Sheer Abandon

by Penny Vincenzi

  “Would Kate like to speak to me, I wonder?”

  “No,” said Helen in the same quiet, numb voice, “no, I’m sure she wouldn’t.”

  “Well, later, perhaps. Tell her I’ve had several offers for her already.”

  “What sort of offers?”

  “Modelling agencies. Of course, that is entirely up to you.”

  “I’m so glad something is,” Helen said icily. She was beginning to regain her confidence.

  Carla ignored this. “There is one thing, Mrs. Tarrant—one thing I should warn you about. You could get calls. From women claiming to be Kate’s mother. We’ve had a couple already. I would advise you to let us handle these for you. Put any calls on to us. It’s—”

  “I don’t want you to handle anything for us,” said Helen, and she could hear the loathing in her own voice, the rage and the misery. “You’ve done enough damage—please leave us alone.”

  And she put the phone down, very carefully. What was she going to do? How were they going to get through this? How?

  After two more phone calls from women, she realised, very reluctantly, that they couldn’t do it alone.

  Carla was brisk and efficient. “Just redirect them all to us.”

  “And suppose—suppose one of them was genuine?” The words hurt her to speak them. “How would we know?”

  “We would ask for proof of some kind.”

  “What sort of proof?” said Helen, desperately.

  “Well, is there anything at all that you know, about the way Kate was abandoned, that wasn’t in the story? Like the time it was, or what she was wearing.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Helen bitterly. “Every wretched detail is there.”

  “Try and think of something. And call me back.”

  So far, Helen couldn’t.

  She went and opened the dining-room door without knocking, looked at Jilly with cold dislike.

  “I think I’d like to take you home. Jim and I both feel we need to be on our own with the girls.”

  “Of course,” said Jilly humbly. “But no need to take me, I’ll get a cab. There haven’t been any calls for me, have there?”

  “I’ve stopped answering the phone, we’ve had so many. Jim’s going out to buy an answering machine.”

  “Oh dear, how dreadful. Who from?”

  “Other reporters mostly. From other papers. Do we have anything to add, could they interview Kate, that sort of thing.”

  She didn’t tell her about the women, the would-be mothers; she couldn’t bear it.

  “Helen, I must just say once more how sorry I am. But I really didn’t tell this woman anything, she had all the information already—”

  “Mummy, for what must be the tenth time, if you hadn’t agreed to let Kate do those wretched photographs, none of it would have happened. How could you, without asking us, when you were supposed to be responsible for her?”

  “I—” Jilly stopped. She had no defence, she knew.

  “Mummy, it really wasn’t just Granny’s fault.” Juliet had appeared, her face pale. “I told her to go ahead. I said it would be so great for Kate and—”

  “Juliet, you are fourteen years old,” said Helen wearily. “I hardly think it was very sensible of your grandmother to rely on your opinion.”

  “But—”

  “Juliet, darling, it’s nice of you to stand up for me, but your mother’s quite right. I should never have agreed. Could I just say goodbye to Kate?”

  “If you have to.” Helen was disproportionately pleased when Kate refused to let her into her room.

  Half an hour later, when Jilly had departed, there was a ring at the door. Helen answered it. It was Nat Tucker. The Sax Bomb stood at the gate, its engine still running, its sound system at full volume.

  “Oh,” she said. “Nat. Hello.”

  “Mornin’,” he said. “Kate in?”

  “Er—she is,” said Helen, “but I’m afraid she’s not very well.”

  “Oh, right. Just tell her I came then. And that I saw her photos in the paper.”

  “Fine. Yes. Of course.”

  “Nice, aren’t they?” he said.

  “She looks great. Well, see you later.”

  And he ambled down the path, pulling a packet of cigarettes out of the pocket of his extremely low-slung trousers. Helen and Juliet, who had heard his voice, stood staring after him.

  “How sweet,” said Juliet, “how really sweet. Wait till I tell Kate.”

  Helen caught her arm. “Juliet, you are not to tell Kate.”

  Juliet stared at her. “Why on earth not?”

  “Because I can’t face any more upsets this morning.”

  “Mum! That’s horrible. Why should there be an upset? He’s the one person in the whole world, probably, who can make Kate feel better just now.”

  “Don’t be so ridiculous,” said Helen.

  “It’s true! She only did it to make him notice her. She’ll be pleased he came round. And don’t you realise, half of what’s making her so upset is thinking everyone’ll know what happened to her, that her mother just…well, just threw her away, as she sees it, and she feels it’s like a public humiliation. If Nat Tucker doesn’t care about it, she’ll be much happier—”

  “Juliet, Nat Tucker is not the sort of boy I want Kate getting mixed up with,” said Helen.

  “You sound like Granny,” said Juliet, in a tone of complete contempt. “Actually, worse. At least she thinks Nat’s good-looking. Anyway, he was nice enough to come round, so I’m going up to tell Kate and you can’t stop me.”

  Kate was wondering how she could ever leave her room again, face a world that knew what had happened to her, that must be either despising her or feeling sorry for her or laughing at her, when Juliet called through her door with the news that Nat had come to the house, had wanted to see her, had said she looked great: it was like—well, she didn’t know what it was like. Like being given a present. No, better than that. Like the dentist’s drill stopping. She opened the door, let Juliet in, and sat on the bed, staring at her, as if she had never seen her before.

  “Did he really? Come here?”

  “He really did. He’s so sweet, Kate. Honestly. It can’t have been easy for him. He obviously does like you a lot. Why don’t you call him?”

  “Yes, I might. Later. When I feel a bit better. God, I can’t believe that. I really, really can’t.”

  “Well, he did.” Juliet studied her. “Better not ask him round yet, though. You look awful—your eyes look about half the size. And your face is all swollen and blotchy.”

  “Yes, all right, all right,” said Kate irritably. “God, Jools, think of that. He actually came here. That is so cool. Tell me again exactly what he said. Exactly…”

  Helen recognised Jocasta; she was looking nervously from behind the curtains in the front room at the slowly growing crowd at the gate. She turned to Jim.

  “It’s Jocasta. You know, Jocasta Forbes—”

  “Well, I’ll tell her to bugger off,” he said. Helen had never heard him use a stronger profanity than “bloody.”

  “Jim!”

  “Well,” he said, his tone infinitely weary, “she was where it all began. No doubt she told that other woman all about Kate. I don’t want her anywhere near us. And if we let her in, those other vultures will follow. Or try to. God, here’s another, looks like a photographer. Jesus, Helen, what are we going to do?”

  “I think we should let Jocasta in,” said Helen bravely. “My mother said it was nothing to do with her.”

  “Helen, I am not having that woman in my house,” said Jim. “I won’t allow it. It’s as simple as that.”

  “It’s not your house,” said Helen, emboldened by the desperate situation. “It’s ours. And I think she might be able to help.”

  He said nothing, just sat in his chair, biting his fist.

  Helen walked over to the door, shouted through it, “What do you want, Jocasta?”

  “I want to talk to you.
And to Kate. I want to try and explain. That it wasn’t me. I want to tell Kate that. I think it might just help. Please, Mrs. Tarrant. Please.”

  “All right,” said Helen. “I’ll open the door. I don’t know if Kate’ll want to see you.”

  “Thanks. Thank you so much.”

  “It was totally awful,” Jocasta said to Clio later, over a glass of wine. She had arrived on Clio’s doorstep, pale and very shaken. “None of them believed me. Kate refused even to see me. She just said she thought she could trust me. That she thought I was her friend. Shouting through her door at me. Oh God, Clio, what an awful mess. What have I done?”

  “Nothing—I thought,” said Clio.

  “Well, I did do one thing,” said Jocasta, lighting a cigarette. “Sorry about this, Clio. I really need it.”

  “That’s OK. What did you do?”

  “I looked Kate up in the archives. I was—well, I was intrigued. Her grandmother told me she’d been abandoned, and Kate had told me when her birthday was. I printed the story off. It was in all the papers at the time. About Baby Bianca being found. And then Kate told me all about it herself. She obviously finds it really hard to cope with, but she thought if I wrote about it, her mother might come and find her. I certainly wasn’t going to do anything without her parents’ permission, but I put all the printouts in a file in my drawer. I shouldn’t have. If I’d thought for five minutes, I’d have shredded them or something. But—well, I didn’t know I was going to leave. I didn’t know that cow Carla was going to go through my desk.”

  “Is that what she did?”

  “She must have done. She says she didn’t, but I don’t believe her. God, I feel so sick. Oh, Clio, what am I going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” said Clio, “but I’m sure Kate will calm down. She’s obviously terribly shocked. I just spoke to her grandmother. She was very subdued…It turned out she’d agreed to the fashion session while the Tarrants were away. Apparently this Carla woman had called her to confirm the story. Anyway, she said it was all her fault. She said Kate had been shouting at her, telling her she hated her. Clearly,” she added, refilling Jocasta’s glass, “you aren’t entirely to blame.”

  Jocasta’s mobile rang. “Hi,” she said. “Oh, hello, Gideon. How absolutely lovely to hear your voice. No, everything’s not all right. It’s ghastly. It didn’t do any good. Look, I’ll call you later. I’m with a friend. An old friend.” She smiled at Clio. “Yes, you would like her. A lot. We went travelling together. With that bitch Martha I told you about. What? Oh, Gideon! Well, I know I did but—Oh, all right. I might stay in London till you get back. I don’t think I can cope with Mrs. Mitchell on my own. Yes, I will. I promise. I love you too.”

  “Who was that?” Clio asked.

  “Gideon Keeble. He’s Irish and quite famous—owns dozens of shopping malls all over the world and God knows what else. Several houses. He’s had umpteen wives and he’s got a nightmare teenage daughter, who he’s just off to see in Barbados, that’s why he rang, to buy her some polo ponies.”

  “Some?” said Clio, incredulously.

  “Yes. One is nothing like enough, apparently. Anyway, he’s older than me and a workaholic and it’s all completely unsuitable. And I am totally, totally in love with him. I’ve left Nick, given up my job, given up my whole life here. Just to be with Gideon.”

  “God,” said Clio, “he must be very special.”

  “He is. I can’t imagine how I could have ever thought I was happy until now. I feel—oh I don’t know. As if my real life has only just begun. It’s so strange.”

  Chapter 24

  Helen was laying the breakfast table; she wasn’t sure why. No one would come down. Kate was still more or less locked in her room, and since the altercation over Nat, Juliet refused to communicate with her, had eaten supper in Kate’s room, and even slept in there. She had become, in Kate’s hour of need, her best, her most loyal friend, the only person Kate would talk to. So some good had come out of it, Helen thought wearily.

  Jim certainly wouldn’t want breakfast; he was still raging, so angry and upset, that he had been up half the night with dreadful indigestion, pacing up and down, snapping at Helen if she tried to say anything. He was asleep now: a fitful, noisy sleep, but at least asleep.

  At any rate, the reporters had gone. Jocasta had said they would. “It’s not a big enough story to keep them all night. They’ll just rehash what’s on the files.”

  Jocasta had asked about cranks, too; clearly it was a standard hazard. She seemed relieved that Carla was doing something to help.

  “Have you had many calls?”

  “About five now,” said Helen. “I’ve told them all to ring the paper. But I’m so afraid that—well—” She stopped.

  “I can imagine,” said Jocasta gently. “That one of them might be the real mother.”

  “Yes. The Giannini woman said to try and think of something that could be a sort of test question. And there is just one thing. She wasn’t wearing a nappy. That wasn’t ever…ever detailed.”

  “That would do,” said Jocasta. In fact it would do wonderfully well. No one would expect a baby to be left without a nappy on. “Tell Carla. Better still, I’ll do it for you. Right now. And I do think you should change your telephone number, Mrs. Tarrant, go ex-directory. Otherwise you—well, let’s say an answering machine just isn’t what you want.”

  Very shortly after that she left.

  Suddenly, Helen heard pounding on the stairs; she looked into the hall. Kate was disappearing through the front door, her hair flying behind her; she was wearing jeans, an extremely skimpy top, and her highest-heeled boots.

  “Kate!” she shouted, running to open it again. “Kate, where are you—”

  But all that was left of Kate was a roar of exhaust and a screech of tyres; the Sax Bomb was just disappearing round the corner.

  “Sorry, Mum.” It was Juliet, looking slightly shame-faced. “She won’t be long. She says she wants to talk to him. He rang again this morning. We couldn’t tell you, because we knew you wouldn’t let her go. She’ll be back for lunch: promise. Shall I get that?” she said as the phone started to ring.

  “No,” said Helen sharply. “Let the machine pick it up. And”—as another female voice spoke—“don’t listen to it, Juliet. Please.”

  But it was too late.

  When Kate returned, looking flushed and almost cheerful, at one o’clock, Juliet rushed her up to her room.

  “Kate! There are people—women ringing, saying they’re your mother. Can you believe that?”

  “How do you know?”

  “I heard one. On the answering machine. Mum’s telling them all to ring the Sketch. They’re dealing with them.”

  “Dealing with them?” Kate shouted. “What do you mean, dealing with them?”

  “Getting rid of them, I s’pose.”

  Kate stared at her. “But Juliet, one of them might actually be my mother! How can they do that? How can they fucking do that?”

  “Shush!” said Juliet.

  Clio felt completely bewildered, almost shocked, by Jocasta’s behaviour.

  She had sent her off for a walk on the Hog’s Back. Clio was on call that Sunday morning, but that evening they were going up to London together, to stay in Jocasta’s house in Clapham.

  The next day was important for Clio; she was having lunch with dear old Beaky, Professor Bryan. She had told Mark—hating to deceive him, when he’d been so kind—that she had to see her solicitor about the divorce. Which was true, she had arranged that too. She didn’t have very high hopes of the Bayswater job, but she was determined to try. General practice in a country town was fine, if you had a life outside it; she didn’t and she already felt the loneliness beginning to bite.

  But as she drove from house to house on her rounds, it was Jocasta, not her patients, claiming her concentration.

  For someone of eighteen, like the blithely irresponsible Jocasta she had first met, to turn her back on real life and r
un away with a rich man, yes, perhaps. But at thirty-five, with a flourishing career and a long-term relationship under her belt—oh, please! It seemed to Clio that Jocasta was standing near a large drain and pouring every treasure she possessed down it.

  Gideon Keeble might be very charismatic and charming, in the way of extremely rich men; Jocasta might have been growing weary of waiting for Nick to put a ring on her finger and the life of a tabloid reporter might be losing some of its charm; but did she really think she was going to find happiness in a way of life so totally unfamiliar to her?

  Clio did realise, of course, that it was much harder for her to understand, not having met Keeble; he veered in her imagination between being a self-indulgent overgrown child who had to have everything he wanted and a kind of evil enchanter who had bewitched Jocasta and swept her away to his castle.

  Well, sooner or later, providing the affair lasted—and Clio found herself devoutly hoping it wouldn’t—she would meet Gideon Keeble, and then it might be easier for her to understand. She might even like him. But it did seem rather unlikely.

  Jocasta still felt terribly guilty. She didn’t seem to have done much for Kate, but then, who could? Kate’s refusal to see her had hurt dreadfully; she obviously blamed her. God, it was a relief to be out of all that potential for damage to people’s lives. And Clio, so sensible and calm and kind. It had been comforting, talking to her last night, confronting what had happened all those years ago. She’d told Nick about it, but all the time running away from the memories. With Clio she had relived them, and it had been healing, in a way.

  Chapter 25

  All she had to do was keep completely calm. Nothing could happen, if she did that. No one could possibly think she had the slightest connection with this rather sensational story in the tabloid press. There was no connection. None at all. The only person who might think there was anything disturbing her was Ed, because he had been so close to her. But he couldn’t be anymore. He would have to be out of her life. And then she would be safe. As long as she kept calm. Perfectly calm.