“But, Kate, that’s the whole point, isn’t it? Your mum would never agree.”
“She might,” said Kate. She was beginning to wish she had never had the conversation with Jocasta. “Anyway,” she said, slightly aggressively, “she said she wouldn’t do anything in a hurry.”
“I thought you were in a hurry.”
“Oh for God’s sake!” Kate was getting irritable. “Look, it’s up to Jocasta, OK? Not my parents.”
“That’s what I just said. Course it is. Crikey, Kate! Do you realise, you might even find out who your real father is, as well?”
“Yes,” said Kate, “I thought of that. How he must be a complete arsehole.”
“Most men are,” said Sarah knowledgeably.
“Hi.” Kate, waiting for her bus, looked up from her Heat magazine. Nat Tucker stood in front of her. He had his black hair cut very short and was wearing baggy combats and a white sleeveless T-shirt. He looked fantastic. Why did it have to be today, here, with her in her school uniform? Thank God she’d taken her tie off.
“Hi,” she said, pulling her headphones out of her ears.
“You all right?” he said.
“Yeah. Yeah, cool thanks.”
“Still at school?”
“Yeah. Doing my exams, aren’t I?”
“S’pose so. Want a lift home?”
She swallowed hard, simply to delay her answer, not sound too eager. “Well, maybe. Yeah. Thanks.”
“Car’s round here.” He jerked his elbow in the direction of a side road, started walking. Kate followed him. This was amazing. A-mazing.
“You’ve got a new car,” she said, looking at it admiringly.
“Yeah. It’s a Citroën. Citroën Sax Bomb.”
“Great,” said Kate carefully.
“My dad got it into the workshop, let me do it up. Like the spoiler?”
“Course.”
“I lowered the suspension seventy mill all round. Looks better, don’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“It’ll be lower when I’ve finished with it. It does hundred and eleven,” he said, with an attempt at nonchalance. “I upgraded the ignition and that. And the sound’s great.”
“So—your dad let you have it for nothing?”
“No,” he said indignantly, “I have to work for him, don’t I? Well, get in. Here, give us your bag.”
He threw her school bag into the boot, and got in beside her, switched on the stereo. The street was filled with the thumping, punching rhythms of So Solid Crew. He started the engine, pulled away with a loud screech, dangerously close to the kerb. A middle-aged woman jumped back, scowling at him, shouted something; he grinned widely at Kate.
“Can’t see for looking, can they, those grannies. So, what you going to do next? After the exams I mean?”
“Oh, don’t know. Go to college I suppose.”
“What?” His voice was incredulous. “You get out of school and go straight back in again?”
“Yes. I want to do A levels.”
“Yeah? What for?”
“Well…to go to uni.”
“What for?” he said, clearly genuinely puzzled. “I haven’t got any GCSEs even, and I got a good job, plenty of dosh.”
“Yeah, but Nat, I can’t go and work for my dad like you. I want to work for a newspaper or a magazine, something like that.”
“What, as a model or something?”
“No. A writer. Why should I be a model?” she said, stretching out her legs, surreptitiously easing her skirt a little higher.
“Well you’ve got the looks and that. Make a lot of money that way, you could.” Kate was silent; this was beyond her wildest dreams. “Where d’you want to go?” he asked.
“Franklin Avenue, please.”
“How’s Sarah?” he said.
“She’s OK.” He nodded. That’s why he wanted to talk to me, she thought, he wants to know about Sarah. Sarah was more his type: dark, small, loud. Kate tried to be as lippy with boys as Sarah was, but she never could quite manage it.
“She still at school?”
“Yeah. Then she’s going to go full-time at the salon. The one where she’s a Saturday girl.”
“What, she’s going to be a hairdresser?” he asked and his face was incredulous, as if Kate had said Sarah was planning on entering a convent. “How sad is that?”
“What’s sad about hairdressing?” said Kate defensively. “She likes it.”
“It’s a sad job,” he said, “running around old women all day, asking them if what they’ve done is all right, would they like a magazine to read, all that crap. My mum’s one and I used to go and see her after school when I was younger. Awful job.”
“Sarah likes it. She gets good tips.”
“Yeah?” He didn’t seem very interested in Sarah anymore. Kate’s heart lifted; maybe he’d just been making polite conversation. Not that it was really his style.
“Well, here we are,” he said, turning into her road, pulling up with a screech of brakes. He left the stereo running; she could see her grandmother looking out of the window. God. Suppose she came out, asked to be introduced to him.
“I must go,” she said. “Thanks for the lift.”
“Want to come out Saturday?” he asked. He was looking at her legs as she swung them sideways out of the car.
“With you?” she said. And then realised how stupid she must sound.
“Yeah. Clubbing over Brixton.”
Kate felt herself starting to blush with excitement. This was unbelievable. Nat Tucker was asking her out.
She managed to wait a moment, then said, “Yeah, thanks.” Her voice sounded astonishingly level.
“I’ll pick you up. Nine-ish. OK?”
“Yeah. OK.”
The effort of keeping her face expressionless, her voice level and disinterested, was so immense she found it hard to breathe. She was halfway up the path when he called her.
“Don’t you want yer bag?”
“Oh. Oh yeah. Thanks.”
He got out of the car, pulled it out of the boot, slung it over the gate. “Cheers. See you later.”
Kate was incapable of further speech.
“Martha? Hi, I’m Jocasta.”
“I think I’d have known that,” said Martha. She smiled, a charming, courteous smile. “You look just the same. Do come in.”
“I’m afraid I don’t look just the same.” Jocasta walked into the apartment. It was quite simply stunning. A mass of ash-blond wood flooring, white walls, huge windows, and a minimal amount of black-and-chrome furniture. “This is gorgeous,” she said.
“Thank you. I like it. And it’s near to my work.”
Martha was gorgeous too, in a cool, careful way. Very slim, wearing dark grey trousers and a cream silk shirt; her skin was creamy too, and almost makeup-less, with just some eye shadow and mascara and a beige-brown lipstick. Her hair, brown, straight, shining hair, streaked with ash, was cut into a neat, sleek bob.
“Which is where?” Jocasta asked. “Your work, I mean?”
“Oh, just over there.” Martha waved rather vaguely down at the world below her.
“Yes, but what’s it called, what do you exactly do?”
“I’m a partner with a city law firm. At the moment.” She ignored the request for the name.
“Oh, OK. Fun?”
“Not exactly fun. I like it though. Can I offer you a coffee or something?”
“Yes, that’d be great.”
“Fine. Just excuse me a moment. Make yourself at home. Do you need a table or anything to write on?”
“No, thanks, it’s fine.”
She disappeared. Snooty cow, thought Jocasta; and thought of that other Martha, slightly nervous, eager to be friends, mildly defensive about her background. She had been so polite, so eager to please. What had changed her so much? Clio had hardly changed at all.
And she had been fun. Undoubtedly fun. The very first night in Bangkok, they’d huddled together in one bed, the thre
e of them, screaming at the cockroaches that had appeared when they put the light on, and then she’d pulled a bottle of wine from her bag and they’d shared it, drinking from the bottle, giggling and shaking at the same time.
“Right. Here we are.” She appeared again, with a dark wooden tray, set with white cups, a cafetiere, milk jug, a bowl of both brown and white sugar lumps. Jocasta almost expected her to put a bill down on the table in front of her. She was very still, Jocasta noticed, still and totally self-controlled. She was also, clearly, very nervous. It seemed strange, when she was so patently self-confident. Well, that was what interviews were all about. Finding out.
“Tell me,” Martha said, “what’s your brother doing? Is he a barrister?”
“God no,” said Jocasta, “much too much like hard work. He works for the family company. He’s married—just about. Got two little girls.” She smiled at Martha. “So you went to Bristol Uni, did you?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And did you like it?”
“Yes, very much. Look, is this part of the interview? Because I did say—”
“Martha,” said Jocasta as patiently as she could, “I’m just playing catch-up. I’ll tell you all about me if you like. And Clio.”
Martha visibly seized on this. “How is Clio?”
“Not very happy,” said Jocasta. “She’s getting divorced. She’s doing well at her job, though.”
“That’s so sad. About her divorce I mean. Have you met the husband?”
“No. He sounds like an arsehole.” She smiled expansively at Martha. “He’s a surgeon. Arrogant. Totally up himself. She’s better off without him. Mind you, I did upset him.”
“I thought you hadn’t met him?”
“I didn’t. But I wrote about his hospital. Long story. Anyway, he didn’t like it.”
“I don’t suppose he did,” said Martha. She picked up her cup of black coffee. Her hand was shaking slightly, Jocasta noticed. Her small, beautifully manicured hand.
“But she’s just the same, dear little Clio—remember how we started calling her that, on the second day in Bangkok?”
“No, I don’t think I do,” said Martha. She was clearly going to block any attempt at reminiscence.
“Anyway, did you do what you said, do Oz, and end up in New York?”
“You have an amazing memory,” said Martha, and there was a silence. Then she said, “Oz, certainly. I didn’t see much of the States. Look, Jocasta, I don’t want to be rude, but I don’t have an awful lot of time. So maybe we should start.”
“Of course. Fine. Let’s start with a few basic facts: your age, what you do, how you got drawn into politics, all that stuff. Then we can do some details. It’s a very good story, I think.”
She watched Martha slowly relaxing, growing in confidence as she took control, presented what was obviously a carefully rehearsed story. And it was a good one, from a spin point of view: the death of the office cleaner, her longing to do something to help, to change things, her growing involvement with Centre Forward, her returning to her roots.
Jocasta listened politely, asking questions about Centre Forward, about the number of MPs they had, how many they hoped to field for the general election; went on to some incredibly boring stuff about the election process. And then began to move, very stealthily, in. What she had so far wasn’t going to make her the next Lynda Lee-Potter.
“You’re obviously doing awfully well at your firm,” she said. “Won’t you miss it?”
“Yes, but I think it’ll be worth it if I can make a difference, even quite a small one.”
“I meant the trappings?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Well, this flat obviously didn’t come cheap. And you clearly like nice clothes—I know a pair of Jimmy Choos when I see them. And a Gucci bag, come to that.”
“Jocasta, I don’t think this is relevant.” She was looking edgy again, fiddling with one of her earrings.
“Of course it is. You must care an awful lot to give it all up. I think that’s great.”
“Well”—she relaxed a little—“as I told you, it’d be nice to be able to make a difference. And Gucci bags don’t exactly melt, do they? I just won’t be able to have the latest models anymore. If I get in, that is.”
“You’ll be doing a lot of driving up and down to Suffolk, won’t you?”
“Quite a bit. Every weekend.”
“And what about your personal life?”
“My what?” She had flushed scarlet. “Jocasta—”
“You’ll be moving down to Binsmow. I just thought if there’s a man in your life, he might not like that. It’s a pretty radical step. Or does he live down there?”
“No. I mean, I don’t have a man in my life. Not—not an important one. Just a few good friends.”
“That’s lucky. Or maybe it isn’t.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean—”
“I mean, it may be lucky for your political plans, but wouldn’t you like to have someone?”
“I really don’t want to comment on that.”
“Oh, OK. Well, from what you’ve seen of it, is politics really very sexy?”
“I don’t quite know what you mean—”
“Oh, Martha, come on, all that power, all those secrets, husbands living away from home, nubile secretaries and researchers at every corner. I find it very sexy, and I’m only on the edges of it!”
“Perhaps that’s why,” said Martha coolly. “I can only tell you I have no personal experience of that kind of thing.”
Jocasta gave up. “I remember you being rather shy. When we first met. So how different are you today from the young Martha? The one I went travelling with?”
“Jocasta,” said Martha, “I don’t want to go into all that.”
“But why not? I really don’t understand. It’s such a sweet story. Three little girls from school, meeting by chance, setting off round the world, and then meeting up again all these years later, all of us quite successful—no, it’s too good not to use, Martha.”
“I don’t want it used.”
“Honestly, I’m sorry, but there’s no reason not to. It’s not unsavoury or anything, it just makes you sound more colourful and interesting.”
“Look, I said right at the beginning I didn’t want this to be a personal article.”
“Did you do a lot of drugs or something?” said Jocasta. She was growing curious now. “Because naturally I wouldn’t mention anything like that.”
“Of course I didn’t do a lot of drugs!”
“Well, I did,” Jocasta said cheerfully. “And I got ill as well. Horribly ill. Dengue fever. You never had anything like that? Never had to go to one of their hospitals?”
“No. I—I didn’t stay long in Thailand at all, I went off to Sydney.”
“When was that?”
“What?”
“I said when did you go to Sydney? Don’t look so scared, I just wondered. I was there in the January.”
“I’m really not very sure. It’s so long ago. Jocasta—”
“And then did you go up to Cairns? And the rain forest?”
“Yes, for a bit. It was wonderful.”
“And you really didn’t feel that year changed you much? It didn’t affect what you might now call your political philosophy?”
“No,” said Martha firmly, “no, it didn’t. I’m afraid I really do have to go in a minute, Jocasta—”
“So what is your political philosophy? Could you encapsulate it for me?”
She was caught unawares by this sudden return to safe ground. “Well, yes. It’s that people, all people, ought to be given a chance. Lots of chances. Good education, decent health care, reasonable living conditions. No one should be written off, abandoned to his or her fate.”
“That’s really nice,” said Jocasta, smiling at her sweetly. “I like that. Thank you so much, Martha, you’ve been great. I can do a nice piece about this and I’m sure Chad will be very pleased.”
>
“Can I—can I see the piece? Before it’s published?”
“I’m sorry, we can’t do that. The editor doesn’t allow it.”
“Why not?”
“Well, just think about it. If everyone we wrote about every day had to read their copy, and maybe change it, then it had to be rejigged and shown to them again, we’d never get the paper to bed at all.”
“I would have thought this was slightly different,” said Martha, her voice very crisp now. “It’s not a news story, it doesn’t have to be rushed to…to bed as you call it.”
“You’re wrong there, I’m afraid. This is scheduled for the Saturday magazine section, and that goes to press tomorrow. Sorry.”
“Jocasta, I really would like to read it,” said Martha and there was an underlying anxiety in her voice. “You could e-mail it to me and I’d e-mail it right back.”
“Honestly. It would be more than my job was worth. You can ask Nick, if you don’t believe me.”
“I think it’s rather different in his case. He’s writing about politicians, news stories—”
“Well, you’re a politician. Surely. And this is a news story. You’ve only just been elected—”
“Selected,” said Martha. “You see, it’s so important to get these things right. Please, Jocasta.”
Why was she so worried? It was odd. Jocasta raked back over the interview; she hadn’t said anything that could be remotely misconstrued. She’d been minimal with most of her information. In fact, it was going to be a pretty dull piece. She actually felt rather worried about it.
“I can only tell you,” she said, “that you have absolutely nothing to worry about. You’ve been the soul of discretion, Martha—you’re going to come out of this squeaky clean.”
“I don’t know why you should say that,” she said and there was a spot of high colour on her cheeks now. “Why on earth shouldn’t I come out squeaky clean, as you put it? Are you implying—” She stopped, visibly took a deep breath. “I hope you’re not going to imply the reverse.”
“Of course I’m not! Calm down.”
“I’m perfectly calm. Sorry. It’s just that you—well, this is a new game for me.”
“Of course. But—”
Martha’s mobile rang; she answered it at once. “Hi,” she said, her face immobile. “Yes, I know, but I’ve been very busy. What? No, I’m looking forward to it. Yes, about eight. I can’t talk now. I’ll see you later. Sorry, Jocasta,” she said.
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