“God, yes,” said Jocasta. “I never stop.”
“That’s another symptom, I’m afraid. Sorry, Jocasta. We’ll do the test, anyway. Now, what do you want to do about it?”
“I want to have a termination. And I want to be sterilised at the same time.”
“That’s a very drastic decision. You’re upset, your hormones are in a state of total upheaval—”
“I’m not upset, Mrs. Kershaw. Or in a state of upheaval, actually. I feel very calm. That’s what I want to do.”
“Well, it’s your decision of course. Have you—talked it over carefully with your husband?”
“No. We’re getting divorced. So no point.”
“He might feel differently.”
“What about? The divorce?”
“Obviously I can’t tell you that. I meant about the baby.”
Jocasta was silent; there was no way she was going to tell Sarah Kershaw that the baby was not her husband’s, that it had been conceived in adultery, one dizzy afternoon.
“Look,” Sarah Kershaw said, “this is your decision, obviously. You’re clearly distressed about your marriage, but has the marriage actually broken down? Irretrievably?”
“Sorry,” said Jocasta, “I haven’t come to discuss my marriage.”
“I know that. But even if you don’t realise it, you’re not thinking entirely clearly. Perhaps not the best way to be taking extremely important decisions.”
“I’m thinking very clearly. I’m feeling perfectly well. I don’t understand all this fuss about pregnancy making you ill. I haven’t felt sick once and I’ve got loads of energy.”
“Well, you’re very lucky. I’m happy for you. Even so, believe me, you’re not quite yourself. And this is a bigger decision than perhaps you actually realise. Especially the sterilisation.”
“Mrs. Kershaw, please. I don’t want bloody counselling. I don’t need it. I want a termination and I want to be sterilised. What do I have to do?”
“If I was just having the termination,” she told Clio, “I could have what they called a con-op, first a consultation, then the termination, all on the same day. But as I want to be sterilised, they’ll counsel me, as they call it, and then book me in for another day. But there’s no problem. I can do it.”
It sounded terrible to Clio. “What did she say about telling the father? Does he have a right to know?”
She knew he didn’t, but she was hoping Jocasta’s mind might have been at least alerted to the possibility.
“She said I didn’t have to, and he couldn’t stop me having the termination. It’s totally up to me. The doctors and me. All I need is a legal justification and of course I’ve got one. ‘Change of life circumstances,’ it’s called. So in about ten days, with luck. Will you come with me?”
“I don’t think I can,” said Clio and slammed the phone down. She found it hard to believe that, even in her manically self-absorbed state, Jocasta could be asking her to go with her to get rid of her baby. Could be so grossly insensitive not to have remembered Clio’s grief on the subject of her own infertility. It hurt almost more than she would have believed.
The phone rang again almost at once: she picked it up, feeling remorseful. She had misjudged her, Jocasta had phoned to apologise…
“Clio, don’t know what happened then. Look, I’ve heard from Gideon, he wants to see me, discuss things. I’m absolutely petrified, he wants me to go round to the house tomorrow afternoon, can you come up afterwards?”
“No,” said Clio, “I can’t. I do have a life of my own, you know, Jocasta. I can’t actually drop everything, just whenever it suits you. Sorry.”
There was a silence: then Jocasta said, her voice absolutely astonished, “OK, OK. Easy. I thought you’d want to help.”
Clio said she was getting a bit tired of helping, and put the phone down for the second time.
She was a fine friend, Jocasta thought. When she really needed her, where was she? Having a hissy fit in Guildford. Well, too bad. She could manage without her. She could manage without anyone. She was just fine. She was getting her life back. As soon as she’d had this…thing done next week, she would go to see Chris Pollock. She couldn’t imagine how she could ever have thought she could give up her job. And her freedom and her independence. She must have been completely mad. Gideon had driven her mad.
She wondered what on earth he was going to say to her tomorrow. She hadn’t been making it up when she told Clio she was terrified. But it had been a nice and very friendly e-mail; she really felt she should agree to see him.
Nick was still in Somerset. He had been showing off to the children when they were all out riding one afternoon, and fell off, breaking his radius. An extremely painful four hours later, he was back at the house with his arm in a sling and ordered not to drive, or indeed do anything much, for two or three weeks.
“You are an idiot,” his mother said, “galloping off like that over the moor. I bet it was a rabbit hole, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, I think so,” said Nick humbly. “Sorry, Mummy.”
“I’ll get you some tea. And they gave you painkillers, I presume.”
“Yes. But it’s wearing off already. I couldn’t have a whiskey, could I?”
“I think that’s a terrible idea, on top of painkillers. Go on up to bed.”
“Thanks. You couldn’t bring my mobile, could you? I must let them know at the office.”
“Of course. Although I really can’t think it could matter much if you’re not there for a bit. Those dreadful people you write about, they’re all away. There was a picture of the Blairs this morning, in Tuscany I think, or was it the Bahamas? I don’t know why they can’t holiday in this country.”
She brought Nick his mobile with the tea; he checked it to see if there was a message from Jocasta. That was the real reason he wanted it. There wasn’t—again. God, he missed her. God, it hurt. Much more than his arm.
Jocasta drove up to Kensington Palace Gardens. She had dressed very carefully, in a short black linen shift that was just slightly too large for her. She knew her boobs were slightly bigger than they had been and she was terrified Gideon would notice. Notice and guess.
She knocked on the door tentatively. Mrs. Hutching opened it, smiled at her rather awkwardly.
“Hello, Mrs. Keeble.”
“Hi,” said Jocasta. She had tried to get Mrs. Hutching to call her Jocasta; it had never worked, and now the poor woman was embarrassed, whatever name she used.
“Mr. Keeble isn’t here yet. He asked me to give you tea in the garden room. He said he wouldn’t be long.”
“Lovely. Thank you.”
As she walked through the hall, she glanced at the letter rack; there were two postcards in it. Two sepia-tinted postcards. She pulled one of them out. It was a picture of Exmoor and it was Nick’s writing.
“This is for me,” she said. “Why didn’t you send it on?”
“I don’t think it is for you, Mrs. Keeble. It’s addressed to a Mrs. Cook. It’s certainly this address. I thought perhaps one of the agency cleaners we have in August might claim it.”
“It’s OK. It’s from a friend of mine. A sort of—joke.”
“Oh, I see. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s OK.”
OK! When she had been waiting for this for two and a half very long weeks. Why hadn’t she thought of this: of course Nick would have sent it here, he thought she was living here.
Dear Mrs. Cook,
Thank you so much for a very pleasant afternoon. I enjoyed it enormously. I hope your health has improved and that you are able to get out and about in this lovely summer weather. It is wonderfully beautiful down here; I know you don’t admire the countryside, but the moors are amazingly lovely. The air is so very clean and clear; I wish I had been able to persuade you to join me here occasionally in the past.
Yrs, with every good wish,
James Butler
The other card was slightly less enigmatic.
D
ear Mrs. Cook,
I am worried that you might not have got my last card and hope you continue in good health. Do let me know.
James Butler
She slipped them into her bag, feeling much happier, and went into the garden room to wait for Gideon—who was actually very nice, friendly, and courteous. He said he was sorry things had got so bad between them, that he had never intended it and he saw himself as at least partly to blame. He had been doing a lot of thinking, and if she wanted a divorce, then he would not contest it, however sad he might feel. He was sure they could come to an amicable arrangement over a settlement; she must let him know…
At this point, Jocasta could bear it no longer. The old Gideon had come back: kind, gentle, charming. How did it happen, where did the demons come from? Clearly she released them in him; it wasn’t a very nice thought.
“I don’t want a settlement, Gideon,” she said. “I don’t want anything. Nothing at all. Really. I couldn’t possibly take any money from you.”
“Of course you could.”
“I couldn’t. Honestly. I really don’t want anything.”
“Jocasta—”
“No, Gideon, I don’t. I feel bad enough already.”
There was a silence, then he said, “Well, you may change your mind. You look tired—are you all right?”
“I’m absolutely fine,” she said quickly.
How on earth would he react if he knew she was pregnant? With another man’s baby, the ink on their marriage licence hardly dry? Or thought it might be his? It was terrifying. God, she was a disaster!
“Good. I would really like you to have something. So if you change your mind—”
“I won’t,” she said. “I know I won’t.”
“Well, at the very least take the clothes,” he said. “They are clogging up cupboard space and they don’t suit me at all.”
She smiled. “Oh, Gideon. This is so sad. We should just have had an affair.”
“But you didn’t want an affair,” he said, “you wanted a marriage. Come along, Jocasta, admit it.”
“I…admit it,” she said.
“But I encouraged you.”
“Yes, you did. And most of the time, it was great fun.”
“I’m glad you thought so,” he said. “I enjoyed it too. Most of it. Now drink up your tea, and then you must excuse me. I have to go back to the office. And before that I have to pick up some luggage. I’m—”
“Going away tomorrow,” she said and laughed. “Oh, Gideon. I’m so sorry. I behaved so badly.”
“I behaved badly also. And I am sorry for it. Well, it was a short marriage but mostly a merry one. Thank you for coming today. I just wanted us to part friends.”
“Friends it is,” she said and went over to his chair, bent to kiss him. “Goodbye, Gideon.”
“Goodbye, Jocasta. And I would be hugely grateful if the press didn’t hear of this just for a little while.”
“They won’t. I promise.”
They wouldn’t. The press getting hold of it was the last thing she wanted. Especially one member of the press.
Just the same, Nick had sent a postcard. Two postcards. And had clearly been thinking about her. That was nice.
The minute she got into her car, she called his mobile; it was not Nick who answered.
“Hello. Pattie Marshall. Can I help?”
“Oh, sorry, Mrs. Marshall. It’s Jocasta here, Jocasta Forbes.”
“Hello, Jocasta.” The voice was very cool; they had never liked each other. “I expect you’re wondering why I’m answering Nicholas’s phone. He’s broken his right radius—”
“What’s that?” Pattie always used medical terms; it had been one of the many things that got up Jocasta’s nose.
“It’s one of the bones in the forearm. He fell off a horse—bit of a shame. It isn’t serious, but he’s asleep at the moment, and he asked me to switch off his phone and I forgot.”
“I’m so sorry. So, he’s staying with you?”
“Yes, of course. I’m certainly not up in London with him.”
“Of course not. Please give him my best wishes. Tell him I’m sorry. And thank him for the postcards. When will he be back in London?”
“Oh, not for a couple of weeks, I should think. I’ll get him to call you.”
“Well, only if he—if he feels like it. Thank you.”
“And are you at home?”
“Yes,” she said, and then quickly, “tell him I’m at the Big House. He’ll know what I mean.”
“Very well.”
When Nick woke up, Pattie Marshall told him that Jocasta had called and sent her best wishes. And that she was staying at the Big House.
“She says you’ll know what that means.”
Nick did; it meant she was staying at the Big House—not leaving it. He’d lost her, again.
Chapter 44
This time tomorrow it would be over. Just—over. She wouldn’t be pregnant anymore. Fantastic. She hadn’t really felt pregnant anyway; it had never been real. It had been a nonhappening. One missed period and now nearly another. That was all. She’d never felt sick, she’d never felt anything; people made an awful fuss about nothing, as far as she could see. And she certainly hadn’t felt emotional. Not in the least. She just wasn’t maternal; she didn’t have any maternal feelings. She’d have been a terrible mother.
Jocasta looked down at her stomach; it was totally flat. It was impossible to believe there was anything alive in there, certainly not a baby. A child. Hers and Nick’s child. Maybe it was all just a fantasy, something she’d imagined. But she’d done three tests altogether and Sarah Kershaw had done hers; there was no doubt. Nick’s baby was in there.
She wondered what on earth Nick would say if he knew she was pregnant. He’d be absolutely terrified. He’d want to just run away. And what if he knew she’d had a termination without telling him? Well, that was a bit—tricky. He might be cross. He might say he’d had a right to know. But he still wouldn’t want it. So it was certainly infinitely better he didn’t. Much better. He’d never know; the only person who did know was Clio, and she’d never tell. Nick was still down in Somerset: that was lucky. She was sorry he’d broken his arm, or whatever it was, but it was lucky.
Clio was still being weird, very cold and distant when she’d called her, not even interested in how Josh was getting on with Kate. She didn’t know what the matter with her was. She’d asked Fergus and he’d said he had no idea; he hadn’t spoken to her for a bit. He’d sounded quite down, but when she asked him if there was a problem, he said of course not. Obviously there was; they’d had a row or something. It would blow over.
Anyway, she’d be fine tomorrow. They had warned her she might feel very sore, but that it was a relatively minor procedure.
The counselling had been crap. Had she really thought about it? Was she absolutely sure about sterilisation? It was a very big step. Jocasta said she knew that and she had thought about it. It was what she wanted. Definitely.
“I see that you and your husband are separating,” the woman said.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Which is a perfectly acceptable reason for a termination, as far as we’re concerned. Now how is your general health, Miss Forbes? Any problems, anything we should know about?”
They had told her she would be in for the whole day; that she would have a general anaesthetic, because of the sterilisation; that someone should come and collect her, she wouldn’t be able to drive herself home. Well, if Clio wouldn’t come with her—and she wouldn’t—she would go on her own, get a cab home. She’d be fine.
She wondered if Martha had felt like this: that it was just a matter of time and then it would be over. Probably. Only Martha’d had to have a baby first. Whenever she thought about that, Jocasta felt physically faint, clammily nauseous. All alone in that dreadful screaming pain: How had she stood it, how had she coped with the mechanics of it, the reality? It was just—unthinkable. She could never have done it
. Never. Well, she didn’t have to. After tomorrow. Fine. Just fine. Much better.
The phone rang sharply; she picked it up. It was Clio.
“Hi, Jocasta. It’s me.”
“Oh—hello,” she said, just a little cool.
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“Oh yes? What about?”
“This baby. I know it’s nothing to do with me, but Jocasta, I still think you should tell Nick, it’s his baby too. It’s wrong not to. I—”
“Clio, I’m not very interested in your opinion on this, and you’re right, it isn’t anything to do with you. It’s me that’s pregnant, and it’s my body and my decision. Nick’s a commitment-phobe. He wouldn’t even live with me. He will not want a baby.”
“But—”
“Look, what would be the point? Just tell me that? All I’d be doing is upsetting him. And you’re upsetting me, come to that. For nothing.”
“Not for nothing, Jocasta, for a baby. And you might—you just might change your mind. At least don’t be sterilised yet.”
“Oh for God’s sake, Clio. I’m not having it. You know I can’t, and anyway, I don’t want it, can’t have it, and tomorrow I’m just going to—to have the termination, and that’ll be it. Over, finished, done and dusted.”
“I wish you wouldn’t talk about it like that,” said Clio quietly. “It’s a baby you’ve got in there, Jocasta, not some sort of parasite.”
“Babies are parasites, as far as I’m concerned. Right from conception.”
“Oh shut up,” said Clio. She suddenly sounded quite hysterical. “Just shut up, will you?”
“You started this,” said Jocasta, “so don’t tell me to shut up. Perhaps you’d like me to have it, and then you could adopt it. What about that for an idea?”
“It’s about the only way I’m going to get a baby,” said Clio, and her voice cracked with hurt, “adopting one.”
There was a dreadful silence; in the middle of it, Jocasta remembered. Remembered what she should never have forgotten for a moment, remembered what would have made the whole thing of telling Clio, saying she was going to have an abortion, savagely cruel. Asking her to go with her when it was done, for God’s sake. How had she done that? How had she been so totally, utterly callous to Clio, poor sweet Clio who wanted babies more than anything, but could never have them?
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