs. Marshall, I really can’t do that. Not yet. I don’t feel ready for it. And if I did do that, propose, just to make you happy—well I don’t think it would do much good to either of us.”
“But Nick, you’re thirty-five. When are you going to feel ready for it?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “The idea simply fills me with terror. Maybe because so many of my friends have got married and then unmarried again, with enormous unhappiness. I don’t feel settled enough, I don’t feel well off enough, I don’t feel—”
“Grown-up enough?” she said, her voice heavy with irony.
“Well—yes, yes, that’s about it. Actually. I don’t. I’m sorry.”
Jocasta suddenly felt very tired. They were no further along than—the last time they’d had this conversation. Further back if anything.
“Jocasta,” he said gently. He put his hand on her arm. “Jocasta, I’m sorry. I wish—”
She interrupted him in a haze of rage and despair. “Oh just shut the fuck up, will you? Stop saying you’re sorry when I know you’re not!” She was crying now, out of control, hurting dreadfully. “Go away, why don’t you? Go away and—”
“But—but what for?” His voice was genuinely bemused. “What would be the point of that? We love being together. And I really do love you, Jocasta. It’s very unfortunate for you that I’m an immature commitment-phobe. But I am maturing. There has to be hope. And meanwhile, why can’t we go on as we are? Or—is there someone else? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
“Of course not,” she said, sniffing, reaching for the handkerchief he was holding out to her. “I wish there was.” She managed a half smile.
“Well, I don’t. And there’s certainly no one else for me. Never could be. Not after you.” He reached out tentatively, stroked her cheek. “Please, Jocasta, give me just a little more time. I’ll try very hard to do some growing up. I do want to, I promise.”
“Well…” She hesitated. He leant forward and started to kiss her, tenderly at first, then harder, his mouth working on hers. Against her will, against all common sense, something stirred deep within her, something dark and soft and treacherous. He pushed his hand under her T-shirt, began encircling one of her nipples with his thumb. She shivered in anticipation, then pulled back from him; his eyes on hers were very bright, very tender.
“I meant it,” he said. “I do love you. I’m sorry if I don’t make it plain enough. Now—shall we go and lie down and recover?”
But all through the sex which followed, lovely and healing as it was, Nick gentle and tender, waiting for her a long, long time as she softened, sweetened under him, coaxing her body skilfully in the way he knew best, into a mounting, brightening pleasure; even as she felt her climax gather and grow and then spread out into starry, piercing release, she felt still wary, hurt; and as she lay beside him, his hand tangling in her hair, his eyes smiling into hers, she knew that however much he said he loved her, it was not enough. And that once again she seemed to love someone more than he loved her.
Chapter 8
Clio sat staring at Jeremy; she felt terribly frightened. Throw-up, shit-in-the-pants frightened. He stared at her, his face cold and distasteful. When he was in this mood, his face became mean, his eyes narrow, his lips tight. She hated it. At this very moment she hated him.
It had all begun—rather absurdly—with the Morrises. They had been found in the middle of the town, wearing their night clothes. Mrs. Morris had failed to take her pills, woke up hungry, walked down to Waitrose, and was found tucking sweets and crisps into her dressing-gown pocket; Mr. Morris had, meanwhile, gone to look for her, also in his dressing gown, and was apprehended, as the police called it, driving in the wrong direction down a one-way street, frantic with worry. The social services had been called and the pronouncement had been made that the Morrises were not coping and would have to go into a home.
“But they can’t,” Clio said to Mark Salter, almost in tears. “They’re fine if they take their pills. I should have popped in every day, then they’d be all right.”
“Clio, stop it,” said Mark. “The Morrises are not your personal responsibility. I can’t think of anyone who’d have done what you have.”
“It’s not enough though, is it?” said Clio. “The poor old souls are going to end up in some hideous place, removed from everything familiar, and they’ll absolutely gallop downhill.”
“Dear Clio, calm down. You don’t know that.”
“I know it,” said Clio, “and I’m very upset. This whole system stinks. Where are they?”
“At home. The daughter’s with them apparently.”
“Better not visit, then. I’d want to ram her mother’s pills down her fat throat.”
“Clio, Clio.” He twinkled at her. “That’s not a nice thing to say.”
“She’s not a nice woman.” Just as she was leaving, her phone rang; it was a friend of hers, Anna Richardson, another geriatrician, from the Royal Bayswater Hospital where Clio had been working before moving to Guildford.
“Hi, Clio, how’s it going?”
“Fine, thank you. Lovely to hear from you, Anna. I’m sorry I haven’t called.”
&n
bsp; “It’s OK. Neither of us has that sort of time. How’re things there? Still enjoying general practice?”
“Loving it. It’s more—personal. You feel more in control.”
Anna laughed. “You certainly can’t say that of hospital life. Look, I’ve rung to say goodbye for a bit. Alan’s been offered a job in the States. In Washington. Huge salary hike, loads of perks. So, obviously we’re going.”
“That’s fantastic.”
“I s’pose so. I’d rather stay here. But—you know. No choice really. I mean, who’s got the real career? Anyway, I’ve decided to put mine on hold, have a baby or two.”
“Really?” Clio tried to keep her voice casual; this was the third friend who had made this particular announcement in the past month. It made her feel panicky.
“Well, look, Clio, there was one other thing. Old Beaky’s retiring in a year or so.”
“Bless him.” Donald Bryan, whose vast nose had given him his nickname, was the senior geriatrician at the Royal Bayswater and their boss. He had been much loved.
“Yes. So if you wanted to get back into the swing of things, they’ll be looking for at least one person to replace me and if they promote from within to Beaky’s job, two. And—well, your name did come up.”
“Golly.” Clio sat staring out of the window; it was a grey miserable day, and suddenly it looked quite different. Brighter. More interesting. Of course there was no question of her taking what she thought of as a proper job again, and certainly not one in London, but still—it was wonderful to know that she should be considered sufficiently good at what she did to be a possible contender for a moderately senior position. “Who mentioned me?”
“Beaky himself. And a couple of other people. If you’re interested, Clio, I would say you only had to lift the phone and they’d ask you to apply. Anyway, I thought you’d want to know. Even if only for a bit of an ego boost.”
“Yes. I do. Bless you!”
After Anna had rung off, Clio sat at her desk, doodling on a piece of paper, and feeling, briefly, like a different person. Not a rather unsatisfactory wife, not the family dunce, not a junior member of a general practice, but someone clever, someone sought after, someone doing well in her chosen profession. Just for a very little while she felt sleeker, more successful, oddly confident. And she would tell Jeremy; he’d be pleased for her at least. She was sure about that.
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