Table Of ContentContents
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
The Main Characters
Prologue
The Year Before
PART ONE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
PART TWO
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
PART THREE
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
ALSO BY PENNY VINCENZI
Copyright
For my four daughters, Polly, Sophie, Emily, and Claudia, for every
possible kind of help and support in a very long year.
Acknowledgements
I have been bothering even more people than usual in my quest for background
information for Sheer Abandon; the book covers a rather large landscape. First
of all, I would like to thank the many people who had been abandoned or
adopted or given their own babies up and who shared their experiences with me
so generously; and then the politicos, as I think of them, both MPs and political
journalists, all of whom made the workings of the House of Commons feel both
wonderfully intriguing and almost comprehensible; the lawyers and medics who
answered all my questions so patiently; and of course everyone who shared their
memories and experiences of traveling and backpacking with me.
I am very, very grateful to all those wonderful people at Hodder Headline who
published the book so brilliantly in the UK; and to Tim Hely Hutchinson for
welcoming me so warmly into the Headline fold.
And so much gratitude to Steve Rubin, publishing supremo, who has
welcomed me equally warmly into Doubleday and the US fold; and everyone
Over There who is publishing me with such inspired passion. Most notably,
Deborah Futter, my editor, whose enthusiasm is a total joy; Dianne Choie, who
keeps the nuts and bolts neatly lined up; and Alison Rich, who is making sure
everyone the length and breadth of the United States knows about the book.
Huge thanks to Clare Alexander, my wonderfully supportive agent, and in
memoriam Desmond Elliott, so well known on both sides of the Atlantic and
who looked after me and my books for so long and is, I am sure, now brokering
astounding deals at the great publishing lunch in the sky.
And, finally, my husband, Paul, so unfailingly there for me, so swift to
respond to my frequent wails of despair, and so unselfishly ready to share in my
(rather rarer) whoops of delight.
As always, in retrospect, it looks like a lot of fun. And I think it really was.
The Main Characters
JOCASTA FORBES, a dazzling tabloid reporter NICK MARSHALL,
Jocasta’s political-journalist boyfriend CHRIS POLLOCK, their editor
CARLA GIANNINI, a fashion editor
JOSH FORBES, Jocasta’s slightly hapless brother BEATRICE FORBES,
Josh’s barrister wife HARRY AND CHARLIE, their small daughters
GIDEON KEEBLE, a retailing billionaire and political benefactor AISLING
CARLINGFORD, one of Gideon’s ex-wives FIONNUALA, their teenage
daughter
CLIO GRAVES, née Scott, a charming and clever doctor JEREMY
GRAVES, her overbearing surgeon husband ARTEMIS AND ARIADNE,
her sisters
MARTHA HARTLEY, a brilliant corporate lawyer PAUL QUENELL, her
boss ED FORREST, Martha’s lover PETER HARTLEY, Martha’s father, a
vicar GRACE HARTLEY, his wife
KATE TARRANT, a beautiful teenager, abandoned at birth HELEN AND
JIM TARRANT, her adoptive parents JULIET, Kate’s sister JILLY
BRADFORD, Kate and Juliet’s glamourous grandmother SARAH, Kate’s
best friend NAT TUCKER, Kate’s boyfriend
JACK KIRKLAND, a politician and leader of the Centre Forward Party
MARCUS DENNING, CHAD LAWRENCE, and ELIOT GRIERS, all
prominent members of Parliament JANET FREAN, a dynamic having-it-all
politician BOB FREAN, her husband
FERGUS TREHEARN, a public relations consultant
Prologue
AUGUST 1986
People didn’t have babies on aeroplanes. They just didn’t.
Well—well, actually they did. And then it was all over the newspapers.
“Gallant aircrew deliver bouncing boy,” it said, or words to that effect, and
then went on to describe the mother of the bouncing boy in some detail. Her
name, where she lived, how she had come to be in the situation in the first place.
Usually with a photograph of her with the bouncing boy and the gallant crew.
So that wasn’t an option.
She couldn’t have a baby on an aeroplane.
Ignore the pain. Not nearly bad enough, anyway. Probably indigestion. Of
course: indigestion. Cramped up here, with her vast stomach compressed into
what must be the smallest space in the history of aviation for what?—seven
hours now. Yes, definitely indigestion…
Didn’t completely solve the situation though. She was still having a baby. Any
day—any hour, even. And would be having it in England now instead of safely
—safely?—in Bangkok.
That had been the plan.
But the days had gone by and become a week, and then two, and the date, the
wonderfully safe date of her flight, three weeks after the birth, had got nearer
and nearer. She’d tried to change it; but she had an Apex seat; she’d lose the
whole fare, they explained very nicely. Have to buy a new ticket.
She couldn’t. She absolutely couldn’t. She had no money left, and she’d
carefully shed the few friends she’d made over the past few months, so there was
no danger of them noticing.
Noticing that she wasn’t just overweight but that she had, under the Thai
fishermen’s trousers and huge shirts she wore, a stomach the size of a very large
pumpkin.
(The people at the check-in hadn’t noticed either, thank God; had looked at
her, standing there, hot and tired and sweaty, and seen simply a very overweight
girl in loose and grubby clothing.) So there was no one to borrow from; no one
to help. The few hundred she had left were needed for rent. As it turned out, an
extra three weeks’ rent. She’d tried all the things she’d heard were supposed to
help. Had swallowed a bottleful of castor oil, eaten some strong curry, gone for
long walks up and down the hot crowded streets, feeling sometimes a twinge, a
throb, and hurried back, desperate to have it over, only to relapse into her static,
whalelike stupor.
And now she had—indigestion. God! No. Not indigestion. This was no
indigestion. This searing, tugging, violent pain. Invading her, pushing at the very
walls of the pumpkin. She bit her lip, clenched her fists, her nails digging into
her palms. If this was the beginning, what would the end be like?
The boy sitting next to her, as grubby and tired as she, whose friendliness
she’d rejected coldly as they settled into their seats, frowned as she moved
about, trying to escape the pain, her bulk invading his space.
“Sorry,” she said. And then it faded again, the pain, disappeared back where it
had come from, somewhere in the centre of the pumpkin. She lay back, wiped a
tissue across her damp forehead.
Not indigestion. And three hours to go.
“You OK?” The boy was looking at her, concern mixed with distaste.
“Yes. Fine. Thanks.”
He turned away.
