Lady of Hay: An enduring classic – gripping, atmospheric and utterly compelling

‘No. No, Nick, it’s too risky. I could do it perhaps, but not you. Hell! I can’t postpone this trip. Can you get her to wait until I get back? It’s only a week, then I’ll fly direct to London and have a chat with her about it. Stall her till then, OK?’

‘Are you saying she’ll go off her head or something if she’s regressed again?’

‘I’m just saying don’t let her do it.’

‘I’ll try and stop her.’ Nick grimaced to himself. ‘But you know Jo. Once she gets the bit between her teeth …’

‘Nick, it’s important.’ Sam’s voice was very serious. ‘I may be wrong, but I suspect that there is a whole volcano simmering away in her unconscious. I discussed it with Michael Cohen dozens of times – he always wanted to get her back, you know, but I persuaded him in the end that it was too dangerous. The fact remains that her heart and breathing stopped – stopped, Nick. No, it is not just a case of going off her head as you put it. If that happened again and someone didn’t know how to handle it – well, I don’t have to spell it out, do I? It must not happen again. And just warning her is no good. If you were to tell her about it, cold, after post-hypnotic suggestion that she forget the episode, she either won’t believe you – that’s the most likely – or, and this is the risk, she may suffer some kind of trauma or relapse or find she can’t cope with the memory. You must make her wait, Nick, till I get there.’

‘OK, Sam. Thanks for the advice. I’ll do my best. The trouble is, she’s not talking to me.’

Sam laughed. ‘I’m not surprised when you’re in another woman’s bed.’

Putting down the phone Nick went into the kitchen and lit the gas under the kettle. A motorbike roared up the street below, a lonely sound in the silence, and he shivered, keeping his eyes on the friendly blue flame.

‘So. Why do you have to discuss Jo Clifford with your brother for half an hour in the middle of the night?’

He turned guiltily to see Judy, wearing a tightly belted bathrobe, standing in the doorway.

‘Judy –’

‘Yes. Judy! Judy’s bed. Judy’s flat. Judy’s fucking phone!’

‘Honey.’ Nick went to her and put his hands on her shoulders. ‘It’s nothing to do with you – with us. It’s just … well.’ He groped for words. ‘Sam’s a doctor.’

‘Sam’s a psychiatrist.’ She drew in her breath sharply. ‘You mean there is something wrong with Jo?’

Nick grinned as casually as he could. ‘Not like that. Not so’s you’d notice, anyway. Look, Judy. Sam is going to come and have a chat to her, that’s all. Hell, he’s known her for about fifteen years – Sam introduced her to me in the first place. She likes Sam and she trusts him. I had to talk to him tonight because he’s going to Switzerland tomorrow. There is no more to it than that. He’s going to help her with an article she’s working on.’

She looked doubtful. ‘What has this got to do with you, then?’

‘Nothing. Except he’s my brother and I’d like to think she is still a friend.’

Something in his expression made her bite back the sarcastic retort which hovered in the air. ‘Is that coffee you’re making?’ she asked lamely. She gave a small, lost smile.

Nick resisted the impulse to take her in his arms. ‘Sure, then we must get some sleep. I’ve an early start at the office.’

At his desk the next morning Nick pressed the button on the phone. ‘Jane? Get Jo Clifford for me at her flat.’ He gnawed his thumbnail, staring down at the heap of papers on his desk. The intercom buzzed. ‘Sorry, Nick. There’s no reply.’

‘Damn. Thanks, Jane. Can you keep trying every now and again?’ He glanced at his watch. It was after nine and Sam was already on his way to Basel.

Her flat remained empty all day. At eight he drove to Judy’s studio in Finborough Road. He knew it would cause trouble if he rang again from there but that could not be helped. He rang four times in the course of the evening and checked once with the exchange to see if her phone was out of order. Then, angry with her and himself, he gave up.

Judy was sulking. She had grudgingly opened a can of soup which they shared in silence, then returned to her huge abstract canvas. The light was too poor to paint, but she studied it for a long time, her thin shoulders hunched defensively, refusing to look at him.

He went to her and, putting his arms around her, cupped her small breasts in his hands. He kissed the back of her neck.

‘You know why I’m trying to reach her, Judy.’

She nodded without speaking. Then she turned and put her arms round his neck. ‘I can’t help it, Nick. I love you so much. I’m sorry.’

He kissed her gently. ‘You’re a silly child, Judy. Now, come to bed and I’ll tell you about a party we’re going to next week.’

He could not bring himself to say he loved her.

Next morning she still had not told him whether she was prepared to go to the party. He was watching her as she stood before a large canvas, once more lost in thought, a slim, small red-haired figure dressed in a man’s shirt and torn paintstained jeans. Her feet were bare. She turned away from it at last wiping her fingers on a rag. ‘I really don’t want to go. For one thing Jo will be there.’

He frowned. ‘It’s important, Judy. There will be other people there too for God’s sake. People with influence. You need the exposure, love.’ He grinned suddenly and moving towards her took hold of her shirt, a hand on each lapel, drawing her towards him until she was pressed against his chest. ‘You need a lot of exposure, Judy.’ She stopped him as his fingers began working at her buttons, and pulled away, shaking her hair out of her eyes. ‘No, Nick. Not now. I want to work.’

She padded across to the mantelpiece and picked up a newspaper cutting. ‘Did you see this?’

He took it from her, frowning. Then he laughed. ‘But Judy that’s great. Pete Leveson’s column is publicity with a capital P. You’ve arrived, kid!’ He dropped a kiss on the tangle of red hair.

She was staring down at the clipping in her hand, frowning. ‘Did you ask him to write about me?’

Nick was watching her with something like tenderness. His blue eyes narrowed quizzically, and he grinned. ‘No one tells Pete Leveson what to write. Many have tried. He’s been offered bribes before, but it doesn’t work. No. If you’re there, you’re there on your own merit.’

She still looked unhappy. ‘He was very close to Jo once, wasn’t he?’

‘They went around together.’ Nick agreed cautiously. ‘They both worked for W I A.’

‘So she might have said something –’

‘She might but I hardly think it’s likely under the circumstances.’ He turned and went to stare out of the large uncurtained window, onto a vista of fire escapes and back windows beyond long depressing gardens strung with washing. ‘Look, Judy, do you mind if we drop the subject? If you are going to work some more on that painting I’ll clear out. I’ve got things to do back home.’

She bit her lip, cursing herself silently for mentioning Jo’s name. ‘See you tonight maybe?’ she said. ‘I’ll cook if you like.’ That at least was something Jo couldn’t do, or so she had gathered from Nick’s oblique remarks.

He laughed. ‘That’s an offer you know I can’t resist. OK. I’ll be back around eight.’ He put his arm around her shoulder and gave her an affectionate squeeze. ‘I’ll bring us some wine.’

He ran down the four flights of dingy stairs to the front door and pulled it open over the detritus of old leaflets and letters that habitually littered the bare floor behind it. He detested Judy’s studio, the shabby rundown house with its dark stair-well that always smelled of cooking and stale urine, the noisy dirty street where scraps of old paper drifted over the pavement and wrapped themselves around the area railings. Every time he left his Porsche there he expected to find someone had stolen the wheels or carved their name across the gleaming bonnet. As he eased himself into the driving seat he was frowning. It irritated him that she was so attached to the studio. It made no sense now she was becoming successful.

As he drew away from the kerb he glanced back up at the terrace of houses. Her dusty windows gleamed curtainless in the sun, the bottom half of the sash thrown up, the box of geraniums which he had wired to the sill for her a defiant splash of colour in the uniformly drab façade. When he turned back to squint through the tinted windscreen he had already put her out of his mind.

He was a relaxed driver, his elbow resting casually on the lowered glass of the window, his hand gentle on the wheel as he leaned forward to slot in a cassette while the car crawled along the Brompton Road then north up Gloucester Road.

He frowned again as he drew up at the lights. Her phone still wasn’t answering that morning. ‘Get the hell out, Nick,’ Jo had said. ‘I’m my own woman. I don’t belong to you. I just don’t want to see you any more …’

He drummed his fingers on the steering-wheel, undecided, and glanced at his watch.

The empty parking meter outside her flat decided him. Swinging her latch keys he made for the pillared porch which supported her balcony, glancing up to see the window open wide beneath its curtain of honeysuckle as he let himself in.

‘Jo?’ As the flat door swung open he stuck his head round it and looked in. ‘Jo, are you there?’

She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, the typewriter on the low coffee table in front of her, dressed in jeans and a floppy turquoise sweater, her long dark hair caught back with a silk scarf. She did not appear to hear him.

He studied her face for a moment, the slim arched brows, the dark lashes which hid her eyes as she looked down at the page before her, the high planes of the cheek-bones and the delicately shaped mouth set off by the severe lines of the scarf – the face of a beautiful woman who would grow more beautiful as she grew older – and he found he was comparing it with Judy’s girlish prettiness. He pushed the door shut behind him with a click.

‘I’ll have that key back before you go,’ she said without looking up.