Sheer Abandon

by Penny Vincenzi

  “Of course I do.”

  “Well, it wasn’t much. She just said”—and he had clearly been playing and replaying it over and over in his head and there was a slight shake in his voice—“she just said, ‘Hi Dad. Thanks for coming today.’”

  “That sounds like quite a lot to me,” said Jocasta. “Not easy for her, that. Now, I wonder if I could go for a walk? I’ve been shut indoors all day. And—”

  “I would say that was absolutely your own fault,” he said, and he kissed her then, very softly, on the mouth, leant back and smiled at her. “And I wonder if you would allow me to join you? I think we have rather a lot to talk about.”

  “I do, too,” said Jocasta.

  Chapter 22

  Nick was walking along the Burma Road, as the Westminster press corridor was known (“Because everyone ends up there,” he had explained to a breathlessly interested Jocasta what seemed a lifetime ago), when his phone rang. He looked at the number, it was her. She had finally deigned to contact him. He had heard from Pollock, a white-faced, raging Pollock, who clearly felt some of the blame must be due to Nick, as the person closest to her, not only that she had failed to deliver what would have been the most brilliant piece but that she was leaving the paper.

  “As from now. And she’d better not show so much as an inch of her arse in this place ever again. It’s so unlike her, so unprofessional. I suppose you know what it’s all about?”

  “Of course I don’t,” said Nick. “I don’t know anything at all. I’ve been trying to contact her, but her phone’s been switched off.”

  “Yeah? What’s the silly bitch up to over there, then?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” said Nick, “and I’m trying not to even consider the possibilities.”

  “Do you think she’s with Keeble?”

  “I…suppose it might be a possibility,” said Nick, and just saying the words was like pulling teeth.

  And he thought that, actually, it might be something to do with him, for if he had asked her to marry him, even at some fairly distant date, she would be filing a story right now, and Gideon Keeble would not have earned a second of her consideration. But, even in his misery, he thought still that he couldn’t have done it.

  And now here she was, on his mobile, several days after disappearing, several days of not caring for his anxiety, his concern.

  “Yes?” he said shortly.

  “Nick? Did—Chris tell you?”

  “He did. I have to say I’d have expected to be your first port of call, Jocasta.”

  “Sorry, Nick, but I had to tell Chris about the story. And then, well, I wanted to think.”

  “What about?”

  “About what I was going to say to you.”

  “And it didn’t even occur to you that I might have been worried out of my mind? So what are you going to say? What are your plans? Perhaps you’d be good enough to share them with me.”

  “I’m going to stay here for a few more days.”

  “Am I to infer you’re there with Gideon Keeble? I mean actually with him? In his—” He stopped. He couldn’t bring himself to say the word “bed,” it hurt too much. “In his house?”

  “Well, yes. I am. Obviously. And I couldn’t do the story because of—of Gideon.”

  “But the story was about Gideon. You might just have realised that before you left.”

  “Yes, I did. But I didn’t care then.”

  “What, so in forty-eight hours from not caring about him at all, you cared so much that you’ve thrown your entire career away?”

  “It’s a bit more complicated than that,” she said. “It wasn’t just about Gideon. I did realise what harm I could do to them all. By writing the story.”

  “Oh, please!” he said. “You’ve developed a social conscience—is that what you’re saying?”

  “Sort of, yes, only it was about Gideon as well. That was what made me realise. I suppose.”

  “How touching!”

  She was silent. Then: “Sorry, Nick. I’m very sorry.”

  “Jocasta, how can you turn your back on us? How can you throw away a long and very happy relationship just like that? On a whim.”

  “It wasn’t just on a whim. It absolutely wasn’t.”

  “Oh really? So you’d been planning it for some time, had you?”

  “I suppose so. In a way. Without realising it.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake! I’ve never heard such drivel.”

  “It’s not drivel!” she said. “And if you thought for just a little while, you’d realise why it happened.”

  “Dare I assume this has something to do with my refusing to trail down the altar after you?”

  “Actually,” she said, “I’d be trailing after you. You obviously haven’t been to many weddings, Nick. But yes, just something. In a way.”

  “How fucking pathetic,” he said, and cut her off.

  Jocasta went to find Gideon. It was a glorious day, blue and green and golden, the kind Ireland did best. She lifted her head to the sun and it felt warm and welcoming. She found Gideon walking towards the stables.

  “Hi,” she said, and tucked her hand into his back pocket.

  “Hello, my darling. Did you do it?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “And? You’ve been crying.”

  “Yes, well, I feel bad and sad. It was—I mean, it’s been a long time, Nick and me. It’s hard to just end it. Even though I knew it was over before—well before—you. But I’m fine. I know I did the right thing. And it made me realise how much I actually do love you.”

  “I’m very happy about that. And I love you very badly.”

  “You can’t love someone badly, Gideon.”

  “I can. As in, ‘I want that very badly.’”

  “Oh, all right. I love you very badly too. And want you very badly.”

  “That’s nice to know.”

  How exactly had it come to this so quickly and with such astonishing ease? It had been like a film, moving the story forward in a series of short sequences, all intercut, with no dialogue, just wonderful emotive music. There had been the walk down to the lake, the two of them together, walking apart at first and then gradually moving closer together, until his arm was round her shoulders, hers round his waist; there had been the kiss, tender, not passionate, by the lake; there had been dinner, served by Mrs. Mitchell in the grand dining room; there had been his taking her hand and leading her upstairs, only to bid her good night on the second-floor landing, very properly; there had been her lying awake, staring into the darkness (and she supposed further intercutting of a shot of him also lying awake), and then her padding along the corridor, in search of him, opening several doors, the moonlight shafting most obligingly through the vast window at the top of the stairs; and then hearing someone behind her on the landing and turning in panic to see him smiling at her; and of course the sex scene, wonderfully passionate (the music rising to a crescendo here); and finally, before the film returned to proper time and words and all that sort of thing, them lying in bed together, smiling at each other, with the sun streaming in the window.

  It was all slightly over the top, glorious setting, dashing hero, marvellous trappings—horses, servants, the incredible cars, he had actually allowed her to drive the Bugatti—but extremely wonderful just the same.

  “I keep thinking I’m going to wake up,” she said to Gideon, “find it’s all a dream.”

  “Well, you’re not,” he said, “this is real life. Although I should have tried to seduce you much earlier.”

  “You did try. I think,” said Jocasta. “But in a horribly gentlemanly way. Always including Nick in your invitations. I mean, really! No wonder progress was slow.”

  “I’m a patient fellow. I saw you, dancing in that ridiculous way at the conference, Jocasta, and I wanted you. And I knew that sooner or later I’d have to have you. It was as simple as that. I’ve just been waiting for the opportunity. My only fear was that Nicholas would have made an honest woman
of you in the meantime.”

  “He was never going to,” said Jocasta, “and until yesterday, I thought it mattered. Now I know it doesn’t. Not in the very least.”

  And it didn’t.

  “Fionnuala wants a new horse,” he said, as they walked back into the house. “A polo pony, actually.”

  “How do you know?”

  “She texted me.”

  “That’s good, that she’s texting you. What did it say? Or would you rather I didn’t see it?”

  “Of course not. Here you are.”

  He passed her his phone; she looked at it.

  “Hi Dad. Having fun here. Wd like polo pony for birthday. Any chance? Fionnuala xxx.”

  “It’s nice she’s keeping in touch,” said Jocasta carefully.

  “Isn’t it? I can’t think when she last put kisses after her name.”

  “I think,” she said, “you shouldn’t just say yes. You’d just be buying her toys again. Why don’t you say you’d like to go and see her, look at some ponies with her?”

  “I am not,” he said firmly, “going to that filthy place, forced to be courteous to that slimy poof, Carlingford.”

  “All right. Tell her to come to Ireland, that you’ll buy her one here. That you want to be part of the choice.”

  “She wouldn’t come.”

  “Try her. Go on. Text her back. Here, I’ll do it, you’re so hopeless at it. I expect it’s your age.” She smiled at him, reached up to kiss him. “What shall I say?”

  “You’re the expert. But I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

  “Yes it is.” She began punching out letters, her face very serious. She held it out to him.

  “How’s this? ‘Nice idea, but I’d like to choose it with you. What about you come here? Dad xxx.’”

  “OK,” he said, after a moment or two. “Send it.”

  Five minutes later a message came back. “No point. No polo ponies in Ireland. They’re all here. F.”

  “See,” he said, “no kisses even. I told you.”

  “Oh shut up,” said Jocasta. “You can’t give up that easily.” She wrote another message, handed it to him. “OK?”

  He looked at it. “No, it is not OK. I told you—Oh, all right. See what she says.”

  She smiled, reread her message—“I cd come there? xxx.”—and sent it.

  It was half an hour later, as an increasingly bad-tempered Gideon stalked ahead of Jocasta down to the lake and sat scowling at the brilliant water, that a text message reached his phone.

  “Cool. When? Fionnuala xxx.”

  “See?” said Jocasta. “What did I tell you?”

  “Yes, all right,” he said, smiling at her reluctantly. “Clever clogs. I hope you realise what this means? I’ll have to actually go to the bloody place.”

  “I promise you,” said Jocasta, “it will be worth it.”

  She was in love with him. Wasn’t she? Desperately, terribly in love with him. Of course she was. She felt extraordinarily happy. All the time. She just couldn’t believe it. And he was in love with her. He kept saying so. Telling her that he couldn’t remember ever being so happy, couldn’t believe that anyone so young and beautiful could be bothered with him, “Old and difficult and scratchy as I am.”

  “You are not old,” she said. “You may be difficult, but I haven’t seen it yet. And I’ve seen a lot scratchier. So here I am, youngish—and beautiful, maybe—and amazingly happy to be with you. OK?”

  “Very OK,” he said.

  He was absurdly romantic; she would wake in the morning to find him missing and he would come in, smiling, with a great bunch of wild-flowers he had just picked. He chartered a small plane for the day and flew her over the Mountains of Mourne, simply because she said she had always wanted to see them. They went riding by moonlight, they drank champagne on a boat on the lake, he named one of his thoroughbred foals after her. “Until you arrived, she was the most beautiful female to come to this place all year.”

  She felt her own past was completely left behind her; she had only the clothes from her rucksack and her phone, nothing else. It was as if she had been set down and told her life was to start over again. It was all too good to be true, exactly what her romantic soul craved. Just the two of them, for a little while, cocooned from the world, feasting on pleasure; looking back, she saw that it was their honeymoon.

  And then there was the sex.

  The sex was—well, it was good. It was very good. Obviously.

  She was enjoying it a lot.

  “Well, I think that’s enough.” Carla smiled at Kate.

  They had a wonderful morning, combing Topshop and then just in case it looked as if they’d paid for the publicity, to Oasis and River Island as well. The last two had been a bit of a rush, as Kate had promised Jilly she’d be home by soon after lunch to get on with her studying; but Carla knew they had enough. Kate had chosen almost everything herself; it always showed, Carla thought, the eye for clothes, not so much in the actual outfits as in the accessories. Belts, scarves, tights, sunglasses: the choices had been unerring, some things which Carla wouldn’t even have considered, but which looked wonderful on Kate.

  “I think so too,” said Kate. “I’m so excited. What time do you want us?”

  “As early as possible. I’ve ordered a cab and I’ve booked someone from Nicky Clarke to do your hair, and a lovely girl to do the makeup, which I promise won’t be much. Now let’s get you onto your tube. I don’t want your grandmother worried. She’s terrific, Kate. You’re very lucky.”

  “I know,” said Kate. “She always seems younger than my mum.”

  “You look a bit like her too. Same colouring.”

  “Pure coincidence,” said Kate.

  “Why?”

  “I’m adopted,” said Kate. “Look, I’d better go. Thanks, Carla. It’s been great. Bye!”

  Carla looked after her thoughtfully as she disappeared down the escalator, a whirl of blond hair and long, long legs. Adopted? That was interesting. Another dimension to the story, perhaps. She must find out more about that tomorrow.

  “The Girl with Tunnel Vision,” the article was subheaded. And went on to describe how Martha had been driven all her life—“no serious boyfriends while she was at school, in case they distracted her, working at least a twelve-hour day, and even now, still only one week’s holiday at a time…”

  Jack Kirkland had organised it: the woman’s editor was a friend, had said they’d seen the one in the Sketch and were looking for a woman in politics to interview. Martha had said why not Janet and he’d said Janet was interviewed out; they wanted someone new, someone younger.

  “Well, don’t tell Janet that,” she’d said.

  “Why not? Anyway, I already did.”

  “Jack! Just think how she’d feel.”

  “Too late,” he’d said. “But she didn’t seem to mind. She agreed, more or less, said she was sick of doing them.”

  Anyway, she hadn’t been so scared this time; she’d felt in control of the whole thing. And it read well. She was learning—fast.

  She binned the paper, resolving to buy another later. She was out for a run; it was just six, a perfect May morning. Pounding over Tower Bridge, taking in the glorious view downriver, the wonderful tapestry of old and new buildings carved against the sky, glorying in having the city almost to herself, she thought she had never felt quite so happy. She had taken all these risks with her life, stepped outside her own closely defined comfort zone, breathed in the heady air—and found herself still safe. It was hard to believe. She should have trusted herself earlier, she thought; she’d missed a lot. She’d even done something which had astonished her, and been to an audition for Question Time, the main political TV show. The publicity department had been over the moon when she was invited; had said people struggled for years to get on the programme. And she’d actually enjoyed it; challenging though it had been, sitting round a table in a dining room in Lime Grove, with the producer and some other potential guest
s. It wasn’t as if she’d had to say a word about herself, she had simply had to talk politics, prove her views were strong enough and that she was sufficiently articulate. She’d felt she’d done quite well, but it had been weeks since then, so probably she hadn’t.

  Anyway, she was altogether feeling rather bullish. She’d be going on holiday with Ed soon, as he so wanted her to.

  “What harm would it do?” he said. “We’d have fun. Heard about fun, Martha? It’s what other people have. You ought to investigate it. Just a week, I promise I won’t ask for more. Go on: be reckless.”

  So far she’d said no; but this morning, standing here, astride her life and its success, she could just about imagine—well, maybe more than imagine…

  “Well, that’s about it,” said Marc Jones. “You were great, Kate.”

  “You really were,” said Carla. “Fantastic. Those last shots, when you started dancing—well, I’ll want to put them on the front page.”

  “Oh please do!” said Kate. She was flushed, flying, triumphant. For the first time in her life she felt properly confident. Someone in charge of her life, someone who mattered; not someone of no consequence, with no proper footing in the world, no proper roots.

  “I doubt we’ll get that. But you’ll certainly be a double-page spread—hopefully the centre of the paper. Aren’t you proud of her, Jilly?”

  “I’m terribly proud of her,” said Jilly. “I thought she was marvellous. She looked as if she’d been doing it for years.”

  She did feel very happy about it; entirely justified in her decision. She had seen something happen to Kate that morning, just as Kate had felt it herself; she had shaken off some of her insecurities, her doubts about herself, become someone new. If Helen was upset, Jilly would tell her all that, tell her what it had meant to Kate. A lot more than simply being photographed in the paper. In a funny way, Kate had found herself. It was lovely to see.

  Carla was taking them all out for tea: lunch had been a sandwich.

  “I thought we’d go to the Ritz,” she said. “I’ve booked a table.”