“But—” She looked confused. “My hands weren’t cold. I wore gloves. I don’t even get chilblains. I don’t understand…”
Sam reached for his raincoat. He suddenly felt very sick. “It’s the heavy snow coming so soon on top of a warm spell,” he said as reassuringly as he could. “I’ll prescribe something for you if you like. But I suggest scones and cream and hot tea might be the best medicines to start with, don’t you think?” He took her arm. “Come on. My car is out back.”
As he closed the door of the room behind them he knew that he would personally see to it that she did not return.
1
London—1985
Basically I like the idea,” Bet Gunning leaned across the table, her eyes, as they focused on Jo’s face, intense behind the large square lenses of her glasses.
Jo was watching her intently, admiring Bet’s professionalism after the relaxed lunch at Wheeler’s.
Their eyes met and both women smiled appreciatively. They had been friends for five years, ever since Bet had taken over as editor of Women in Action. Jo had been on the staff then, learning the trade of journalism. She learned fast. When she left to go freelance it was because she could name her figure for the articles she was producing.
“‘Anything Ethnic,’ ‘Medieval Medicine,’ ‘Cosmic Consciousness’—my God, what’s that?—‘Meditation and Religion’—you’ll have to keep that light—” Bet was going through the list in her head. “‘Regression: Is history still alive?’ That’s the reincarnation one, yes? I read an article about it somewhere quite recently. It was by an American woman, if I remember, and totally credulous. I must try to look it up. You will, of course, be approaching it from quite the opposite standpoint.”
Jo smiled. “They tried it on me once, at the university. That’s what gave me the idea. The world authority on the subject, Michael Cohen, tried to put me under—and failed. He gave me the creeps! The whole thing is rubbish.”
Bet gave a mock sigh. “Okay, Jo, show me the outlines. I’m thinking in terms of a New Year or spring slot so you’ve got plenty of time. Now, what about illustrations? Are you fixed up or do you want them done in house?”
“I want Tim Heacham.”
“You’ll be lucky! He’s booked solid these days. And he’d cost.”
“He’ll do it for me.”
Bet raised an eyebrow. “Does he know that?”
“He will soon.”
“And what will Nick say?”
Jo’s face tightened for a moment. “Nick Franklyn can go take a running jump, Bet.”
“I see. That bad?”
“That bad.”
“He’s moved out?”
“He’s moved out. With cream, please.” Jo smiled up at the waiter who had approached with the coffeepot.
Bet waited until he had withdrawn. “Permanently?”
“That’s right. I threw his camera across the room when I found out he’d been sleeping with Judy Curzon.”
Bet laughed. “You cow.” She sounded admiring.
“It was insured. But my nerves aren’t. I’m not possessive, Bet, but he’s not going to mess me about like that. If it’s off it’s off. I don’t run a boardinghouse. What do you think about the title of the series?”
“Nostalgia Dissected?” Bet looked up, her head a little to one side. “Not bad. I’m not totally convinced, but it certainly puts the finger on your approach.” She beckoned to the waiter for the bill. “Aren’t you going to tell me any more about Nick?”
Jo put down her coffee cup and pushed it away. She stared down at her hand, extending it over the tablecloth, flexing her fingers as if amazed they still worked. “It is three years, four months, and eight days since I met Sam again and he introduced me to his brother. Doesn’t that surprise you?”
“It surprises me that you counted, lovie,” Bet said slightly acidly, tossing her American Express card down on the waiter’s tray.
“I worked it out last night in the bath. It’s too long, Bet. Too long to live in someone’s pocket, however well one gets on. And, as you know, we don’t all that often!”
“Bullshit. You’re made for each other.”
Jo picked up her coffee spoon and idly drew a cross in the surface of the sugar in the earthenware bowl in the center of the table, watching the crystals impact and crumble with a concentrated frown.
“Perhaps that’s it. We’re so awfully alike in a lot of ways. And we are competitive. That’s bad in a relationship.” She stood up, the drab olive of her dress emphasizing her tanned arms with their thin gold bangles as she unslung the canvas satchel from the back of the chair and swung it onto her shoulder.
“Tim said he’d be at his studio this afternoon so I’m going up to see him now. Are you going straight back across the river?”
“’Fraid so. I’ve got a meeting at three.” Bet was tucking the credit card back in her wallet. “I won’t give you any good advice, Jo, because I know you won’t listen, but don’t hop straight into bed with Tim out of revenge, will you. He’s a nice guy. Too nice to be used.”
Jo smiled. “I didn’t hear that, Miss Gunning. Besides, I’m a nice guy too, sometimes. Remember?”
***
She walked slowly, threading her way through the crowded streets, the June sun shining relentlessly on the exposed pavements. Here and there a restaurant had spilled umbrella-shaded tables out onto the pavement, where people dawdled over their coffee. In England, she thought affectionately, the sun makes people smile; that was good. In a hot climate it drove them to commit murder.
She ran up the dark uncarpeted staircase to Tim’s studio in an old warehouse off Long Acre and let herself in without knocking. The studio was deserted, the lines of spots cold and dark as she walked in. She glanced around, wondering if Tim had forgotten, but he was there, alone, in shirt sleeves, reclining on the velvet chaise longue that was one of his favorite photographic props. There was a can of Long Life in his hand. Above him the sun, freed from the usual heavy blinds, streamed through huge open skylights. “Jo! How’s life?” He managed to lever himself upright, a painfully thin man, six foot four in his bare feet, with wispy fair hair. His unbuttoned shirt swung open, revealing a heavy silver chain on which hung an engraved amulet.
“Beer or coffee, sweetheart? I’m right out of champagne.”
Jo threw her bag on the floor and headed for the kitchenette next to one of the dark rooms. “Coffee, thanks. I’ll make it. Are you sober, Tim?”
He raised his eyebrows, hurt. “When am I not?”
“Frequently. I’ve got a job for you. Six to be precise, and I want to talk about them. Then we’ll go and see Bet Gunning in a week or two if you agree.”
Jo reappeared with two mugs of black Nescafé, handing one to Tim. Then she pulled a sheaf of notes from her bag and peeled a copy off for him. “Take a look at the subjects, just to give you an idea.”
He read down the page slowly, nodding critically, as she sipped her coffee. “Presumably it’s the approach that’s going to be new, sweetie? When’s the deadline?”
“I’ve got months. There’s quite a lot of research involved. Will you do them for me?”
He glanced up at her, his clear light-green eyes intense. “Of course. Some nice posed ones, some studio stuff—whole foods and weaving—the vox pops in chiaroscuro. Great. I like this one especially. Reincarnation. I can photograph a suburban mum under hypnosis who thinks she’s Cleopatra as she has an orgasm with Antony, only Antony will be missing.” He threw the notes to the floor and sipped his coffee thoughtfully. “I saw someone being hypnotized a few months back, you know. It was weird. He was talking baby talk and crying all over his suit. Then they took him back to this so-called previous life and he spouted German, fluent as a native.”
Jo’s eyes narrowed. “Faked, of course.”
“Uh-uh. I don’t think so. The guy swore he’d never learned German at all, and there’s no doubt he was speaking fluently. Really fluently. I just wish there had been s
omeone there who knew anything about Germany in the 1880s, which is when he said it was, who could have cross-questioned him. It was someone in the audience who spoke German to him. The hypnotist couldn’t manage more than a few words of schoolboy stuff himself.”
Jo said, “Do you think it’ll make a good article?”
“More like a book, love. Don’t be too ready to belittle it, will you. I personally think there’s a lot in it. Do you want me to introduce you to Bill Walton? That’s the hypnotist.”
Jo nodded. “Please, Tim. I have a lot of information on the subject from books and articles, but I certainly must sit in on a session or two. It’s incredible that people really believe that it’s regression into the past. It’s not, you know.” She was frowning at the wall in front of her where Tim had pinned a spread of huge black-and-white shots of a beautiful blonde nude in silhouette. “Is that who I think it is?”
He grinned. “Who else? Like them?”
“Does her husband?”
“I’m sure he will. It’s the back lighting. Shows her hair and hides the tits. They really are a bit much in real life. I’d say she was the proverbial milch cow in a previous existence.”
Jo looked back at him and laughed. “Okay, Tim. You tell your Mr. Walton he’s got to convince me. Right?” She got up to examine the photos. “It’s something called cryptomnesia. Memories that are completely buried and hidden. You’ll probably find your man had a German au pair when he was three months old. He’s genuinely forgotten he ever heard her talk, but he learned all the same and his subconscious can be persuaded to spit it all out. These are awfully good. You’ve made her look really beautiful.”
“That’s what they pay me for, Jo.” He was watching her closely. “I was talking to Judy Curzon last week. She has an exhibition at the Beaufort Gallery, did you know?”
“I know.” She turned. “So you know about it.”
“About you and Nick? I thought he was fooling about. I’m surprised you took it seriously.”
She picked up her cup again and began to walk up and down. “It’s happened too often, Tim. And it’s getting to hurt too much.” She looked at him with a small grimace. “I’m not going to let myself get that involved. I just can’t afford to. When a man starts causing me to lose sleep I begin to resent him and that’s not a good way to nurture a relationship. So better to cut him off quickly.” She drew a finger across her throat expressively.
Tim hauled himself to his feet. “Ruthless lady. I’m glad I’m not one of your lovers.” He took her cup from her and carried it through to the kitchen. “And you really can be grown up about it and not mind if I ask him and Judy to the party?”
“Not if I can bring someone too.”
He turned from the sink where he had dumped the cups and spoons. “Someone?”
“I’ll think of someone.”
“Oh, that kind of someone. A spit-in-Nick’s-eye someone.” He laughed. “Course you can.” He put his hands on her shoulders and stared at her for a moment. “It could always be me, you know, Jo.”
She reached up and kissed him on the cheek. “It couldn’t, Tim. I like you too much.”
He groaned. “The most damning thing a woman can say to a man, a real castrating remark. ‘I like you too much,’” he mimicked her, his voice sliding up into an uncomfortable falsetto. He burst out laughing. “At least you didn’t say I was too old though. Now scram. I’ve got work to do. Consider yourself on for the photos, but let me know when as soon as you can.”
***
Nick Franklyn walked into Bet Gunning’s office. She was standing at the window of her office, staring down at the river eleven stories below as she lit a cigarette. A pleasure steamer was plodding up the center of the tideway, its bows creaming against the full force of water as it plied from Westminster Pier toward the Tower.
“What can I do for you, Nick?” She turned, drawing on the cigarette, and looked him up and down. He was dressed in jeans with a denim jacket, immaculately cut, which showed off his tall spare figure and tanned face.
He grinned. “You’re looking great, Bet. So much hard work suits you.”
“Meaning why the hell couldn’t I see you three days ago when you called?”
“Meaning editor ladies are obviously busy if they can’t see the guy who handles one of their largest advertising accounts.” He sat down unasked opposite her desk and drew up one foot to rest across his knee.
She smiled. “Don’t give me that, Nick. You’re not here about the Wonda account.”
“You’re right. I’ve come to ask you a favor. As a friend.”
She narrowed her eyes against the glare off the water and said, without turning around, “About?”
“Jo.”
She waited in silence, conscious of his gaze on her back. Then slowly she turned. He was watching her closely and he saw the guarded look in her eyes.
“Does Jo need any favors from me?” she asked.
“She’s going to bring some ideas to you, Bet. I want you to kill one of them.”
He saw the flash of anger in her face, swiftly hidden, as she sat down at her desk. Leaning forward, she glared at him. “I think you’d better explain, Nick.”
“She’s planning a series of articles that she’s going to offer Women in Action. One of them is about hypnosis. I don’t want her to write it.”
“And who the hell are you to say what she writes or doesn’t write?” Bet’s voice was dangerously quiet. She kept her eyes fixed on Nick’s face.
A muscle flickered slightly in his cheek. “I care about her, Bet.”
Bet stood up. “Not from what I’ve been hearing. Your interests have veered to the artistic suddenly, the grapevine tells me, and that no longer qualifies you to interfere in Jo’s life. If you ever had that right.” She stubbed out her cigarette half smoked. “Sorry, Nick. No deal. Why the hell should you want to stop the article anyway?”
Nick rose to his feet. “I have good reasons, Bet. I don’t know who the hell has been talking to you about me, but just because I’m seeing someone else doesn’t mean I no longer care about Jo.” He was pacing up and down the carpet. “She’s a bloody good journalist, Bet. She’ll research the article thoroughly…” He paused, running his fingers through his thatch of fair hair.
“And why shouldn’t she?” Bet sat on the corner of her desk, watching him intently.
He reached the end of his trajectory across her carpet, and, turning to face her, he leaned against the wall, arms folded, his face worried. “If I tell you, I’m betraying a confidence.”
“If you don’t tell me, there’s no way I’d ever consider stopping the article.”
He shrugged. “You’re a hard bitch, Bet. Okay. But keep this under your hat or you’ll make it far worse for Jo. I happen to know that she is what is called a deep trance subject—that means if she gets hypnotized herself she’s likely to get into trouble. She volunteered in the psychology lab at the university when she was a student. My brother Sam was doing a PhD there and witnessed it. They were researching regression techniques as part of a medical program. She completely flipped. Jo doesn’t know anything about it—they did that business of ‘you won’t remember when you wake up’ on her, but Sam told me the professor in charge of the project had never seen such a dramatic reaction. Only very few people are quite that susceptible. She nearly died, Bet.”
Bet picked up a pencil and began to chew the end of it, her eyes fixed on his face. “Are you serious?”
“Never more so.”
“But that’s fantastic, Nick! Think of the article she’ll produce!”
“Christ, Bet!” Nick flung himself away from the wall and slammed his fist on the desk in front of her. “Can’t you see, she mustn’t do it?”
“No, I don’t see. Jo’s no fool, Nick. She won’t take any risks. If she knows—”
“But she doesn’t know.” His voice had risen angrily. “I’ve asked her about it and she remembers nothing. Nothing. I’ve told her I think it’s
dangerous to meddle with hypnosis—which it is—but she laughs at me. Being her, if she thinks I’m against it she’s keener to do it than ever. She thinks everything I say is hokum. Please, Bet. Just this once, take my word for it. When she brings the idea to you, squash it.”
“I’ll think about it.” Bet reached for another cigarette. “Now if you’ll forgive me I should be at a meeting downstairs.” She smiled at him sweetly. “Did you know we were running a review of Judy Curzon’s exhibition, by the way? She’ll be pleased with it, I think. Pete Leveson wrote it, so the publicity should be good.”
He glared at her. “It’s a damn good exhibition.” He reached out for the doorknob. “Bet—”
“I said I’d think about it, Nick.”
She sat gazing at the desk in front of her for several minutes after he had left. Then she reached down to the bag that lay on the carpet at her feet and brought out Jo’s sheaf of notes. The paragraph on hypnotic regression was right on top. Glancing through it, she smiled. Then she put the notes into the top drawer of her desk and locked it.
2
As Jo let herself into her flat she automatically stopped and listened. Then, throwing down her bag, she turned and closed the door behind her, slipping the deadlock into place; she had not really thought Nick might be there.
She went into the kitchen and plugged in the kettle. It was only for those few minutes when she first came in that she missed him: the clutter that surrounded him of cast-off jackets, papers, half-smoked cigarettes, and the endlessly playing radio. She shook her head, reaching into the refrigerator for the coffee beans. “No way, Nicholas,” she said out loud. “You just get out from under my skin!”
On the table in the living room was a heap of books and papers. She pushed them aside to make room for her coffee cup and went to throw open the tall French windows that led onto the balcony which overlooked Cornwall Gardens. The scent of honeysuckle flooded the room from the plant, which trailed over the stone balustrade.