“Not really.” Kate digested this in silence. “Do you think they—they—”
“Yeah, course,” said Sarah. “What else do you think they do?”
“I don’t know,” said Kate. She looked at Sarah in silence for a moment, then: “You haven’t yet, have you?”
“Course not! I’m thinking of it, though.”
“With Darren?”
“Yeah, he’s so fit.”
“But—but what’s the point? Really?”
“The point is I want to,” said Sarah. “At least, I think so. I mean, half the class has. I’m beginning to feel like an alien. Aren’t you?”
“No,” said Kate firmly. “I’m not.”
“Not even if you finally landed Nat Tucker?”
“No way!” Nat Tucker had been in the year above them and the object of a great many girls’ desire; he was tall, dark, and although only moderately good-looking and at times even slightly spotty, he was extremely sexy. He had left school and was working as an apprentice at his father’s garage and had consequently acquired a car which he drove round the neighbourhood, stereo at full volume, one arm dangling out of the window, nonchalantly holding a cigarette. He had twice told Kate that he was going to take her out; so far nothing had happened.
“S’pose you got pregnant with Darren. Then what’d you do?”
“I wouldn’t,” said Sarah. “I’d make him wear something.” She looked at Kate. “It’s because of your mum, isn’t it? Your real mum? You’re afraid of the same thing happening to you.”
“Course not,” said Kate. “I’m just not that stupid. Now listen, I’ve got a new idea.”
She had seen an ad in the local paper. “Private Detective Agency,” it had said, “Company Searches, Matrimonial, Missing Persons Etc. Discreet and Confidential.” And then the magic words: “No Find, No Fee.”
Well, it was worth a try. And if she did find her mother, then she could pay the bill. Bitch. It would be the least she could do. Shaking slightly, she had called the agency; a bright and breezy woman answered the phone.
“Yes?”
“I—want to speak to someone about finding someone. Please.”
“Ye-es. Can you tell me a little more? Is this a relative?”
“Yes. Yes, it is. I want to—want to find—my—” She stopped. God, this was always so hard. “My mother,” she said firmly.
“I see.” The voice was reassuringly calm. “Well, we’ll do our very best. But before we can go any further, I shall have to take a few details.”
“I—I don’t have a name. Of any kind. So—”
“Well, that does make it more difficult, but not impossible. We have solved similar cases.”
It was raining; a grey and wretched day. To Kate it suddenly seemed filled with sunshine.
“Could you give us any idea of location, where she might be?” A few clouds gathered.
“No. None at all, I’m afraid.”
“Well, do you have a starting point? Like where you were born? And when?”
“Oh yes.” This was easy. Gloriously easy. “I was born at Heathrow airport. On August the fifteenth, 1986.”
A long silence, then: “Actually at the airport?”
“Well, yes. And then she—well, I—that is, I was found—a bit later that day.”
“I think,” said the voice, “you really should come in and see us. We obviously need to discuss this very carefully.”
Sarah offered to go with her, but Kate thought she should go alone. “It looks more…more grown-up.”
She went after school next day. The offices were over a jewellery shop: quite flashy, not seedy as Kate had expected, and Mr. Graham was not the sad old man she had expected either. He was dapper, quite good-looking, well-spoken. He was fairly old, she thought, although not as old as her parents, probably about forty. He gave her a horrible cup of coffee and told her to tell him what she wanted.
After about five minutes he held up his hand. “Now look, dear. We could just possibly find her, find your mother—”
“You could? Oh my God!” He said all sorts of encouraging things: that they knew where she was born, the hospital she was taken to, that trails could be picked up long after they’d seemed to go cold. It was like some wonderful fairy story. And then came the bad bit: that they couldn’t possibly do it for no fee. That it was going to be a long haul, a big investment of their time. He’d want at least £300 on account.
She felt sick: the tantalisingly bright vision, of her mother delivered to her, fading slowly.
“Look,” said Richard Graham, who was not an unkind man, “you speak to your mum and dad. The ones who adopted you. See if they can help. And then tell them to come back to me.”
There was no way her parents would part with £300. Not for this. They would tell her it was all very dodgy, warn her it could run into much more money, and that someone like the National Organisation for the Counselling of Adoptees and Parents would help her for nothing, when she was eighteen.
When she was eighteen. Years away. And even then they’d say all the usual things, like did she really want to, and was it a good idea, and what about counselling first? And they were very hard up at the moment, anyway. They kept saying so. She felt totally miserable; it was as if she had been told her mother was just round the corner and that, if she hurried, she would find her there. Only someone had anchored her to the street, so she couldn’t hurry. It wasn’t fair! It just wasn’t fair!
And then she stood stock-still, right in the middle of the pavement, felt herself getting quite hot—her grandmother could afford £300. There was no doubt about that. And she’d be more sympathetic, less fussy too. She might even go and see Mr. Graham with her. She’d think it was exciting, a bit of an adventure.
The more Kate thought about it, the better an idea it seemed. She was due to go and stay with Granny next weekend; she would ask her then. Maybe, just maybe, she really was getting a little bit nearer.
When Martha left the office late on Wednesday evening, it was raining. Dismal, cold, wind-driven rain. God, she hated February. She walked down the steps towards her waiting cab and then noticed that a couple of people in front of her were pointing at something just out of sight and laughing. As she reached the bottom step she saw why: a six-foot-high bright yellow chicken was walking towards her. Very elaborate, it was, with a proper chicken body, a long rather ostrichlike neck, and sturdy legs above its splayed chicken feet. It had started to skip now, and it was holding an envelope in its beak. Even in her cold, wet misery she had to smile, then giggle, it was so absurd.
“Miss Martha Hartley?” it said. Its voice was high, drag-style high, and very American. “Letter for you. Special delivery.”
It was a huge yellow plastic envelope bearing the words “Chicken Post: We Beat the Pigeons to It,” with a large bunch of yellow feathers fixed where a stamp might be.
“I’m sorry,” said Martha, trying very hard to look severe. “I don’t really want anything.”
“You want this, believe me,” the chicken said, dropping the letter at her feet and skipping off down the road away from her. “Good news in there, I can tell you,” it called over its shoulder, with a flap of its wings.
Martha picked it up, looked rather awkwardly at the people around her, and got into her cab.
“You get all sorts round here, don’t you?” said the driver.
Afterwards, she couldn’t believe that she hadn’t thought it might be from Ed. If she had, she would have dropped it down the nearest drain. As it was, she opened the envelope, found another inside, and then another inside that, and hadn’t even opened the final bright yellow envelope by the time she reached her apartment; she was changing by then, running her bath.
She started reading the chicken’s letter and recognised Ed’s appalling writing.
“Stop!” it said. “Don’t throw it away. Read this. Please, please, please read it.” Martha, wearing nothing but a pair of silk knickers, her heart thumping uncomfortably ha
rd, read it.
OK, you were a bet. Getting you into bed was a bet. But before I knew you, before our first date. I can produce witnesses. Hopefully you’re still reading.
I just want to tell you a few things.
1. You’re fantastic.
2. I feel like a complete load of shit.
3. I wouldn’t have hurt you for anything.
4. I miss you.
5. It’s totally horrible without you.
6. I think you’re quite right never to eat more than once a day.
7. Nobody should ever go away for more than a week at a time.
8. Everybody should work at least twelve hours a day and on Sundays.
9. Nobody should have sex when they’ve got a meeting in the morning.
10. Your nose is not too big.
11. Your boobs are not too small.
12. I want you back.
Ed. X
Her doorbell rang.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me. The chicken. Can I come up?”
And reluctantly smiling she pressed the entry phone.
“It was Mum’s idea,” he said, as they sat on her sofa, his arm round her; she was still stiff, edgy, ready to be hurt.
“Your mother’s? Ed, you didn’t tell her?”
“Course not. Well, not that it was you. But that I’d upset someone, couldn’t get her to talk to me even. She said Dad could always get round her, however angry she was with him, if he made her laugh. She said once she’d laughed, she’d had it, because she’d let go a bit. I’d been out there hours, waiting in my car. Got a lot of funny looks. But driving there was the worst. Every time I stopped at traffic lights, people started pointing at me and laughing. And then I wanted to pee and I couldn’t. Just had to hang on. Once you’d gone, I ripped the whole kit off, rushed into a doorway. I was afraid of peeing on your feet,” he added, “ruining your Jacky Choos.”
“Jimmy Choos,” she said automatically.
“Sorry. It’s a good thing I’ve got you back, correcting my mistakes.”
At which Martha burst into tears.
“Don’t you see?” she said, wiping her eyes. “That was why it hurt so much. It was exactly what I was afraid of, that first night I met your friends, here was me, crusty old battle-axe, bossing you about, telling you what to do, laying down the law, and you, you—”
“Me what?” he said tenderly. “Me, the complete idiot. I don’t know nothing from nothing.”
“You just don’t get it, do you? That’s the whole point. That’s how I make you feel. And I hate it. I hate myself being that person.”
“Look,” he said, “I’ll be the judge of how I feel and whether I like it. OK, you’re a bossy old bag. I don’t mind—I find it rather sexy, actually. I specially like it when you stop being bossy. When”—he looked at her thoughtfully—“when we’re in bed. You’re very different in bed, you know, Martha. You get all—biddable. You want to please me. It’s sweet. Very, very sweet.”
“Oh,” she said.
“And you know something else? Here you are, this hyper-controlling, brilliantly clever woman, running the world, knowing more than I ever will, and the whole of the British legal system cowering before you…And you know how I feel?”
“No.”
“I feel really proud. Proud you want to be with me. Proud you want me. It’s gorgeous.”
Martha felt her eyes fill with tears. She sat digesting all this for a long time in silence. Then she smiled at him.
“So am I forgiven?” he said.
“Yes. You are. Totally. Thank you.”
“It’s OK. I’ll leave now. Leave you in peace.”
“Oh,” she said. She felt rather surprised, and discomfited.
“I think it would be best,” he said. “Really.”
“No,” she said, “no, it wouldn’t. I’d like you to stay.” She wasn’t used to asking for anything from him. It was difficult. “Please, Ed, please stay—I don’t want you to go away again.”
“You’ll be telling me you need me next,” he said, and very slowly and gently started to undo her bathrobe. “Now,” he said, minutes later, “what are those incredibly voluptuous things I see there? Between your neck and your waist. Can they be breasts? And please may I kiss them?”
Chapter 11
The Centre Forward Party had actually been launched, at the Connaught Rooms, the same location that the Social Democratic Party had used twenty years previously. There was no hidden agenda in this; it was simply central, large enough, famous enough, and splendid enough. The KFL trio, as they came swiftly to be known, who had made it happen and who had equal billing—“until we’re elected”—were Jack Kirkland, Janet Frean, and Chad Lawrence.
They boasted twenty-one backbenchers, most of whose constituencies had agreed to let them stand under their new colours until the next election. Chad Lawrence’s constituency was one of the few to force a by-election and he had won easily.
Their timing was perfect: with their slogan of “People First, Politics Second,” they had swept a rather tacky board and for a moment in history, at least, had everything going their way. Their timing was not just careful but lucky. Infighting and despair had swept the Tory Party, and fresh horror stories about hospitals, schools, and crime had beset New Labour.
And the Queen Mother’s funeral had sparked a wave of patriotism; people were in the mood for something uplifting and new. In a new political party, Kirkland said, they just might feel they had got it.
Nobody could have asked for more publicity. Every notable TV and radio programme featured the launch, and three newspapers had come down heavily on their side; others were more sceptical, but still welcomed what everyone was calling a fresh breeze in politics. The name was a huge success and the sketch writers had a field day, comparing the first press conference variously to a photo call for the World Cup and to the lineup of the runners in the Grand National.
There was much purplish prose about months of plotting in smart houses in Pimlico, dark corridors and underground committee rooms in Portcullis House; it all sounded rather easy and far removed from the reality, the all-night sessions in various flats and restaurants, the endless patient planning, the ongoing struggle to get people onside, the heroic battles to enthuse the constituency party workers.
There had been some very nasty stories planted about the three of them and there were also a great many unfounded rumours about who was leaving which party for the new one. All the main protagonists, Kirkland, Frean, and Lawrence, were on the front pages and many of the inside ones as well.
All had attractive families, wheeled out, smiling dutifully, for photo opportunities; Gideon Keeble said that he was proud to be involved and so did millionairess hairdresser Jackie Bragg, who said that she knew a good idea when she saw it, and she was proud to be part of this one. There was an interview with Keeble in The Times, complete with a photograph of him in front of his Irish mansion flanked by two Irish setters, and a quote that what you needed, in both politics and the press, was above all courage; and one with Bragg in the Mail, which plugged her company Hair’s to You rather heavily (a condition laid down by her, in return for a photo shoot in her house), but in which she said that for something to succeed in today’s world, it had above all to be sexy, and the Centre Forward Party was certainly that. The city had analysed the fortunes of Keeble, Bragg, and other big backers, and the extent to which they had been prepared to put their money where their mouths were; there was also much talk of anonymous donors.
Wherever the money had come from, it had come: to the tune of twenty million pounds. Quite a large percentage of this had come from private individuals, more than fifty thousand of them, who had pledged sums ranging from twenty-five pounds to a thousand on their credit cards. Chad Lawrence said repeatedly in interviews that this said more about the popularity of their cause than anything. It was observed by more than one commentator that this was a team which included people outside the world of politics, who were
businesslike and successful in their own lives and had a better than average chance of actually getting things done. Many of the people tasked with setting up the party on their own patch were still doing the day job, and came with no personal experience in politics; this was a big factor in the fresh thinking. And this group, of course, included Martha Hartley.
On Friday, April 19, a very big party was thrown in Centre Forward House, a new building in Admiralty Row. This was partly a thank-you to all the workers, partly a further PR initiative. Apart from the politicians and the backers, a handful of city men and as many celebrities as the combined address books and e-mail directories of the core team could muster were invited, together with every journalist from the world of print and radio and television. The food was good, the wine excellent, and the atmosphere heady. If you hadn’t been invited and were an obvious contender, you hot-footed it out of town.
Jocasta Forbes was there; she would have been there anyway, brought by her boyfriend, but her editor (who was also present) had briefed her to write a big piece about it for the gossip column the next day. “And find a few unusual people. I don’t want to read about Hugh Grant or the Frosts, God help me.”
Several people had remarked that Jocasta was looking less dazzling lately; she had lost weight and had a weariness about her. But her stories were better than ever; that day alone she’d had two, one about a woman who was suing her credit card company—“If people can sue the tobacco people, why not, they shouldn’t make it so easy for us to borrow”—and another about a scientist who had successfully cloned his own cat and was offering his services to the owners of elderly moggies on the Internet.
She did look dazzling that night, however, dressed in a very short black leather skirt and jacket and a sequinned top which showed most of her bosom and quite a lot of her tummy. She arrived with Nick, but promptly left his side and, inside an hour, had enough quotes to fill six columns. She relaxed, drained a glass of champagne, took another, and began to wander round the room. Nick was doing his political groupie number with Janet Frean, and Chris Pollock was locked in a fierce argument with Carol Sarler of the Daily Express.
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