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

‘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 coffee pot.

Bet waited until he had withdrawn.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 boarding-house. 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 centre 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 emphasising 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 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 pavements, where people dawdled over their coffee. In England, she thought affectionately, the sun makes people smile; that was good. In a hot climate it drives 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 round, wondering if Tim had forgotten, but he was there, alone, in shirtsleeves, reclining on the velvet chaise-longue which was one of his favourite 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 champers.’

Jo threw her bag on the floor and headed for the kitchenette next to one of the darkrooms. ‘Coffee, thanks. I’ll make it. Are you sober, Tim?’

He raised his eyebrows, hurt. ‘When am I not?’

‘Frequently. I’ve 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.’

‘Ah, another great exposé for Women in A!’ He put the can down with exaggerated care and placed his fist on his right breast as though about to take an oath. ‘The Leith Police Dismisseth Us! There. Right first time. Not a milligram over the limit. Fit to drive a beautiful lady reporter-person anywhere, any time. Reporting for duty, ma’am!’ He grinned. ‘Better give me coffee too, though, just in case. I’ve just been spurned by a little corker of a dolly. Old enough to be her father, she said I was.’ He pulled a mournful face.

Jo reappeared with two mugs of black Nescafé. ‘How old are you, Tim?’

‘Guess.’

She put her head on one side. ‘Pushing fifty I’d say.’

He groaned, clutching at his head. ‘The bitch. She sees my soul and not my body. Actually I’m forty-two next Wednesday. You and Nick must come to my party. Ouch. What have I said?’

He slumped once more onto the couch and held out his hand for the coffee.

‘Not me and Nick.’ She sat down beside him. ‘Separately if you like. Together. Not.’

‘Sorry. When did it happen?’

‘A couple of days ago, going on a couple of years. Forget it, Tim. It’s not important. I want to talk business.’

‘Always the hard worker, our Jo.’ He glanced at her, completely attentive suddenly. ‘OK. Fire. What do you want? A series for W I A you say. Is it going to be colour or are we going for black and white?’

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 specially. 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 hypnotised 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 chap 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 someone 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 smiled gleefully. ‘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 chap.’

Jo nodded. ‘Please, Tim. I’m genned up 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. ‘OK, 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 sat back on the low, cord sofa and stared at the girl’s legs. They were long, crossed at the ankle; he could see where the stacked heel on her left shoe was scuffed. His eyes travelled up the desk and across the typewriter, to where her face, hidden by two curtains of blonde hair, stared down at the work she was copying, her red painted nails clicking irritatingly on the keys as she worked. It was already three fifteen. The phone on her desk buzzed and she picked it up, placing it automatically between her shoulder and chin so she need not stop typing.

‘Right Miss Gunning.’ She barely raised her eyes as she tipped the receiver back onto its cradle. ‘You can go in now,’ she said to Nick.

‘Thanks.’ He levered himself from the seat and strode across to the door.

Bet was standing at the window of her office, staring down at the river eleven storeys below as she lit a cigarette. A pleasure steamer was plodding up the centre of the tideway, its bows creaming against the full force of water as it plied from Westminster Pier towards 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 rang?’

‘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.’

‘I’m not?’

‘Jim Greerson’s been handling that one.’ She turned and pushed the window open further. Below on the river the boat hooted twice as it disappeared under Blackfriars Bridge. ‘Unless you’ve sacked your best partner.’

‘OK. So I’ve come to ask you a favour. As a friend.’

She narrowed her eyes against the glare off the water and said, without turning round, ‘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 favours 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 which 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. 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.

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 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 tousled. ‘Dear God, who is it at this hour?’

Nick groaned and rolled over, reaching for her. ‘Ignore it. It’s a wrong number.’

But she was already pulling herself out of bed. Standing up with a yawn she snatched the sheet off him and, wrapping it round her, she fumbled her way to the lamp. ‘It never is a wrong number at this hour of the morning. I expect someone is dead.’ She pushed through the bedroom door and into the studio.

Nick lay back, running his fingers through his hair, listening. He could hear the distant murmur of her voice. Then there was silence. She appeared in the doorway. ‘It’s your bloody brother from Edinburgh. He says you left a message for him to ring, however late.’

Nick groaned again. ‘I spent most of yesterday trying to reach him. Sorry, Judy.’

‘Sam? Where the hell have you been all day?’

‘Out.’ Sam’s voice echoed down the receiver. ‘I wasn’t sure where to reach you. When I couldn’t get a reply at your flat I thought I’d better try the abode of the latest belle. She did not sound pleased to speak to me.’

‘Can you blame her?’ Nick glanced at the bedroom door, which stood ajar, and wished he had closed it. ‘Sam, can I speak to you tomorrow from the office?’

‘No chance. Sorry, Nick. If it’s that important, talk now. I’m flying to Basel at eight tomorrow – no, this morning. If I live.’ He coughed loudly.

Nick swore under his breath. ‘Hold on a minute, Sam.’ He put down the phone and padded across the floor.

‘Judy love, shall I close the door, then I won’t disturb you.’

She was in bed, lying back on the pillow, the sheet drawn up to her waist, her breasts bare. She smiled, trying to hide her irritation. ‘I’ll fall asleep if you do.’

Nick grinned. ‘I can always wake you.’ He shut the door and went back to the phone. Picking up the receiver again he spoke quietly. ‘Sam? Can you hear me? It’s about Jo. I need your advice.’

There was a chuckle from the other end. ‘In bed with one and in love with the other. I’d say you need my advice badly.’

‘Shut up and listen. It’s about this hypnosis business. She’s set on writing an article on hypnotic regression. Of all things to pick out of the air. I’m pretty sure she means to try it again. What do I do?’

There was a moment’s silence. He heard Sam sigh. ‘That’s a tricky one, Nick. As I told you she is dangerously susceptible. Someone who reacts as violently as she does under hypnosis can be potentially in a lot of trouble in the hands of an inexperienced practitioner. In fact, in any hands. You really have to dissuade her.’

‘She won’t listen to me. Can I tell her what happened to her last time?’

‘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.’