On the way up, she read the papers again. All of them. She also yet again read the stuff from Centre Forward House. And looked increasingly anxiously at her two suits and wished she’d brought a third.
“Goodness,” said Clio, “Martha’s on Question Time tonight. You remember Martha, don’t you, Fergus?”
“Could I ever forget her? I bore her in my arms up to her bedroom, and laid her on the bed, lucky man that I am. She’s very pretty.”
“Mmm…” said Clio.
“Not as pretty as you, though, I don’t want any neuroses starting up. And I’m sure her breasts aren’t nearly as nice.”
He had a bit of a thing about her breasts; he said they were the prettiest he had ever seen.
“They’re like you,” he said, gazing at them tenderly, as she sat bolt upright in his bed the night before, still slightly shocked by the turn of events. “Sweet and charming.”
“Fergus, how can breasts be charming?” she asked, laughing, suddenly relaxed.
“Yours demonstrate it beautifully. Can I kiss them?”
“Of course.”
He bent his head and kissed them, slowly and contemplatively, one at a time; her last distinct memory was of his tongue circling her nipples, teasing, caressing, infinitely gentle. And after that it became a blur, a joyful, greedy, melting, astonishing blur. And after that, peace, silence, stillness. And then: “You silly bitch,” he said. “You gorgeous, lovely, silly bitch. Think of all the time we’ve wasted.”
“Well, we can make up for it now,” said Clio.
“I think the red…” The floor manager considered Martha’s suits. “It suits you and it looks very zingy. Good. Now if you’d like to get changed, dinner will start in about half an hour. There are some really nice people coming, local dignitaries as well as your fellow panellists, and you can chat away and keep up-to-date with the news at the same time.”
“Oh—great,” said Martha.
She went into the dining room at about seven; it appeared full. A large table, laid as if for a formal dinner party, was in the centre of the room, with a group of people at one end, at least three with faces she found terrifyingly recognisable. She was introduced to them, given the glass of water she had requested, and left to sink or swim. Two of the faces smiled at her kindly, asked her how she felt, assured her it would all be fine, and then returned to their previous conversations. She longed to run away. She went to the lavatory and guiltily switched on her mobile. There was nothing from Ed. It was almost seven o’clock.
Ed was sitting in one of the biggest traffic jams he had ever seen. His mobile had inexplicably run out of juice, and he was desperate for a pee. Otherwise everything was fine.
Nick smiled encouragingly at Janet. “It’s nice up here, I’ve often wondered about it, but never actually got any further.”
“Few people have,” said Janet. “It’s good for a discreet rendezvous, for that very reason.”
“Indeed. Well, Janet, how are things at Centre Forward House? You’ve had a bit of bad luck lately.”
“I know. It’s been unfortunate. After all our hard work, people being so courageous and backing us, people in the field that is. Very dispiriting. It does make you wonder, just sometimes, if the game’s worth the candle.”
Nick often found himself on the receiving end of such reflections—politicians tended to use journalists not just to disperse information stories, or berate them when they didn’t write exactly what they were told, but rather surprisingly to share their self-doubt with them, use them as a sort of personal confessional.
“Well I hope you’re not giving up,” he said.
“Heavens, no!” She suddenly became herself again, brisk, incisive. “Not after all this. I’d be pretty annoyed with whoever spilt the beans over the poll figures if I came across him—or her—but the others were just plain bad luck, stories waiting to be stumbled over.”
“Well…yes,” said Nick carefully. He wondered what she’d say if he told her he’d seen her with Michael Fitzroy that lunchtime.
“Martha, can you come to makeup now, please?”
She followed the makeup girl meekly; this had to be better than discussing the progress of the various planning committees in Birmingham while trying (mindful of Janet’s dictum) to swallow some rather tough chicken—where would politics be without chicken, she wondered wildly—and follow Sky News on the television in the corner nearest to her.
She wondered what on earth the point of this dinner was: all any of them wanted was to watch the news and see what topics were developing. She felt terribly sick; her stomach was churning, and her mouth was increasingly dry. How on earth was she going to talk coherently for the cameras?
“Lovely colour, your suit,” said the girl chattily. “I always think red’s so cheerful. Your skin’s lovely,” she added, “really young-looking.”
“Well,” said Martha, “it is quite. Young I mean. But thank you anyway.”
Maybe the town planners were better than this, after all.
She checked her mobile: there was still nothing from Ed.
“Oh wow!” said Jocasta. “Gideon, guess what—”
“What, darling? You couldn’t tie this for me, could you?”
“Course. I always had to do it for Nick.”
He was off to a dinner: an all-male dinner, he told her, regretfully; there was no way she could come.
“That’s all right. The little woman will be waiting for you when you get home.”
She was working very hard on being a good wife.
“In bed, I hope, wearing nothing but your perfume, Marilyn-style?”
“Not that nightie?”
“I prefer nothing.”
“Well—depends how late you are…There.” She considered him, his large powerful body in the perfectly tailored dinner jacket, his tanned face, his brilliant blue eyes, and smiled. “I could really fancy you in that getup, you know. I mean really fancy you. Come here…”
She reached up to him, kissed him very hard on the mouth. “Why don’t you take it all off again, and come to bed with me instead?”
“Darling, I can’t. I’m so sorry.”
“Oh well. Actually, I just discovered Martha’s on Question Time tonight. Martha Hartley, you know—I want to watch her.”
“Oh, really? I would think she’d be good; she’s very articulate and composed…Darling, I must go. Sorry. Enjoy your programme.”
“Yes, I will, thanks. Love you.”
“I love you, too.” He disappeared; then she heard his footsteps coming back. He opened the door and looked at her. “Never leave me, will you?” His expression was very serious, very intense. “Never.”
“I never will,” she said. “I promise.”
Nick was beginning to feel frustrated. So far he’d been listening to Janet for an hour and a half and he’d got nothing from her but a lot of rather dull policy statements and a bit of banging on about her personal hobby horses, like NHS reforms.
“We have to get rid of the managers,” she was saying now, slightly pink-faced—she had begun to drink during the main course and had actually had rather a lot. Nick was surprised. Usually, in his experience, she was virtually teetotal.
“I tell you, Nick, those managers are a far bigger obstacle to NHS efficiency than lack of funds. And Centre Forward’s policy of less interference would extend above all to that sort of thing.”
“Yes,” said Nick. “Absolutely.”
“Bob trained as a paediatrician,” she said after a pause, “as you probably know.”
“I do. Why did he leave it, go into industry?”
“Because of the system,” said Janet, “and there must be hundreds, probably thousands, like him who couldn’t stand it any longer. Of course it’s not quite industry, Nick, it’s pharmaceutical research.” She paused for just a beat, not allowing Nick to respond. “Could you excuse me for a moment? I just need to find the loo.”
Nick was looking out of the window when she got back.
Her demeanour appeared to have totally changed, she looked purposeful, brisk, almost excited.
“Anyway,” she said, sitting down again, picking up her glass, “that’s enough of the politics. How would you like a bit of gossip?”
“I’d love it. Political gossip?”
“Well you could say that. It concerns a politician. An up-and-coming one. It’s quite a story…”
“Kate, you up there?” It was Juliet’s voice.
“Yeah, in my room.”
Juliet came in; she was carrying her violin case. “You ought to watch Question Time tonight. That woman’s on, Martha Hartley, the one who was in the paper the week before you, in the fashion feature. It’d be interesting, wouldn’t it, watching someone you knew?”
“Well, I don’t exactly know her.”
“I thought you said she was at the party.”
“She was, but I never spoke to her. She was in the disco and then Gran looked after her when she fainted. I really didn’t like her; she was well up herself. But yeah, let’s watch it.”
“I will if I can. But I’ve got a lot of practice to do first.”
“Juliet,” said Kate, “you are just so much too good to be true.”
“Oh, come on,” said Ed to the girl in reception. “I only want to say good luck.”
“I’m sorry, it’s more than my job’s worth. No one’s allowed in without a pass.”
“Well, you could give me a pass.”
“No, I couldn’t. I really can’t do that,” she said, “but I will get a message to her. If you write her a note, I’ll take it to her. OK?”
“It’d be better than nothing,” said Ed, and then, seeing her face, “I mean, it’d be great. Really cool. Thank you.” He had just started to write when he heard his name.
“Ed! What are you doing here?”
It was someone he’d been at uni with. Judging from his uniform—T-shirt, jeans, clipboard, and headset—he was clearly some kind of technician.
Ed explained his problem and the guy grinned.
“Tell you what I can do,” he said. “I’ll get a bigger sheet of paper.”
They were in position now, sitting at the table. Martha was at the end, two away from David Dimbleby, next to a rotund Tory. He was being very nice to her; so was Dimbleby, they were all trying to put her at her ease, but she felt dreadfully sick. But there was no escape and there was still nothing from Ed. What had happened to him, for God’s sake? Probably decided not to come after all: well, she deserved it.
“Right, we’re going to put a dummy question to each of you, to get the sound levels,” said the floor manager. “Martha, you first. How do you rate your chances tonight?”
“On a scale of one to ten, zero,” she said, and everyone laughed; she felt briefly better. And then much worse again.
What happened if she couldn’t think of anything to say at all? Some completely wild card might come up. The researchers were moving about amongst the audience now, getting questions, deciding which ones to take; these were written down, but that was only for Dimbleby’s benefit—and he kept the paper covered, so that the people on either side of him couldn’t get a preview. The first the panel knew was literally when the questions were put, and it was, she had been warned (again by Janet), often hard to hear.
She took deep breaths, trying to calm her heaving stomach.
And then she heard one of the cameramen calling her name, very quietly.
“Martha. Over here.”
She looked at him, at camera two or whatever it was: he was grinning at her, and gesturing just below the camera. There was a large hand-lettered sign there.
“Hi, Martha. Go for it! Ed xxx.”
She laughed aloud—and suddenly everything seemed much better.
“Nick! Why on earth are you ringing me at this time of night? I’m in bed. What? No, alone. He’s out. No, of course you can’t, I’d be in the divorce courts—What? WHAT? My God, Nick. Yes, of course. Come at once. I’ll let you in. Sure, bye.”
Clio was in the kitchen when her mobile rang; Fergus had demanded a cup of cocoa before they went to bed. Who on earth would ring at this time of night?
“Hello? Jocasta! No, I’m making cocoa. Oh, shut up. We don’t all live on champagne and—No, I’m listening. What? WHAT? My God, Jocasta. My God!”
An hour later, she and Fergus had arrived at Kensington Palace Gardens; Gideon was still out.
“I’m glad you’re here, actually,” Jocasta said, hugging them both. “Me being alone in the house with Nick is just a tad compromising. Cocoa? Or something even more exciting? Just look at the two of you, I think it’s so wonderful!”
“Cocoa will do fine,” said Fergus, smiling at her, “and we think it’s wonderful too. And it’s all because of you.”
“Aw, shucks,” said Jocasta. “Now come on, Nick’s in the drawing room. I’ll go and get the cocoa.”
She came in with a tray; she looked absurdly out of place in the vast room, Clio thought, with its heavy brocade curtains, its embossed wallpaper, its chandeliers, its Antique (with a capital A) furniture, dressed in nothing but an oversize T-shirt, padding across the (no doubt priceless) Indian carpet in her bare feet. It somehow seemed to sum up the whole marriage; she didn’t belong here, it didn’t suit her. But then—Gideon did, she told herself firmly. He suited her perfectly. And she suited him. That was what mattered…
“Well, all I can say, Nick,” said Jocasta, putting the tray down, “is that Martha was very lucky Janet chose to tell you. Not someone from the Sun. Or the Mirror. It’d be in tomorrow’s paper, no messing. I s’pose it’s because we—I mean the Sketch had the exclusive on the Baby Bianca story. What did you say to her, anyway? I suppose you’ve got it on tape?”
“Yes. In my pocket, right here.” He patted it. “I must make a duplicate before something happens. I just thanked her for giving me the story, said I wasn’t sure what would happen next, and legged it as fast as I could. I was terrified she’d change her mind, ask for the tape back. Not that it would have made any difference, but she’s obviously a bit deranged.”
“Is she?” asked Clio. “Why do you say that?”
“It’s a very odd thing to do. If she wanted to discredit that party of hers, she’s going the right way about it—it would just about finish it off, all the scandals it’s had lately. Incidentally, I’m pretty bloody sure she was behind the leak about the polls. I saw her in what you might call a compromising situation. Yet she talks about the party as if it was another child she adores. I don’t understand it. Anyway, what do we do next? What do I, in particular, do next? Chris would have my balls if he knew I was sitting on this. And she could be talking to the Sun right now. I could have just been a rehearsal. God, what a mess.”
“We have to tell Martha,” said Jocasta, “absolutely have to.”
“So what do we do?” asked Nick. “Ring her, say oh hi, Martha, nice performance, and we know you’re Baby Bianca’s mother.”
“And there’s another thing,” said Jocasta. “Who’s going to tell Kate?”
“Well, Martha must,” said Clio, “of course. My God. No wonder the poor girl fainted.”
“What poor girl?” said Jocasta. “Martha? You’re not saying you’re sorry for her, I hope?”
“Of course I’m sorry for her. Just think what she’s been going through for the last sixteen years. It’s one of the saddest stories I ever heard.”
“Me too,” said Fergus. Jocasta looked at him thoughtfully.
“This relationship with Clio is turning you soft, Fergus Trehearn. Now come on, who’s going to make this call?”
Martha was half asleep in the car, her head on Ed’s shoulder, when her mobile rang.
“Oh, let’s just ignore it,” she said sleepily. “It won’t be anyone I want to speak to. Probably Jack, having yet another orgasm.”
Kirkland had already rung twice, the first time to congratulate her in general terms, the second to say how brilliantly he felt she had put the party
philosophy over. Chad, Eliot, and her parents had also called.
“Yeah, OK. Speaking of orgasms, I hope you’re going to be a bit more alert than this when we get home.” Martha turned to him, pulled his face down to hers, and kissed him with great thoroughness.
“That’s on account. A sort of down payment. I feel very alert in the relevant department.”
They had discussed staying in Birmingham, but Ed said he had to be in London first thing. “So what do you think I’m doing?” Martha had said indignantly. “Sleeping in?”
“Only thing is—my car overheated all the way up. Hate to drive it down now.”
“We can both go in the Beeb car. We can drive up and get yours on Saturday. Oh, no, I’ll be in Binsmow. Well, Sunday, then. No, I’ve got a garden party. Sunday night, maybe? No—”
“How about dawn on Wednesday week?”
“You’re on.”
“You were fantastic, you know,” Ed said now. “Really, really good.”
“I wouldn’t have been,” she said, “without your lovely message. Oh, Ed, what on earth was I thinking of, keeping you away from me all this time?”
“If you can’t answer that,” said Ed, “there’s no hope for any of us. When are you going to tell me the reason?”
“I’m not.” They reached Canary Wharf just before two. “I’m sorry,” she said, as they walked in the door, “I just absolutely have to have a shower. I was sweating like a pig under those lights.”
“The cool Ms. Hartley sweating? I don’t believe it. All right. Tell you what, I’ll join you. How would that be?”
“Heavenly,” said Martha. They stood together in the thudding water; Ed began to kiss her, slowly, almost lazily. Martha began to soar; soar into a sweet dark place, pierced with brilliance and promise. Why had she denied herself this for so long, how could she have borne it? Ed’s hands were on her buttocks, holding her against him; she could feel him hard and very strong, and her own response to him, liquid and longing. He lifted her slightly, so that she was on him. “I love you,” he was saying through the kissing, through the water, and almost before she was ready, it came; she felt herself suddenly, swiftly, gather and tauten and then release in an explosion she could almost see, it was so bright and strong.
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