Sheer Abandon

by Penny Vincenzi

“Don’t know,” he said, “didn’t really talk to her.” I was looking after poor old Cal. He was in a bad way.”

  “Is he all right now?”

  “He looks fine to me,” said Sarah, examining Cal’s apparently lifeless form. “What a tosser. He must have missed half the party.”

  “So, who was weird?” asked Kevin.

  “That woman,” said Kate. “The one who fainted.”

  “Yeah, she took one look at you and fainted,” said Bernie, giggling. “Honest, she was all right up till then, as I said to the doctor woman. What was her name?”

  “Clio,” said Kate. “She’s my gran’s doctor.”

  “What? Who fainted?” Kevin sounded irritable. “You’re talking bloody riddles.”

  “We’re not. You’re not concentrating. A friend of Jocasta’s did,” said Kate. “Well, she was her friend when they were young. She was in the paper the week before me, she’s in politics and law and she knew Clio as well—that’s the doctor, for those of you with learning difficulties.”

  Bernie giggled.

  “Now she was nice,” said Nat approvingly. “Anyway, it was a good bash. And what about them snappers, Kate, calling your name as we left. You’re a celeb now, whether you like it or not.”

  He sounded rather complacent, as if the credit was largely his rather than Fergus’s, who had quietly tipped a couple of papers off about Baby Bianca’s attendance at the bash of the year.

  “I thought I might be in some of the pictures an’ all,” he added hopefully.

  Jack Kirkland was deep in conversation with Gideon Keeble when Janet rejoined them.

  “You’ve been a while,” he said. “Is she all right?”

  “She’s fine. Asleep. Goodness knows what it was all about, poor little thing.”

  “I don’t think I would describe Martha in quite those terms,” said Gideon lightly. “Tough little cookie, if you ask me.”

  “I think I’d agree with Gideon,” said Kirkland. “She is quite tough. Law at the level she practises it is no easy option. And to manage to fit in the politics as well—pretty remarkable.”

  “That’s the whole point about women, Jack, we can do a whole lot of things at the same time,” said Janet.

  “Like bring up five children and run a political party, you mean?” said Gideon.

  “I don’t exactly run it, do I? Just turn up at the House now and then.”

  “Oh Janet, come on, you could run it if I wasn’t there. Maybe you should,” said Kirkland.

  “Oh yes? What about Eliot and Chad?”

  “As far as I’m concerned, you’re a better contender than either of them,” said Jack. “After what’s happened.”

  “Well happily for me, you are still there,” said Janet. “Nothing I’d hate more. Honestly.”

  Gideon Keeble, who had not risen from the slums of Dublin without an ability to sniff out a lie at very long distance, looked at them both with interest. Jack clearly believed her, and more important, Janet knew he did.

  “Well, that’s all right then,” he said and went to find Jocasta.

  “Oh, look at this picture of Kate!” Clio passed the People across the table. “Naughty girl, leaning out of the stretch window, waving at the cameras. I thought the whole idea was to keep well inside those things. Doesn’t she look sweet? And the boy looks rather handsome too.”

  “He is rather handsome,” said Jocasta. “And he’s a poppet. Who else did they get? God, the nights I’ve spent with the paps, outside rich people’s gates. And now they’re my gates and I’m inside.”

  “Is that right?” said Gideon. “I think they’re mine as well, those gates.”

  “Sorry, Gideon. I’m confused. Still half drunk, I think. God, I loved it. I want to give another. Oh look, here’s Jamie Oliver and Jules. I hope he liked the food. And Jonathan Ross, I still can’t believe he came, and the gaggle of It Girls, in their gangster car. It was so sweet, everyone going to so much trouble.”

  It was half past ten. Gideon had already swum and had been making coffee for hours; people were drifting down to the kitchen, including several of Gideon’s brothers and sisters. Jocasta embraced them all fondly; she had long since given up trying to work out which of them was which. Beatrice, considerably the worse for wear, huddled behind the newspapers. Josh, most unfairly full of beans, had already been for one walk and was suggesting another.

  “There’s a whole crowd of people down there still in the tent, Gideon. They appear not to have gone to bed.”

  “Quite possibly not. It’ll be the Dublin lot still exchanging the craic. They’re tireless once they get going. I must go down and offer them some coffee.”

  “I think I should check on Martha,” said Clio. “I’m surprised she’s not down.”

  She came back in five minutes. “Down and out,” she said. “She’s gone. Is that strange behaviour, or what?”

  “Very strange,” said Jocasta, staring at her. “How did she get away, anyway?”

  “She said she got a cab. She’s left a note,” said Clio holding it out. “It’s very polite, sorry to have put us to so much bother, thanking us for all our kindness, but she had to get home.”

  “She is the strangest girl,” said Jocasta. “I think she didn’t like it that we’d seen her out of control. I never met anyone quite so tight-arsed in my entire life.”

  Martha had spent the entire day in a desperate effort to calm down. She felt terrible: her pulse was racing, her heart pounding. She tried to tell herself she was being absurd, that there was nothing wrong—she was in no danger of any kind. But she was. She had committed an act of unbelievable folly: she had done what she had never even considered doing. Obviously it would be perfectly all right: obviously. Janet was the kindest, most dependable woman, and, more important, absolutely discreet. There was no way she was a gossip, no way she would talk to anyone about what Martha had told her. Of course she wouldn’t. She just—wouldn’t. And anyway, why should she? What would be the point?

  It went on all day, round and round Martha’s aching head, in desperate convoluted circles, until she felt she might actually go mad. For the first time since, well, since that day, she was no longer in control, was at someone else’s mercy.

  The phone rang. It was Ed. “Hi, it’s me. Just rang to see if you enjoyed the party. I saw the pictures. Why none of you? I’ll call again—”

  Without thinking clearly what she was doing, desperate just to have someone to talk to, to take herself out of the prison in her head, she picked up the phone.

  “Hi, Ed, it’s me.”

  “Hi. You all right?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m fine. Thank you.”

  “Good. Well it’s just the usual call. Making sure you’re OK. You wouldn’t like to come for a drink or anything, I suppose?”

  “No,” she said quickly, “Ed, I wouldn’t. Thank you. Not—not today anyway.”

  “Tomorrow then?” His voice was hopeful. Something else she shouldn’t have said, then.

  “No, not tomorrow,” she said quickly. “I meant not at all.”

  “Martha, you sound weird. Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. Absolutely. Yes.”

  “OK.” She could almost hear the shrug. “I’ll call again. Tomorrow probably.”

  Well, that hadn’t helped. Maybe it was Ed she should have told. At least she knew he loved her, wished her well. Why did she tell Janet, whom she didn’t know at all? Who might even now—oh God! Of course she wasn’t. Of course—

  The phone rang again. She snatched it up.

  “Ed, please—”

  But it wasn’t Ed. It was Janet. “Hello, Martha, only me. Wondering how you were.”

  Her voice was warm, friendly, gentle. Martha felt better at once. How ridiculous she’d been, thinking that this kind, caring woman would do her any harm.

  “Hello, Janet,” she said, and she could hear the relief in her own voice. “How kind of you. I’m fine, really. Much, much better. And thank you again for la
st night, you were wonderful.”

  “My dearest girl, it was nothing, I was just a shoulder to cry on, that’s all.”

  “No! You…you saved my sanity, I think.”

  Damn. Shouldn’t have said that. Sounds a bit—desperate.

  “You seem pretty sane to me. Listen, I thought—”

  “Janet,” said Martha, “you…you wouldn’t tell anyone, would you?”

  “Martha! Of course I wouldn’t tell anyone. What kind of person do you think me, for heaven’s sake?”

  God, she’d offended her. Now what might she do?

  “No, of course not. I mean—I didn’t mean anything like that. It’s just that—”

  “Martha”—the voice was soothing now, soothing and infinitely kind—“Martha, listen to me. You needed to talk. You couldn’t have kept that to yourself forever. Even if she hadn’t been there, at the party. It’s an intolerable burden—God knows how you’ve coped all these years. You’re clearly making yourself ill. And I’d like to think talking to me helped, just a little.”

  “It did, Janet, it really did.”

  Liar, Martha, it didn’t help, it’s frightened you horribly.

  “And of course you’re anxious about it. About me talking. I can understand that, I really can. But I won’t. Ever. It would be unthinkable. I feel deeply honoured that you confided in me. Showed me that kind of trust. And I won’t betray it. I swear to you, Martha. So please stop worrying.”

  “Thank you, Janet, so much. I won’t worry anymore.”

  She wouldn’t. She really, really wouldn’t.

  Clio got home to a letter from the Royal Bayswater. Would she be able to attend an interview board on Wednesday, July 3, for a post of consultant geriatrician?

  She felt flooded with happiness and triumph. OK, she hadn’t got the job, she’d just got a shot at it. That was a lot. To her at this moment that was a huge lot.

  She’d had a very good few days, she thought happily, sitting back on her sofa, what with the party, and this—and Fergus. Did he like her? Really like her? And, more to the point, did she want him to?

  Nothing could change what he did, the sort of person he was: and even if she came to understand his work, to see it as less…disreputable, could their lives blend in any way?

  Oh, for God’s sake, Clio, what are you thinking about? Your lives blend? You’ve met the man precisely twice, talked to him a few times more. He’s amusing, he’s attractive, he’s a man you enjoyed a party with: leave it at that.

  She did want to tell someone though, about her interview. That was one of the worst things about being on your own, she had discovered: day to day was all right, even bad days could be coped with, but happiness, however small, needed to be shared.

  She decided to call Jocasta; her phone was switched off.

  She couldn’t tell Mark or anyone at the practice about her interview, and she was just beginning to feel her bright pleasure tarnish slightly, when, as if by magic, perfectly on cue, Fergus called.

  “I just wanted to thank you for your company last night. And to make sure you were safely home.” Clio told him she was indeed safely home, and that she had been called for an interview for the consultant’s job.

  “I wonder why I’m not surprised,” he said, and she could hear him smiling.

  Jocasta had invited Kate to lunch the Monday after the party; Gideon was in his London office and she travelled up with him. She was sitting at a table at the Bluebird when Kate got there.

  “Hi! You look nice. Seen anyone today? About your modelling?”

  “No, not till Friday now. Then it’s this cosmetic company, Smith, and I think I’m getting a spot. I told Fergus and he said they’d be able to see past it.”

  “He’s absolutely right,” said Jocasta, “of course they will. He’s still looking after you all right, is he?”

  “Yeah. Really well. He’s cool. Mum likes him. I think she fancies him, actually.”

  “Goodness! Now what do you want to eat? And then tell me if you enjoyed the party and if your mum and dad did. And your very handsome boyfriend.”

  Kate said it had been a really cool party and that Nat had enjoyed it a lot.

  “He’s lovely, your Nat,” said Jocasta, “I really like him.”

  “He’s all right,” said Kate, and then looked at Jocasta and smiled, quite nervously for her. “I worry a bit he hasn’t got any ambition, though. I mean, he’s nineteen and he’s not getting anywhere, just quite happy to go on working for his dad’s garage.”

  Jocasta said, carefully, that she thought Nat had plenty of time and that Kate shouldn’t worry. “Anyway, if his dad’s got a garage and Nat took it over one day, that’d be great, wouldn’t it? Always money in cars.”

  “I s’pose so. But he lets his dad think for him—he doesn’t have his own ideas. Whatever we’re talking about, he tells us what his dad says. It’s seriously annoying sometimes.”

  “I’m sure it is. Men are annoying,” she added. “They can’t help it. But Kate, how are you feeling about everything now? About your mother and so on? A bit better?”

  “I don’t know. I mean even after all this, she could still be anyone, she could be Madonna, and she could be the woman who cleans the toilets down at the park. It’s horrible. Really horrible, not knowing, always wondering…” Her voice shook. She picked up Jocasta’s glass and took a large gulp of wine. “Sorry.”

  “Sweetie, don’t be sorry. I’m really sorry. Oh, dear. You’re no nearer, are you?”

  “No nearer,” said Kate. She was obviously extremely upset.

  “Oh, no!” Chad’s voice was quiet, shocked. “God almighty, I don’t believe it. How, in God’s name, did that get out?”

  “What?” Abigail got up, walked round the table, and leant over him, reading over his shoulder. “What is it? Oh, yes. I see. Oh dear…”

  “How the fuck did it happen?” he asked. “I mean, nobody had seen it except just the few of us. Nobody. And the research company, obviously. But they wouldn’t. They just wouldn’t!”

  “Wouldn’t what?”

  “Leak it.”

  “Does it have to be a deliberate leak?” said Abigail.

  “Absolutely deliberate. But who?” The phone rang. “Jesus. Get that, Abi, would you?”

  She picked it up. “Abigail Lawrence—oh. Oh, yes, Jack, he’s here. What? Yes, I’m afraid he has…”

  And against a background of Chad, quietly reasonable at first, then his voice rising in indignation—“No, I did not! Of course I didn’t. Not to anyone. For fuck’s sake, Jack”—she read the story on the front page of the News, by Martin Buckley, the political editor.

  CENTRE FORWARD’S LOSING STREAK CONTINUES

  Left-of-centre breakaway political party Centre Forward, which made its debut only a few months ago, is enduring serious teething troubles. Launched on a platform of sleazeless and crony-free politics, it has been dogged by scandals. A few weeks ago, Chad Lawrence, charismatic MP for Ullswater North (voted the sexiest man in Westminster last year by Cosmopolitan magazine), was discovered to have founded the new party’s think tank with money from a Chinese-owned company, based in Hong Kong.

  Despite its flying start in the polls, the party is beginning to flag, as the scandals bite. A Focus Group Research, commissioned by the putative party leader, Jack Kirkland, showed a ten percent loss of potential followers. Originally Centre Forward captured the public imagination, but it seems now that the electorate’s cynicism with the entire political system in this country is extending to the new party.

  Unless Centre Forward achieve a big breakthrough in the next few weeks, it could be destined to find its place as the shortest-lived political party in history. Which, given the considerable talent within its ranks, would be a tragedy of some magnitude.

  Martha Hartley, reading the report in the News with a sinking heart, could not but reflect that a further—and shocking—scandal within those talented ranks could actually prove fatal.

  Nick was wait
ing in the press dining room at the House of Commons for a rather dreary example of a Blair’s Babe when he saw Martin Buckley leaving alone.

  “Hi, Martin. Nice story today. Intriguing. I’m rather sad about it. I’d have put money on them at least continuing to nip at the others’ heels.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes. A casual observer might imagine someone was out to do them down.”

  “He wouldn’t need to be a genius, your casual observer. The list of suspects would be very long.”

  “I know. Well, here’s my lunch date. See you around.”

  The Babe looked after Buckley. “That was an interesting story about Centre Forward this morning, wasn’t it? Of course I’m not surprised, it was all much too good to be true.”

  “Indeed. I agree,” said Nick.

  “I like Martin. He’s always very fair to both sides.”

  “I think that’s not quite accurate. He’s much more often on your side, if you ask me.”

  “Not necessarily. I saw him on Monday, lunching with Michael Fitzroy.”

  “Oh really?” said Nick. “Well, maybe I’m wrong.”

  Interesting. Fitzroy, having lunch with Buckley.

  Michael Fitzroy having lunch with Janet Frean. Didn’t necessarily mean anything, of course. But—interesting, very interesting. Maybe a little chat with Teddy Buchanan might be even more so…

  “Martha! What do you think?”

  “Oh—I’m sorry, Paul.”

  She met his eyes across the conference table. They were sharp with irritation. This was the second time today she’d lost concentration.

  “Maybe you’d like a bit more time.” Her. Martha Hartley. Needing more time: not delivering absolutely on the minute. This was serious.

  “No, of course not. I’m so sorry. No, I don’t think there’d be a tax advantage in holding back. We need to push things forward, surely. It’s a time-sensitive merger; they need it settled before the Christmas deadline. There’s more money in that, ultimately, than any tax savings.”