night.”
“Are you seeing Sam again?”
Jo nodded. “On Wednesday evening.”
Dorothy frowned. “Jo, is it over between you and Nick? I mean, really over?”
Jo turned on her, exasperated. “Dorothy, stop it! They are grown men, not boys fighting over a toy, for God’s sake! I don’t know if it’s over between me and Nick. Probably yes. But we are still fond of each other, nothing can change that. Who knows what will happen?”
After Dorothy had gone Jo sat staring into space for a long time. Then slowly she got up and poured herself a drink. She glanced down at the books and notes piled on the table, but she did not touch them. Instead, restlessly, she began to wander around the room. In front of the huge oval mirror that hung over the fireplace she stopped and stared at herself for a long time. Then solemnly she raised her glass. “To you, Matilda, wherever you are,” she said sadly. “I’ll bet you thought men were bastards too.”
The answering machine was to the point:
“There is no one in the office at the moment. In a genuine emergency Dr. Bennet may be reached at Lymington four seven three two zero. Otherwise please phone again on Monday morning.”
Jo slammed down the receiver. She eyed the Scotch bottle on the table, then she turned her back on it and went to stand instead on the balcony in the darkness, smelling the sweet honeyed air of the London garden, cleansed by night of the smell of traffic.
It was a long time before she turned and went back inside. Leaving the French windows open, she inserted her cassette back into the recorder and switched it on. Then, turning off the lights, she sat down alone in the dark to listen.
10
Is he here?” Judy was standing in the darkened hallway outside Jo’s door with her hands on her hips. She was wearing a loosely belted white dress and thonged sandals that made her look, Jo thought irrelevantly, like a Greek boy.
“Please, talk more quietly or you’ll wake the whole house.” Jo stood back to allow her to enter, as Judy’s furious voice wafted up and down the stairwell outside the apartment door. It was barely nine o’clock on Sunday morning.
The apartment was untidy. Cassettes littered the table and the floor; there were empty glasses lying about and ashtrays full of half-smoked cigarettes. Jo stared around in distaste. Beside the typewriter on the coffee table there was a pile of papers and notes where she had been typing most of the night. Books were stacked on the carpet and overflowing onto the chairs. She threw open the French windows and took a deep breath of cool morning air. Then she turned to Judy.
“If you’re looking for Nick, I’m afraid you’re out of luck. He’s not here. I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning.” She went through into the kitchen and reached into the refrigerator. “Do you want some coffee?” she called.
Judy looked taken aback. “He said he was coming back here.” She followed Jo into the kitchen uncertainly.
“Well, he didn’t come.” Jo reached down a large vase from a cabinet and stuffed the roses from the sink into it. “Aren’t these lovely? Nick’s mother brought them up from Hampshire for me yesterday.”
Judy’s jaw tightened fractionally. “I have never met his mother.”
“Oh, you will. She is already on your trail. Every girlfriend has to be vetted and approved and then cultivated.” Jo leaned against the counter and looked Judy straight in the eye.
“Do you still love him?” Judy tried hard to hold her gaze.
Jo snorted. “What kind of naive question is that? Do you really think I’d tell you if I did?” Behind her the coffee began to perk. She ignored it. “At this moment I wish both Sam and Nick Franklyn at the other end of the earth, and if it makes you happy I will cordially wish you there with them. But I should like to say one thing before you go there. If you decide to make any more inventive little statements to the press about my sanity or lack of it, be very careful what you say, because I shall sue you for libel.”
Judy retreated. “I don’t want anything from you. I’m not surprised Nick couldn’t wait to get away from here!” She turned to the front door and dragged it open. Behind them the phone in the living room began to ring. Jo ignored it as she unplugged the coffeepot. “Shut the door behind you,” she called over her shoulder.
Judy stopped in her tracks. “Sam told me you’re schizophrenic,” she shouted, “did you know that? He said that you’ll be locked up one of these days. And they’ll throw away the key!” She paused as if hoping for a response. When none came she walked out into the hall and slammed the door. Jo could hear her footsteps as she ran down the stairs outside. Moments later she heard the porch door bang.
Behind her the phone was still ringing. Dazed, Jo moved toward it and picked up the receiver. Her hands were shaking.
“Jo? I thought you weren’t there!” The voice on the other end was indignant. Jo swallowed. She was incapable of speaking for a moment. “Jo, dear? Are you all right?” The voice persisted. “It’s me, Ceecliff!”
Jo managed to speak at last. “I know, Grandma. I’m sorry. My voice is a bit husky. Is that better?” She cleared her throat noisily. “How nice to hear you. How are you?”
“I am fine as always.” The tones were clipped and direct. Celia Clifford was a vivacious and attractive woman of seventy-six who, in spite of the alternate cajoling and threats of her town-dwelling daughter-in-law and granddaughter, lived completely alone in a rambling Tudor farmhouse in the depths of Suffolk. Jo adored her. Ceecliff was her special property, her refuge, her hidden vice, the shoulder that tough, abrasive Jo Clifford could cry on and no one would ever know.
“You sound a bit odd, dear,” Ceecliff went on briskly. “You’re not smoking again are you?”
Jo looked ruefully at the ashtray beside the phone. “I’m trying not to,” she said.
“Good. And nothing is wrong?”
Jo frowned. “Why should anything be wrong?”
There was a chuckle at the other end of the line. “There shouldn’t. I just wanted to make sure that you didn’t have any excuses up your sleeve. You’re coming to lunch here, Jo, so you’d better get ready to leave within half an hour.”
Jo laughed. “I can’t come all the way to Suffolk for lunch,” she protested.
“Of course you can. Take off those dreadful jeans and put on a pretty dress, then get in the car. You’ll be here by one.”
“How did you know I had jeans on?” Jo had begun to smile.
“I’m psychic.” Ceecliff’s tone was dry. “Now, no more talking. Just come.” There was a click as she hung up and Jo was left staring down at the receiver in her hand.
Bet Gunning turned over in bed and ran a languid hand over Tim Heacham’s chest. “Much drunker and you wouldn’t have been able to make it, my friend.”
Tim groaned. “If I had been much drunker, you could have been accused of necrophilia! If you have any sense of decency at all, Ms. Gunning, you’ll fix me one of your magic prairie oysters in the kitchen and shut up.”
Bet gave him an old-fashioned look as she padded out to the kitchen but she said nothing. She was too content. In a few moments she was back with a tray containing two coffee mugs and a glass. She watched as Tim drank down the mixture pulling a series of agonized faces, then she held out her hand for the glass. “Now. Coffee and then a cold shower. That will get you
“Sadistic bitch.” Tim patted her knee fondly as she sat down next to him. “Is this what makes you such a good
