When the phone rang she actually jumped.
It was Tim Heacham. “Jo? I’ve fixed up for us to go and see my friend Bill Walton.”
“Tim, you’re an angel. When and where?” She groped for the pad and pencil.
“Six-fifteen Thursday, at Church Road, Richmond. I’m coming with you and I’ll bring my Brownie.”
She laughed. “Thanks. I’ll see you at your party first.”
“You and someone. Okay, Jo. Must go.”
Tim always hurried on the phone. No time for preliminaries or good-byes.
A broad strip of sunlight lay across the fawn carpet in front of the window, bringing with it the sounds of the London afternoon—the hum of traffic, the shouts of children playing in the gardens, the grinding monotony of a cement mixer somewhere. Reaching for her cup, Jo sank onto the carpet, stretching out her long legs in front of her as she flipped through the address book she had taken from the table and brought the phone down to rest on her knee as she dialed Pete Leveson’s number.
“Pete? It’s Jo.”
“Well, well.” The laconic voice at the other end of the wire feigned astonishment. “And how is the beautiful Joanna?”
“Partnerless for a party. Do you want to come?”
“Whose?”
“Tim Heacham.”
There was a pause at the other end of the line. “I would be honored, of course. Do I gather that Nick is once more out of favor?”
“That’s right.”
Pete laughed. “Okay, Jo. But let me take you out to dinner first. How is work going?”
“Interesting. Have you heard of a guy called Bill Walton, Pete?” Her glance had fallen to the notepad in front of her.
“I don’t think so. Should I?”
“He hypnotizes people and regresses them into their past lives.” She kept her voice carefully neutral. To her surprise he didn’t laugh.
“Therapeutically or for fun?”
“Therapeutically?” she echoed incredulously. “Don’t tell me it’s considered good for you!” She glanced across at the heap of books and articles that formed the basis of her researches. Half of them were still unread.
“As a matter of fact it is. Fascinating topic.” Pete’s voice faded a moment as if he had looked away from the phone, then it came back strongly. “This is work, I take it? I was just looking for a phone number. You remember David Simmons? His sister works for a hypnotherapist who uses regression techniques to cure people’s phobias. I’ll tell you about it if you’re interested.”
***
It was one-thirty in the morning when the phone rang, the bell echoing through the empty studio. Judy Curzon sat up in bed with a start, her red hair tousled. “Dear God, who is it at this hour?”
Nick groaned and rolled over, reaching for her. “Ignore it. It’s a wrong number.”
But she was already pulling herself out of bed. Standing up with a yawn, she snatched the sheet off him and, wrapping it around her, fumbled her way to the lamp. “It never is a wrong number at this hour of the morning. I expect someone is dead.” She pushed through the bedroom door and into the studio.
Nick lay back, running his fingers through his hair, listening. He could hear the distant murmur of her voice. Then there was silence. She appeared in the doorway. “It’s your bloody brother from Edinburgh. He says you left a message for him to call, however late.”
Nick groaned again. “I spent most of yesterday trying to reach him. Sorry, Judy. I’ll go into the sitting room. I’ve got to speak to him now.”
He shut the door and picked up the receiver. “Sam? Can you hear me? It’s about Jo. I need your advice.”
There was a chuckle from the other end. “In bed with one and in love with the other. I’d say you need my advice badly.”
“Sam, this is serious. Jo’s set on writing an article on hypnotic regression. Can I tell her what happened to her last time?”
“No. No, Nick, it’s too risky. I could do it perhaps, but not you. Hell! I can’t postpone this trip. Can you get her to wait until I get back? It’s only a week, then I’ll fly direct to London and have a chat with her about it. Stall her till then, okay? Don’t let her do it.”
“I’ll try to stop her.” Nick grimaced to himself. “But you know Jo. Once she gets the bit between her teeth…”
“Nick, it’s important.” Sam’s voice was very serious. “I may be wrong, but I suspect that there is a whole volcano simmering away in her unconscious. I discussed it with Michael Cohen dozens of times—he always wanted to get her back, you know, but I persuaded him in the end that it was too dangerous. The fact remains that her heart and breathing stopped—stopped, Nick. If that happened again and someone didn’t know how to handle it—well, I don’t have to spell it out, do I? It must not happen again. And just warning her is no good. If you were to tell her about it, cold, after posthypnotic suggestion that she forget the episode, she either won’t believe you—that’s the most likely—or, and this is the risk, she may suffer some kind of trauma or relapse or find she can’t cope with the memory. You must make her wait, Nick, till I get there.”
“Okay, Sam. Thanks for the advice. I’ll do my best. The trouble is, she’s not talking to me.”
Sam laughed. “I’m not surprised when you’re in another woman’s bed.”
Nick put down the receiver.
“So. Why do you have to discuss Jo Clifford with your brother for half an hour in the middle of the night?”
He turned guiltily to see Judy, wearing a tightly belted bathrobe, standing in the doorway.
“Judy—”
“Yes. Judy! Judy’s bed. Judy’s apartment. Judy’s fucking phone!”
“Honey.” Nick went to her and put his hands on her shoulders. “It’s nothing to do with you—with us. It’s just…well.” He groped for words. “Sam’s a doctor.”
“Sam’s a psychiatrist.” She drew in her breath sharply. “You mean there is something wrong with Jo?”
Nick grinned as casually as he could. “Not like that. Not so’s you’d notice, anyway. Look, Judy. Sam is going to come and have a chat with her, that’s all. Hell, he’s known her for about fifteen years—Sam introduced her to me in the first place. She likes Sam and she trusts him. I had to talk to him tonight because he’s going to Switzerland tomorrow. There is no more to it than that. He’s going to help her with an article she’s working on.”
She looked doubtful. “What has this got to do with you, then?”
“Nothing. Except he’s my brother and I’d like to think she is still a friend.”
Something in his expression made her bite back the sarcastic retort that hovered in the air. She gave a small, lost smile.
Nick resisted the impulse to take her in his arms.
***
The next morning he drove over to Jo’s apartment. Swinging her keys, he made for the pillared porch that supported her balcony. He glanced up to see the window open wide beneath its curtain of honeysuckle as he let himself in.
“Jo?” As the apartment door swung open he stuck his head around it and looked in. “Jo, are you there?”
She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, the typewriter on the low coffee table in front of her, dressed in jeans and a floppy turquoise sweater, her long dark hair caught back with a silk scarf. She did not appear to hear him.
He studied her face for a moment, the slim arched brows, the dark lashes that hid her eyes as she looked down at the page before her, the high planes of the cheekbones, and the delicately shaped mouth set off by the severe lines of the scarf—the face of a beautiful woman who would grow more beautiful as she grew older—and he found he was comparing it with Judy’s girlish prettiness. He pushed the door shut behind him with a click.
“I’ll have that key back before you go,” she said without looking up.
He slipped it into his breast pocket with a grin. “You’ll have to take it off me. Did you know your phone was out of order?”
“It’s switched off. I’m working.”
He picked up the top book on the pile by her typewriter and glanced at the title: The Facts Behind Reincarnation. He frowned.
“Jo, I want to talk to you about your article.”
“Good. Discussing topics is always helpful.”
“You know my views about this hypnotism business.”
“And you know mine.”
“Jo, will you promise me not to let yourself be hypnotized?”
She leaned forward. “I’ll promise you nothing, Nick. Nothing at all.”
“Christ, Jo! Don’t you know how dangerous hypnosis can be? You hear awful stories of people permanently damaged by playing with something they don’t understand.”
“I’m not playing, Nick,” she replied icily. “I’m working. Working, not playing, on a series of articles. If I were a war correspondent I’d go to war. If I find my field of research is hypnotism I get hypnotized. If necessary.” Furious, she got up and walked up and down the room a couple of times. “But if it worries you so much, perhaps you’d be consoled if I tell you that I can’t be hypnotized. Some people can’t. They tried it on me once at the university.”
Nick sat up abruptly, his eyes on her face. “Sam told me about that time,” he said with caution.
“So why the hell do you keep on then?” She turned on him. “Call up your brother and ask him all about it. Samuel Franklyn, MD, DPM, et cetera! He will spell it out for you.”
“Jo, Sam will be in London next week. Just hold on till then. Promise me. Once he’s seen you—”
“Seen me?” she echoed. “For God’s sake, Nick. What’s the matter with you? I need to see your brother about as much as I need you at the moment, and that is not a lot!”
“Jo, it’s important,” he said desperately. “There is something you don’t know. Something you don’t remember—”
“What do you mean, I don’t remember? I remember every bit of that session in Edinburgh. Better than Sam does obviously. Oh, I’m sure he doesn’t want me to investigate the subject of regression. It’s one of his pet theories, isn’t it, and he doesn’t want me to debunk it in the press. That wouldn’t suit him at all! If your brother wants to see me, let him come and see me. I’ll deal with him myself. You and I have nothing else to say to each other. Nothing!”
“Then I’d best leave,” said Nick. Jo closed the door behind him.
***
That same evening Pete Leveson called with the name of the hypnotherapist: Carl Bennet. Devonshire Place. Jo scribbled it down on the notepad on her desk. She stared at it thoughtfully for a while after she had hung up the phone, then she tore off the page and put it on top of her typewriter.
***
The night of the party the huge photography studio was already full of people when Jo and Pete arrived. They paused for a moment on the threshold to survey the crowd, the women colorfully glittering, the men in shirt sleeves, the noise already crescendoing wildly to drown the plaintive whine of a lone violin somewhere in the street below.
Someone pressed glasses of champagne into their hands.
Jo saw Nick almost at once, standing in front of Tim’s photos, studying them. She recognized the set of his shoulders, the angle of his head. So he was angry. She wondered briefly who with, this time.
“You look wistful, Jo.” Tim Heacham’s voice came from immediately behind her. “And it does not suit you.”
She turned to face him. “Wistful? Never. Happy birthday, Tim. I’m afraid I haven’t brought you a present.”
“Who has?” He laughed. “But I’ve got one for you. Judy’s not here.”
“Should I care?” She noticed suddenly that Pete was at the other end of the room.
“I don’t think you should.” He took the glass from her hand, sipped from it, and gave it back. “You and Nick are bad news for each other at the moment, Jo. You told me so yourself.”
“And I haven’t changed my mind.”
“Nor about tomorrow, I hope?”
“Tomorrow?”
“Our visit to Bill Walton. He’s going to arrange something special for us. We’re going to see Cleopatra and her Antony! I find it all just the smallest bit weird.”
She laughed. “I hope you won’t be disappointed this time, Tim. It’ll only be as good as the imagination of the people there, you know.”
He held up his hand in mock horror. “No. No, you’re not to spoil it for me. I believe.”
“Jo?” The quiet voice behind her made her jump, slopping her champagne onto the floor. “Jo, I want to talk to you.”
She spun around and found that Nick was standing behind them. Quickly she slipped her arm through Tim’s. “Nick. I didn’t expect to see you. Did you bring Judy? Or Sam? Perhaps Sam is here ready to psych me out. Is he?” Rudely she turned her back on him.
“Tim, will you dance with me?” She dragged her surprised host away, leaving Nick standing by himself looking after her.
“Jo, love, you’re shaking.” Tim put his arm around her and pulled her against him. “Come on. It’s not like you to show your claws like that. Let’s get another drink—most of yours went on the floor, and the rest is down my neck.” He took her hand firmly. Then he made a rueful face. “You’re in love with Nick, you know, Jo. The real thing.”
She laughed. “No. No, Tim, you dear old-fashioned thing. I’m not in love with anyone. I’m fancy free and fully available. But you are right about one thing, I need another drink.”
There was no way she would ever admit to herself or to anyone else that she loved Nick.
Behind her Tim glanced toward the door. He frowned. Judy Curzon stood there, dressed in a floor-length white dress embroidered with tiny flame and amber colored beads, her red hair brushed close to her head like a shining cap. Her huge eyes were fixed on Nick’s face.
Tim shook his head slowly, then firmly he guided Jo into the most crowded part of the room.
***
It was the following evening.
“Why did you do it, Judy?” Nick pushed open the door of the studio and slammed it against the wall.
She was standing in front of the easel, once more dressed in her shirt and jeans, a brush in her hand. She did not turn around.
“You know why. How come it’s taken you nineteen hours to come and ask?”
“Because, Judy, I have been at work today, and because I wasn’t sure if I was going to come here ever again. I didn’t realize you were such a bitch.”
“Born and bred.” She gave him a cold smile. “So now you know. I suppose you hate me.”
Her face crumpled suddenly and she flung down the brush. “Oh, Nick, I’m so miserable.”
“And so you should be. Telling Jo in front of all those people what Sam and I had talked about in confidence. Telling her at all was spiteful, but to do it like that, at a party—that was really vicious.”
“She didn’t turn a hair, Nick. She’s so confident, so conceited. And she didn’t believe it anyway. No one did. They all thought it was just me being bitchy.”
She put her arms around his neck and nuzzled him. “Don’t be angry. Please.”
He disengaged himself. “I am angry. Very angry indeed.”
“And I suppose you followed her last night?” Her voice was trembling slightly.
“No. She told me to go to hell, as you well know.” He turned away from her, taking off his jacket and throwing it down on a chair. “Is there anything to drink?”
“You know damn well there is.” She retrieved her paintbrush angrily and went back to her painting. “And get me one.”
He glared at her. “The perfect hostess as ever.”
“Better than Jo anyway!” she flashed back. She jabbed at the painting with a palette knife, laying on a thick impasto of vermilion.
“Leave Jo alone, Judy,” Nick said quietly. “I’m not going to tell you again. You are beginning to bore me.”
There was a long silence. Defiantly she laid on some more paint.
Nick sighed. He turned and went into
the kitchen. There was wine in the refrigerator. He took it out and found two glasses. He had not told Judy the truth. Last night, at midnight, he had gone to Cornwall Gardens and, finding Jo’s apartment in darkness, had cautiously let himself in. He had listened, then, realizing that there was still a light on in the kitchen, he had quietly pushed open the door. The room had been empty, the draining board piled high with clean, rinsed dishes, the sink spotless, the lids on all the jars, and the bread in the bin, when he had looked, new and crusty.
“What are you doing here?” Jo had appeared behind him silently, wearing a white bathrobe.
He had slammed down the lid of the bread bin. “Jo, I had to talk to you—”
“No, Nick, there is nothing to talk about.” She had not smiled.
Staring at her, he had realized suddenly that he wanted to take her in his arms. “Oh, Jo, love. I’m sorry—”
“So am I, Nick. Very. Is it true what Judy said? Am I likely to go crazy?”
“That’s not what she said, Jo.”
“Is that what Sam said?”
“No, and you know it isn’t. All he said was that you should be very careful.” He had kept his voice deliberately light.
“How come Judy knows so much about it? Did you discuss it with her?”
“Of course I didn’t. She listened to a private phone call. She had no business to. And she didn’t hear very much, I promise. She made a lot of it up.”
“But you had no business to make that call, Nick.” Suddenly she had been blazingly angry with him. “Christ! I wish you would keep out of my affairs. I don’t want you to meddle. I don’t want your brother to meddle! I don’t want anything to do with either of the Franklyns ever again. Now, get out!”
“No, Jo. Not till I know you’re all right.”
“I’m all right. Now, get out.” Her voice had been shaking. “Get out, get out, get out!”
“Jo, for God’s sake be quiet.” Nick had backed away from her as her voice rose. “I’m going. But please promise me something—”
“Get out!”
He had gone.
***
Nick took a couple of gulps from his glass and topped it up again before going back into the studio.
Pete Leveson was standing next to Judy, staring at the canvas.
Lady of Hay Page 3