Sheer Abandon

by Penny Vincenzi

  She longed to tell him about Josh; somehow she couldn’t. Maybe, in a day or two. There really was no hurry. And there were enough dramas to be going on with.

  Jocasta was trying very hard now to be a good wife. She was too frightened not to be. She had to make this work, she just had to. It had been a moment of terrible truth, her lunch with Nick. She had seen with horrible clarity how he saw her: spoilt, self-centred, and totally immature. Yes, he had asked her to lunch, but he had been worried about her, thought she was properly unhappy. All she had done was bemoan her fate—her rather luxurious fate.

  And so she had planned the dinner parties, twenty people at each, twenty people she didn’t know, and as well as arranging the menus, had discussed flowers with Mrs. Hutching, and even the music with Gideon. He was rather charmed by that idea; he said he didn’t usually like background music but that it could be the emblem of the new era—the Jocasta era.

  She had also made tentative suggestions about the decor of the house, starting in the kitchen. “It’s so old-fashioned, Gideon, and over the top. Doesn’t do for a kitchen these days, I thought something totally minimal—”

  “Any other room my darling, but not the kitchen. That’s Mrs. Hutching’s, she hates change.”

  She opened her mouth to argue, and then shut it again. “OK. What about the garden room? I’d love to tack on a conservatory, and have a lovely tiled floor—”

  “Sounds wonderful. Just go ahead and do it.” She was a bit disappointed by his lack of interest and indeed in the fact that she was doing it at all, but she was determined to be mature and spent the next three days poring over Interiors and Elle Decoration. After that she rather lost interest.

  She had also broached with him the subject of a house. “Ours, not just yours. It would be lovely. I wondered about France, sort of Biarritz way. Or maybe America, the East Coast, Maine, somewhere like that.”

  “Darling, I rather think we’ve got enough houses. But yes, if you think it’ll make you happy, see what you can find.”

  She called all the estate agents and began to put together a portfolio to show Gideon. It felt a bit of a solitary task, but some of the houses were lovely, and it would be fun going to see them. The only problem was finding a space in his diary to do it. “How about a year next January?” she said, exasperated, and he smiled at her.

  “Sorry, darling. I did warn you, you’ve married a workaholic.”

  She thought that he hadn’t actually, but she didn’t say so. She was learning to hold her tongue; it was against her nature and lowered her spirits.

  She sat through a couple of dinner parties, too, trying to make conversation with people with whom she had nothing in common; the men had been all right, although clearly regarded her as a complete airhead, a bit of arm candy Gideon had been clever enough to acquire, but the women were horrendous, bored and boring, obsessed with their looks, their houses, their children, their sports coaches and personal trainers, and treated her as if she was some interesting but distinctly inferior species. They had even all gone upstairs without the men for an hour, “To discuss detox and Botox,” Jocasta said to Clio next day. She thought of the old dinner parties she and Nick had given, easy sprawling affairs, the atmosphere funny and flirty, with everyone getting steadily and happily drunk and sometimes stoned as well. But she managed to tell Gideon that she had enjoyed it; she was amazed when he seemed to believe her.

  She had rung Nick to apologise for whining at him over lunch that day; he was friendly but brisk with her, said it was fine, and had all her things sent back to her with a perfectly nice but cool note. She felt rejected and miserable for days.

  Anyway, she felt she was getting somewhere with learning to be Mrs. Keeble. It was bound to take time, to settle into all this. She’d get used to it. Of course she would.

  And then it happened.

  It had started quite gently: he asked her to go on a business trip with him in a few weeks’ time. It wouldn’t be the most exciting event in the world, he said, it was a three-day weekend for captains of industry in Munich, but he thought she would manage to enjoy it and he would really benefit from her being there.

  Jocasta tried to feel enthusiastic; she smiled and said it sounded nice and she had never been to Munich and she was sure it would be fun, but she could hear her own voice being rather sure it wouldn’t be fun, or even nice. She wasn’t feeling very well, nauseous and headachy, she said to Gideon, anxious he might think she simply didn’t want to go on the trip.

  “Darling, I’m sorry. I hope you’re not pregnant.”

  “Of course I’m not pregnant, Gideon,” she said.

  “You sure?”

  “I’m absolutely sure. I couldn’t be surer actually, as of about six hours ago. All right?”

  “All right. Sorry, darling, I didn’t mean to annoy you. But anyway, I think you’ll enjoy this trip, there’s quite a nice spousal programme, lots of shopping and sightseeing—”

  “A what?”

  “A spousal programme. Surely you know what that is.”

  “Actually, Gideon, I don’t. Sorry to appear so simple.”

  “What a very sheltered life you’ve led. It’s what wives do while the husbands do business.”

  “What, all together? Me and the other wives? A load of old trouts?” Gideon said they wouldn’t all be old trouts, there were bound to be some younger wives for her to make friends with and—

  “For young read forty-five,” said Jocasta, “like at that dinner the other night, with perma tans and discussing their face-lifts. Oh, Gideon, don’t make me, please!”

  “I’m not making you,” he said, his face developing the rigid look that she knew prefaced a loss of temper. “I’m saying it would be very nice for me, and helpful too.”

  She was silent. He sighed, then said, “This marriage seems to be turning into a bit of a one-way street, Jocasta.”

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I mean, it only goes the way you want. For God’s sake, you don’t have to do much—”

  “Oh really? Not sort out your meals and your housekeepers and wait quietly until you deign to come home, and—”

  “I don’t consider that very onerous. Actually. In return for—”

  “In return for what, Gideon? Do tell me.” Her stomach hurt and she was tired; his words touched a raw nerve.

  “In return for quite a lot. Like that.” He indicated a pile of unopened bags in the corner, from Harvey Nichols, Chanel, Gucci—she was getting into her stride now, with the shopping. “And flying lessons and cars—”

  “Oh, so it’s a credit-and-debit arrangement is it, our marriage? I hadn’t realised that. Well, let me see, perhaps we should set a price on a few things. How much for two hours, just waiting for you to come home for dinner, a whole morning sorting out your wardrobe—”

  “Jocasta, don’t be childish!”

  “Don’t say that to me! It’s a disgusting thing to say. Insulting, horrible.”

  “This is a disgusting argument.”

  “I’m sorry, but you started it. Talking about what I did in return for your fucking money. And talking about fucking, what about sex, Gideon, is there a price on that? How should we set that, how much does a high-class tart earn these days? I’m sure you know.”

  “Can we just stop this horrible conversation?” he said, the white line appearing now round his mouth.

  “No, I don’t think we can. I want to get it sorted out. And little things like trips to Paris for lunch, is that set against my account as well?”

  He came over to her, his face heavy with rage; she really thought he was going to hit her. She stood up quickly and knocked over her bag; a bundle of credit card slips fell out. He picked them up, started going through them.

  “Don’t do that, Gideon, please. They’re mine, nothing to do with you.”

  “Unfortunately, they almost certainly are. Look at this, thousands of pounds all on a lot of rubbish.”

  “Well, I’m s
o sorry. I’ll take it all back tomorrow.”

  “And lunch for two at Le Caprice. Pretty pricey, even by their standards. Champagne, eighty pounds. Who did you share that with, Jocasta? Nicholas Marshall?”

  “No,” she shouted, “no, no, no. It was my mother, actually.”

  “You took your mother to Le Caprice and bought her vintage champagne? I find that very hard to believe.”

  “Ask them,” she said, handing him her mobile. “Go on, check up on me. Do you really think I’d take Nick to Le Caprice if I were having an affair with him? What is this, Gideon? You’re getting obsessed with this idea, why on earth should I be having an affair with anybody?”

  “Let’s just say your behaviour doesn’t inspire confidence,” he said.

  Jocasta went upstairs and packed a rather minimal bag, containing none of the new clothes she had bought, and then went down again, and into his study.

  “I’m leaving,” she said, “and I’m not coming back. I can’t. Not until you apologise.”

  Gideon said that as far as he could see, he had absolutely nothing to apologise for, and told her to pull herself together and grow up. For the very first time, Jocasta felt a pang of sympathy for Aisling Carlingford. She went out and called a cab—for how could she take her new car?—and directed it to Clapham.

  Chapter 41

  She sat in her house for three days, waiting for him to call. He didn’t. She couldn’t ever remember feeling so lonely. Normally she would have rung friends, but she felt she couldn’t face them. She kept thinking of the party, only a few weeks ago, of that excessively lavish display of the new Jocasta and her new life and how everyone would laugh at her, or at best feel sorry for her, and say how stupid and immature she had been, how anyone could see it wouldn’t work, and how she had only left Nick in some fit of pique. She simply couldn’t bear it.

  More than anything, she dreaded Nick hearing about it, Nick who had berated her, told her to grow up, Nick who clearly despised her now. Whatever would he think of this latest demonstration of her childishness, as he would see it, walking out on a three-month-old marriage with cries of how horrid Gideon was to her and how it wasn’t fair? For some reason, she minded the thought of that more than anything.

  Finally she called Gideon and said she was sorry for her part in their quarrel and asked if they could meet and discuss things. It was agony; she had to have several drinks before she could get up the courage, but she did it. If anything meant she had grown up, she thought, that did.

  He was in a meeting, said he’d call her back.

  “A meeting? Gideon, it’s eight o’clock in the evening.”

  “I do know that. I said I’ll call you back.”

  That was all; not the slightest gesture in her direction, not even thank you. She had another two glasses of wine, telling herself his pride was hurt, she must make allowances; it was another hour before he rang her back.

  He was going to be very late; he’d like to talk tomorrow. Would the evening be all right? He hoped she was all right.

  Jocasta took a hugely deep breath and said yes, it would.

  “Fine,” he said, “let’s have dinner. I’ll call you.” And then added, “Thank you for phoning.”

  He rang off, and Jocasta, not sure whether to laugh or cry, had her revelation. Seeing things very clearly, as she always did when she was drunk, she suddenly knew what had happened to their marriage. She’d got it wrong. She was trying too hard. She was becoming someone different, not the person Gideon had fallen in love with. It was so obvious she laughed aloud.

  The person she was turning into wouldn’t have scaled the wall of Dungarven House in order to get into his sanctuary; nor would she have fallen over her own feet dancing at the conference, nor told him how to treat his own daughter. All she had to do was become that Jocasta again and all would be well. Gideon would fall in love with her again. It was easy. And life would be fun again. She would fill the house with her friends, who Gideon did adore, he had told her so, and infiltrate them into his boring dinner parties, where everyone would laugh a lot, and get drunk; she might even tell him she wanted to go back to work.

  She had a shower, pulled on her skimpiest top, some jeans, and her highest heels, and called a taxi to take her to Kensington Palace Gardens.

  “It was horrible,” she said to Clio, her voice broken with tears next morning on the phone. “He was so cold and distant and he wouldn’t talk to me, told me I was drunk, and he wouldn’t even have sex with me. And I’d gone there, ready to try so hard, meet him three-quarters of the way, and I’ve been so good, Clio, you’ve no idea, organising his horrible dinner parties, even agreeing to be part of a spousal programme—did you ever hear of anything so absurd in this day and age? I can’t believe that lovely, gentle, kind person was actually such a monster. He’s a time warp, Clio, he wants a Stepford wife.”

  Clio didn’t say that she had been part of several spousal programmes on Jeremy’s behalf, nor did she say that if you married someone nearly twenty years older than you were, he was almost certainly in a time warp anyway. She knew it was completely fruitless.

  She tried to soothe and comfort Jocasta, told her she’d come and see her if she liked; Jocasta leapt on this and begged her to come to stay the night.

  “I will come,” said Clio, “but only if you promise to discuss it all sensibly.”

  Clio spent the evening struggling to appear nonpartisan, agreeing that yes, Gideon was very unreasonable, but that surely Jocasta could see he was having to make huge adjustments too.

  “He isn’t, Clio, that’s the whole point. He isn’t making any adjustments at all.”

  “I think he probably is,” said Clio, “but maybe you can’t see them. Any more than he can see yours. You were so in love with him, Jocasta, it can’t have all just…gone.”

  “Of course it hasn’t! I still adore him, really. That’s why I went round there last night, and he was just so—horrible.”

  Clio could imagine the scene rather clearly: a tired and exasperated Gideon, confronted by an overexcited and emotional Jocasta, slightly the worse for drink, expecting him to be deeply touched and grateful for her visit. It wouldn’t have been an ideal marriage-mending scenario.

  “Well, look. I’ll call again in the morning. No, I’ll call now—it’s only ten o’clock—and see what happens. Then you’ll at least know I’ve tried. And see what I’m up against.” She started to cry.

  “Jocasta, don’t call now. You’ve had a lot of wine and it’ll be the same thing all over again.”

  “You think I’m a lush, don’t you?” said Jocasta with a watery smile.

  “Of course not. But right now, the state you’re in, you’re not going to get anywhere at all. Let’s go to bed.”

  Later, when Jocasta was asleep, exhausted by emotion, Clio went outside and called Fergus. “I’m sorry; I hoped I might be able to get away. It’s awful, Fergus, I really think the whole thing is going to come crashing down. They are just so—unsuited, that’s the real problem, their lives are completely incompatible. They might love each other, but it isn’t enough.”

  Fergus said he hoped that it was enough in their case and Clio said she thought they were sublimely suited, compared with Jocasta and Gideon, and that she’d see him the next evening.

  In the morning Jocasta called Gideon on all three numbers—the house, his mobile, and the office—saying she wanted to talk; an hour later there had been no response. After another hour, during which she raged and ranted, she left another message, saying that if he didn’t call, he wouldn’t hear from her again—ever. He called then and said how dared she threaten him; she put the phone down. After several hours, he rang again: Didn’t she think she owed him an apology? She said she’d made several and if he couldn’t even acknowledge that, then there could be no future for them of any kind. Gideon said as far as he was concerned, that would be a happy release and that she should go back to Nick, which was clearly what she wanted.

  “I’ve just
been a device, as far as I can see, to make him come to heel. Well, I don’t like it, Jocasta. I’m not prepared to put up with it. Please don’t call again.”

  Jocasta phoned Clio, told her everything that had happened, and said that was it—it was over.

  “I couldn’t have tried harder, Clio, I really couldn’t. So that’s it. End of chapter. Thanks for everything and please don’t tell anyone but you can stop trying to help. Sorry.”

  Clio still didn’t take it terribly seriously, in fact she could hardly believe the absurdity of it: two adults, behaving like extremely spoilt children. Giving up on a marriage after three months! It was ridiculous. It would blow over; they’d be all right.

  Fergus, when she told him, was more doubtful. “I’ve seen Gideon through two of his divorces, you know. And once he thinks he’s been wronged and he’s dug those well-shod heels in, that’s it. Trying to budge him is like taking an elbow to the Rock of Gibraltar.”

  “Fergus, he hasn’t been wronged, as you put it, she’s done nothing except—well, except be Jocasta.”

  “She’s left home. He would see that as being wronged. Not in the traditional sense. I’m sure all this stuff about Nick is just a smokescreen. What he minds is her not accommodating him, one hundred percent. That’s what he expects. It comes with the territory, Clio. Just be thankful that I’m not rich and powerful.”

  Clio said she didn’t mind in the least and said goodbye, feeling very sad. She thought of her struggles to preserve her own marriage, and then thought that it had done her little good and maybe it was better that Jocasta’s was ended, anyway. Perhaps it had all been a fantasy, a display of self-indulgent, self-deluding emotion. How could it possibly survive more than a few weeks of real life?

  Several days had passed with Grace hardly eating at all, and Peter observed a pattern forming. She would lie in bed until about eleven, then get up and do minimal housework, have a cup of tea while he ate a lunch that he had prepared, take a rest, serve a perfunctory supper, which she would pick at, and then retire to bed again. She hardly spoke to him; she had withdrawn into a solitary, silent world.