Sheer Abandon Read Free Page B

thirty-three, which meant that next birthday she would be thirty-four and everyone knew that thirty-five was the age when being single stopped being a statement of independence and started being a worry. She loved Nick, and she was fairly sure he loved her, although he seldom said so, and usually then with that preface so hated by women: “Of course.” And she felt, with increasing intensity, that the time had come for some proper commitment. At the moment, it seemed no nearer; and it was beginning to worry her. Quite a lot.
    “Where are you taking me then?” she said, as they walked into the long corridor.
    “Covent Garden,” he said. “Mon Plaisir. I don’t want to see anyone in the business tonight.”
    This was unusual; one of the downsides of having a romantic evening with Nick was that he was so in love with his job and so deeply fond of everyone he worked with that she often thought if he ever did get around to proposing to her, and was down on his knees and he saw Trevor Kavanagh from the
Sun
or Eben Black of the
Sunday Times
across the room, he would call them over to join them.
             
    “So,” he said as they were finally settled at Mon Plaisir, “tell me about your day. You do look tired, Mrs. Cook.”
    “I
am
tired, Mr. Butler.”
    They had once gone to a fancy dress party as the cook and the butler and used the names occasionally in their e-mails (the more indiscreet ones), whenever a code was necessary.
    “But it was OK. One tragedy, one trivia—Mrs. Prescott’s hair. I do get so tired of doing those stories.”
    “But you’re so good at it.”
    “I know that, Nick,” she said, and indeed she was good at it; she could get into anyone’s house, however many other journalists were on the doorstep, make her way into anyone’s life, it was all part of her golden charm and, to a degree, she knew, the way she looked. If it was a choice between talking to a male reporter in a sharp suit or an absurdly young-looking girl with long blond hair and wide blue eyes, whose face melted with sympathy for you and whose voice was touched with feeling as she told you this was the worst part of her job and she absolutely hated having to ask you to talk to her, but if you could bear it, she would make it as easy as possible—then it was not a very difficult decision. Jocasta got more bylines on human-interest stories, and what were known in the trade as tragedies—and also those about celebrities caught with their trousers literally down—than almost anyone in Fleet Street. But she was weary of it; she longed to be a feature writer, or a foreign correspondent, or even a political editor.
    No editor, however, would give her that sort of chance; she was too valuable at what she did. In the predominantly male culture that was newspapers, a dizzy-looking blonde with amazing legs had her place and that was getting the sort of stories other reporters couldn’t. Of course she was extremely well rewarded for what she did, she had a very generous expense account, and most of the time she was happy. But as in her relationship with Nick, she was aware that she wanted more.
    “Anything happen to you today? Apart from your scoop?”
    “I had lunch with Janet Frean.”
    “Should I be jealous?”
    “Absolutely not. Very nice, I’m sure, but a Wonder Woman type, politician, five children, famously pro-European, sacked from the shadow cabinet is not for me. Actually, I don’t exactly like her, but she’s an incredible force to reckon with.”
    “So?”
    “So, she’s pretty sick of what’s going on in the party. They’re all feeling depressed. Saying that the party has got everything wrong. That they’ll never get in again, that Blair can walk on water, however often it looks like he’ll drown. There’s talk of some of them doing something about it.”
    “Like what?”
    “Well, like making a break for it. Forming a new party with a few right-minded people within the party.”
    “And do these