All she’d done was sigh. And it had been a very small, quiet sigh… she’d thought. That nobody could possibly have heard. But that’s what had done it. Had launched her into this dangerously stupid, totally wrong, and wonderfully right-feeling thing where every day, every minute was amazing and shiny, where everyone, however dull or unpleasant, seemed charming and amusing, where every task, however disagreeable or onerous, seemed engaging and fascinating. Where she felt calm and cool one moment, and dizzy and sparkly the next; where she looked in the mirror and smiled at herself; where she relived every conversation, every memory, every confidence, every sweet, small discovery, and yet still they seemed fresh and important and worthy of further examination still. Where she was, in a word… or rather two… in love. Absolutely, unquestioningly and for the time being, at least, most joyfully in love. And able to see that what she had felt for Luke had not been love at all; it had been finite, reasonable, entirely suitable in every way. How she felt about Barney was infinite, unreasonable, and entirely unsuitable; and it was the most important and defining thing that had ever happened to her.
He’d said he ought to go that afternoon, once he had seen Toby and knew he was all right. And he’d told Emma that he really should get back to London; there was some really important client coming in the next day, demanding to see the whole team, and Barney had work to do before then. Emma nodded and said yes, of course, and that she’d keep an eye on Toby but she was sure he’d be fine and would probably go home in a few more days.
From which viewpoint-one from which she and Barney would never see each other again-everything looked suddenly rather bleak. Which was ridiculous, because he had Amanda and she had Luke and…
“Yes, I see,” said Barney. “Well, that’s excellent news. Good. Thank you again, Emma. Couldn’t have got through the day without you.”
“Of course you could,” she said, smiling.
And, “No,” he said, “no, I couldn’t. Not any of it, actually.” And he bent and kissed her lightly on the cheek and said, “Bye, then,” and turned away; and that was when she’d sighed and he’d heard it and turned back to her and there was a brief silence, and then he said, “Emma, could I… that is, well, could I buy you a drink? Just to say thank-you for all your help and support today. And all the other days. I’d like to, very much. But if you’re working, of course, or you’ve got something else on…”
“No,” she said, “no, no, I’m not. Working. Not after six, anyway. And I haven’t got anything on. No.”
“So… does that mean yes?”
“Yes. I mean, it does mean yes. Thank you. That’d be great. Yes.”
And wondered if he realised as clearly as she did what he had asked and what she was saying yes to.
They had had a drink in a pub she had suggested. It was a lovely evening; they sat outside and chatted. Slightly awkwardly. Quite awkwardly, actually. Both knowing why. She should have said no. She shouldn’t have sighed.
After a bit he said he should go; and she said she should go; and they got back into Barney’s car and drove back to the hospital, so that Emma could pick up her car.
“Well,” she said, “that was very nice, Barney. Thank you. And… don’t worry about Toby anymore.”
And she smiled and she certainly didn’t sigh. Mistake, the whole going-for-a-drink thing. Big mistake.
Barney remembered the next few moments for the rest of his life. Watching her smile, open the door, swing one long leg out of it. And feeling a rush of sheer and shocking panic. She was going, the moment was passing, the day was over, the excuse almost gone. Well… good. He was engaged, she was… well, probably nearly engaged. What was he doing even thinking what he was thinking?
He put out his hand onto her arm. Her thin, brown arm. Which was warm and felt… well, felt wonderful. She looked at him, startled; then down at his hand and then back at his face. Her eyes, those huge blue eyes, meeting his. It was fatal, awful. “Don’t go,” he said. “But, Barney…”
“Please don’t go. I don’t want you to go.” And then, very quietly: “I don’t want to go either.” He put the car in gear, drove very fast out of the car park, down the road, towards Cirencester. He knew the whole area extremely well. Knew where there were lanes, quiet lanes, with gateways into fields where you could stop. And park. And turn to someone. And kiss them. Over and over again. And feel them kissing you back.
Later he said, “I knew, you know; I knew the minute I saw you.”
“Me too. ‘There he is,’ I thought, ‘there’s the One.’”
“And then what did you think?”
“I thought, ‘Oh shit.’ I said, ‘Oh shit.’”
“I thought the same. I thought, ‘There she is.’ And then I thought, ‘Oh, fuck.’ I said, ‘Oh, fuck.’”
“Because it’s rubbish, isn’t it? All that?”
“Course it is.”
“I mean, I’ve got Luke.”
“And I’ve got Amanda. I’m engaged to Amanda. Who’s…”
“Who’s beautiful. And so nice, I can tell.”
“Beautiful and so nice. But I don’t seem to love her. Not like I thought I did.”
“And then there’s Luke. Who’s such a dude and so nice. But I don’t seem to love him either. So… what do we do?”
“Explore it a bit,” said Barney. “We have to; it’s the only thing to do.”
They did; they explored each other. But quickly. One long evening, talking, talking, talking. One long night, making love, hardly sleeping, in Emma’s flat. One long day, walking, talking, kissing, worrying; another evening talking, and one hurried, wonderfully awful fuck in a room at the hospital.
Like all lovers, they developed jokes, codes, secrets.
“Thanks for calling” meant “I can’t talk now;”
“Maybe tomorrow” meant “I miss you;”
“My pleasure” meant “I love you.”
And every time, every meeting led them nearer to being sure that this relationship, shared between them, was the one that mattered, and the other ones could not go on; and almost equally sure that they wanted to spend the rest of their lives together.
What must it be like to be one of these people? Freeman thought, looking at the obvious trappings of wealth, on display even here, in this hospital cubicle: the laptop, the iPod, the silver-framed photographs by his bed, the huge plate of grapes, the box of chocolates from Fortnum & Mason, the pile of new hardbacks…
To know that if you wanted something you could almost certainly have it? To have gone to the best schools, the best universities, to have no doubt travelled widely, to drive the best cars, to wear the best clothes?
Pretty bloody good, he supposed (having known little of any of those things), but did it make you happy? Did it create a conscience? Or did it make you arrogant, ruthless, greedy for more?
“Sergeant Freeman, do sit down.”
He gestured at the chair by his bed.
“Glad you’re feeling better, sir. And that your leg is mending.”
“Not as glad as I am. Still bloody painful, though, I can tell you. I should be home in another day or two. Thank God. Er… I thought there were going to be two of you?”
“There are, sir. Constable Rowe is on his way. Shouldn’t be more than a few minutes. Ah, here he is now.”
They went through the formalities, the reasons for choosing the M4, the exact location of the church, the late departure… “I wasn’t too well-seemed to have picked up a stomach bug, kept throwing up. All you need on your wedding day!”
“Not a hangover then, sir?”
“Lord, no, we hardly had anything the night before. Well, Barney had a few; I simply wasn’t feeling up to it.”
He was cheerfully up-front about being stopped by the police:
“Barney was driving, of course, going a hell of a lick, but then, we were very late. If we hadn’t been stopped, we’d have made it in time. Still… even bridegrooms aren’t above the law, I suppose, Sergeant?”
“Indeed not, sir. But… you did also have to stop for petrol, I believe?”
“Yes, we did. And I… well, I had to go to the loo again.”
“But… you didn’t need anything else, no oil, anything like that?”
“No, no, just the fuel.”
“Although… the CCTV shows you in a queue for the air line.”
“Ah, yes. Yes, we did… That is, we were… there.”
“Were you worried about the tyres, sir? Did you have any reason to think they needed checking?”
“No, no, in fact, they were new tyres. I was just being careful.”
“Very wise. So you didn’t think one might be soft, something like that? Which could, of course, have contributed to the blowout.”
“No, nothing like that. I just thought we should check them.”
“Even though you were so late?”
“Well… yes.”
“I see. Well… we may be mistaken, but again, according to the CCTV, you drove away… apparently… without doing so.”
He was a good actor; he didn’t look remotely rattled.
“Ah. Well… well, maybe we did. I… I went in to pay for the fuel, you see. It was all a bit of a blur. We were pretty stressed out, as you can imagine.”
“Indeed. But… try to remember, sir, it could be important.”
“Yes, I suppose it could. Yes. Look, I… I don’t want to get anyone into trouble. The thing is… Barney… you know my best man, Barney Fraser? Did he… did he explain about what happened?”
“Not as far as I can recall, sir, no.”
“Ah. Well, actually, you see, I… I did want to check the tyres. As I said. But he was so worried about how late we were… Well, it was his main duty, after all, to get me to the church on time… Anyway, he said there wasn’t time to check them, that we couldn’t wait, that they’d be fine, persuaded me to carry on…”
“Perhaps you didn’t see the latest report from Forensics?” said Constable Rowe as they drove down the lane. “The one that came in last week, while you were away, about the fragment of tyre with the nail in it?”
“Oh, yes,” said Freeman. “I saw it. Very interesting.”
“But… if that was the cause of the blowout, as Forensics seems to think, what was all that about whether or not he checked the tyre pressures?”
“There have to be some perks in this job, Rowe,” said Freeman, “and seeing little shits like that squirm is one of them.”
It was a great pity, as Linda Di-Marcello remarked, that Georgia looked like she did and did what she did. The tabloids all tracked her down, and there were two or three nightmare days when the story ran in most of them. Her hauntingly lovely little face, with its great dark eyes and wayward cloud of hair, sat above the caption, “M4 Mystery Girl,” or in some cases, “M4 Mystery Girl Found,” and then informed the reader not only that the mystery girl in the lorry was Georgia Linley from Cardiff, but that she was an actress who had just won a part in a new Channel Four drama and that she was on her way to her audition in London when the crash occurred.
There was a quote from Georgia, composed by Linda with damage limitation in mind, saying how sorry she was for any problems she might have caused, that she was unable to answer any questions about the crash because it was still under police investigation, that she had visited Patrick Connell in the hospital several times, that he was recovering well, and his wife and she had become great friends. All of which, as Linda also remarked, was true.
Just the same, it was acutely unpleasant for Georgia, and she continued to feel ashamed of herself, and, most of all, dreadfully anxious about starting work on Moving Away, and about how badly the other members of the production team might think of her.
Jonathan still felt he was living in a nightmare.
Even a call from that old goat Freeman, telling him that there was evidence that the crash appeared to have been due in large part to the lorry sustaining a shattered windscreen-why couldn’t these people speak proper English?-but that they were still gathering evidence, failed to make him feel much better. If they were still gathering evidence, then it could even now be seen as important that he’d been on the phone, and God knew where that could land him.
He looked back on his old life-years ago, as it seemed, rather than weeks-with its easy, pleasant patterns, with something near disbelief. He was often depressed, frequently nervous, his professional confidence shaken, his smooth charm roughened by weariness and self-doubt.
The whole household seemed on tenterhooks, no one easy, even the children; Charlie was edgy, less trustful, almost wary of him, the little girls awkward and fractious. Taking their emotional cues from their mother, he supposed, without realising it.
Laura had moved away from him; she was oddly self-contained, less hostile, but far from warm. They were sharing the marital bed once more, but it was as if she had drawn a barrier down it, holding him from her by sheer force of will. He felt she was biding her time, waiting for something to happen-she knew not what, only that she would recognise its significance and therefore whether or not their marriage was still viable.
And he could see that the danger of that something, while as yet nameless and formless, was still extremely real.
Abi had never been so happy. Day after day it went on, like some wonderful, long, golden summer. An absurd, sweet happiness, born of this absurd, sweet love affair. Absurd and so extremely unsuitable. For both of them…
It had begun in earnest that night in the farm office. Adjacent to the lambing shed.
Not many people had sex in farm offices adjacent to a lambing shed. Or not many people she knew, anyway. Well, nobody she knew. Maybe they did in the country. Life was certainly different there.
They’d met in the pub and he’d suggested they go to another one a couple of miles away: “Too many people here I know.”
“Are you ashamed to be seen with me, William?” she’d said.
And he’d blushed and said, “Of course not,” in tones of such horror that she’d laughed. “It’s just that we’ll be… well, you know, interrupted all the time.” And they’d driven to the other one in the Land Rover, and she’d had two vodkas and he’d had two beers and it had straightaway begun to get out of hand. Or rather she’d got out of hand. She just couldn’t stand it, sitting there, looking at him, with those bloody great feet of his, and his ridiculously sexy mouth… and she’d savoured that mouth now that she knew what it could do… and his eyes moving over her, looking at her cleavage and her legs… and she’d shifted her chair nearer him, and pushed one of her legs up against his, just because she wanted to touch him, even through those ridiculous trousers he’d worn-what were they called, cavalry twill or something? Really grossly old-fashioned-and then he’d said would she like another drink, and she’d said, “No, William, not really, thank you very much,” and he’d looked a bit nonplussed, and she’d said, “I tell you what I would like, William,” and he’d said, “What’s that?” looking slightly nervous, and she’d said, “I’d like to go out to the car,” and they’d sat in it and snogged rather deliciously for a while, and then she’d said… after he’d made it clear he wanted what she wanted, every bit as much, possibly even more, “I’d like to go back to your house. To your room,” and he’d been so horrified it had been quite funny.
“Abi, we can’t do that. I’m sorry. We just can’t. You’ve met my parents; can you really imagine them sitting calmly watching TV if they thought… if they knew… we were… Well, it just doesn’t happen. Honestly, if I tried, I’d be so… so… well, I wouldn’t be able to do it.”
She decided not to ask him what he’d done in the past, simply said, “Well, we have to find somewhere, William. I’d suggest going back to mine, but I don’t think I can wait that long…”
That was when he’d suggested the office.
It hadn’t been too bad, the office. It was away from the house, quite far away; they’d gone in his car down a long track, to part of what he called the lambing shed. Which was hardly a shed, but a huge building that could have housed half a dozen families. They went into it; the office was at the far end, a surprisingly clean, warm pair of rooms… “This is my bit, mine and Dad’s; the other’s for the farm secretary. She-”
“William, I don’t want to know about the farm secretary… Oh, God, can we just get on with it?”
He started to kiss her: that incredible style of kissing he had, slow and hard and sort of thoughtful; and while he did so, she managed to pull her dress off: all she was wearing under it was a pair of pants.
And then he’d started kissing her breasts in the same way, and then she’d pushed him down onto a sort of large couch thing, and… well, then it had all been totally incredible.
It seemed to go on for hours, wonderful, wild, noisy hours, as he worked on her body, made its sensations rise and fall, ease and tauten, as he moved slowly, then fast, then slowly again, pushed her to the edge, then pulled her back, as she felt everything with her head and her heart as well as her body, as he invaded every aspect of her, every capacity for pleasure she had, as she came, yelling with triumph, and then again and then, yes, yet again.
And now, nearly two weeks later, it was… well, it was absolutely great. They alternated between her place and one of the empty holiday cottages on the farm… He said he hadn’t thought of them before, and they were certainly more comfortable than the farm office. She didn’t mind William’s insistence that they only use candles in case his mother or the cowman who lived quite near them noticed the lights on and came to investigate; it seemed rather romantic. They cooked Ready Meals, usually curry, on the time-warp electric stoves, and drank some very indifferent wine and then had a lot of wonderful sex. She didn’t even mind the drive home at some point in the night; in fact, she rather liked it: the roads were clear, and she could play the radio and sing loudly along with it, and think about William and how sweet and funny he was and how much she loved being with him, and not just for the sex. Her only fear, and it was truly dark and dreadful, was that William would find out what she was really like.
Incredibly pushy, what that woman had done: calling the hospital, asking for his secretary, leaving a message, and then calling again before he’d even begun to think what to do about it. And then just… asking him out. No excuses, no, “I wanted to hear more about the Connells,” or, “I wondered if Georgia had helped as much as we hoped.” Simply, “This is Linda Di-Marcello here.”
He’d been completely taken aback just hearing from her.
“It was very nice meeting you on Sunday. I’ve been hearing so much about you from Georgia. Well, from Maeve Connell, really. And I wondered if you’d like to go to a show one night. I get tickets for pretty well everything, and I don’t know what sort of thing you like, but there’s a new musical previewing, based on The Canterbury Tales, supposed to be good, or there’s yet another Macbeth; take your pick. Oh, and what sounds huge fun at Sadler’s Wells if you like dance, sort of flamenco crossed with tap.”
“Well, I… That’s very kind. I’m not… well, I don’t like dance. Not too keen on Shakespeare…”
“Fine. Canterbury Tales then. The tickets are for Saturday week. Any good? And then we could have a meal afterwards.”
“I’m not… sure. I’ll have to check my rota. Can I… can I get back to you?”
“Of course.” She gave him her office number. He rang off sweating.
It was Francis who’d dared her to do it. She’d been telling him how the day had gone, how difficult Georgia had found it, how sweetly grateful Maeve had been, how much she thought they’d helped. And then threw in a little anecdote about Alex and how they’d had a spat over the phone and then made up in the car park.
“He turned out to be quite… quite sweet. Apparently he’s going through a hideous divorce, Georgia informed me. She got all the goss from Maeve Connell.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Well, I’d be on the wife’s side, I think. He’s clearly very arrogant. Sexy, though. Nice smile. Which, of course, isn’t enough to keep a marriage together. I should know.”
“Sexy, eh? Your type?”
“No, of course not. Well… maybe. Dark and brooding.”
“Maybe you should ask him out.”
“Oh, don’t be so ridiculous, Francis.”
“Why is it so ridiculous? Or is this not the woman who sat and moaned through an entire evening that she was lonely and longed for a man?”
“Not very seriously.”
“I’d say pretty seriously. Actually.” There was a pause; then he said, “I dare you, Linda. To ask him out. What have you got to lose?”
“My dignity.”
“What’s so great about dignity? Doesn’t warm the other side of the bed. Go on. You ask him out; I’ll pay for everything when we go to Bilbao.”
“Really? First-class, five-star?”
“Yup. Promise.”
She was silent, considering this; then she said, “All right. You’re on. I’ll ask him. Is that all I have to do?”
“Well… and take him out if he says yes.”
“He won’t say yes.”
It was Amy who’d made him accept. Dared him to accept. He got home that night and found her watching Sex and the City instead of doing her homework, and switched the TV off. She glared at him.
“First Mum, now you.”
“Where is Mum?”
“She’s gone out with Larry.” She avoided his eyes. Both she and Adam adored both their parents, patently found the breakup painful. “He looked so ridiculous; he’s such a medallion man. They were going to some concert or other. Duran Duran. I mean, please. Good thing you don’t go out on dates, Dad.”
“And how do you know I don’t?”
“Well… you’re too old. For a start. I mean, much older than Mum.”
He was stung. “Not that much. Thanks, Amy. And actually, and just for your information, I was asked on a date today.”
“What? An actual date? Not some medical lecture?”
“An actual date.”
“By?”
“By some woman I met.”
“How long have you known her?”
“I don’t, really. We only met a few days ago.”
“Dad! Dad, that is… what’s her name? What’s she do?”
“Her name is Linda Martello. Something like that. And she’s a theatrical agent.”
“God! No kidding. Is she as old as you?”
“No. Not quite.”
“Good-looking?”
“Yes, I would say so.”
“And she’s asked you out?”
“Yes. To some play and then to dinner.”
“That is so cool. Are you going?”
“No, of course not.”
“Why not?”
“Well… because… because I don’t particularly like her. I’d have nothing to say to her.”
Amy sat studying him; then she said, “I dare you. I dare you to go out with her. She sounds really cool. And she could be a big help in my career on the stage. And it might be fun. Your life is so not fun. I really think you should.”
“Amy…”
“If you don’t, I’ll tell Miss Jackson. And she’ll tell the whole hospital.”
“You wouldn’t!”
She laughed. “No, probably I wouldn’t, but I do think you should go. I’d like you to. Go on, Dad; live dangerously.”
They met outside the theatre: arrived at exactly the same time, exactly fifteen minutes before curtain-up. Not a lot of time to talk, to run out of talk, the awkwardness kept at bay by the various rituals: drink, programmes, settling into seats.
Very good seats. Maybe it was going to be all right.
The musical was terrible; Linda said, as the curtain came down on the first act, that there was no reason they should stay.
“Honestly. I don’t mind. I’m not enjoying it, and if you’re not either, where’s the point?”
He agreed there was none and they went to the restaurant. She had booked it: Joe Allen, in Covent Garden. Alex, while appalled by the noise, did manage to absorb the fact that it offered the opposite of a romantic atmosphere, so at least she had spared him that. Their table wasn’t ready, as they were so early, so they sat at the bar. And tried to talk. It was difficult; they had very little in common, no knowledge of each other’s worlds. She told him one of her best friends was married to a surgeon; he told her his daughter wanted to be an actress. There was a silence. She apologised for the play; he said he hoped the management or whoever had given her the tickets wouldn’t notice their empty seats. There was another silence.
“So… how many actors and actresses do you have on your books, then?” he said.
“Actors. No such thing as actresses anymore. I mean, you don’t have doctoresses, do you?”
“No, indeed. So… how many actors?” He stressed the second syllable, sounding slightly derisive.
“About two hundred.”
“That sounds like quite a lot.”
“It is quite a lot.”
Another silence, a very long one. Then she suddenly said, “Look… this was probably a bad idea. This evening. I’m sorry.”
“No, no, not at all. Very nice idea.”
“Same as the play really. If you’d rather go, I won’t mind. I mean, there doesn’t seem a lot of point.”
He looked at her; she really was… what? Not pretty. Features too strong. Beautiful? No, not really. But… arresting. The amazing auburn hair, and the dark eyes. She had a wonderful figure: tall, slim, good bosom, fantastic legs. And very nice clothes. She was wearing a black dress, quite low-cut but not embarrassingly so, and a bright emerald green shawl. And emerald green shoes, with very high heels. It was a shame, really, that she was so… well, a bit harsh. Very direct, very opinionated. And he hadn’t liked being corrected over the actor business. Not charming.
She looked at him; he really was… what? Not handsome. Features too irregular. But… attractive. Sexy. The wild dark hair, the probing dark eyes. Surprisingly nice clothes: that dark navy jacket… really well cut, and the blue-on-white stripes of the shirt really suited him.
“Well… look,” he said, “it’s been very nice. Really, I’ve enjoyed meeting you. I appreciate your asking me out. But… well, I’m on call tomorrow. So maybe not dinner. If it’s all the same to you.”
“Absolutely,” she said.
She smiled at him, totally in control. She was a very cool customer. Much too cool for him. And hadn’t he sworn never to get involved again with someone who didn’t understand the medical profession? Not that he was going to get involved.
“Well… we’ve ordered this.” She gestured at the bottle of wine. “May as well finish it.”
“Good idea.”
She looked at him as he picked up his glass. What a disaster. Well. She’d done it. Never would again, though. Bloody Francis. What a thing to make her do. So not her.
Suddenly she wanted to tell him. It really wouldn’t matter. They would never meet again. And she didn’t want him to think she was what she wasn’t.
“I want to tell you something,” she said. “I only asked you out because I was dared to. It’s not the sort of thing I usually do. Honestly. I couldn’t have you going away thinking I was some kind of hard-as-nails ball breaker.”
“You were dared?”
“Yes. ’Fraid so.”
“That’s really very funny,” he said, and started to laugh. “Because I was dared to accept. It’s not the sort of thing I usually do either.”
“Oh, God!” She was laughing now. “Who dared you?”
“My daughter. She told me I should get a life. Who dared you?”
“My business partner. He told me more or less the same thing. And I thought… what have I got to lose?”
“I thought the same. And…”
“Miss Di-Marcello, your table is ready.”
“Oh. Oh, well… we don’t really-”
“Oh, come on,” he said, “let’s eat. I dare you!”
She’d hoped, very much, that things were about to be better. The TV programme had definitely had an effect on Christine; it had made her realise what a lucky escape her mother had had. Seeing the size of the crash-again-realising how easily Mary could have been just a few cars farther forward, or even hit by one of the freezers, had sobered her. She was quiet during supper, and when Mary had said good night to her, later, she had kissed her and said, “Night, Mum. Thank goodness you were where you were-on the road, I mean.”
Mary felt more cheerful than she had for a week as she got herself ready for bed.
She had switched on the radio and turned the light out; she was too tired to read, and she liked being lulled to sleep by the well-bred voices of the World Service announcers. But it wasn’t quite time for the World Service, and there was a programme on Radio Two about popular music over the past sixty years. Starting inevitably with the war. And equally inevitably with Vera Lynn, singing “White Cliffs of Dover.”
The hours she’d spent listening to that song. On her gramophone. The gramophone Russell had bought her, as a parting present. She’d been worried her mother would want to know where it had come from and had invented a woman at work who didn’t want it anymore.
“But they’re expensive things, Mary. I’m surprised she didn’t want to sell it.”
“Oh, she’s got a lot of money, Mum.”
“Even so. Well, you’d better look after it.”
As if she wouldn’t: the very last present Russell ever gave her, before going off to Normandy. He’d given her other more personal things, the brooch-that had been easier to explain: she’d said she’d spotted it in the Red Cross jumble sale, and her mother would never know that his eye was a real diamond-and of course all the usual things that the GIs had been able to afford that the British troops couldn’t-like nylons and perfume. And the gramophone record (together with the sheet music) of Vera Lynn singing what she always thought of as the bluebird song.
She’d played it over and over and over again, until it had become too scratched to hear it any longer, and of course it was always on the wireless too, the song that had seen so many romances started-and had kept them alive through the long years of separation. Whenever it was played, when she was with Donald again, married to Donald, but most of all when she was coping with her unhappiness at saying goodbye to Russell, it was him she thought of, whom she could almost feel beside her again, dashing, handsome Russell, with his perfect manners, dancing with her. He’d been a wonderful dancer, not born with two left feet like poor Donald-they had fox-trotted and waltzed, him holding her very close and telling her how lovely she was. They had even jitterbugged together in dance halls like the Lyceum and places like the Café Royal and, most wonderfully of all, Mary had thought, at the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden. It had been closed for ballet and opera performances but, rather surprisingly, was the scene every afternoon for tea dances. They had only gone there once, for Mary was working, but she had been given the afternoon off and met Russell in the Strand, at Lyons Corner House and they had walked together through Covent Garden Market and gone in the wonderful great doors of the Opera House; she had felt like a queen herself.
She had never gone again, never thought of going to a performance there in the years since; it was terribly expensive. But every so often when she was near it, in the Strand or on Waterloo Bridge, she would make a detour and stand outside, looking up at it, and the years would roll away and she would feel Russell’s hand pulling her up the steps and into the red-and-gilt foyer and hear his voice saying, “come along, my lovely Little Sparrow, come and dance with me…”
She lay there in the darkness that night, listening to it and smiling. It seemed a very good sign.
But it wasn’t too much of one, because in the morning, when she said casually at breakfast that Russell had asked if she would like to take Gerry and Christine to his hotel for lunch the next day so that they could meet, Christine’s rather pale face had gone very pink and she said she was sorry, but she didn’t feel she could.
“All right, dear,” said Mary, trying to sound calm, “we’ll leave it for a little while longer. Maybe next weekend?”
“Mum,” said Christine, “you don’t understand. I really don’t want to meet this man. I’d feel terribly disloyal to Dad. I know you don’t see it like that, but I can’t help it. You’re going home in a few days and then you can see him whenever you want to, but meanwhile, please respect my feelings and just… well, leave me out of it.”
That had been too much for Mary; she had gone up to her room and cried. After a while, there was a knock on the door and Gerry came in. He was clearly very embarrassed.
“I’m sorry, Mary. Very sorry. I think it’s… well, very nice that you’ve got this… this friend, and I can’t see Chris’s problem. But you know what she’s like, and she did adore her dad. I’m sure she’ll come round.”
“I hope so,” said Mary.
She blew her nose and thanked Gerry for being so understanding and tried to cheer herself up with the thought that at least she could spend the next day with Russell, and that the following week she’d be home and she could see him whenever she liked. But she felt dreadfully sad.
It got better, of course-much better-when she was in her own home, where she had been now for the past week. In fact, in most ways, it had been, well… perfectly happy. Russell came over every day in the car, or he sent the car for her and she was driven over to Bath; his hotel was absolutely beautiful, and they would wander round the grounds arm in arm, talking, laughing, remembering one minute, looking forward the next.
And Russell had fallen in love with the beautiful countryside around Bath and the lovely houses that lay within it, and now, he said, he meant to show her one, one that he thought she would really like; she had thought he meant something like a National Trust property, perhaps, that they could look around and have lunch in.
So she dressed with particular care, put on the Jaeger suit, the fateful Jaeger suit; Russell was waiting for her on the doorstep and got in beside her, said they could have coffee later, and told Ted, the driver, to go “to the house near Tadwick we saw last night,” and they drove along in silence for about half an hour, Russell’s blue eyes shining as he looked out of the window. Mary could feel his excitement; it was like being with a child on Christmas Eve.
It was a perfect autumn day, golden and cobweb-hung, mists still lying in the small valleys; they were climbing slightly now, and then Russell said “Close your eyes.” She did so obediently, felt the car turn off, slow down, stop. “Open them,” he said, and she did, and saw a narrow lane curving down just a little to the left, with great chestnut trees overhanging it, and at the bottom, there it was: a house, a grey stone house, quite low, just two storeys, with a grey slate roof, tall windows and a wide, white front door, complete with fanlight and overhung with wisteria. At the right-hand end it bowed out into what Mary would have described-not knowing any architectural terms-as an extra bit, and which Russell-who seemed strong on architectural terms-described as a friendship. They drove down towards the house; Ted pulled outside the front door and they got out.
It was very quiet, very still, the only sound wood pigeons, and somewhere behind the house the wonderfully real, reassuring sound of a lawn mower.
“It’s lovely,” she said. “Does it belong to a friend of yours?”
“You could say so. Knock on the door; let’s see if we can go in.”
The door had a lion’s-head knocker; it was so heavy, Mary could hardly lift it.
She heard footsteps, heard the door being unbolted, watched it open, found herself looking at a grey-haired woman wearing a white apron. She smiled at them.
“Good morning, Mr. Mackenzie.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Salter. This is Mrs. Bristow. She’d like to see the house, if that’s OK.”
“Of course. Come in, Mrs. Bristow.”
The hall was big and square, with a slate floor; a wide, curving staircase rose from it, with a tall window on the turn. There was a drawing room, with tall windows and wooden shutters and a huge stone fireplace with a wonderful-smelling wood fire burning; there was a dining room, with another stone fireplace and French windows opening onto a terrace overhung with a rose-bearing pergola; there was a kitchen, with a vast wooden table and a dark green Aga; there was another smaller, very pretty room lined with books; and an even smaller one fitted out with coat hooks and boot racks. Upstairs were the bedrooms, some bigger, some smaller, two bathrooms with large, rather elderly-looking claw-footed baths and two rather thronelike lavatories, set in mahogany bench seats; after a while Mary ran out of polite, appreciative things to say and just smiled. It was an easy house to smile in; it contained an atmosphere of peace and happiness.
Finally, Mrs. Salter said she expected they would like some coffee and that, now the sun had come out, it might be nicer if they had it in the morning room… This turned out to be the book-lined one. “And would you like some biscuits or something, Mrs. Bristow? I’ve just made a lemon drizzle cake.”
Mary said coffee would be lovely and there was nothing she liked more than lemon drizzle cake. Russell ushered her into the morning room and she sat down in one of the deep armchairs by the fireplace and looked at him.
“Like it?” he said.
“I absolutely love it. It’s beautiful. The sort of house you see in illustrations in old books. But… whose is it?”
“I’m so glad you feel like that. I thought you probably would, but one can never be sure.” He paused. “And if you really like it, Little Sparrow, then”-he paused, smiled at her, blew her a kiss across the room-“then it’s yours.”
“Is that Emma? The Emma? The Dr. King Emma?”
“It is indeed. And is that Barney? The Barney? The banker Barney?”
This was another code; there was another Emma at the hospital who worked in A &E reception, and the Barney had grown out of that.
“It is indeed. How are you; what have you been doing?”
“Um… let me see. Stitched up a little boy’s foot; set an old lady’s arm; given an old man an enema…”
“All right, all right, too much information. When can I see you?”
“Um… I’ve got Thursday off. And Friday, actually. All day.”
“Friday all day? Jesus. There’s a temptation.”
She waited. Then he said, “OK. I can swing the afternoon. I’ll be down around… oh, I don’t know, two.”
“Call me when you’re near.”
“I will. And you think of something we can do…”
“Barney! So much.”
“OK, OK, but where to do it.”
“Er… my bed?”
“You’re on. Oh, God. I mustn’t even start thinking about it. Bye, the Emma.”
“Bye, the Barney!”
“You are extremely inconvenient, you know,” he said to her now, as they sat in her lumpy, dishevelled bed in her dingy bedroom, having had some extremely wonderful sex, and drinking the champagne he had produced from his laptop bag.
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right. But there I was, thinking I’d got it all sussed, that I knew where I was going, and how and when, and then along came you, and just blew it all up in the air.”
“Is there anything I can do to make myself less inconvenient?” she said.
“No, I’m afraid not. It’s the fact of you that’s inconvenient. Not you. You are… well, you’re pretty convenient. In yourself.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You suit me absolutely perfectly. You couldn’t possibly be even point nought nought nought per cent better for me.”
“Nor you for me.”
“You’re worth it all,” he said, suddenly very serious, “all the chaos, all the problems we’re going to have. In fact, if you were more convenient, I probably wouldn’t realise the worth of you nearly so well. I’d just think, ‘Yeah, well, she’s a bit of all right; I’d like a bit of that,’ and you’d just be easy. Pure pleasure. Which you are, of course, anyway, but kind of… well, inconveniently. I love you, Emma, so much.”
“I love you, too, Barney. So, so much.”
“Hey, you put an extra so in.”
“Well… how I feel needs an extra so.”
“You mean, you reckon you love me more than I love you? Emma, I love you more than anything I could ever imagine, more than anything else in the world.”
“And I love you more than more than anything else in the world.”
“I like that,” he said, smiling at her, looking like a delighted child. “I like that very much indeed.”
They delighted each other in every possible way. Each found the way the other looked, smiled, talked, thought, absolutely pleasing. Sex for Emma was different with Barney, moving from pure, heady pleasure to something more thoughtful, more emotionally grounded. And she for Barney was an astonishing delight: inventive, fun, tireless.
They both closed their minds-with enormous difficulty-to the thought of the other sex, with the Others. It was something that would end: with the resolution of things.
Which was drawing nearer, meeting by meeting, day by day.
And yet was being held off for a little longer-by Barney at least, and with Emma’s understanding. He had known Amanda for years, had lived with her for over a year; their backgrounds were identical-they had lived the same sort of lives with the same sort of people and, when they met, had found countless friends in common. It was a charmed, closed circle that Emma found herself confronted by; Amanda was protected not only by her relationship with Barney, but by the conventions and mores of its members. Barney would be rejecting not only Amanda, but a large and powerful tribe; it would take great certainty as well as great courage to do so.
He felt in possession of both; but he was still aware of the huge and devastating effect it would have, not only on Amanda and not only on their personal life, but on his professional status and confidence as well.
It would not be easy-in any way at all.
“Is that Georgia?”
“Oh… yes. Yes, it is.”
“ Georgia, this is Merlin Gerard.”
“Who?”
“Merlin Gerard. Second assistant to Bryn Merrick on-”
“Oh, Merlin, I’m sorry. Yes, of course, I… I was miles away.”
God. How embarrassing. He must think she was totally brain-dead.
“Look, wardrobe have asked me to get in touch. They want a day with you asap. How are you fixed for Monday. Is that OK?”
“Yes, fine.”
“Good. If you could be at the Charlotte Street office at… nine thirty?”
“Yes, nine thirty’s fine.”
She’d have to get a very early train. She really must sort out somewhere in London to live.
“I’ll tell them. Thanks, Georgia. And I’ll see you-maybe-next Monday.”
“Might you not be there?”
She shouldn’t have said that. It sounded soppy.
“Possibly not. We’re out looking at houses with the set designer. For filming in. We’ve got a short list of three.”
“Did you actually find them?” There seemed no end to his talents. And importance.
“No, course not,” he said, sounding amused, “the location manager does that sort of thing.”
She put the phone down feeling terrible. Not just because she’d been so pathetic with Merlin, but because it was actually going to start happening now. She’d got to face them, start working with them, and they’d all know she was the awful, cowardly, pathetic girl who’d run away from the crash. They’d probably all been discussing it, calling one another, saying, “Did you see those stories in the paper? She seemed such a nice girl, and all the time…” Oh, God.
She’d been to see Patrick twice more and felt she was doing something for him now, at least. The second time she’d gone, a very nice old lady had arrived; she was called Mary and seemed to know both Patrick and Maeve quite well.
“I was in the crash as well, you see,” she said, “and I was brought here for a few days. I met Maeve and we became good friends.”
Patrick had gone to sleep, and she’d suggested to Mary that they go and have a coffee together. Mary had seemed incredibly pleased by this, and they’d had a really good chat; she told Georgia that Maeve had told her all about her, and how kind she was being visiting Patrick, “And how brave you were, coming forward…”
“Hardly brave,” Georgia had said. “I waited a fortnight.” But Mary said nonsense, it was coming forward at all that mattered, and that moreover, it was very nice to see a young person giving up her time to visit someone in the hospital.
Georgia had really liked her; she was so pretty, in an old-lady sort of way, and very sparkly and seemed really interested in Georgia’s acting, which Maeve had also told her about: wanted to know all about the series and how it was going. She obviously had a lot of money; she’d had a huge car and a driver waiting for her, and she’d insisted on dropping Georgia off at the station.
“It’s been lovely talking to you,” she said, kissing Georgia goodbye. “I do so enjoy young people. Thank you for your time, my dear.”
She obviously saw shared time as a rare and precious gift; and how sad was that? Georgia thought.
It had happened-inevitably. Mrs. Grainger had arrived at cottage number one just as Abi had removed every stitch of clothing, apart from her high heels, and was dancing in front of William. Who was sitting on the sofa, wearing a shirt but nothing else-they had actually been playing Abi’s version of Strip Jack Naked-and grinning at her happily.
Abi always said later that Mrs. Grainger must have known she was going to find her son inside, doing something unsuitable; if she had actually feared intruders or squatters, as she said, she would have brought Mr. Grainger, complete with shotgun, with her.
In the event, she simply opened the front door, put all the downstairs lights on, and walked into the sitting room; seeing her face (as Abi also said) was almost worth all that followed: the complex mingling of embarrassment, shock, and grim disapproval.
“Ah, William,” was all she said; and the worst thing for Abi was his immediate reaction. He went very white, reached for his trousers, and started pulling them frantically on; Abi stood staring at him for a moment before sitting down on the sofa and pulling her dress around her shoulders, at least covering her breasts, on which Mrs. Grainger’s attention seemed to be focused.
“I’m sorry, Mother,” said William. (What for, for God’s sake? Abi wondered. For having, at the age of thirty-four, a sex life?)
“Yes,” Mrs. Grainger said, turning her gaze on him now. “Yes, well, it was rather alarming, realising there was someone in here. I didn’t know what to think. You should have told us you intended to use it.”
Abi giggled; she just couldn’t help it. What was he meant to tell them? “Please, Mother, I intend to use cottage number one this evening for some sexual activity. I hope that’s all right.” Mrs. Grainger gave her a very cold look, William a desperate one.
“Sorry,” she said hastily.
“Right. Well, please lock up carefully when you leave.”
And she stalked out.
“Oh, Lord,” said William.
“William,” said Abi. “William, I know it’s embarrassing, but you haven’t committed a crime. You’re having fun. And at least with a girl. Think if I’d been a boy. Or a cow.”
“Abi, please!” said William. “It isn’t funny.”
“Yes, it is. It’s terribly funny.” And then she realised how genuinely anguished he was and sat down, took his hand. “Come on. What’s so bad? The worst is that she’s seen me for what she clearly feared I am: no end of a hussy, leading her little boy astray. She’ll get over it.”
He shook her hand off.
“No, Abi. You don’t understand. She won’t. It wasn’t very… kind to her.”
“What on earth does that mean? What was unkind? You weren’t laughing at her.”
“You were,” he said, very quietly.
She stared at him. “William, I can’t believe you said that.”
“Sorry. But… but it’s true. She would have been very… very upset by that.”
“Well, she shouldn’t have been. What planet is she living on, for God’s sake?”
“Abi, please. Don’t be so… so harsh.”
“Oh, for God’s sake. This is absurd.” She stood up, started dressing. “I’m not listening to any more of this rubbish. If anyone’s harsh, it’s her. And arrogant. Where’s her sense of humour; where are her good manners, for God’s sake?”
“Good manners?”
“Yes. What she should have done was apologised for embarrassing us, me. Not made us both feel like we were in some kind of a porn show.”
“We were, as far as she was concerned,” said William. “You don’t understand.”
“No, I clearly don’t. And if this is how your lot behave, I’m glad I’m not one of them.”
“What do you mean, my lot?”
“You posh lot. What about thinking of me, William, how I felt-what about defending me? I’m not surprised you’re still on your own; that’s all I can say.” She picked up her bag. “I’m off. Cheers. Hope you don’t get your bottom smacked. Or maybe that’s how she gets her kicks. And you.” She was crying now, aware that she was beginning to show William the real Abi, not in that moment caring.
“Abi! Don’t talk like that, please!”
“I’ll talk how I like. You should try doing the same; you might find your life got a bit better.”
And she walked out of the cottage, slamming the door behind her.
Laura had bought Jonathan a really nice birthday present: he collected antique medical instruments, and she had found an old otoscope in a beautiful leather case, lined with blue silk. She gave it to him the night before his birthday, and he was terribly touched and pleased.
“I’m just thankful you haven’t got anything elaborate planned for tomorrow, darling,” he said when he had thanked her, and she had said (while crossing her fingers and touching the headboard at the same time), no, just dinner with the Edwardses, as she’d told him.
“Pity we can’t be with the kids, really,” he said. “I do like them to share in our birthdays.” And she said yes, but they were having the big family party next day, with her parents, Jonathan’s mother, and various cousins, and the children would be very much part of that.
“Not sure I feel quite up to that either,” he said with a grin, and then, kissing her very gently, “I do love you, Laura. You’re far too good for me. I couldn’t bear any of this without you.”
And somehow the ice that had been holding her heart had softened, and she had returned the kiss, and then he had turned the light out, and his hands had been on her, and she hadn’t felt anything but tenderness, and he was very gentle, very sweetly insistent, and she had felt herself moving to and with him; and when she came, trembling with the long, long release, she wept. And heard something from him that was half way between a sob and a sigh, and realised that there were his tears on her face as well as her own.
Abi really had expected William to call-to say he was sorry, that he could see her point of view, at least, to say he wanted to see her. But he didn’t.
And she was going to miss him… horribly. Because although she wasn’t sure if she actually loved him, she loved being with him. And now she’d blown it. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Jonathan found himself working on the morning of his birthday, at St. Anne’s; he was only on call, but at ten o’clock one of his mothers went into premature labour and he had to go in.
“Ladies shouldn’t have babies on your birthday, Daddy,” Daisy said indignantly.
“I know, sweetheart, but as you’ll find out for yourself one day, babies don’t always arrive very conveniently. I’ll try not to be long.”
They were all excited. Once Jonathan and Laura had left for supper with the Edwardses, the children-and Helga-were to move into action: admit the caterers and the florist, explain where everything had to go… and then receive the guests as they arrived, show them where to hide (in the darkened conservatory). Helga was to telephone the Edwards house at eight, and ask Jonathan and Laura to come home, to say that there had been a power cut and she didn’t know what to do (thus explaining the unlit house when they arrived).
It was hard to see what might go wrong.
Abi was driving back from Bristol when her phone rang. At last! William! She pulled into a side road, took the call. Dear William. How sweet he was.
“Abi? This is Jonathan.”
It was made much worse by his not being William, by being thrown back into a different, uglier life; it really hurt her, shocked her even.
“Yes?”
“I just wanted to make sure you’d heard about the lorry driver. That his windscreen had been shattered. That’s why he veered across the road. So there won’t be any charges of any kind.”
“Yes. Yes, the police did tell me.”
“Good. So that draws the line very neatly, I think. It’s over. The whole ghastly nightmare.”
“I don’t suppose the lorry driver thinks that. Or the man whose wife was killed. That is such a typical thing for you to say. ‘I’m all right, so everything’s all right.’ Pure bloody Jonathan Gilliatt.”
There was a pause; then he said, “That was an extraordinarily unpleasant remark.”
“Oh, really? Maybe you don’t inspire pleasant conversation, Jonathan. How’s Laura?”
“Laura is fine.”
“Did you ever… ever have to confess about me?”
“That’s nothing to do with you.”
“I think it might be, actually,” she said, rage and pain rising up to hit her. Here he was, doing it again, putting her in the box marked, “Rubbish,” set well apart from his real life, as no doubt he saw it, with his perfect wife and perfect family.
“What on earth do you mean by that?”
He sounded wary. Well, good.
“I mean that of course it’s to do with me. I’d quite like to know, actually, if she knows about us. Or if you’ve managed to sweep me under the carpet, pretend I never existed. I’m not sure why, actually, but it matters to me, where I stand in Laura’s life now.”
“And what’s it to you one way or the other?”
“If you can’t see that, Jonathan, then you really are even more stupid than I thought,” she said, wondering why he could still hurt her so much. “Because she ought to know there’s something rotten in her marriage, that it’s not quite the perfect thing she imagines, that she’s got it, and you, horribly, horribly wrong, poor cow.”
“Abi,” he said, and the venom in his voice quite frightened her, “you have no right to talk about Laura and my marriage.”
“Well, I think I do, actually. You dragged me into it. You had everything-perfect bloody life, with a wife and children-and still you chose to fuck around with me. Not my idea, Jonathan. Yours. And then… then you have the fucking nerve to tell me your marriage is nothing to do with me.”
“It isn’t,” he said. “My marriage is mine, mine and Laura’s…”
“And pretty unsatisfactory, I’d say, judging by your behaviour.”
“How dare you say that to me?”
“I dare because it’s true.”
“It is not true.”
“Well, I think Laura might see it rather differently.”
“Abi,” he said, “you even think about coming near me and my family, and you’ll regret it horribly.”
“Of course I’m not coming near you and your family. Why should I?”
“Because you’re rotten enough. Disturbed enough even, I’d say. You have considerable problems, Abi. Personality problems. Maybe you should take a look at yourself, rather than throwing accusations at other people. Anyway, I have to go. I had intended to have a perfectly pleasant conversation, reassuring you that you had nothing more to worry about. You’ve made it very unpleasant, predictably enough. Pity.”
And the phone went dead.
Abi sat there for quite a long time, staring at her phone; she no longer felt angry, just rather tired and drained. And then the pain began. It was awful, the worst she could ever remember. She had never liked herself; in that moment, she loathed herself. She kept hearing Jonathan’s voice telling her she had personality problems, that she was rotten, possibly even disturbed, and she found herself agreeing with him. She was indeed absolutely rotten; she was amoral, promiscuous, dishonest. And all right, he had pursued her, but she had at no time refused him; she had encouraged him, enjoyed him, despised his wife, dismissed his family. She was a completely worthless person; she had no right to expect decent treatment from anybody.
She had been conducting a relationship with a man who was quite simply good, transparently nice and kind and honest; how could she have possibly thought that could work? That he could want to be with her if he knew even a little about what she was really like?
She deserved never to see him again. She never would see him again. She didn’t deserve him. She deserved rotten people, rotten like her. Rotten like Jonathan.
He’d strung her along very nicely. But… God, she had let him. That was one of the most humiliating things. Allowed herself to believe him when he told her she was special, hugely intelligent, that he enjoyed her company quite apart from the sex.
She’d been hurt by a great many men, but Jonathan had won the game easily. He had demanded a great deal of her-and not only since the crash-and had given her no support, shown her no concern, offered her not a shred of kindness, merely bullied and threatened her. And had abandoned her totally, without pity or thought. She hated him beyond anything…
William had spent a wretched day. He had shot into the kitchen at breakfast time, grabbed some bacon and a slice of bread and made himself a sandwich, filled a thermos with coffee, and headed out for the farthest point he could: East Wood, a six-acre spinney. He was felling some of the younger trees; it was exhausting and noisy, and made thought fairly impossible. He didn’t want to think. It hurt too much.
Abi made her decision almost without realising it. She felt more positive suddenly, and that she needed to see this thing finished. Properly, formally, unarguably finished.
She dialled his number. It was on voice mail. His smooth, actory tones told her that he couldn’t answer her call just at the moment, but that if she left a message he would get back to her as soon as possible.
Abi shut him off; she wasn’t going to leave a message-she was sick of leaving messages that he didn’t respond to. But the clinic-in bloody Harley Street, where he had all those bloody pampered princesses worshipping the ground he walked on-now, she might do a little mischief there. He might even be there; she knew he was often on call on Saturdays…
She dialled the number, asked to be put through to him.
“I’m so sorry; Mr. Gilliatt has left for the day. Can one of the other doctors help you?”
Resisting a temptation to say, only if they were up to Mr. Gilliatt’s standard on text sex, she asked if they knew where he was…
“I’m afraid not. He’s not in tomorrow. Perhaps you could ring on Monday?”
As the day wore on, William thought increasingly about Abi. And with increasing remorse. She was right-in a way. His mother had behaved quite… well, quite inconsiderately. Unkindly even. She couldn’t actually have thought they were burglars or intruders… Burglars and intruders didn’t normally light candles.
And having discovered it was him, him and a girl, the tactful thing would have been to say something noncommittal and withdraw. He wasn’t sixteen; he was thirty-four. Did she really think he was going to get married before he had any kind of a relationship?
Yes, perhaps he should have warned her-and his father, of course-that he was using the cottage occasionally; maybe he should have gone further, asked their permission. Except that they would have wanted to know why, and how could he have told them?
Not for the first time, William became aware of the absurdity of his domestic situation; not for the first time did he wonder what on earth he could do about it. And then it came to him that perhaps he could move into cottage number one, or number two or number three. Make his home there. So that he could claim some independence, privacy, grow up at last. It seemed not unreasonable. He worked on the farm for a very modest income; he could surely claim the cottage as being some kind of a perk. He would ask them that evening; the thought quite cheered him up.
She decided to ring first. She didn’t want to waste a long journey. He didn’t know she had the landline number, would probably change it if he did.
The phone didn’t ring for long; then: “Hello?” It was a little girl’s voice: one of his flowers. God, that always made her want to throw up.
“Is that Daisy? Or Lily?”
“It’s Daisy.”
“Hello, Daisy. Is your daddy there?”
“No, he’s gone out. But he will be back soon.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Yes. Quite sure. It’s his birthday. We’re doing a surprise party for him. Mummy’s bringing him back here at about eight o’clock.”
“Oh, really? How lovely. Wish I’d been invited. Well… never mind. Bye, Daisy.”
“Good-bye.”
Such a beautifully expensive, posh little voice. Well, lucky Daisy. She’d been born with a silver spoon in her mouth, all right; and it had stayed there. Like Lily and the beloved Charlie. Jonathan was so proud of Charlie. He never seemed to think she might not want to hear about him. Or about the girls. So sensitive, aren’t you, Jonathan?
The more she thought about him-being given this party by his family, a lavish affair, no doubt, no expense spared-the more she wanted to throw up. Or kill him. Or both. There he’d be, smiling that awful smooth smile of his, receiving gifts and kisses and compliments, everyone wishing him well, and no one, no one at all, certainly not Laura, knowing what a complete shit he was. He’d managed to lie his way out of everything: how did he do it, the bastard?
Well, not tonight, he wouldn’t.
“Sorry, Jonathan,” she said quite cheerfully as she dressed for the occasion, in some new leather jeans and a very low-cut black top-well, it was a party, after all-“but you’d better make the most of the next two hours. Because after that… bingo!”
Not since Sleeping Beauty’s christening was a guest going to wreak so much havoc at a family gathering.
It didn’t go terribly well. His parents said they would of course consider his request, but the cottages were a valuable source of income, and they couldn’t quite see how he imagined making the money up.
Abi was right: it suddenly seemed to him they were arrogant, his parents, in their attitude towards him; it was appalling that he should have nowhere he could call his own, other than a bedroom in their house. The fact that it had never occurred to him to demand such a thing was irrelevant.
He began to feel he owed Abi an apology: on his mother’s behalf as well as his own. Her initial amusement had been… actually… rather generous. And typical of her. She was generous. And warm and funny and… well, really very kind.
He should tell her so. He went out immediately after supper, drove to the pub, and sat in the car park, calling her. He hadn’t expected her to be sitting at home, waiting for him, but he did leave a message saying he was sorry that she had been embarrassed, sorry that he hadn’t been more considerate, and asking her to call him. He added that he missed her and really wanted to see her. And went into the pub to get drunk and hope for her call.
Christ, what a nightmare. What a complete bloody nightmare. When he’d been hanging on to his sanity-just-getting through it day by agonising day, longing only for peace and quiet, and here he was, confronted by what seemed like a hundred people, all laughing and joking and slapping him on the back, telling him what a great guy he was, and Laura hanging on his arm, kissing him and everyone else, saying wasn’t it great everyone had come, wasn’t he wonderful, who would have thought he was so old…
The conversation with Abi had upset him badly, and made him nervous. And somewhere, in some deep, well-buried place, he felt a stab of something close to remorse. It was true what she’d said: he had instigated their affair, had walked out of the Garden of Eden for no other reason than that he had felt in need of some new, exotically flavoured fruit. And was Abi really so rotten? Not really. She’d had a raw deal from life; he’d taken advantage of that, used it, enjoyed flattering her, flashing his money around, taking her to expensive hotels, buying her expensive jewellery. And in return she had given him the excitement, the sense of sexual self-esteem that Laura had failed to do. Christ, what a mess. And here he was, trapped in this farce of an evening. Which somehow encapsulated his whole life. The fantasy that was marriage to Laura, and the reality that Abi had confronted him with.
No call yet. Well, what could he expect? She would be out somewhere. She was probably still very hurt and upset. It surprised him sometimes how sensitive she actually was; she wasn’t really the toughie she seemed.
He’d never forgotten how she’d gone off to the hospital with Shaun that day, for instance. And she was absolutely ridiculous about animals, fussing over a kitten in the street she’d thought had been abandoned, and getting quite worked up when he’d told her he’d just sent a couple of bull calves to the abattoir. He didn’t want to lose her. He really didn’t.
He texted her, to tell her that she should listen to her messages, in case she hadn’t realised there was one; and then in a sudden rash rush of courage, composed another saying, “I love you.” He sat looking at it for a while before he sent it, slightly surprised that he could be telling her that, making sure he meant it, and wasn’t just trying to make her feel better. But he did mean it; he did love her, and he desperately didn’t want to lose her; he pressed “send” and then decided to go home before he was too drunk to drive even the half mile to the farm gates.
She had wondered how she would get in, whether someone would demand an invitation or something, but the front door was not locked; it pushed open easily. She stood in the hall; it was empty, but she could hear music and people laughing. A large gilt mirror hung on the wall; she went over to it, replenished her lip gloss and her perfume, combed her hair. She wanted to look as good as possible for her entrance…
As she stood there, a little girl appeared behind her: an absurdly beautiful little girl, about nine years old, with long blond curly hair, wearing a white lace-trimmed dress and silver shoes. “Hello,” she said, “I’m Lily. Have you come to the party? You’re late.”
“I know,” Abi said, smiling at her. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right. They’re just serving the food now. Do come in,” she added graciously.
Abi took a glass of champagne from a tray and stood in the doorway, looking into a huge room, golden, it seemed, lit with dozens of candles, and filled with great urns of white flowers. People stood in groups, smiling, beautifully dressed people, holding glasses of champagne, and by the fireplace stood Jonathan, and next to him, leaning against him, smiling up at him, was… well, she supposed Laura. Lovely, she was, quite small, with a fall of blond hair and dressed in something truly amazing, layers of pale, pale cream chiffon and lace. On the other side of Jonathan were two almost identical little girls and a boy-Charlie, of course, very handsome, with smooth brown hair, dressed in jeans and a blue shirt, already nearly as tall as his mother. It was all unbearably perfect-the light, the music, the display of family togetherness-and Abi really couldn’t bear it.
She started to move across the room. Jonathan still hadn’t seen her, was holding up his hand; Laura was tapping on her glass; Jonathan was saying, “This is not a speech, promise, promise,” and everyone laughed and called out, “Good thing too,” and, “Why not?” and, “Better not be…”
He saw her standing there, an entirely dark presence in her black clothes, her eyes glittering, infinitely dangerous; and he was so terrified, he literally could neither move nor speak. He saw Laura look at him more sharply, puzzled at his sudden silence, and then follow his gaze towards Abi; felt her stiffen, heard her intake of breath. In his worst, his wildest nightmares, he could not have imagined this invasion of his family and his home, and in front of all their friends, this confrontation with the awful, ugly truth of her and what he had done. What might she do, or say, how could he stop her…?
She stepped forward, right up to him, and said, “Hello, Jonathan. What a very lovely occasion. I thought I’d add my good wishes to everyone else’s. That’s what you deserve. Happy birthday,” she added, and leaned up and kissed him on the lips. “You must be Laura,” she said, turning to her, and she could hear a distinct graciousness in her own voice. “I’m Abi… I’m not sure if Jonathan’s told you about me. I’m so sorry I can’t stop.”
And she turned and walked out again, and he stood staring after her, noticing, absurdly, that she was wearing the same high silver-heeled boots that she had had on the day of the crash.
Illogical things, emotions. She would have expected to feel rage, pain, humiliation; all she felt in those first few minutes was embarrassment. That all their friends should have been there, should have come with such generosity and genuine goodwill to Jonathan’s party, and they had been forced to witness this extraordinary thing. It seemed so wrong somehow. Rude. Churlish.
In half an hour they were all gone, embarrassed, not mentioning the intruder-for so Abi had seemed-not properly meeting her eyes, just saying they would go and leave them in peace, very sweetly and charmingly to be sure, kissing her, shaking Jonathan rather awkwardly by the hand, and then the room was empty, horribly empty, the candles and flowers and abandoned champagne glasses the only signs that there had been a party there at all.
She directed the waiters to clear the room, and then dismissed them, told Helga to start putting away the food, load up the dishwasher.
The children were upset, the girls baffled, Lily in tears of disappointment, Charlie clearly troubled and with at least half an idea of what Abi’s visit had all been about… and she took them up to the playroom, told them not to worry, everything was fine, and that she’d be up in a minute to help them get to bed. And then went back downstairs.
She realised now-of course-that she had never believed any of Jonathan’s explanations about Abi. She felt ashamed of allowing herself to pretend. She had let herself down. Been weak, cowardly, feebly female. She should have faced him down on that very first explanation, told him not to insult her, instead of playing the sweet, simple, loyal little wife. Well, not anymore she wasn’t. Rage-and outrage-were growing in her, making her strong.
Jonathan was sitting in a chair now, his eyes fixed on her, watching like a terrified child as she moved around-blowing out candles, collecting the remaining glasses. When finally she was done, and faced him across the room, he said, “Darling, I’m so sorry, so, so sorry she did that.”
“She!” Laura said. “Jonathan, she didn’t do that. You did.”
“But, Laura-”
“Jonathan, just stop it, please. I don’t want to hear anything from you. You can do what you like; I really don’t care.”
“How… how are the children?” he said.
“The girls simply didn’t understand at all, just thought she was another guest, but they’re disappointed that the party never really happened. Charlie’s clearly got a better idea. He asked who… who she was. Of course. Well, they all did.”
“Oh, Christ,” he said, “dear sweet Christ. What… what did you tell them?”
“I said she was a lady from work whom I’d never met-getting rather close to your story, isn’t it, Jonathan-and that she had another party to go to, and that was why she couldn’t stay. The girls seemed to accept that; Charlie, I’m not so sure. He’s old enough to see that she wasn’t too much like all our other friends.”
He was silent. Then: “I’m sorry, Laura,” he said again.
“For what? Doing it, having the relationship at all? Lying to me? Getting caught? Bad luck, wasn’t it, being involved in the crash that day? I wonder if it would still be going on if you hadn’t. Well, she’s very… sexy. I can see that. Which I do realise I’m not. And probably rather good fun. Wives tend to be dull.”
“Please-”
“And young, of course. I suppose she wasn’t the first. Not that it makes much difference.”
“She was the first. I swear. And the last.”
“Yes, well, she’s definitely that.”
“Of course.” There was a slight-very slight-look of hope in his eyes.
Laura crushed it swiftly.
“Yes. Because that’s it, Jonathan. Absolutely it. Our marriage is over. As of now.”
“Darling, you can’t-”
“Don’t ‘darling’ me. And I can. I’ve always said there were two things I wouldn’t be able to bear. One was anything bad-really bad-happening to one of the children. The other was you being unfaithful to me.”
“But, Laura-”
“I just can’t cope with it, Jonathan. It’s not the humiliation, although that’s quite… hard. It’s not the pain… not exactly. It’s the death of trust. I’d never be able to believe you again, and I could never, ever again let you near me. I’d always be wondering if you’d been… been making love to someone else. I mean… how…” Her voice broke; she hesitated, then went on: “How long has it been going on? Months? Years?”
“A couple of months. That’s all. And I was about to finish it; I swear to you. That’s the awful irony of the whole thing. I’d told her in the car that day that it had to end, that I didn’t want to go on with it anymore. I’d been regretting it so much, Laura, hating myself for it…”
“Oh, really? And what’s that supposed to make me feel? Grateful? Reassured? I keep thinking back, you know,” she said, “to all the times you must have been with her. Going to hotels… I presume. Or does she have a little pad somewhere? No, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know. Ringing me last thing, like you always do, making sure I’m safely settled. Telling me you… you… Oh, God, you are disgusting, Jonathan. I wish I need never see you again. And all that stuff, lying to the police, in front of me…”
“But, Laura, you can’t, you really can’t throw away thirteen years of happiness and a good marriage because of one… one indiscretion.”
“It wasn’t a good marriage,” she said. “I know that now. And the happiness wasn’t very soundly based. So I can quite easily throw it away, as you call it. I’m going to bed. Good night.”
Abi just could not stop crying. She had started as she drove out onto the Chiswick roundabout, and she had finally pulled into a motel somewhere near Reading, blinded by her tears, fearing that she would crash the car. She had had enough of car crashes…
She flung herself down on the bed and cried for quite a lot longer. How could she have done that? Of all the wicked, awful things in her past, that had undoubtedly been the worst. The cruellest and the worst. Jonathan deserved cruelty, but Laura didn’t. It wasn’t her fault that he was such a one hundred per cent, Ai shit; she didn’t deserve to have her beautiful straight little nose rubbed in it; she should have been left to her illusions.
And Charlie too, that handsome boy… The little girls had been simply baffled, but he had been upset, his face crumpling into confusion as he stared up at his father and then back at her, some instinct clearly wondering, half comprehending even, who she was… what she was.
She had destroyed them that evening, wrecked their happiness, surely and mercilessly; she should be destroyed herself, put down painfully, punished most horribly for her crime: and it was a crime-there could be no doubt of it-worse, far worse, than anything Jonathan had done to her.
She was a totally bad person; there was nothing to redeem her.
She lay there fully clothed, staring up at the ceiling, smoking cigarette after cigarette; somewhere towards dawn, she fell into an aching, troubled sleep.
At about the same time, William awoke, his head raging. He reached for his phone; looked at it hopefully. There was no message, no text. Where was she; what was she doing? Was she ill? Had she hurt herself? Surely nobody, however angry or upset they were, could ignore the kind of messages he had been sending. He would just try, once more, sending a text; he couldn’t ring her at this sort of time. If he didn’t hear then, he might even go down and see her. He had to make her realise how he felt somehow.
He wrote, rather sadly now, “Abi, please get in touch. I’m sorry and I love you,” and sent it, and, because he knew he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep, got dressed and walked out to the top of the field where he had first seen the crash that day, and stood looking down and thinking about it, and how it had totally changed his life, and willing his phone to ring.
Abi called at seven, sounding exhausted and ill.
She thanked William for his messages and said it had been lovely to get them, and then said she was very sorry, but she really didn’t want to see him anymore, that it had to be over.
William said was it about his mother, and she said no, it was nothing to do with his mother; it was all to do with her, that she really couldn’t have any more to do with him, and she wished him well.
“I’m just not your sort of person, William. That’s all. I’m so sorry. Good-bye.”
It was a long time since William had cried. The last time had been when his grandfather, whom he had really loved, had died. He had felt then as if a very large and important part of him had gone too. He had the same feeling now, and he stood there, staring down at the place where he had first seen Abi, thinking about her, and how much he did, without doubt, love her, and he began to cry very quietly and bitterly.
Georgia sat on the train back to Cardiff, thinking how she really must find somewhere to live in London. Shooting was starting in a matter of weeks; she could hardly commute. But somehow, she still felt so unsure of herself that the prospect of looking at a load of grotty bedsits or flat-shares seemed impossible.
And the day had been totally shit, trailing round with the costume girl, Sasha. Georgia had started by giving her opinion on the clothes, which ones she thought were cool and would suit her, but had then shut up as she realised they weren’t going to agree about any of them, and in fact the worse she thought she looked in something, the more Sasha liked it, saying withering things like, “You have to look at yourself in character, you know, Georgia; it’s Rose we’re dressing, not you.”
And then they’d got back to the offices and Merlin had been there, and although he’d been really friendly for about five seconds, he then went into a huddle with Sasha in the corner about locations and how the first assistant really didn’t seem to have the right idea at all, and Merlin could see Bryn wasn’t going to like any of the five short-listed houses; and then Sasha had said she’d had a shitty day too, and why didn’t they go and have a drink. Leaving Georgia alone with Mo, the third assistant director, who was plump and rosy and smiling and looked more as if she should be working at a nursery school than an ego-ridden industry like television, and who was very sweet but clearly wasn’t going to risk sympathising with her too much when her own job was dependent on pleasing everyone; and then worst of all, Bryn Merrick arrived and was very short with her, just nodded and said, “Hi,” and asked Mo where the fuck Merlin was, and when Mo said she didn’t know, he’d glared at Georgia as if it was her fault.
“I seem to be working with a group of total layabouts,” he said, and stalked out again.
Georgia had left then and called Linda, hoping for a bit of encouragement and reassurance, and possible suggestions of whom she might share a flat with, but Linda had left early to go to one of the drama school productions.
She decided to cut her losses and go home, feeling like Cinderella limping her way bewilderedly back from the ball.
Abi saw William’s car the moment she turned into her street. Her first instinct was to drive away again; indeed, she’d slowed down and was looking for somewhere to turn round when he waved out of the window and then, as she sat there, transfixed with horror, opened the door and got out, stood waiting for her. This was unbearable; this was unendurable; telling him she didn’t want to see him anymore over the phone was one thing; being confronted by him, in all his great and terrible niceness, that was something else altogether. She pulled in behind him, got out of her car, walked up to him, tried to smile.
“Hello, William. William, I did say-”
“I know. But I wanted to be sure you were sure. That’s all.”
“I am sure.”
“But… why? I don’t understand. I really don’t. Is it my mother?”
“Of course not. I could perfectly well deal with your mother.”
“I wish you would,” he said, and couldn’t help smiling. She smiled back.
“Please, Abi. I need to know why you… well, why you didn’t want to… to see me anymore. I meant it… what I said in my text,” he added, and it was so awful, seeing the honesty and the hurt and the hope mingled in equal parts in his brown eyes, that she had to look away.
“I… I know, William. And it was great to… to know that. Really great.”
“But… you don’t… love me? Is that it?”
“William, I don’t think I’m capable of loving anyone. I’m awful. Totally awful.”
“Abi, you’re not, of course you’re not.”
“No, it’s true. If you knew what I did on Saturday alone… well, you wouldn’t be here.”
“What was that, then? What did you do that was so bad?”
“Oh… just killed off a little family. A happy little family.”
“Killed it?”
“Oh, not literally. I just… just totally destroyed it.”
She wasn’t sure how much she’d been going to tell him. Suddenly she knew. Everything. And she told him, in all its ugly detail, why he could not possibly continue to love her…
“So… where would you like to get married, then? Where shall we have our wedding? I imagine you’ll want it somewhere in England. The bride’s prerogative, choosing the venue.”
“Well… yes. I suppose so. I mean, yes, of course.”
“In a church?”
“Oh, of course.”
“And then perhaps the reception could be at the house.”
“Oh, Russell, that’s a lovely idea.”
The house-the beautiful house that Russell was buying for them-was actually called Tadwick House; Mary said that sounded much too grand for her, and he had promptly rechristened it Sparrow’s Nest.
“But only for our private use; local people don’t like the names of houses being changed.”
“Nor does the post office,” said Mary, smiling. Thinking of how Donald had insisted on renaming their last house, and what a lot of trouble it had caused with the post office. It was in a cul-de-sac called Horseshoe Bend, and right in the middle of the curve. “I want to call it the End House,” he had said, “for it is, in one way, the end, the farthest point of the street. And this is our last house, where we shall live to the end of our days. So… what could be better?”
Mary had thought that rather gloomy and said so; and Donald had said why, had she never heard of happy endings, “which is what the story of Mary and Donald certainly has.”
She recounted this to Russell now; he smiled.
“I like that. You know, I can see Donald was a remarkable person. I know I would have liked him very much.”
“You would,” said Mary, and it was true. It was one of the things that made her happiest about marrying Russell; he would have liked Donald, and Donald would have liked him. Donald would have recognised him as a good man, into whose care he could entrust his beloved Mary. Which made it all the more sad that Christine had set herself so firmly against him.
The rest of the family were much easier; Timothy her grandson, said it was really cool and he’d be dancing at her wedding all night; when could he meet Russell and would Russell like to be an investor in the IT company he was planning to set up?
“Only joking, Gran. But I would like to meet him… I really would. He sounds great.”
Gerry too had expressed-rather awkwardly-a desire to meet Russell, and had said again how sorry he was Christine was being difficult. And Douglas, Donald’s pride and joy, the son he had longed for, born eight long years-and several miscarriages-after Christine, had written from Toronto to say how very happy he was to hear about Russell and that he would be over at Christmas, if not before, and couldn’t wait to meet him then.
“The kids think it’s really cool too,” he had written. “Don’t worry about Chris”-for Mary had felt bound to warn him about Christine’s reaction-“she’ll come round.”
They agreed on a December wedding: “so we can spend Christmas together legally,” Russell said.
She had received two very sweet letters from his daughters, Coral and Pearl, saying how delighted they were that their father had found her again, what a romantic story it was, and how they longed to meet her. Of course, Mary thought, it must be easier for them; they had learnt to accept and live with Russell’s second wife from comparatively early ages. His son had written a slightly stiffer note, but there was no doubt of its friendliness.
“But I want to show you Connecticut,” Russell said, “where I think we should have our American house.”
When Mary asked him if he was going to sell the apartment, he had looked at her in astonishment.
“No, no, of course not; we’ll need a New York base, and I think you’ll be happy with it. If you’re not then we’ll find another. So… I’ll book a flight around the beginning of November. That way you can experience Thanksgiving, and both girls have expressed a wish to have you there.”
Mary said she wouldn’t have much time to organise a wedding if they were going to be in America until the beginning of December; Russell said nonsense, they could do most of it before they went.
Three homes. A new family. A wedding. It was all rather hard to take in.
William had been desperately hurt and shocked by Abi’s confession: almost unendurably At first, he had been slightly numbed; then, as the days passed and the truth clarified, the pain worsened until it hurt so much he could hardly stand it. It wasn’t just that she’d lied to him so relentlessly about Jonathan, and that she’d been sleeping with Jonathan, and God only knew how many other men before him.
It was that he’d allowed himself to think she’d enjoyed being with him as much as he enjoyed being with her; and she hadn’t. Of course she hadn’t.
She’d just been spending time with him until someone more suitable came along. Abi clearly wanted excitement; she wanted some flashy bloke with plenty of money who could show her a good time, take her to expensive hotels and restaurants and on expensive holidays, not some dull farmer who smelled of cow shit.
And he didn’t want someone like her, either, did he? He wanted someone he could trust, who would treat him and his life carefully, someone straightforward whom he understood, not a baffling enigma straight out of a bad TV series, who slept around, and took her sexual pleasures like a cat.
He felt sick, listless, and, perhaps worst of all, foolish. How Abi must have seen him coming; probably imagined he was rich, that he would make a good meal ticket for a while. He couldn’t see that he would ever feel any better…
Jack Bryant was exactly the sort of person Sergeant Freeman most disliked. Loud, over-the-top posh accent, old-school tie-not that he recognized that one, and he knew most of them, it was a little hobby of his-signet ring, slicked-back hair, highly polished brogues: he was a caricature.
It had not actually been very hard to find him. The motoring division confirmed the wheel nut came from an E-Type; there were several reports of a red E-Type on the road that afternoon-immediately in front of the lorry, according to Georgia; and she had been quite sure it had been a personalized number plate. They had checked with various E-Type associations and clubs, and after that it was a simple matter of trawling through the personalized registrations-the DVLA were always very helpful-and making phone calls. The whole thing had been one day’s work.
However, Freeman was disappointed to discover he couldn’t fault him. Bryant was very articulate, had excellent recall, and was eager to help: yes, he had indeed lost a wheel nut, hadn’t actually discovered it until a week later, when he was checking his car prior to leaving his friends in Scotland. He’d had no idea when it had come off. “But I did check the whole car over very, very carefully, Sergeant, two days before; my mechanic will confirm that. And I gave it a personal check that morning-tyres, oil, all that sort of thing-and I did actually check the wheel nuts myself. Gave them a final go with the old spanner, just to be on the safe side.”
“The irony of it is,” said Paul Johns from Forensics, “you can overtighten those things. The thread goes. What a bloody tragedy. But if it’s true what he says, absolutely not his fault.”
Barney and Emma had had a lovely evening at the Stafford Hotel. They always did. There were guilt and anxiety folded into it, into all of it, but time together was still astonishingly sweet.
“We have to tell them. Don’t we?”
He hadn’t said that before-confronted their situation, what it actually meant. She’d been waiting-not too impatiently, for it was he who must act, his life that must so totally change, he who must be surer than sure about the two of them.
“I love you, Emma. I…” His voice shook slightly. “I don’t love Amanda. I thought I did, of course, but it was an illusion. I am fond of her beyond anything; I hate to make her unhappy, but I can’t marry her. And when she knows, she won’t want it either. So… I will tell her very soon. I hate these lies, hate living them day after day. It’s awful.”
“Do you think she knows? Suspects… anything?”
“I don’t know. Would you?”
“I would, I think. Yes.”
“Ah. Well, then. Within the next few days.”
“Oh, Barney.”
“Oh, Emma. What about you?”
“He really, really won’t mind that much. He’ll think he does, but he won’t. He’s quite… quite thick-skinned.” And then added, anxious not to blacken Luke, who had seemed so recently everything she wanted, “But so lovely in so many ways.”
He nodded, looking at her rather solemnly.
“Like you.”
“What, thick?”
“No. Lovely in so many ways. I love you, Emma. So much.”
“I love you, Barney. So much.”
They left the Stafford soon after ten: Emma to go back to Swindon, Barney to go home to Amanda.
They walked out of the restaurant hand in hand; they had kissed hello, and during the course of the evening had kissed again from time to time, albeit in a very seemly manner, usually because one of them had said something that particularly delighted the other.
No one could have possibly complained about their behaviour; it had been modest, well mannered, and really rather charming.
No one, that is, who was unaware of a relationship either of them might have been conducting with another party altogether.
But as they walked out through the foyer, smiling at each other, Barney failed to recognise that among a rather noisy party of eight, arriving for a posttheatre supper, were Gerard and Jess Richmond. Tamara’s parents. And following them, out of a second taxi, together with a couple of other friends, Tamara herself.
“Barney hi. This is Tamara. I thought we might have a little drink this evening. My treat. No, just the two of us. What? Oh, no, Barney, I think you could spare half an hour. It really is quite important. Great. How about One Aldwych? Well, I know it’s a bit of a trek, but maybe better than right on our own doorstep. You know what they say…? Only joking…”
Patrick woke early on Thursday morning. Early for him, that was, which meant before six. He had slept badly, which he usually did now they were weaning him off the sleeping pills. They were the worst hours, those early ones, when the depression that he could hold off-just-during the day hung around him like a shroud, when the fears that he would never progress beyond the stage he was at now, bedridden and helpless, never going home, never being together with Maeve and the boys again, never making love to Maeve again-that was one of the worst-those fears were at their strongest, their most dangerous. He had moved himself away-with his own willpower, and the help of the hospital priest-from thoughts of suicide; but the alternative, this death-in-life, seemed little better.
He looked out of the window at the blackness. Where had God been when he’d needed Him so badly? Looking the other way, it seemed. Well, that would have been Maeve’s explanation…
He sighed; he was thirsty and hot. Maybe he could get the dear little night nurse, the one who had found him that night and of whom he had grown rather fond, to make him a cup of tea. He rang the bell.
Sue Brown made him a cup of tea, and promised to be back soon, but she had to sort out a couple more patients; it was after seven when she got back to Patrick.
“Right, Patrick, let’s get this job done, shall we? Then you can have your breakfast. I’ll start with your catheter and then give you a nice wash. Let’s see… right…”
Sue Brown was intent on her task; she didn’t hear the slight intake of breath from the patient as she pulled on the catheter, but as she started to insert a fresh one, there was another. Followed by, “What are you doing there, Sue, putting a bit of barbed wire in?”
She looked at him; then, afraid even to ask the question, she said, “Patrick, am I hurting you?”
“Not hurting, no. But it’s not exactly comfortable…”
Sue Brown closed her eyes, briefly. This was-well, it might be-acutely important.
She withdrew the catheter again, laid it gently on the tray, and said, “Patrick, I seem to have forgotten something. I’ll be back in one minute, all right?”
Jo Wales was drinking a very bitter cup of coffee, thinking that really a hospital that had cost over a billion to build might have spent an extra five hundred on a decent coffee machine, when Sue Brown walked in. Or, to be more accurate, seemed to explode into the space in front of her.
“Jo… Jo, I don’t know what to do. Could you come with me, please?”
“What to do about what, Sue?”
“It’s Patrick Connell. He… well, I was just changing his catheter and he said it was uncomfortable. The catheter. When I tried to insert it. Was it a piece of barbed wire, he said.”
Jo stared at her; her heart thumped uncomfortably.
“Oh, my God,” she said. “God, Sue, that is exactly, exactly what we’ve all been waiting for. Let me come in to him straightaway. But… nothing must be said to him yet. All right?”
“Of course not,” said Sue Brown, half indignantly. “That’s exactly why I’m here, not saying anything to him; I wanted your opinion.”
And thus it was that five minutes later, Jo Wales smiled radiantly at Sue Brown across Patrick’s bed, having received the same rather plaintive response as she too tried to insert the catheter, and then at Patrick himself, and said, very gently, “Patrick, I think we might have some rather good news here. I’m going to call Dr. Osborne straightaway.”
Never, as Patrick said to her, after Dr. Osborne had come up to see him personally and first peered at and then prodded it, had his modestly sized willy caused so much excitement.
“So… Barney, what would you like? Cocktail? Beer? Or should we push the boat out, have a glass of champagne? Drink to both our forthcoming nuptials?”
“I’ll have a beer, please,” said Barney.
“OK. And I think I’ll have something nonalcoholic, actually. I want to keep a clear head.”
“Fine.”
“Right… so…” She paused while she gave the order, settled back in her chair. She smiled at him, crossed her long legs rather deliberately. She was wearing a red dress and black, very high-heeled shoes; she looked… what? Slightly dangerous.
“So… what do you want to talk about?” he said.
“Well… I don’t know if Toby’s told you, but we’ve got a new date. Next May.”
“He hasn’t, no. I haven’t seen him for a bit. Now that he’s home…”
“Ah, yes. So you’re not hotfooting it down to the hospital every few days. What a good friend you were, Barney. How very… unselfish of you that was.”
He shrugged. “I didn’t mind. He’s my best friend. He… needed me.”
“Of course. Well, I hope you’re not implying I didn’t do my bit?”
“No, of course not, Tamara. Anyway, May sounds fine. Bit of a way ahead, but…”
“I know. But apart from anything else, it’s a summer wedding dress. Well, you have to think of these things. What about you, Barney; when are you and Amanda going to do it?”
“Oh, next year maybe. We haven’t really finalised it yet…”
“Just as well, perhaps.” She smiled at him oversweetly The drinks arrived. “Oh, thanks,” she said to the waiter. “Got any olives? Great.”
“Tamara,” said Barney, “what did you mean by ‘just as well’?”
“Ah. Yes. Well, you know…”
“No, I don’t know. You’ll have to explain. I’m a simple sort of chap.”
“Oh, Barney, I’ve decided you’re rather complex. Actually.”
“Because…?”
“Well, because you seem to be able to conduct two relationships at once. Not the act of a simple chap, surely.”
The noise around them seemed to intensify; and yet they seemed oddly isolated, set apart from the rest, just the two of them, staring at each other over this dangerous, deadly conversation.
“I saw you, Barney; that’s the thing. Leaving the Stafford the other night. With the pretty little doctor person. It does rather explain your devoted presence at the hospital, day after day…”
“This is a disgusting conversation,” said Barney.
“I don’t think so. If anything’s disgusting, it’s you. Playing around, cheating on just about the sweetest girl you could find anywhere.”
“Have you discussed this with Toby?”
“No, I haven’t discussed it with anyone. Yet. I wanted to get your version of it.”
“You’re not going to get any version of anything out of me, Tamara. I have no intention of discussing my personal life with you.”
“Well, I think you might have to. Unless we start with discussing something else.”
“And what’s that?”
“Starting with the reason you and Toby left so late for the wedding that day. I still haven’t had a satisfactory explanation out of either of you. I really want to know that, Barney. And if you don’t tell me, I’m going straight to Amanda. Before you have a chance to work up any kind of an explanation.”
“I’ve told you. Toby was ill. He kept being sick.”
“And why was he being sick?”
“I suppose he had some bug. I don’t know.”
“His parents didn’t mention it.”
“They didn’t know. We-specially Toby-didn’t want to worry them.”
She crossed and uncrossed her legs, began to fiddle with her necklace. It was a complex affair, a mass of small charms on a long silver chain.
“This just so doesn’t ring true, you know, Barney.”
“Look, why don’t you ask Toby?”
“I have. He says much the same. That he must have eaten something. But you and his parents were fine. Now, I know you were stopped by the police, and that must have held you up a good twenty or thirty minutes. But then you went to a service station. What the fuck for? Making you even later.”
“Toby needed the toilet. Again.”
“No, Barney, he could have thrown up out of the car window if you were that late. I’m sorry. None of this works. I’m going to have to talk to Amanda. This evening, I should think.”
She was looking very complacent now, half smiling at him; she was clearly enjoying the conversation.
“No!” he said, knowing she must recognise his panic, trying to disguise it. “No, Tamara, not this evening. Look, I don’t want anyone-anyone-talking to Amanda except me. Which is not to say there’s anything to talk about. But please… if you don’t believe me about the wedding day, ask Toby yourself. Ask him to confirm the story.”
She looked at him, her eyes gimlet-hard, her mouth set. Then she said, “All right. I’ll give you twenty-four hours.”
“And will you talk to Toby?”
“Yes, I most certainly will. Right. Well, it’s been a fun evening, hasn’t it? Bye, Barney.”
And she stalked out of the bar on her impossibly perfect legs, pulling her cloud of hair up into a tight ponytail as she went. It was an oddly pugilistic gesture.
“Linda? Alex.”
“Oh… Alex. Hello.” She did have a great voice: husky and sexy and expressive. “Saturday was great, Alex.”
“I thought so too.”
He was in the car, about to drive home; he smiled into the darkness, feeling a rush of pleasure, partly from hearing her voice, partly from remembering Saturday himself.
They’d gone to the theatre to see Chicago; it had been at his suggestion. She’d said she couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it, which he’d found mildly irritating-not everyone could spend every other evening in the theatre-but then she said she’d be more than happy to sit through it for the third time. They then went out to dinner, and talked so much and for so long that he really had missed his last train home.
“Damn,” he said, “I’ll have to get a cab. If I can. Or stay in a hotel. If I can find one.”
“Or… stay with me,” she said, and then added, a gleam in her dark brown eyes, “if you dare.”
And when he’d got flustered she’d laughed and said, “Alex, I’m not compromising you. I have a very nice spare room, and you’re very welcome to it. Don’t start talking about taxis and hotels; it’s ridiculous.”
And so he’d gone back to her incredibly smart flat, the sort of place he hated, full of aggressively stylish, uncomfortable-looking modern furniture-although she did have two wonderfully large and lush white sofas-and a lot of ridiculous and incomprehensible paintings and rather absurd ornaments.
“What would you like to drink?”
“Brandy?”
“Sounds good to me.”
She returned with a tray, poured him a very large brandy.
“Thanks.” He suddenly felt awkward; a silence formed. He looked round the room, the perfect room, looking for something to say. “It’s all extremely… tidy,” he said.
“I am extremely tidy. Too tidy, people tell me. It means I’m anally retentive, a control freak, all that sort of stuff. What about you?”
“I’m very untidy. So does that make me not a control freak?”
“Possibly. What do you think?”
“I don’t know, Linda. I don’t feel I know what I am anymore.”
“That’s a very sad remark,” she said, and her eyes were thoughtful as she looked at him.
“I’m afraid I’ve become a bit of a sad person. In the modern sense as well. My daughter constantly upbraids me for being sad.”
“What… as in the get-a-life sense?”
“That’s the one.”
“I don’t think that matters. Much more important if you’re actually not… not happy.”
“I’m not,” he said abruptly. “I would say I’m quite unhappy. Have been for years.”
“Alex, that’s dreadful.”
“Oh, I love my work. I love my kids. But… it isn’t very nice, living with someone who finds you totally wanting. Knowing they wish you weren’t there.”
“This is your wife, I presume.”
“It is. My about-to-be-ex-wife. We’re trying to sort out accommodation. It’s very difficult. I think I told you… we’ve sold the house, only a matter of time.”
“Do you think you’ll feel better then?”
“I hope so. I’ll miss the kids horribly.”
“But you’ll still see them, I imagine.”
“Obviously. But that’s not quite the same thing as living with them. And I worry about them, how they’ll cope.”
“Well… I don’t know them or anything about them. But living in a miserable household can’t be doing them any good either.”
Her tone was brisk, almost abrasive; it annoyed him.
“I didn’t say the household was miserable; I said I was.”
“But, Alex, if they have an ounce of sensitivity, they must know that. And it should worry them. I just think if they care about you and their mother they’ll see it’s for the best. And deal with it.”
“I don’t think you can know many teenagers,” he said. “And I don’t think you really know what you’re talking about. That’s a very simplistic view.”
She stared at him, and flushed suddenly; it was endearing, the first sign he had seen of any crack in her self-confidence.
“Sorry,” she said.
He was silent; he felt depressed and defensive, a shadow over the evening. The silence grew.
Then, “I’m sorry, Alex,” she said suddenly, surprising him, “if I upset you. And of course I don’t know what I’m talking about.” She smiled at him rather awkwardly. “I’m just terribly bossy. I can’t help it. Well, I suppose I could, if I really tried, but by the time I realise I’m doing it, it’s too late. I’ll stop now. I just… well, I just didn’t like the idea of you being unhappy all the time.”
“That’s very kind of you,” he said, “but I think I know how to look after myself.”
He could hear himself, pompous, a bit stiff.
“Right,” she said, clearly edgy herself, “how about some coffee? And brandy?”
“That’d be very nice,” he said. He didn’t really want it, but to have turned that away as well as her apology would have seemed very aggressive.
She disappeared, and he leafed rather nervously through a coffee table book on art deco in the cinema. This might have been a mistake. The whole thing might have been a mistake.
“Well,” she said on her return, “let’s start again. What shall we talk about; what would be safe? You choose a subject.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Why?”
“Well to be honest,” he said, “I’m still a bit nervous of boring you.”
“Boring me! Why? I find you not remotely boring; I promise you that.”
“I’ll try to believe you. I mean… you do lead this rather glamorous life. In theatres and so on. And I spend mine…”
“Yes. How do you spend yours; what do you do? Day by day, I mean? Tell me.”
“Oh, staring into people’s orifices. Patching them up. Not the orifices, the people. Dealing with overdoses, cardiac arrests, stab wounds, even the occasional death on site, so to speak. I mean, I love it and it’s fascinating, but it can hardly compete with first nights and talent spotting, can it?”
“Alex, I spend about ten per cent of my time at first nights. The rest is hard graft, talking to a load of rather pretentious people, trying to persuade them mediocre actors are wonderful and wonderful ones are worth hiring. And nannying actors, nursing their egos, making sure they get to auditions, listening to them whining, sorting out their money.”
“Bit like being a parent.”
“Possibly. But… I think I might prefer the orifices.”
“You wouldn’t,” he said, and laughed. “Believe me. Not very nice things, orifices. Well, not the ones who land up in Casualty.”
“Tell me,” she said, “do you really get people coming in with golf balls up their bums, things like that?”
“’Fraid so. And people get up to the most extraordinary things with vacuum cleaner hoses.”
“You’re kidding! Now, that really is sad.”
She leant forward to top up his brandy; he found himself studying her cleavage. She noticed and grinned at him.
“Sorry,” he said.
“Don’t be. I don’t mind. I’d wear polo necks if I did.”
“Promise me,” he said, laughing, “you’ll never come out with me wearing a polo neck. That would make me very sad indeed.”
“It’s a promise.”
“Well, that is… if you do come out with me again. I hope I’m not being presumptuous.”
“Oh, Alex,” she said, and her voice was impatient, “of course you’re not being presumptuous. You shouldn’t put yourself down so much. You’re a very attractive, sexy man. Get used to the idea. If you ask me out, I’ll come. There you are; that’s another promise. Oh, God. I’m being bossy again, aren’t I? What about your wife, is she bossy?”
“Not… not exactly. She just does what she wants. But… lots of wives do that.”
“Do they? I wouldn’t know. Most of my friends aren’t wives, you see.”
No, he thought, they wouldn’t be. You don’t move in a married world; you don’t know about marriage. Not really.
“So… lots of fights?”
“Not really. I don’t fight.”
She looked at him thoughtfully. “I’m surprised. I’d have thought you’d be rather good in a fight. You’re quite… quite powerful, aren’t you? Emotionally.”
“Linda, you hardly know me.”
“I realise that. But… I can rather see you roaring and raging away.”
“I think you’re letting your imagination run away with you,” he said, edgy again. “I don’t do much roaring and raging. Not at home, anyway.”
“Ah. How about work? From what I could see that day in the hospital, you were quite… fierce. I bet you’re one of those terrible men who takes everything out on their colleagues.” She smiled at him, lay back on the cushions. “Am I right?”
“That’s a dreadful thing to say,” he said. He didn’t smile back.
“Oh, Alex, I was only joking. Look, this conversation’s going nowhere. Let’s go to bed, shall we?”
“Fine.” He stood up. And then added, “Maybe I should try to get a cab after all.”
“That really is ridiculous,” she said. “Why, for God’s sake?”
“Because I don’t seem to feel very comfortable here.”
“Oh, please,” she said. “You should stop being so sorry for yourself, Alex. It’s very dangerous. You’re not the only person who’s had a bad marriage; other people go through it and out the other side. Even other people with kids.”
He stared at her, suddenly angry. “I don’t think you’re exactly an expert on the subject,” he said. “By your own admission, you haven’t done too well yourself.”
“Oh, do shut up,” she said wearily. “Good night, Alex. There’s a towel on your bed. And a spare toothbrush on the chest of drawers. The bathroom’s down the corridor. Just… let yourself out quietly in the morning, will you?”
It was the reference to the toothbrush that did it. He suddenly felt rather stricken at his rudeness, and thought that whatever else, she had been very generous, not to mention thoughtful. Not many people kept spare toothbrushes for unexpected guests.
“I’m… sorry,” he said stiffly, “if I was rude. You’ve been very… very hospitable. I shall be glad of the toothbrush. Thank you. Good night.”
He turned away, and heard the unmistakable sound of a giggle.
“That was the most ridiculous little speech,” she said, “but thank you for it. I’m glad you think I’m hospitable, at least. I seem to have one virtue.”
Alex turned; she was shaking with silent laughter, biting her lip, her lovely face alive as she looked at him.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “if I’ve hurt your feelings. I truly didn’t mean to. It was… well, it was seeing you doing your Heathcliff number. All brooding and wounded.”
“I was not doing a number,” he said. And then he grinned back, albeit reluctantly.
“Yes, you were. You are Heathcliff. To the life. Don’t look so cross. Heathcliff was very sexy as well as brooding. Come on, let’s go to bed friends, shall we?” She walked over to him, lifted her face to his, reached up, and kissed him-very lightly on the mouth. But it was enough.
Five minutes later they were in her bed.
“Saturday was lovely,” she said now. “Very lovely. Thank you.”
“I thought so too. When…?”
“Oh, as soon as possible, I’d think,” she said, “if that doesn’t sound too bossy. Of course.”
“Well… it does, quite. But I’ll try to ignore that. How about the weekend?”
“Maybe… Friday running over into Saturday? Or does that sound bossy?”
“Very bossy. But… I think I can handle it.”
“I’ll book somewhere, shall I?”
“No,” he said, “I’ll bloody book. I do know how to. Bye, Linda.”
“Bye, Alex.”
He started the car and drove home quite fast, smiling at the prospect of the weekend and of her. She might be… well, she was difficult. But she just made him feel as if he mattered. It was a very good sensation.
The note lay on the hall table when Barney got in.
“Sorry, darling, tried to ring you, but your phone was switched off. Left a message, but in case you didn’t get it, I’ve gone to see that Keira Knightley film with Nicola. Hope that’s OK, knew you’d hate it. Lots of salady stuff in fridge, back about ten. Love you.”
Oh, God, Barney thought. Oh, shit. Well, it bought him some time.
Maybe he should do it tonight. It wasn’t fair on Amanda, the lying. The cheating wasn’t fair either, but it was the lying that was so awful. Pretending all the time, smiling at her when he didn’t feel like smiling, saying he loved her when she’d said she loved him, because that really was the only thing to say.
Returning her kisses, pretending he was too tired for sex; it was all horrible. When she knew, she’d hate that, hate thinking that was what he’d been doing.
Yes, he would, he’d tell Amanda tonight. Get it over.
He poured himself a beer, sat there thinking about her, about Amanda, his Amanda, whom he had once thought he loved…
The landline rang sharply, cutting into his thoughts. Who could that be, who used the landline anymore, except parents, of course…?
He picked it up.
Amanda arrived home two hours later. He heard the taxi door slam, heard her pretty, light voice saying, “Thank you so much, good night.”
He sat there thinking of what he must tell her, feeling like an executioner, waiting to do his dreadful deed.
She came in, smiling, kissed him, said, “Hello, darling, it was such a lovely film; I really think you might have liked it. Barney, what is it, what’s the matter?”
And: “I’m sorry, Amanda,” he said, “so, so sorry. It’s… it’s bad news, I’m afraid. It’s your father, Amanda, he’s… Oh God, I’m so sorry; he’s had a heart attack; he’s… well, he’s dead.”
And then he stood there, holding her as she sobbed and shook with grief, and thought how cruel, how doubly cruel was fate, mostly to her, of course, robbing her of her beloved father, but also in a small part to him, robbing him for the foreseeable future, of the chance to set his life straight and to do the right thing and be with the person he really loved.
And hating himself for finding room even to think it.
“Toby?”
“Yes, Tamara.”
“Toby, I really want to talk to you about something.”
“Darling, if it’s the date, next May’s fine by me.”
“Good. But it’s not. It’s about the wedding: the one that didn’t happen.”
“Ye-es?”
“Toby, I really need to know… why did you leave so late? You’ve waffled away about your being ill and the police stopping you and then the crash. The fact remains, you should have left literally hours earlier. Why didn’t you?”
“Well… Look, do we really have to do this?”
“Yes, we really do. Because however much I try to believe all that stuff about your being ill, I somehow can’t. And if you weren’t ill and you didn’t leave in time, there was clearly some other very good reason. What was it, Toby; I really have to know.”
Toby looked at her, took a large sip of the wine he was drinking, and sat up very straight in his chair.
“Well, I suppose I’d better tell you. I’ve been hoping it wouldn’t have to come out…”
“What wouldn’t have to come out?”
“It was… well, it was Barney, Tamara, I’m afraid. He… well, he got terribly drunk the night before the wedding. I tried to stop him, but he kept saying it was my last night of freedom and we should enjoy it. He must have drunk the best part of two bottles of wine and at least half a bottle of whisky. Honestly, he could hardly walk. I got him to bed somehow. And then in the morning… well, you can imagine the state he was in. Kept throwing up, completely unfit to drive, of course… I just had to sit it out. And… adding insult to injury, if you like, he’d forgotten to fill the car up with petrol. Which actually was why we came on the motorway, nearest petrol station. I could have killed him… if he hadn’t been my best friend. So… there you have it. I’m sorry, darling, really I am. But… non mea culpa.”
“And why the fuck didn’t you tell me before? Instead of fobbing me off with this stomach bug nonsense?”
“Oh, Tamara, how could I? He’s my best buddy. I couldn’t rat on him, could I?”
“Quite easily, I’d have thought. To make me feel better about the whole thing. Who’s more important to you, Toby, Barney or me? Seems like it’s Barney.”
“Darling, of course it’s not. I mean, what good would it have done, splitting on him? And don’t, please don’t tell him I told you. He’d be so… so horrified. He feels quite bad enough as it is. Let’s just put it behind us, eh? Next May, you’ll be Mrs. Toby Weston and this whole thing’ll be like a bad dream…”
“Now, Maeve, please don’t laugh, but I would be very honoured if you would be my bridesmaid.”
Mary’s face was rather pink as she looked at Maeve across the table in the café: the same café that had provided so fateful a meeting place two months earlier. She had come in to see Patrick, alerted of the wonderful news of his recovery by Maeve.
“It’s like a miracle, Mary, every day a little more sensation. He can feel almost the whole of one foot now, and the toes of the other. I can’t believe it, and he is so happy. And… oh, Mary, I’d love to be your bridesmaid; it would be the greatest honour, but what about your daughter-isn’t that her place?”
“I’m afraid Christine will want to play a very minor role,” she said, “if she comes at all. I just keep hoping she’ll come round. There’s nothing I can say that will make things better, but my son seems delighted… They’re all coming over from Canada, for the wedding, and my son-in-law, Gerry, he’s very happy about it, and my grandson too. Timothy wants to give me away; I was very touched by that.”
“Well, that’s wonderful. Very well, but if Christine changes her mind, you must tell me at once, and I’ll resign the offer. Now, what are you going to wear, will it be white?”
“Well… it will. Do you think that’s terribly foolish?”
“Of course it’s not foolish; it’s delightful. You’ll look beautiful, Mary.”
“It’s a two-piece, quite a straight skirt and a beaded jacket, very pretty. And I’m going to carry just a very small bunch of flowers… I thought white roses; what do you think?”
“I’d say pink would be better,” said Maeve thoughtfully. “White will hardly show up against your dress. And… what in your hair?”
“Oh, a long veil, of course,” said Mary, and they both started to laugh: two women, joyfully engrossed as they went about the centuries-old female business of planning a wedding, and it was of no consequence whatsoever that the bride was three times the age of her bridesmaid and her bridegroom four times the age of the man who was to give her away.
Anything might happen now, Emma thought: it was all horribly dangerous. Tamara might tell Amanda… although Barney had told her that he didn’t think she would.
“I told her, if she did, I would personally wring her neck. I think she believed me, and I think she’ll keep her mouth shut. God, she’s a cow. God, I dislike her.”
Tamara did sound like a cow, but Emma actually thought that if Toby was really the wonderful person Barney said, then he wouldn’t be about to marry someone who was absolutely the reverse.
Emma felt very bad about Amanda herself; but the great fear that was consuming her now was that with Barney being so necessarily close to Amanda, supporting her, comforting her, helping her through the awful days and their awful demands-her mother was in bits, he said-he might find himself drawn back irrevocably into their relationship. Grief was a powerful weapon; Amanda would not only be expecting Barney’s presence one hundred per cent in her life; she had an absolute right to it…
“Woodentops.”
The voice was perky. It sounded more suited to the children’s TV programme than a firm of carpenters.
“Good morning. This is the Collision Investigation Unit of the Avon Valley Police.”
“Oh, yes?” Slightly less perky.
“We’re looking to contact the driver of one of your vans…”
“We have several; I’d need more details, please? Driver’s name, number of car…”
“I don’t have either, I’m afraid. But one of your vans was seen driving up the M4 on the afternoon of August twenty-second. Towards London. Is that any help to you?”
“Let me see…”
There was a silence; Freeman could hear computer keys clicking in the background. Then: “That would probably be Mr. Thompson. I’m not sure; you’d need to speak to him; as I said, we do have several vans and-”
“Is Mr. Thompson there?”
“No, but I can contact him for you.”
“Perhaps you’d ask him to give me a call. Just a routine enquiry, tell him. The number is…”
“Rick, you been speeding again? Had the police on about you. You’d better not lose your licence; you’ll be out of a job if you do. Now, it was you, wasn’t it, on the M4 afternoon of August twenty-second? Yes, I thought so…”
Shit. How had they traced him? Not that it mattered; he hadn’t done anything wrong. He’d been miles ahead of that accident, anyway. Probably thought he could just provide some information. Bloody police, always harassing the poor bloody motorist…
By the time he phoned them, Rick had worked himself up into a state of extremely righteous indignation.
“Is that the Emma?”
God. She’d forgotten how lovely it was just to hear his voice.
“Hi, Barney. The Barney. Yes, it is. How… how are things?”
“Bit tough. Yes. How are you?”
“I’m fine. Yes, really fine. Missing you, but…”
“Missing you too. So much. It was the funeral today. That was grim. Amanda was incredibly upset.”
“Of course.”
“But being terribly brave, wonderful with her mum.”
She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear all this.
“We’re staying down here tonight”-she didn’t like that we; it conjured up images she could hardly bear-“and then I’m going back in the morning.”
“Right.”
“Amanda’s probably coming up in a day or two. She’s had a lot of time off work already.”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Emma… I don’t… that is, I can’t… not until…”
“Barney, it’s OK. You don’t even have to say it. Just take your time. I understand.”
“I love you, Emma.”
“I…” But she couldn’t even finish. She choked on the words. And rang off without saying good-bye.
The second day of rehearsals Georgia arrived early-early enough for coffee alone with Merlin-and she began to feel more comfortable with everyone. Davina told her she was doing great, and Anna was there, rehearsing a scene with Georgia and the grandmother. Anna was wonderful to work with, easy, encouraging… and managed to give her character a humour that lifted her scenes beautifully, and which Georgia found herself responding to. Best of all, at the end of the day, Merlin said, “We could have a drink this evening, if you’ve got time.” Georgia was able to find the time.
They went to a pub down the street. Even walking into it with him was amazing; she felt everyone must be looking at them, and thinking how good-looking he was, and what a cool couple they made.
“So… things better today? You were very tense yesterday.”
“Much better, thank you.”
“Anna is great, isn’t she? She has a fascinating history. Ask her to tell you sometime.”
“Oh… OK. So”-this seemed a good opening-“so what about you, Merlin, have you worked on loads of productions?”
“Not that many. Incredibly lucky to be in this one. Bryn is the greatest; you learn such a lot from someone like him.”
“And… did you go to drama school?”
“Yeah, LAMDA, did their two-year stage management course. Haven’t been working that long-I’m still only twenty-six-and the money’s rubbish, of course, but who cares? I have to live at home still. But I’m pretty well self-contained, and they don’t bother me much.”
“So… where is home?” said Georgia, encouraged that at least he didn’t seem to have a live-in girlfriend.
“Oh… Hampstead. Up by the Heath. Pretty nice. Sometimes, early in the morning, you can believe it’s actually the country. Birds carrying on and all that sort of thing. Mummy swims in the ponds every day…”
“Really?” said Georgia, hoping she sounded as if she knew what the ponds were.
“Yes. She’s cool. We get on pretty well.”
“And your dad? Does he swim too?”
“Oh… not Pa, no. He’s a bit of a wimp. Although he does cycle into the college in the summer. If it’s not raining, that is.”
“The college?”
“Yeah. He’s a lecturer at London University. In political history.”
“Goodness. He must be very clever.”
“He is. God, Georgia, it’s been such fun, but I must go. Got to get up to Kensington. I’m going on the tube; how about you?”
“Oh… yes, me too. To Baker Street.”
“Let’s go together then.”
He must like her a bit, to want to travel on the tube with her. Just a bit.
He wasn’t in the next day, but she got chatting to Mo and, by careful casual questioning, found out a bit more about Merlin.
“He’s a sweetheart,” Mo said, “and looking like that… God. He ought to be a real brat, but he isn’t. Well, not much of one.”
“It sounds as if his parents are quite… rich,” said Georgia.
“Well… quite. But they’re incredibly socialist as well. Both fully paid up members of the Labour Party. Mama runs this secondhand bookshop in Hampstead, and sells loads of political books and does fund-raising and stuff.”
“But… Merlin sounds very… well, very posh. I thought he must have gone to Eton or somewhere.”
“God, no. Holland Park Comp. Where he was bullied terribly, actually beaten up several times, because a group of really rough kids decided he was gay, but the parents didn’t care. Their principles were much more important. Poor old Merlin. Anyway, he’s all right now. Everyone loves him.”
“He’s not, though… is he?” said Georgia, trying not to sound anxious.
“Not what? Oh, gay, No, of course not. Very red-blooded indeed, our Merlin.”
“He’s been so, so nice to me,” Georgia said.
“Yes, well, he is really… nice. But…” Mo looked at her, and she thought she was about to say something, but then Bryn Merrick arrived, looking petulant, and demanded freshly ground coffee. And then Davina wanted to run through a scene with Georgia, and whatever it was, was never said.