She suddenly felt almost embarrassed. She walked quietly along the terrace, looking into a series of rooms: a drawing room dimly lit: what appeared to be a library, in semidarkness, the walls lined with books; a couple more rooms in total darkness; and then—then what was obviously a study. The light in there was quite bright. Very traditional, it too was book-lined, two leather chairs either side of a fireplace and a huge wooden desk—housing incongruously a large computer, a laptop, a fax machine, several telephones. And as she watched, Gideon came into the room, talking into a mobile; he sat down at the desk, and suddenly switched it off and sat staring at it as if he had never seen anything like it before. Then he put it down, very slowly and gently, on the desk, and almost as if he was rehearsing for a play, he folded his arms on the desk and buried his great head in them.
Jocasta watched him, paralysed, feeling like the worst kind of voyeur, probing into an intensely private grief. How could she have done this, how could she have broken into this self-contained world where Gideon felt himself safe? Better to return to London with no story, a failure, than confront him with her crass curiosity, her crude questioning.
She was actually contemplating stealing away, when a door further along the terrace opened and an Irish setter puppy, about six months old, bounded up to her, leapt up and licked her face, as if she was a long-lost member of its own family. It was followed by an older dog, its mother, she guessed, barking too, almost sternly, and after that she heard a woman’s voice calling their names: “Sheba! Pebble! Will you come along back in at once, and stop that noise!”
The noise ceased briefly as the puppy continued to greet her ecstatically, and then started again. After a moment or two, as she patted and stroked and tried to hush the dogs, she saw Gideon stand up and walk to the door, clearly calling someone, and then he disappeared. As she stood petrified, both dogs now barking loudly and relentlessly, he came out through the side door. He was carrying a flashlight, which he shone around the lawns and then along the terrace in a great wide beam. She stood there, frozen like a rabbit in the headlights of a car, braced for abuse, for fury, for outrage, watching him walking towards her, very slowly. But as he reached her, he said, in tones of absolute good nature, as if she had just wandered into a restaurant or an airport lounge or some other very public place where he happened to be, “Why, Jocasta—what a pleasant surprise. You decided to come after all.”
“And you found her where?”
“In a restaurant.”
“Jesus. I can’t believe nobody got there first.”
It was late in the evening; Marc Jones had just returned with the test shots of Kate. Carla was waiting for him with a bottle of wine.
“I know. It was just lucky,” she said modestly. “So, how are the shots?”
“Sensational.”
He flung a sheet of black-and-white contacts down on the desk. Carla pulled a magnifier out of her desk and bent over them. They were remarkable. Despite having been in the studio herself when they were taken, she saw something else now, something that had not been there, the strange alchemy between subject and lens that occasionally takes place, an extra dimension, almost another person indeed. A stroppy, nervous schoolgirl had walked into the studio; and there in front of them now was a gangly, wild-haired beauty, with an absolute knowledge of her own sexuality and how to confront the camera with it.
“Very, very lovely. Got any colour?”
“Yeah, I’ll put them on the light box. They’re great, too. It’s the dark eyes and the fair hair. When are you going to use her?”
“Next week, probably. I’ll go and see Chris in a minute, see what he thinks.”
“Great.” He grinned. “Just give me a date. What’s the fashion story?”
“I thought we’d let Kate choose her own. I’ll take her to Topshop, Miss Selfridge, Kookai, and let her loose. That street-fashion thing is a story in itself.”
“Fine. When do you want to do it?”
“Soon as possible. I’ll let you know. I’ll have to speak to the parents, of course. She’s not sixteen yet. But it should be OK. I can’t think why not.”
“Would you let your daughter loose in the fashion business?”
“I don’t have a daughter,” said Carla briefly.
She went to see Chris Pollock with Kate’s pictures.
Kate was still high on her session in the studio, being flirted with by Marc Jones—God he’d fancied himself—and chatted up, that was the only word for it, by Carla Giannini. She’d really liked her, she was so warm and funny and appreciative of her rather crappy efforts. At least Kate felt they must be crappy, although she had somehow known what to do in front of the camera, known how to move a bit between shots, especially as the session went on, and she had felt increasingly confident, had started pushing her hair about and moving her hips a bit, pulling off her denim jacket and letting it dangle from her fingers. Carla had told her she was a natural.
It all seemed a bit of a dream now, back at home, standing in the kitchen, pouring herself a Coke, waiting to be told it was time she went to bed, asked if she had done all her homework. If only they knew! They’d be so amazed, shocked even, tell her what a dangerous world she was getting into. Only her grandmother would appreciate the excitement and importance of it all. It would be quite fun to tell her, actually.
Jim had managed to book a week in a three-star hotel near Nice. Helen was torn between excitement and guilt and worry at leaving Kate at such an important time in her life.
“If you fail these exams, you won’t get a second chance, you know. You need good grades for Richmond, and—”
“Honestly, Mum, I’ll study. I swear. Even if Gran lets me off, Juliet won’t, she’ll probably call the hotel and tell you if I stop for more than five minutes.”
“I won’t!” said Juliet indignantly. “Anyway, I’m doing that music course, don’t forget. You can bunk off as much as you like.”
Martha pounded the running machine, sweat pouring off her; her legs throbbed, her lungs felt close to explosion. She was exhausted; she had another five minutes to go of this; she’d never last. Only—of course she would because that’s what she had decided. It was as simple as that.
She could do so much with that will. The demons that had attacked her in all their horror as she knelt in that filthy lavatory, vomiting into the disgusting bowl, that had hung, obscenely threatening, above her bed during the long night that followed, had left her again, banished almost entirely. Almost.
She had finished. Target achieved. She stepped off the running machine, staggered to the shower. Now she could go back to her apartment, have an herbal tea, sort out her clothes for the morning, listen to some music, and do some background reading for a meeting. She’d told Ed she couldn’t see him. Not tonight. Tomorrow they had a date though. It was their four-month anniversary. Four months since they’d first gone out. Four months of being astonishingly happy.
Happiness was not an entirely familiar condition to Martha. She knew about achievement, about meeting her own standards. She knew about success. She knew about pleasure, about the joys of having the home, the car, the clothes she wanted. But happiness: happiness was something else. Happiness was unexpected and uncontrollable. Happiness was sweet and swift and induced by the simplest things: a phone call, a silly joke, an appreciation for something small but important. Happiness was an entirely new set of values.
Ed had taught her all that as he had led her into love. She did love him; she knew that. She had resisted it for a long time, that knowledge. She was frightened of love. It scared her. She hadn’t yet told Ed she loved him. It was risking too much, giving too much away.
Her first tentative courtship of her own constituency was proving as satisfying to her as she had hoped. Local politics might well be dull, but it was also a genuine opportunity to help the underdog, and to give people a voice. Her first legal advice clinic, held at her father’s parish hall, had been a revelation; the terrible impotence of ordinary people w
hen confronted by even the smallest threat to their lives—noisy neighbours, a cowboy builder, an overlarge bill sent in error—shocked her.
Accustomed to working for the rich and powerful, to dealing with vast meaningless sums of money, she felt a surge of power herself as she promised to write to the electricity company for one old lady, who was terrified, as she put it, of upsetting them, about her charges.
But it was above all—and this was what she found most exciting—a fight for hearts and minds. She was battling not only for them but also for herself, to persuade them to give her power to help them more.
The article she had been so fearful of had become a bland fashion feature, with the copy—over which she’d had final approval—little more than an extended caption, gratifyingly generous about her political career and pleasingly flattering about the Centre Forward Party. Chad would be very pleased. She had liked the pictures too. Martha was not vain; her appearance was simply one of her assets, one that she used and worked hard to improve, but no more than that. Nonetheless, the publication across a double-page spread in a national newspaper of three extremely flattering photographs of herself, wearing very nice clothes, was quite a pleasing prospect.
Clio had decided to write to her family; she had after all left her husband, ended her marriage, there was a certain obligation to inform them, though she had very little expectation of hearing from any of them.
She was quite surprised, therefore, to hear Artemis’s cool clipped tones on her answerphone on Thursday evening: “Clio. We should talk. Give me a call.”
No expression of sympathy or even interest, just: “We should talk.” And why should that hurt? When it was more than she had expected.
Artemis was briskly sympathetic about the divorce. She asked if Clio was all right and said that all men were fools, clearly assuming that there was someone else and Jeremy had walked out on her without warning. “No,” said Clio, “actually, no. I told you, it was just a basic incompatibility.”
“Hardly worth ending a marriage for, in my opinion,” said Artemis. “Lucien and I could be said to be fairly incompatible, but we’ve worked out a modus operandi over the years. Of course we have the children to think of, so it’s rather different. I’m surprised you haven’t had a child by now, Clio. It was certainly something Jeremy was hoping for in the very near future, I do know that. He told me at your wedding.”
“Yes, well, I haven’t,” said Clio, wondering how anything could hurt quite so much.
“Well, it’s too late now. What a pity. I must say I rather liked Jeremy. You’re all right, are you, living on your own?”
“Actually,” said Clio firmly, “I rather like it.”
“Oh really? I suppose it’s just as well. Anyway, I told Father I’d call you—he was a little worried. I said I was sure you’d be quite all right—you’re so self-sufficient. Ariadne said she’d write. Let us know if there’s anything we can do, won’t you?”
Ariadne did write: a supposedly consoling letter, saying she had never liked Jeremy—which irritated Clio profoundly—and telling her she should come to stay whenever she wanted.
“Only not in term time, of course.”
And that was the end of the matter for all three of them. No wonder she felt so alone, Clio thought bitterly. But she had written to Beaky, who had expressed great delight at her interest in the job and invited her to lunch with him.
“Happy anniversary. I got you a present.”
“Oh, Ed. We said we wouldn’t.”
“Yeah, I know. But don’t feel bad about not getting me anything. It’s really stupid.”
“Well, actually,” she said, “I did. And it’s pretty stupid too.”
“Go on then. You first. Open it.”
It was a book called Tantric Yoga for Beginners.
“I hope you’re not suggesting I try this,” she said, giggling.
“Absolutely I am. There’s a chapter on sex. It says you can keep going for six hours. How about that?”
“Sounds a bit tiring. What’s wrong with what we’re doing now?”
“Nothing. It’s great. I just liked this idea even better. That’d have her late for meetings, I thought.”
“Yes. Well, I promise to read it. Now open yours.”
“Hey,” he said smiling, “that’s really cute. I love it.” It was a framed picture of the two of them, sheets pulled up to their chins, sitting in Martha’s bed; she had used the remote setting on her camera to take it. “I remember that night,” he added.
“Of course you don’t.”
“Of course I do. You know why? It was a big first. You didn’t hang your clothes up neatly before you got into bed. Just left them on the floor.”
“You’re making it up,” said Martha, laughing.
“I’m not. How could I forget that? I thought: She’s more bothered about having sex with me than hanging up her Armani jacket. I must be some stud.”
They were having the long-postponed dinner at the Pont de la Tour.
“It should have unhappy memories, I know,” she had said, “but I thought I should lay the ghost. And it’s so near my flat and it’s lovely.”
After dinner they walked along Butler’s Wharf holding hands. He had been slightly quiet for the last half hour; she asked him if anything was the matter.
“Not…exactly.”
“How about inexactly?”
“I didn’t want to tell you tonight.” Her heart felt as if something was squeezing it—very hard. “But, well, I’ve been offered a new job.”
“Ed, that’s great. What’s wrong with that?”
“Not a lot. More money, much the same sort of thing, bit more responsibility.”
“Well—take it.”
“I—that is—it’s in Edinburgh. Working for the Beeb.”
“Edinburgh!”
“Yes. Very buzzy city, Edinburgh, these days. They even have a Harvey Nichols, my spies tell me. So, what do you think?”
“Well,” she said briskly bright, “I think of course you must take it.”
“You do?”
“Of course. Why ever shouldn’t you?” She wouldn’t mind; it would be fine. She could see him quite often. Not very often. But—enough.
“I can think of one very good reason.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s called Martha.”
“Ed, you can’t give up a really good opportunity for me. Anyway, we could still see each other.” When, though? Not evenings. Not many weekends, either. Given her work in Binsmow. Building up now. Her Saturday legal clinics. So she’d only see him…very occasionally.
“Well, I could. I thought I would. Actually. Give it up. But if you really think so. I mean, it would be great.”
“Right, well that’s settled then. Of course you must take it. We can have wonderful weekends, now and again, and you…you…” Her voice trailed off.
“I what?”
“You’ll do so well, Ed. It’s such a thing, working for the Beeb. You’d be set up for life.”
“Yes. Good. Thanks, Martha. You’re so—so grown-up.” He smiled at her, just a bit too brightly.
“I should be. At my age. Let’s go back now, shall we? I’m getting cold.” She’d feel better about it later, when she got used to the idea. She was the last person to cling to someone, the first to know how important taking opportunities was.
Bloody Pont de la Tour. It was jinxed for them.
“That was great,” he said sleepily. “Night, Martha.”
“Night, Ed.”
It hadn’t been: not great. It was as if it had all been slightly out of focus. Nothing sharp enough.
The pleasure dulled—just a bit.
She lay there, thinking about him being in Edinburgh, how far away it was, how with the best will in the world, they would drift apart, the sweet dizzy closeness lost.
She got up and wandered into the sitting room, stood at the window, staring at the lights, thinking how far away he would seem, how lonely s
he would be. She felt a stab of pure misery, sat down, huddled in her bathrobe, fighting it down. Well, she would get over it. She’d been perfectly all right before she met him. Absolutely all right. She just wasn’t a dependent sort of person. She had a horror of it.
And it was difficult, conducting a love affair with her life as it was; she was aware that she was fighting for time, pushing back boundaries. Mostly at the expense of sleep. She’d get a bit more of that, at least. But—
Damn, now she was going to cry. Shit. Ed mustn’t hear her, mustn’t know. He was obviously so keen to go, to take the job…
She got up, went to the loo and sat on the seat, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose. That was better—she could do this, for God’s sake.
The door opened; Ed came in.
“Sorry,” he said. “Just wanted a pee.”
“That’s OK,” she said. “I’m just leaving.”
“You OK?” he said.
“Yes, I’m fine. Of course.”
He switched the light on, looked at her. “Martha, you’re crying. What is it?”
“I don’t want you to go,” she said, and her voice was hopeless with misery. She felt appalled that she could give so much of herself away. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Ed. I’ll be all right in the morning.”
“You don’t want me to go?” he said, and his voice was very quiet, very gentle.
“No. Well, obviously not, I mean I’ve got used to us being together, so it’s a bit of a shock, but I’ll be all right. Sorry, Ed, sorry…”
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