‘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. OK. 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 hypnotised herself she’s likely to get into trouble. She volunteered in the psychology lab at 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 programme. 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 this week, 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 which 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.
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 of cast-off jackets, papers, half-smoked cigarettes and the endlessly playing radio that surrounded him. She shook her head, reaching into the fridge 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.
When the phone rang she actually jumped.
It was Tim Heacham. ‘Jo? I’ve fixed up for us to go and see my mate Bill Walton.’
‘Tim, you’re an angel. When and where?’ She groped for the pad and pencil.
‘Six fifteen Thursday, at Church Road, Richmond. I’m coming with you and I’ll bring my Brownie.’
She laughed. ‘Thanks, I’ll see you at your party first.’
‘You and someone. OK, Jo. Must go.’
Tim always hurried on the phone. No time for preliminaries or goodbyes.
A broad strip of sunlight lay across the fawn carpet in front of the window, bringing with it the sounds of the London afternoon – the hum of traffic, the shouts of children playing in the gardens, the grinding monotony of a cement mixer somewhere. Reaching for her cup Jo subsided onto the carpet, stretching out her long legs in front of her as she flipped through the address book she had taken from the table, and brought the phone down to rest on her knee as she dialled Pete Leveson’s number.
‘Pete? It’s Jo.’
‘Well, well.’ The laconic voice on the other end of the wire feigned astonishment. ‘And how is the beautiful Joanna?’
‘Partnerless for a party. Do you want to come?’
‘Whose?’
‘Tim Heacham.’
There was a pause on the other end of the line. ‘I would be honoured of course. Do I gather that Nick is once more out of favour?’
‘That’s right.’
Pete laughed. ‘OK, Jo. But let me take you out to dinner first. How is work going?’
‘Interesting. Have you heard of a chap called Bill Walton, Pete?’ Her glance had fallen to the notepad in front of her.
‘I don’t think so. Should I?’
‘He hypnotises people and regresses them into their past lives.’ She kept her voice carefully neutral. To her surprise he didn’t laugh.
‘Therapeutically or for fun?’
‘Therapeutically?’ she echoed incredulously. ‘Don’t tell me it’s considered good for you!’ She glanced across at the heap of books and articles which formed the basis of her researches. Half of them were still unread.
‘As a matter of fact it is. Fascinating topic.’ Pete’s voice faded a moment as if he had looked away from the phone, then it came back strongly. ‘This is work I take it? I was just looking for a phone number. You remember David Simmons? His sister works for a hypnotherapist who uses regression techniques to cure people’s phobias. I’ll tell you about it if you’re interested.’
It was one thirty in the morning when the phone rang, the bell echoing through the empty studio. Judy Curzon sat up in bed with a start, her red hair
