It was the way all the best stories started.
She worked steadily right through the day, commanding her brain to answer questions, marshaling memories, holding her emotions in an iron grasp as she wrote. It was hard to dissociate herself from the story. Her fingers would race more and more quickly over the keys, filling in detail she never knew she possessed, till, cramped and exhausted, she had to rest them. The time of her meeting with Bet had come and passed. Apologetically she called the office, promising to come in first thing on Monday, then she wandered into the kitchen for a glass of milk before going back and switching on the tape of one of her earlier regressions and listening intently as she sat down and put her feet up on the cushions.
At five Ceecliff called. “Just to let you know all is well, dear. They must have been scared off. Julian organized someone to mend the window for me, so I’m snug and safe. Let me know when you’re arriving. You’ll find my car in the station parking lot…I only hope it will start after a week.” She paused. “Is there someone there with you, Jo?”
Jo started guiltily. She had forgotten all about phoning someone to come and be with her. “Don’t worry, everything is organized,” she said. “Now take care. I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know when I’m coming.”
She broke the connection and then she dialed the office in Berkeley Street. “Please come this evening, Nick.”
“Is Ceecliff still with you?”
“No, she had to go back.”
“Then I shouldn’t come, Jo.”
“We have to believe her, Nick. We have to trust ourselves. Please come. I need you.”
Nick sighed. “It’s you who have to do all the trusting, Jo.”
“I’m prepared to risk it. I don’t want to be alone.”
“Then I’ll come.” As Nick put down the phone he pressed the intercom button. “Jane, tell Jim I’m leaving in twenty minutes. If he wants me to countersign those documents he’ll have to bring them now. And Jane, did you check the orders for tomorrow’s champagne?”
“Have done.” Jane’s voice echoed lightly in the room. “Will there be anything else, Your Majesty?”
He cut off the peal of laughter with a good-humored curse. Was it really worth it? Allowing himself to be made a fool of for the sake of the firm. He deliberately put the thought out of his mind. This time tomorrow Mike Desmond would have signed the contract and the team going to the States would be three quarters of the way across the Atlantic.
Until then, there was Jo.
She met him at the door dressed in a soft silk dress of plum-red. He stared at her for a moment, unmoving, before he entered the apartment.
“What is it?” Nervously she fingered the skirt. “Don’t you like it? Ceecliff helped me to choose it.”
He smiled. “It’s quite lovely.” He took her in his arms and buried his face in her hair. It was loose, he noticed. No scarf, no ribbon. How could he tell her he had seen a life-size picture of her in Tim Heacham’s studio, wearing a gown of just that shade of red?
He closed the door behind him and slipped on the chain. “Why did Ceecliff go so suddenly?”
“She had a phone call that someone had tried to burgle her house. They didn’t get in, but obviously she had to go and check.”
“And she’s not afraid of being there alone?”
“Apparently not.” Jo looked away suddenly. “That’s my weakness at the moment.”
“Not a weakness. It’s common sense. You’d be a fool to be alone as long as Sam’s around.” Nick pushed her away reluctantly and walked through into the living room. “I had lunch with him the day before yesterday. The good news is, he’s going back to Edinburgh at the weekend.”
Jo sighed. “I hope he never comes back.”
“Or not for a very long time. You’ve decided to go on and write it, then?” Nick was standing looking down at her desk. He picked up one of the books from the pile.
She nodded wearily. “It’s the only way I’ll be free,” she said. “Otherwise Matilda is going to haunt me for the rest of my life.” She hesitated, glancing at him. “Bet wants me to mention you in the story, Nick. Do you mind?”
He laughed. “
Jo smiled. “Perhaps. Bet thinks it will turn them on. But in fact, all it does is prove that some women at least were just as capable in those days, and had enormous managerial responsibilities, and that men were male chauvinist pigs every one, as ever. The readers will love it.”
“And my role? The arch MCP, I suppose?”
Jo busied herself in the drinks cabinet, holding up empty bottles to the light.
“I shall be suitably diplomatic about your role. Would you rather be the villain or the romantic hero?”
“You decide. As long as you know which I am in real life.” Nick looked down at her as she raised her eyes to his. For a long moment they stared at each other, then he reached down and took her hand. “That is empty,” he said, firmly closing the cabinet. “If ever I saw an empty cabinet, that is it. I’ll nip up to the liquor store and get something.” He gave her a rueful smile. “While I’m there, glance at this. It’s the storyboard for the TV ad Desco wants us to put on.”
As the door closed behind him Jo stared at the sketches he had put into her hand. She felt numb. It was all reduced to a stupid, cheap joke. John. Handsome, powerful, malicious John, pilloried by a tatty TV advertisement; reduced to a trite little sketch, to be screened between
Nick was back in ten minutes with a bottle of gin, four bottles of tonic, and a carafe of chianti.
Jo let him in silently.
“I take it you don’t like the idea?” He glanced at her as he produced a lemon from the pocket of his jacket. “Is there any ice?”
She nodded. “It just seems rather…small.”
“Jo, Mike has laid it on the line. He wants this idea or out. Our boys think it will work. It’s an amusing script even for the people, if there are any, who don’t know what the hell we’re talking about. If I veto it, we lose the account.”
“Then it must go on.”
“Is it any worse than what you propose to do with your articles and your book?” He took her hands gently.
Jo shook her head.
He gave a small smile. “Jo, don’t you think it’s what we need? To send ourselves up a little bit? Humor is an awfully good anodyne.”
“I know. It’s just…”
“I know what it is, Jo.” Releasing her, Nick turned toward the kitchen. “I’ve been there, remember?” He changed the subject abruptly. “Are you going to come to New York with me-” He broke off with a curse as, behind them, the phone rang. Swinging back into the room, he picked it up.
“Hello?” There was complete silence on the other end of the line. They both heard the connection go dead.
Nick slammed down the receiver.
“Wrong number,” he said cheerfully. “Now, where was I?” He put his hands gently on Jo’s shoulders. “Well, will you come?”
She nodded slowly. “Yes.” She moved back slightly. “Will we ever be able to forget all this, Nick?”
He turned away and, picking up the bottles, led the way into the kitchen. “In time it will distance itself like a bad dream, I expect. I hope.” He gave his boyish smile. “Till then we must just make sure nothing else happens- apart from the happy ending.”
They ate their supper in silence, neither suggesting they turn on any music, watching the light fade in the room
