Sheer Abandon

by Penny Vincenzi

  “Yes, Kate told me you had a shop. Which designers do you buy?”

  “Oh, the usuals, Nicole Farhi, Gerard Darel, MaxMara. Of course I’m limited by my clientele, naturally. The Guildford housewife isn’t exactly a trendsetter.”

  “Of course not. How clever of you to know her so well. And those are all wonderful names. It’s obviously a very good shop. If I possibly can I’ll mention it in the article.”

  “What, by name?” said Jilly. She thought of how much she’d been worrying about the shop in her absence, and the difference even a sixteenth-page ad in the Guildford paper made.

  “Of course. Otherwise what would be the point? And it all makes for more interesting copy. In fact, it’s a very nice line, her inheriting your fashion sense, as she clearly does.”

  “Yes, possibly,” said Jilly. This was not the moment to elaborate on Kate’s origins. “Carla, that would be simply marvellous. Thank you so much. Now I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

  “Thank you, Jilly. It really does have to be tomorrow at the latest, I’m afraid. It’s such a marvellous thing for a fashion editor to discover a model, you know. So thrilling. And I have a really strong feeling about Kate.”

  Carla smiled into the phone as she put it down. It would be all right. Nothing like a bit of time pressure to make people anxious, make them agree to what you wanted. And she had to get this settled before Jocasta returned. She was so oddly defensive about Kate.

  Chris Pollock was becoming seriously anxious about Jocasta. It was very unlike her, this silence. He hoped nothing had happened to her. He was beginning to worry more about that than the loss of the Keeble story. Where the fuck was she? And why hadn’t she been in touch? Not even a text message from her since Friday night and now it was Sunday morning.

  He rang Nick’s number; a rather slurry voice answered.

  “Nick Marshall…”

  “Nick. It’s Chris. Any news from Jocasta?”

  “Nope. Not a dickey bird.”

  “Shit. Where is the bloody girl, Nick?”

  “I don’t know. I wish I did. Mind you, I’m hardly going to be the first to know. We had a bust-up last week.”

  “Oh really? Nothing serious, I hope.”

  “Chris, who knows what’s serious to a woman. I certainly don’t. I could ask Josh. Her brother. They’re pretty close. In a funny way.”

  “Thanks, Nick. And call me back, yeah?”

  Josh was clearly very distracted when Nick rang.

  “Got the kids here, Nick. Bit hectic. Just going to take them out to lunch, and—Oh God, hang on, one of them’s just spilt her drink all over the other.”

  A lot of wailing and shouting came down the line, with Josh distractedly saying things like “No, Harry, don’t do that” and “Come on, Charlie, stop crying” and “Now play nicely together just for a minute, while Daddy talks on the phone.”

  “Sorry, Josh. Bad moment,” Nick said when Josh came back on. “I just wondered if you’d heard from Jocasta over the past couple of days.”

  “Jocasta? No. Nothing. Why, where’s she supposed to be?”

  “Well, she’s supposed to be in Ireland, doing a story. But there’s been no news from her at all.”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t worry,” said Josh, “she’s pretty good at looking after herself. Look, Nick, I’ve got to go. If I do hear anything I’ll let you know, OK?”

  “OK,” said Nick, and put the phone down. Where was the bloody girl? Just where was she? And what the hell was she doing?

  Jilly didn’t sleep well. She should never have even half agreed to this business with Kate. Not without checking with Helen. She had led Carla to assume it was more or less a certainty. And she knew what Helen would say. That she had left her in charge of the girls, and had trusted her to see they were all right, and that agreeing to Kate being photographed by a national newspaper was not within those terms.

  But what harm could it possibly do? The child would look absolutely beautiful and it really was a wonderful opportunity for her; she had studied with great care the pictures that Carla had sent over by messenger, and Kate did look glorious. Clearly, if she wanted to, she could become a professional model. And this was the kind of opportunity that didn’t come along more than once in a lifetime. Just the same…

  “Oh dear,” she said aloud.

  “Is anything the matter, Granny?” It was Juliet.

  “No, darling. Not really. I was just…just thinking about Kate, as a matter of fact.”

  “About Kate? What’s she done now? Hey, what are these?” She picked up the pictures of Kate. “God, she looks amazing. Who did them?”

  “A professional photographer on a newspaper,” said Jilly. “They are very good, aren’t they?”

  “Fantastic!” said Juliet. “Are they going to publish them? How exciting. I wish she’d told me.”

  “She hasn’t told anyone,” said Jilly, “not even your parents. And no, they’re not going to publish these, but they want to do some more, as a fashion feature for next week’s paper. But I’m not sure about it.”

  “Why ever not?” said Juliet. “It’d be lovely for her. Specially at the moment, when she’s so gutted over Nat and everything.”

  “And what do you think your parents would say?”

  “Probably try and stop her—they’re parents, aren’t they? But I’m sure once they were published, they’d just be proud. And it would be too late anyway. Oh, hi, Kate, I’ve just seen these pictures. They’re amazing—and Granny says they want to use some more in the paper next week. How exciting!”

  “Yeah, well—”

  “You must do it, Kate. Granny says you’re worried about Mum and Dad, what they’d say, but like I was saying to Granny, if you did it, and the first they knew you were in the paper, they’d just be proud of you, I’m sure. I mean, you could ask them first, I suppose,” she added, “but they’d only say no. And then the chance’d be gone. Or could you do it later?”

  “No,” said Kate quickly. “It’s this week or never, Carla says.”

  “Who’s Carla?”

  “The fashion editor. She’s really nice, isn’t she, Granny?”

  “Charming,” said Jilly. “And she insists I come to the photographic session.”

  “Well, it must be totally respectable. Not even Dad could complain about that. Oh, just do it, Kate! Honestly, what harm could it do?”

  “Absolutely none,” said Jilly. “Good advice, Juliet. Thank you. But of course I must tell them.”

  She called the hotel. A sullen French voice told her, with an almost audible shrug, that Mr. and Mrs. Tarrant were out and that she could leave a message if she liked. Jilly left a message and spent the rest of the day assuring herself that if the sensible and extremely mature Juliet thought it was all right, then it probably was.

  Helen phoned that evening: they were having a wonderful time, the hotel was nice, the weather was beautiful, and Jim was taking her out to dinner at some very pretty restaurant down the road.

  “I just lay by the pool all afternoon and felt so relaxed. And do you know, I’m coughing less already.”

  “I’m so glad, darling. You didn’t get my message?”

  “No,” said Helen, “they’re not too good about things like that here. Is anything wrong?”

  “No, no,” said Jilly hastily. “Of course not. No, I just…well, I’m so glad, darling. That’s wonderful. And you mustn’t worry about us, we’re fine, and Kate is working really hard.”

  “I’m not worrying, Mummy, not in the least. I feel marvellous. I’m pleased about Kate, though. Now, they’re both being nice to you, are they?”

  “Absolutely sweet. Helen, there’s just—”

  “Oh, dear, Jim’s making faces, says we’ll lose our table. Thank you once more. I’ll ring again in a day or two.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Mummy, I must go. Sorry. Love to the girls.”

  Well, thought Jilly, she’d done her best. It wasn’t her fault if Hel
en didn’t have time to discuss things with her.

  She called Carla Giannini and told her she hadn’t been able to ask her daughter about Kate. “But I do feel quite happy about it myself.”

  “Good. I’m so delighted. Now, would you like to come shopping with us tomorrow, picking out the clothes for Kate to wear? You would obviously be a great asset. And you could make sure they were all quite…suitable.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” said Jilly. “I still get rather tired. And you’ll have more fun without me.”

  “I’m not so sure about that. Well, till Tuesday, then.”

  Chris Pollock was in his office late that Sunday night when the call came.

  “Hi, Chris. It’s me, Jocasta.”

  “Jocasta, where the fuck have you been? And what do you think you’re playing at? And where’s the fucking story?”

  “I’ve been here. In Ireland. In Gideon’s house.”

  “In Gideon Keeble’s house? My God, Jocasta, that must be some story. You’ve been there all this time?”

  “Yes. And I’m really sorry, Chris, but there isn’t going to be a story. Not from me anyway. Well, you can say she’s safely home again, but that’s all. And the other thing is, Chris, and I’m truly sorry about this too, but I’m afraid I’m going to give in my notice.”

  She had been quite frightened, that first evening. Sitting there, trapped in the vast house, living out this extraordinary adventure, with no idea what she should do; just waiting, waiting for time to pass: it had been much scarier than any other job she could remember.

  She had drunk a cup of tea that Mrs. Mitchell had brought her and wolfed down the biscuits that had accompanied it on the tray, had begun to study the books that lined the walls—wonderful books, some of them, first editions of Dickens, or Trollope, or Defoe, beautifully illustrated volumes of things like The Arabian Nights and Grimm’s Fairy Tales, and Kate Greenaway, the pages tipped, rather than bound in, all the poets, complete sets of encyclopaedias, of catalogues of art sales, books about vintage cars, books about racing, books about paintings. And interspersed with them, in glorious carelessness of their value, paperbacks by the hundred; he liked all the popular stuff, John Grisham and Patricia Cornwell and Stephen King and Maeve Binchy—well, he would of course, she was Irish—and Jilly Cooper. She picked the latest Grisham off the shelves and set it down on the arm of the sofa, then moved on to the stack of CDs on the other side. Very catholic, his musical taste as well: ranging from church choral music, through Mozart, and Mahler, into jazz, swing, and to the present, to Bruce Springsteen, Bob Dylan, and “My God, Leonard Cohen,” she said aloud.

  “And what is so surprising about that?” she heard Gideon’s voice asking her and she swung round and smiled at him and said, “I absolutely love him. He’s so—so wonderfully dismal. Not many people do. We’re in a very small minority, you and I.”

  “Sondheim?” he asked.

  “Adore him.”

  “Opera?”

  “Don’t get it.”

  “Bob Marley?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well,” he said, “we are clearly made for each other. Musically, if in no other way.”

  She looked at him nervously. He wasn’t smiling.

  “I have come to see if you would like a bed for the night. We have a few to spare.”

  “Well, I am tired. But what’s the alternative?”

  “There isn’t one,” he said. “I’m not going to let you out yet. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right. I can see you can’t.”

  She accepted with absolute equanimity his low opinion of her. She had broken into his house in order to steal something of infinite importance and delicacy, his relationship with his runaway daughter, and she had no right to feel even remotely indignant.

  “Very well, then. And in the morning, we can perhaps agree on some strategy. But not yet. Things are too…too delicate. Too difficult. I will tell Mrs. Mitchell to show you to your room. Good night, Jocasta. I hope you sleep well. And I hope you will forgive me—I have disconnected the landlines. So there would be no point your trying to make any calls.”

  “Fine,” she said.

  The room was on the second floor, high-ceilinged, shuttered, and very cold, with an exquisite fireplace (devoid of a fire), and a surprisingly high, hard bed. The bathroom was next door: even colder, with an enormous bath and a thronelike loo. Mrs. Mitchell, who clearly thought Jocasta a trollop, ushered her in, asked her if there was anything she might be wanting, and left again very swiftly. Jocasta undressed with great speed, fell into bed, and went straight to sleep.

  She awoke literally shivering; it was six o’clock. She got out of bed, folded back the shutters, and realised why: the windows were wide open. Expecting a wonderful view, she could see only thick grey mist, and it was raining. She shut the windows, pulled her clothes on—she wasn’t risking that icebox of a bathroom and, good reporter that she was, she had things like clean knickers and a toothbrush in her rucksack—and went stealthily along the corridor, down the stairs, and managed to find her way to the kitchen. No one was about, not even the dogs.

  The kitchen was vast, and warmer than the rest of the house, thanks to an extremely elderly looking cream-colored Aga. The floor was slate, the walls whitewashed, and there were the inevitable shutters at the window. It looked a little like a photograph in Interiors, except that it was devoid of the bunches of dried flowers, pots of herbs, copper pans, and Shaker-style furniture that would have given it page appeal. It was devoid of anything, in fact, apart from a very large scrubbed table and three chairs, one of which was broken. Jocasta thought of the leather sofas and complex music systems in the playroom and the study, the fine furniture she had glimpsed through what was obviously the drawing-room door as Mrs. Mitchell led her upstairs, and felt almost sorry for her. Almost.

  She filled the vast kettle that sat on the Aga, managed to find a slightly chipped mug, took some milk out of the 1950s-style fridge, and went to the back door. She looked along the terrace; it was so drenched in mist she couldn’t even see the end of it, and the rain was growing heavier. Well this was no moment for exploring, trying to find a tradesman’s entrance, or exit, or even a path round the grounds. She went back inside, walked back along the corridor, into the playroom. That, too, was cold. And it was May! God, this was going to make a good story. No wonder Aisling had searched for lovers in warmer climates!

  There was a phone ringing, quite persistently. Did that mean he had reconnected the landline? Now that was worth investigating. At least she could make a quick call to Chris. She went out of the playroom, followed the sound down the corridor; she had passed three doors before she reached it. Of course! This was his study. She looked up and down the corridor, then slipped inside the room and closed the door. Odd, surely he had an extension by his bed. Would he really not be hearing it? She waited for four more rings, and then picked it up, waited. Silence.

  “Hello,” she said cautiously, “Mr. Keeble’s residence.”

  “Who’s that?” The voice was young, light, cautious. Fionnuala? Could be. “Mummy? It’s Fionnuala.”

  Fionnuala. Jocasta Forbes, this really is the scoop of your career.

  “No. Shall I get her for you?”

  “Who is that?”

  “A friend of your father’s. Shall I get him?”

  “No thanks.”

  Gideon’s voice cut in, saying, “Hello? Hello?”—and then the phone went dead.

  She stood there, still holding the receiver, feeling oddly frightened. She was just putting the phone down, wondering why she wasn’t doing it more quickly, when the door opened and Gideon came in, wearing nothing but a white towelling robe; he was barefoot, his hair wild, his face white, his eyes black with fury.

  “What the hell are you doing in here?” he demanded, and for a moment she thought he was going to hit her. “How dare you? Get out. Just get the fuck out. Now!”

  It was the first time she had ever seen him ot
her than relaxed, easy, charming; it was an alarming transformation. So this was the famous temper. She stood her ground.

  “I was going. I wish I could go further. Unfortunately I seem to be a prisoner here.”

  “And what do you expect? Breaking into my home, prying into my most personal life. What do you think you’re doing?”

  “As you said last night,” said Jocasta, calm now, astonished at the extent of it, “I’m doing my job. Which does consist, unfortunately, of prying into people’s most personal lives. I’m sorry, Gideon, very sorry, and I’m actually not enjoying it. Any of it.”

  “I had thought better of you,” he said, and his tone was full of deep contempt.

  “Oh really? And why should that be? I seem to remember your congratulating me on some of my stories when we met at the Tory conference last autumn. What’s changed, Gideon? I’d really like to know.”

  He stared at her for a moment, and then said, still icily hostile, “So, who was that?”

  “It was your daughter.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “Not a lot. She asked who I was. I said I was a friend of yours. I offered to fetch you.”

  “And?”

  “And she said…” She hesitated. “She said, ‘No thanks.’ And rang off. Sorry, Gideon.”

  His face changed; just for a moment, she caught him off guard, saw that she had hurt him, saw how much.

  “Well, thank you for that, Jocasta. Depriving me of a chance to speak to my daughter.”

  “Gideon, I didn’t deprive you. She didn’t want to. Don’t shoot the messenger.”

  “And what in the name of sweet fuck were you doing answering my phone?”

  “It was ringing,” she said. “No one else was. I assumed you and your wife must have left again.”

  “I was in the shower. My wife—or more accurately my ex-wife—was no doubt on her own telephone. Speaking to her very unpleasant husband. Anyway, Fionnuala has been found, by the police. At Belfast airport. Mr. Zebedee is in police custody, although as Fionnuala is swearing he hasn’t touched her, I doubt if he will remain there for long. So very soon you can go and write your wonderful story. What a lot of colourful detail it will have. Now just get out of here, will you. Right out.”