Sheer Abandon

by Penny Vincenzi

  And didn’t look at the tabloids for the next few days. And certainly not at any pictures of that girl.

  Kate had called as Jocasta waited for Clio; she sounded very shaky.

  She said she was sorry she’d been so rude to Jocasta and that she totally believed that Jocasta had nothing to do with the story.

  “I was just upset. It was all such a—a shock.”

  “Of course it was. I was so sorry for you. The pictures were lovely,” she added carefully.

  “Yeah, well. Pity about the rest. But it’s not so bad, I s’pose. I don’t have to go to school at the moment, because I’m on study leave, so I can avoid the really cowy girls. But I need your help, Jocasta. All these women keep ringing up, saying they’re my mother, about a dozen of them now, and I’m so scared one of them really is my mother and I’m going to miss her. I just don’t know what to do.”

  “Well, I’m sure the paper will be keeping names and so on.”

  “Yes, but I need to…to know,” said Kate desperately. “I can’t lose her now. And what about the model agencies, what should I do about that? Mum is so totally no use, and Dad’s gone completely ballistic, and Juliet said we should ask you. Could you help, do you think? Please, Jocasta, please.”

  Jocasta was so touched by this plea that she was half inclined to rush straight over to Ealing and the Tarrants, but she called Gideon and he had wiser counsel.

  “You can’t do it, Jocasta, don’t be insane. You’re too involved and the responsibility is just too much. And very dangerous. Now listen, I have the very man for you.”

  “Gideon’s such an angel. You can’t imagine,” Jocasta said to Clio. “He’s so kind and so concerned for me. Just wait till you meet him, Clio, you really will love him, I promise.”

  “I’m sure I will,” said Clio carefully.

  “Meanwhile, you’re going to meet a friend of his. Who’s going to sort Kate out. Gideon’s having him call me. His name’s Fergus Trehearn.”

  Fergus Trehearn was Ireland’s answer to Max Clifford, Jocasta explained to a rather bemused Clio, “Only he operates from here now. Not quite so successfully. But, well, anyway…You must know about Max Clifford,” she added, seeing Clio’s puzzled face. Clio said humbly that she didn’t and when she had heard what Max Clifford did—“He sort of manipulates everybody including the press”—she said she was surprised that anyone should want to.

  “Fergus is a complete sweetheart, apparently,” said Jocasta, “and Kate certainly needs him. She—they just can’t cope with it all. Fergus will take the whole thing on, sorting all these women out, getting Kate the best contract with a model agency, deal with offers from other papers and magazines for her story—”

  “She won’t want anything like that, will she?” said Clio.

  “Not at the moment, no. But the thing is, you see, as far as the media is concerned, Kate will be Abandoned Baby Bianca for the rest of her life. Any story about her will refer to it and maybe one day, who knows, she might want to tell her story. And if her mother turns up—well, that could be huge. She needs her interests protected. Fergus will draw up contracts, that sort of thing. Stop unscrupulous people taking advantage of her and her parents. Anyway, I said Fergus should come to my house. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Of course not,” said Clio bravely.

  The last thing she wanted was to have to meet some flashy gold-medallion man and sit and listen to him talking about manipulating the press.

  But it was not a medallion man who sat in Jocasta’s untidy sitting room, listening carefully as she talked; it was someone charming and courteous and well dressed, in a linen suit. He was in his early forties, tall, slim, and extremely good-looking, with close-cropped grey hair and dark brown eyes. He was Irish, garrulous, and funny and she found it hard not to like him. Jocasta introduced her as her brilliant friend who was a consultant physician and he appeared duly impressed, even as she protested and said she was nothing of the sort.

  His manner, as he listened, was concerned and sweetly interested. It completely belied the ruthless opportunism that drove him. No one would have thought that this Fergus Trehearn, gently sympathetic over the dreadful wickedness of Carla Giannini, hardly able to believe the depths of her treachery, was the same one who had conducted a telephone auction between two major newspapers for the story of a beautiful refugee girl from Bosnia who had become a call girl (under cover of a chambermaid’s job at a West End hotel) and then staged a roasting by a posse of drunken footballers; or who had negotiated a hefty media deal for a young couple arrested for, and duly acquitted of, having sex on the hard shoulder of the M25.

  “He will be perfect for Kate,” Jocasta said to Clio happily, after he had gone, “keep all the sharks at bay and make her lots of money. And what’s more, I know he’ll be able to persuade the Tarrants. Isn’t he a sweetheart?”

  Jocasta called the Tarrants, explained what Fergus did and begged them to see him. Helen, exhausted and still deeply distressed, finally agreed. Jim said he would personally throw him out of the house, but Helen was learning to ignore such threats. They had to get through this somehow and it sounded as if Fergus Trehearn might be able to help. An appointment was fixed for six on Monday evening.

  “I know it’s a little late,” he said apologetically to Helen, “but that’s the earliest I can manage. Do you have any of those inky vultures at your gate now?”

  Helen, who had thought she would never smile again, recognised this as a description of the press and actually laughed. “They’ve gone,” she said, “but we’re still getting so many calls.”

  “I’ll take them all off you,” he said, “if you’ll let me. I’ll see you at six, Mrs. Tarrant, and your husband too, of course. And after we have talked, then, if you’re happy with me, I’ll meet your beautiful daughter.”

  “He’d deal with the press,” said Helen to Jim, “and the women. And Kate. With all these offers we keep getting.”

  “And what’s that going to cost us?” said Jim. “Don’t tell me he’s doing it out of the goodness of his heart.”

  “I’ll ask Jocasta,” said Helen uncertainly. She hadn’t thought of this.

  “Oh, that’s a really good idea,” said Jim, his voice heavily sarcastic. “They’re probably hand in glove. You can see him if you like, Helen, but I won’t. And don’t expect a penny out of me for him, either.”

  Helen sighed and went to telephone Jocasta. Jocasta was very reassuring about the money.

  “He won’t want any, unless Kate starts to do well as a model,” she said, “then he’ll probably act as her agent and take a percentage. They work on a sort of no win, no fee basis, like all the lawyers are doing now.”

  Had Helen been even slightly worldlier she might have found this a little suspicious; she was not to know that Gideon Keeble had already agreed to pay Fergus’s bill until something was resolved with Kate.

  “Look,” said Martha, “I’m sorry. I’ve said at least three times now I can’t go away to Venice. Not at the moment. I don’t know why you can’t accept that.”

  It had taken her all day to bring herself to make this call, and every word that she said hurt more than the last. She kept seeing him, sitting there, confused, bewildered by the change in her, and she didn’t quite know how to bear it. But it had to be done.

  Suppose he’d read about it, asked her about it even, said he couldn’t imagine anyone doing such a thing. Or said how dreadful, how awful the mother must be.

  No, it was very clear. The need for control was back. And to be in control, you had to be independent, answerable to no one. Ed loved her. And she loved him. And love was powerful, when it came to secrets. Huge, dangerous secrets. It saw them, it found them out.

  She took another deep breath. “So I can’t go to Venice. Is that all right?”

  “Of course it’s not all right! Two days ago you said you could.” Ed’s voice was very quiet. “What’s changed?”

  “Nothing’s changed, Ed. I can’t go just now
, please understand that. I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, so sorry you couldn’t even be arsed to call me all weekend, didn’t return my calls. Why not, Martha, would you just tell me that?”

  “There wasn’t an opportunity—”

  “Oh, right. All weekend. Not a single five-minute—what do you call it?—oh, yes, window, not a five-minute window to pick up your fucking phone and say hi, Ed, sorry I can’t talk now, I’ll ring later. Is that right?”

  “Yes,” she said and her voice was so cool, so steady, it amazed her, “that’s right.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he said suddenly, “I’ve had enough of this. Don’t you care that I was worried out of my skull? Don’t you?” His voice was less angry, was cracked with pain.

  “Of course I care, Ed, but as I told you, I—”

  “You’re made of fucking stone,” he said, “you know that?”

  She was silent for a moment; then she said, “Ed, I really don’t like being abused like this. If you can’t cope with my life and the way I am, then we would do far better to end this whole thing.”

  “What whole thing?”

  “Our relationship, of course.”

  “Relationship!” he said. “You call what we have a relationship? Right now, I’d call it a load of bullshit, Martha, total fucking bullshit. You tell me what to do and say and think, where to be and when, and I just tag along behind you, licking your arse. Well, you can find someone else to lick it, because I’m finding it extremely tedious all of a sudden. OK?” And he slammed the phone down.

  Martha sat for a long time, completely still, just staring at it. Wanting more than anything to pick it up again, fighting the instinct to say she was sorry, she hadn’t meant it, and she loved him, wanted to see him.

  But she couldn’t. It was too dangerous.

  By the end of the weekend, Kate was feeling better. She couldn’t help it. Yes, it had been awful, the shock; yes, she felt hideously ashamed still, that everyone knew what had happened to her, that everyone must be pointing her out, saying that’s the girl whose mother just threw her away; she still felt as if she was walking down the road with all her clothes off, naked and exposed; and yes, it was horrible to have trusted someone like Carla and then found yourself totally let down. It was appalling to think that one of those women who had phoned up might be her birth mother, and that she was having to wait quietly when the most tumultuous discovery in her life might be within reach. She wanted to rush into the offices of the Sketch and demand to see the list, see the women, organise the DNA testing. But it was also quite nice, she had to admit, to have not just the Sketch but papers like the Sunday Times describing you with words like “beautiful” and “dazzling,” and to see your pictures in them, as well.

  And to have model agencies ringing up, asking you to go and see them, and even magazines, asking if they could come and interview you—that was pretty cool.

  And then there was Nat. It had almost been worth it all, to have Nat calling her twice a day and taking her out in the Sax Bomb and saying what about going to the Fridge this Saturday. She’d said that would be cool, that she’d most definitely come; she’d worry about her parents and what they might say when the time came. The thing they didn’t understand—that nobody seemed to understand—was what a nice person Nat was. The first thing he’d said when she’d got in the car was, “You all right?” and, “Yes,” she’d said, yes, she was fine, thank you. And he’d said, “I meant about the story in the paper, like, about your mum,” and it had completely wiped her out, that he’d understood how she might be feeling, had thought about it. He’d obviously read the article properly, because he’d said, with that grin of his, that he’d liked the way she’d talked about his clothes and his car.

  Then he leant forward and started to kiss her; he was a very good kisser. Nice and slow and careful, his tongue moving round, sort of stroking hers. Kate hadn’t experienced good kissing before and it was wonderful. They were parked on the edge of a park, under some trees; it was terribly romantic.

  “You going to do more of this modelling, then?” he said, when he had finally finished, and lit a cigarette.

  “Course,” she said.

  “Cool. I wouldn’t mind coming along, if they ever wanted a bloke,” he added.

  Kate said she didn’t know how it worked, but she could ask, if the occasion arose.

  “Yeah, right,” he said, and drove her home in silence. Or as close to silence as the Red Hot Chili Peppers, at top volume, would permit.

  “So are you looking forward to your lunch with your professor tomorrow?” Jocasta asked.

  “Half. And half dreading it. I keep thinking he’s asked me to lunch to soften the blow, to say there’s no point my applying for the job.”

  “I really don’t think people spend money giving you bad news,” said Jocasta. “Polite little notes, more like it. No, he wants to encourage you. Goodness, Clio, a consultant. I shall be proud to know you.”

  “I’ll be pretty proud to know me too. If I am one again.”

  The only place she felt pleased with herself was at work. It was odd: she felt somehow in charge when she was working; it was like going downhill on a bicycle after struggling up the other side, not easy exactly but exhilarating, everything running smoothly and to order. She sighed; Jocasta looked at her.

  “You’ll be fine,” she said, “I know you will. Let’s go for a drink. Just a few quiet ones.”

  They went to one of the pubs on the common, sat outside in the gathering dusk. A sliver of moon was hanging in the turquoise sky, the sun a vast display of crimson, hugging the horizon.

  “It’s like a child showing off,” said Jocasta. “Look at it, saying let me stay, let me stay. Do you remember those sunsets in Thailand, Clio, so unbelievably dramatic, especially when it had been raining? I must take Gideon to Thailand, he’d love it.”

  Like everyone in love, she managed to bring every discussion round to the subject of the beloved.

  “I can’t wait for you to meet him. He’s so—so exciting. And interested in absolutely everything. I mean, he’d be talking about your work right now, getting really involved.”

  “Don’t you ever miss Nick?” asked Clio curiously. “He seemed lovely to me.”

  “He was lovely. Just not lovely enough. And the way I love Gideon is quite unlike anything I felt before. For anybody. It’s so—so violent, Clio. It’s just taken me over. I feel I’m where I ought to be, when I’m with him. It’s as simple as that. I didn’t feel like that with Nick. I thought I did, but I didn’t.”

  “But you had so much in common with Nick and you cared so much about your work. What are you going to do, Jocasta, stop working altogether, be with Gideon wherever he is?”

  “Yes, probably,” said Jocasta vaguely. “I haven’t thought about it.”

  “Martha, are you all right?”

  Paul Quenell’s voice seemed to be coming from far away. It was a long time since Martha had felt like this: swimmy-headed, clammy, as if she was going to be sick. Probably not since she had been at St. Andrews for early communion and having terrible period pains. She sat down abruptly.

  “Yes,” she said, “yes, I’m fine. Thank you. Just a bit…a bit…sorry, Paul.”

  What was it doing here, on his desk, the Sunday Times, open at the article about—about—Was he going to show it to her, ask if she knew anything about it?

  “Jane,” he called through the open door, “bring a glass of water in, would you?” And then, gently stern: “You’ve been working too hard.”

  “Well, yes, maybe just a bit.”

  “It’s all this extracurricular stuff,” he said, and smiled his swift apology of a smile. “You shouldn’t do it, you know.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “Thanks, Jane. Just put it down there. You can take this now…” He folded the paper, held it out to his long-suffering secretary. “I’ve seen all I needed.” All he needed? Why should he need anything? What did it have to do with him? She
felt hot, violently sick again.

  “Jane spotted this piece about the new senior partner at Kindersleys.” Paul sat down at his desk again. “Hannah Roberts, one of these superwomen, five children at least. Come across her?”

  “Once or twice,” she said, and relief flooded her, cool, soothing relief.

  “Anyway, I’m going to stop the extracurricular stuff for a day or two. I’m sending you on a little trip. Not a long one, a week at the most. But you should be able to grab a couple of days of rest out of it.”

  “A trip? Where?”

  It was actually the last thing she wanted; she only felt safe doing completely familiar things, in completely familiar places. Even going to a new restaurant the day before had been unsettling.

  “Sydney.”

  Sydney! It couldn’t have been worse. That was where—when—She hauled herself back to the present. “Why?”

  “You don’t look as pleased as I hoped. It’s such a wonderful place. You’ve been there, I presume?”

  “No! Well…” She mustn’t start lying. That could become very dangerous. “Well, only for about two days. Long ago. On my way somewhere else.”

  “Oh I see. Well, you’ll love it. It’s on Mackenzie business, of course.”

  “Of course.” She was regaining her cool now, back in control, Mackenzie was a worldwide property chain—“intergalactic” as Paul had once said. “They’ve got some massive new takeover in their sights on the waterfront over there, they need advice.”

  “Can’t the Sydney office manage?”

  “Of course. But Donald wants someone from London. He likes to see us earning our fees, as you know.”

  Martha smiled. “I do indeed.” Donald Mackenzie was famous for querying every invoice.

  “He asked for me, then when I said it was out of the question, he specified you. I’ll get Jane to book your flight and hotel.”

  On her way back to her own office, she felt dizzy again; she managed to make it to the ladies’ and sat on a loo seat for a long time, her head between her knees.