Sheer Abandon

by Penny Vincenzi

  The waiter eased a salmon steak onto the plate, poured the juices from the pan over it, all with great care, and then leaning over Nick in order to place the vegetables carefully on the table, said very quietly, “Mr. Marshall, there’s something in your jacket pocket.”

  “Thanks. Thanks very much.”

  Nick was lunching in the press dining room with one of the boys from the Foreign Office; he excused himself as soon as he decently could and walked slowly out of the dining room. His jacket was hanging on a coatrack. He picked it up casually, went into the gents’, and sat down in one of the stalls. This was not the first time this had happened: it was a classic way of imparting information discreetly. But it was always exciting—he felt as if he was in a miniseries or something.

  There was a note folded neatly in the inside pocket of the jacket, marked Confidential.

  “I’d love to have a chat with you sometime,” it said, “about Centre Forward and its future. I’ve got some stuff you’d find really interesting. Maybe you could call me on my mobile.”

  It was signed Janet Frean.

  Clio often thought that if she had been a more truthful person, then the whole of her life might have turned out differently.

  If she had told Mark what she was really doing the day of her interview board, instead of creating an entirely fictional visit to an orthodontist, which necessitated her leaving the practice at lunchtime, then—well, everything really would have been very different. She would have taken the whole day off to prepare for her interview and gone up to London in the morning, so as to be sure to have plenty of time. But she felt it was tempting fate to tell Mark what she was doing; the interview was late enough to enable her to do her morning surgery and still have time to go home, change into her new suit, and catch a train at around two. All she had to get cover for were her home visits; very few at the moment.

  With that in mind, she wore a shirt that was, well, not exactly shabby, but certainly not stylish or even particularly crisp-looking, and a skirt that had also seen better days. And her oldest, most comfortable shoes. Her surgery had overrun, not finished until ten to one, but that was still fine. She could be home by one, and then—

  “Clio? It’s the Laurels.” Margaret sounded diffident. “The matron says it’s important. It’s about the Morrises.”

  “Put her through,” she said.

  Mrs. Morris had died that morning, the matron said. “It was quite peaceful. And Mr. Morris was with her.”

  “Oh, that’s so sad.” Clio’s eyes filled with tears. Dear, sweet Mrs. Morris, with her sparkly, pale blue eyes and her bright brave smile. Mrs. Morris, baking cakes every day for the husband she loved so much—even if she sometimes didn’t put the oven on. Mrs. Morris, so fastidious about her husband’s appearance and her own—occasionally popping an apron or a headscarf on him rather than herself, but everything always immaculately clean and ironed. Dear, sweet Mrs. Morris.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, “so very sorry. How is Mr. Morris?”

  “That’s why I’m phoning,” said the matron. “He’s terribly upset. And asking for you. I wondered if…”

  “I can’t,” said Clio. “I have to go to London and—”

  Ten minutes later she arrived at the Laurels.

  Mr. Morris was sitting with Mrs. Morris, holding her hand. She had been prettily dressed in a clean nightdress and her face wore the neatly peaceful smile of death. Clio pulled up a chair and sat down next to him, took his other hand. He looked at her and said, tears rolling down his face, “She’s gone, Dr. Scott. Gone without me.”

  “I know,” she said gently. “I’m so sorry.”

  “She promised she wouldn’t. She promised she’d wait for me. What am I going to do without her?” he said, and a drop fell off the end of his fine old nose. Clio reached out and wiped it gently with a tissue.

  “We’ve been married sixty-two years—I can’t manage without her, I really can’t. Who’s going to talk to me, who’s going to listen to me now? ‘No one else would listen to you, Trevor,’ she used to say, ‘you talk too much.’”

  “Did she?”

  “She did.” He managed a feeble smile. “But she talked a lot too. We both did, all our lives. No need, really, in the end—we knew what the other was going to say, but we went on just the same. ‘Not that old story again,’ I’d say and she’d say, ‘If it was interesting the first time, it’ll be interesting now.’ What am I going to do without her, what?”

  “Were you with her?” asked Clio, wiping his tears again.

  “Yes. They were very kind; they let me stay all the time. Since six this morning I’ve been here. Except—just after, you know…”

  “I know. Well, I’m glad. That you were together then.”

  “Yes. We were. It was very peaceful. She just drifted away from me. Last thing she said was, ‘Sorry, Trevor.’ That would have been for not waiting for me. And then a little smile and she was gone.” He turned and looked at her. “Do you believe in the next life, Dr. Scott? A lot of people don’t anymore.”

  “I do indeed,” said Clio, and in that moment, she was as convinced as she was of anything that Mrs. Morris was up somewhere in a sweet blue heaven, bright and smiling, waiting for her Trevor, with a nicely ironed shirt and a freshly baked cake.

  “And you think I’ll see her again?”

  “Of course you will. Of course.”

  “I’m so glad you think that.” He turned to look at her, and managed a weak, watery smile. “Sometimes I have wondered. Thank you for coming, Dr. Scott. Thank you so much.”

  It was two o’clock. She screeched down the drive, only just missing the butcher’s van coming up it. She hoped it had been worth it. It had been worth it. She was glad she’d done it. Whatever the cost.

  Now what did she do? If she went straight to the station, she might still catch the two thirty. Which meant she would be able to get there, compose herself and her thoughts, and present herself just about in time, while wearing her oldest shirt and skirt, and her kicked-out driving shoes. On the other hand, she could appear neat, smart—and late.

  Clio thought about the people who would probably be sitting on the board and their concerns and decided they would not be focused on her Paul Costelloe jacket and her Jigsaw trousers. She headed for the station.

  Clio caught the two thirty—just. She sank into the corner of the compartment, trying to get her breath back, rummaged in her bag for a comb. No comb. Lucky she had a small one in her makeup bag, she could—“Shit,” she said aloud. No makeup bag either.

  This was grim. Sat-out skirts were one thing; smudged mascara from crying and a seriously shiny nose were another. Well, maybe she could get something from Boots on Waterloo Station. No, she wouldn’t have time. Oh God…

  Now then. The journey from Waterloo to Bayswater was not easy. Cab? Dodgy, and she didn’t have that much cash on her. She could go to the cash machine, but there was always a long queue at Waterloo. The tube then: Lancaster Gate was the nearest and only involved one change—one change, yes, and a lot of underground corridors—but then she could get a cab from there. If there was one. The Royal Bayswater was tucked into a difficult little triangle, bordered by Sussex Gardens and the Edgware Road, a truly hideous place to get to. Oh, God. Would it be worth phoning? Saying she might be a few minutes late? Not yet. No point giving herself a black mark before she had to.

  She switched on her phone, carefully silenced for poor Mr. Morris; it bleeped. A text message from Fergus, saying, “Good luck with the interview. Hope you’re wearing the wedding party dress.” What a treasure he was. Maybe he hadn’t found her so dull, maybe…She texted back.

  “Thanks vv much. I wish. Wearing oldest clothes. Look terrible. Clio.”

  He texted back at once. “Why?”

  “V long story. Might not make it.”

  It was passing the time at least. Was this train going slowly? No, it must be her imagination. It was a fast train. A fast train going slowly. Shit!

&n
bsp; “We apologise to customers for any delay. Due to a signal failure at Waterloo, this train will terminate at Vauxhall. Customers are advised…”

  Customers!

  “We are not bloody customers!” she shouted at a hapless ticket inspector who was working through the carriage. “We’re passengers. People who want to get somewhere. On your trains. You know?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t blame me, love,” he said and walked on.

  Shit shit shit! She just wasn’t meant to get this job. She wasn’t. She might as well—

  Her mobile rang.

  “Clio? It’s Fergus. Is anything wrong?”

  Jocasta was rather earnestly preparing for Gideon’s return that weekend; she felt like a Stepford wife. She had filled the house with flowers, arranged them herself—and then felt a mixture of foolishness and rage when Mrs. Hutching, the housekeeper, politely said, “I always do the flowers on Fridays, Mrs. Keeble. If you’d rather I didn’t—”

  “I would rather you didn’t, yes,” said Jocasta briskly. “I love doing flowers.”

  She had arranged to have her hair trimmed and the highlights done and she had bought herself a new nightie from Agent Provocateur. She’d probably only have it on for a few minutes, but it was still very pretty. Well, pretty wasn’t quite the word. Sexy. All black satin and cream lace, and not much of either. Gideon would like it. He was a bit old-fashioned when it came to underwear. He was a bit old-fashioned altogether.

  She had also booked some tickets for a Mozart concert at the Wig-more Hall, which she knew he would enjoy much more than she would, and then a table at Le Caprice for dinner.

  She felt delighted with herself. This would please him, would show him she was a mature woman, a suitable wife for him, not an immature selfish brat. Like that bloody daughter of his.

  She looked at her watch and sighed: only halfway through Wednesday afternoon. What should she do now? A bit more shopping, perhaps? No, she’d go for a run in the park. It was wonderful to be so near to the park, just be able to walk across the road and into the green of Kensington Gardens, not the scratchy, cigarette-scarred grass of Clapham Common. Nick hated running on Clapham Common.

  She suddenly had a vision of Nick taking off on a run from her house on a Sunday morning, his long lean body moving smoothly and steadily down the street, his brown hair flopping, waving to her without turning round. And then her going back into the house and making some coffee, frantically trying to defrost the orange juice she had left too long in the freezer and tidying up the piles of newspapers that covered the bed. They very often had sex on Sunday mornings, lovely slow, lazy sex; how he could run after it she could never understand.

  Stop it, Jocasta! That was all very well, and it was terrific fun and the sex was fantastic, but he didn’t love you. Well, not enough. Gideon does. Which is wonderful.

  She wondered how Clio was getting on; it was her interview today. She was sure she’d get her job. She had been very disappointed in Clio’s relationship with Fergus; it seemed to be fizzling out. Their careers were such worlds apart, but there was something about them that was exactly right; they were like two wiggly pieces of jigsaw that suddenly fitted together. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe she could organise a dinner party or something, make sure they kept in touch.

  Fergus had said he would meet Clio at Vauxhall. “I can cut across London, easily. Across Vauxhall Bridge, up Park Lane, you’ll be there in a trice. Don’t worry.”

  She had protested, said he must have other things to do, like work, but, “Nonsense,” he said. “I’m as free as air this afternoon. Had a hot date with the VAT inspector, but she came this morning instead. Anything else I can do for you?”

  “Well…” She hesitated; it seemed an awful lot to ask. “Actually, Fergus, if you could just—”

  He must like her; he must.

  They pulled in to Vauxhall Station at 3:35 and he was waiting for her outside, grinning, holding a Boots bag. “And in the back there is a jacket. I think it should fit you. It’s not bad, quite nice in fact. A girl I fell out with left it behind, it’s Jigsaw, size twelve.”

  “Oh, Fergus!” said Clio, and careless of whether she might be embarrassing him or not, she gave him a kiss. “You are an angel.”

  “Not quite, and that certainly wasn’t her view, but—come along now, into the car, you can do your face as we go.”

  He had even brought some tissues.

  At five to four they were at the bottom of the car park that was called Park Lane.

  “Clio, hello!” It was Beaky’s secretary. “Are you in the building?”

  “No,” wailed Clio, “I’m at the bottom of Park Lane. Stuck! They’re not running late or anything, are they?”

  “’Fraid not. Dr. Smartarse—I didn’t say that—your only real rival is in there now. Due to come out any minute. God, Clio, shall I warn them?”

  “I think you’d better,” said Clio.

  At quarter past four they were approaching Sussex Gardens; the traffic was still crawling.

  “I think you’d be quicker legging it from here,” said Fergus. “I’ll park and come and find you. Good luck. I’ll be waiting.”

  She wrenched the door open and started running. At least there was one benefit in her old shoes. As she reached the doors of the Royal Bayswater, she realised she had left her notes in the car.

  Fergus was trying to reverse his car into a space too small for it, and on double yellow lines, when he caught sight of the notes for the presentation part of her interview on the backseat; the hard stuff about why she wanted the job, about funding, how she saw the geriatrics department fitting in with the rest of the hospital administration and the internal politics. She had been studying them, trying to keep calm as they drove. They obviously mattered. But she was five minutes ahead of him now. At least. And the hospital was still a ways away.

  Clio stood in reception, trying to impress upon the woman, who had no knowledge of any interview board, the urgency of her case. “Just call Professor Bryan’s secretary,” she said. “She’ll know where I should be.”

  God. If only she had her notes. If only. She felt so confused, so brain-dead.

  “Clio! Come along. They’re giving you till half past, I made them some more tea.”

  It was Beaky’s secretary; she must send her some flowers.

  “Clio!”

  It was Fergus, waving something at her. Her notes.

  “Oh my God,” she said, “how did you manage that?”

  “I once got a medal for running, the only prize I ever won at school,” he said. “I’ll wait here. Good luck. That jacket suits you,” he added. “Looks much nicer on you than on her.”

  “Your boyfriend?” asked Beaky’s secretary. “What a sweetie.”

  They all looked at her very coldly when she went into the room. Even Beaky. There were five of them: some familiar, some not. The chief executive of the hospital, an outside assessor, the clinical director, one of the other consultants—and Beaky.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, sinking onto the chair they indicated. “I can explain if you like—”

  “Not now,” said the administrator. “I think we have been delayed enough. If we could just begin…”

  Astonishingly, once she started, she felt coolly together, all her facts and theories marshalled, her experience summoned, made to seem clearly relevant. She answered all their questions smoothly and easily, expressed her view that as much a part of geriatrics as medicine was the social side, the importance of enabling elderly people to continue in the community by way of careful monitoring, drug therapy, and support from the social services. She had done some research of her own on late-onset diabetes and on stroke management, was absolutely up-to-date on treatment, both in the UK and the States; she could see that impressed them. She discussed her days in the outlying hospitals, said how impressed she had been with the care home in Highbury and its policy of patient independence. And finally, expressed her personal view of the frustration of the c
arers, prevented from giving out drugs by red tape and meaningless regulations.

  “I know this is more politics than medicine,” she said, “but it is so important. I firmly believe we would see smaller clinics here, fewer beds needed, less pressure on the homes if we could only overcome it.”

  And then heard, to her horror, her own voice shake as she said it, felt her eyes stab with tears, thinking with fierce regret that the Morrises might still be safely at home together, had she only been able to ensure that they had got their medication at the right time and in the right doses every day.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, seeing them look at her oddly, “I’ve had a bit of an upsetting day with a patient. It’s why I was late.”

  “Perhaps, Dr. Scott,” said Beaky gently, clearly seeing his opportunity to push her forward, “you would now like to tell us about it.”

  She waited outside with the three other candidates. The one who was clearly Dr. Smartarse sat drumming his fingers on his leg, looking at his watch. The other two read their newspapers and weren’t very friendly either. She supposed she had held them all up.

  Finally she spoke into the tension.

  “I’m so sorry I was late,” she said, “but you see—”

  The door opened; there was an interminable silence; then: “Dr. Scott, could you come back in, please.”

  She was never sure afterwards when it had gone wrong: when the hugs and kisses outside the hospital, the sense of warm euphoria and sweetly shared triumph ended, and the chill began. He had even bought her some flowers. “I knew you’d earn them,” and insisted on driving into Covent Garden—“perfect place to celebrate.”

  She thought of Saturday’s dinner there and hoped he was right.

  “Here’s to you, Consultant Scott.” Fergus raised a glass of champagne to her. “I’m very proud indeed to know you.”

  “Thank you. A whole bottle! Fergus! Your eyes are bigger than your stomach, as my nanny used to say.”