The Best Of Times

CHAPTER 41

William was walking out of a pub in Bristol, quite early in the evening, when he saw Abi. He’d avoided the place as much as he could recently, but an old friend from Cirencester days had asked him to be best man at his wedding and had invited him and his ushers to discuss the demands and requirements of their roles.

He tried very hard to get into the spirit of the thing, downed a couple of beers and laughed at some pretty unfunny jokes about the role of the best man and agreed that the Hunt Ball of the previous week had been terrific, although actually he’d reached a peak of misery there. Gyrating to the pounding rhythms of the Whippersnappers, he’d looked round at all the other gyrators, some young, some older, but with the identical DNA of the foxhunting classes, cheerful, foolhardy, blinkered folk, clinging to their beleaguered lifestyle, and wondered how he was going to live among them for the rest of his life.

Abi was walking along, laden with bags; Christmas shopping, he supposed. She was wearing black as always: black leather coat, knee-length black boots, black furry hat. And dark glasses. In the dark. Why did she do that? She saw him, briefly pretended she hadn’t, then half smiled and said, “Hello.”

“Hello, Abi. How are you?”

“I’m fine. You?”

“Oh… yes. Fine, thanks.”

He felt awful, wondering if he was going to throw up or pass out.

“Been Christmas shopping?”

“Yeah. God, it’s awful out there. Pandemonium.”

“Where’s your car?”

“Oh… just along there. In the car park. What are you doing here?”

“Mate of mine’s getting married; he’s asked me to be best man. We were just getting together with the ushers.”

“Really? When’s the wedding?”

“In April.”

“Lambing time.”

“No, not for us. We do early lambing.”

“Oh, of course you do. In the lambing shed…” She looked at him and smiled. “See how much I’ve remembered? Well I guess I wouldn’t have forgotten that.”

Oh, God, God, she shouldn’t have said that. It had been all right till then; he’d been fine, totally fine, about to move on, say cheers. But the lambing shed…

“My car’s down there, too,” he said. “Let me help you with your bags.”

“Oh… OK. Thanks.”

There was no tension, no uneasy silence as they walked; she asked him how he was, what he’d been doing, what was the main activity on the farm in the winter. He’d forgotten how interested she was in everything, and how much he enjoyed the interest. It was extraordinary-extraordinary and extraordinarily pleasing.

Her car was on the ground floor; he realised that he’d been hoping it would be a longer trip, that they’d have to go up in the lift, that the encounter might continue as long as possible.

She opened the boot. “Thanks, William. That’s really kind of you.”

He put the bags in; she shut the boot, turned to look at him. He caught the strong, heady scent he remembered; he felt a bit dizzy.

“It was so nice to see you,” she said. “I’ve often thought how nice it would be. Just to… well… say good-bye more happily. But it didn’t seem very likely. I mean, those sorts of things only happen in films, don’t they? And books? What are the chances of William Grainger, farmer, and Abi Scott, photographer’s assistant, actually bumping into each other, on the off chance? One in millions. Billions, probably.” She leaned up, gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Bye, William. Once again, I’m so sorry.”

“What for?” he said, and in that moment he genuinely couldn’t think why she should be apologising.

“Me being me. Right, then…” She turned, walked to the door, opened it. “Take care. Oh, and happy Christmas.”

She got in, slammed the door, started the engine. William stood there, mute, helpless, unable to do or say anything. She was there, not in his memory, not in his imagination, but for real. Funny and fun and sexy and interested. Interesting and absolutely on his side. And now she was going… again. Leaving him to his new-or rather old-life, blank, monotone, nothing to look forward to as he spread slurry in the cold, did the hated paperwork.

She put the car into gear, wound down the window, blew him another kiss. “Bye,” she said again.

She moved forward; he jumped out of the way, managed to smile. The car moved slowly off. She was going, leaving him again, and that had to be right, had to be the only thing. He should just be glad-as she had said-that they could say good-bye more happily. There was absolutely no alternative. None whatsoever.

Barney couldn’t believe how much it would hurt: losing Toby. Sometimes he thought it was even worse than losing Emma. At least he could have gone and talked about Emma to Toby, the one person in the world-he had thought-he could trust, talk to about anything. You couldn’t admit to being that foolish to many people.

It was like discovering the Rolex Oyster you’d been given for your twenty-first by your parents was a cheap fake. Toby, his best friend, whom he’d have trusted with his life, had turned out to be a cheap fake himself. He still couldn’t quite believe it. Or, worse, that he’d been so stupid and that Toby had pulled the wool over his eyes for so long. That hurt too. He also felt incredibly angry quite a lot of the time: angry with Toby, angry with himself, angry with Tamara.

He knew he’d never forget as long as he lived that night she came round and ranted and railed at him; he’d thought that she’d finally had a nervous breakdown because of her cancelled wedding.

But then as she calmed down and he managed to get her to tell him just what it exactly was he was supposed to have done, and as the hideous realisation dawned, he felt so terrible he thought he was actually going to be sick.

“Well,” she said, “what have you got to say, Barney, did you really think you could get away with it, all that crap?”

There had seemed no point at that moment in telling her it was Toby who was giving her the crap, Toby who was lying; it was Toby who must be confronted. He simply said he was very sorry she was so upset, that there was obviously a terrible misunderstanding and he would do his very best to sort it out. She had left, after hurling a few more insults at him; she was so clearly genuinely upset that Barney had actually felt quite sorry for her.

Toby had lied, of course; Barney had arrived at the house the following evening, had told the Westons he was going to take him out for a drink, and then parked a mile down the road and confronted him.

“Mate, she’s crazy. She must have misunderstood what I said to her.”

“No,” said Barney, “she didn’t misunderstand. She was very, very clear about what you told her. In fact, she repeated it almost word for word. I’d repeat it back to you, if you like, only I don’t think I could face hearing any more lies. I don’t know why you did it, Toby. I’m baffled.”

“I don’t understand myself,” said Toby, and his voice was rather quiet suddenly. “I’ve just had so much to cope with, with the accident and the leg and so on, and it was just… easier to tell her that. I’m sorry… I still feel pretty rotten, Barney, in pain a lot of the time, can’t sleep…”

“Oh, my heart bleeds for you,” said Barney. “I can cope with your not telling Tamara the truth… obviously. I wouldn’t either. But not lying to her about me. It’s hideous, Toby. Any other little fibs I need to know about, just so I don’t get any more nasty surprises? If not I’ll be off.”

“I…” Toby seemed about to say something, then stopped. “No, no, Barney, of course not.”

“Good. Don’t see what’s ‘of course’ about it. Actually.”

“Barney, I’m… well, I’m sorry. Very sorry.”

“Yeah, OK. I’ll drop you back. You’ll have to think of some story to give your mother. Why do I think you’ll be able to manage that?”

He had been so upset he’d actually cried after he dropped Toby outside his house, parked his car at the end of the road and sobbed like a small boy. Then he’d driven very slowly and carefully back to London.

He got home at midnight, sat down, and got very drunk on whisky, grateful only that Amanda wasn’t there; he felt betrayed not just by Toby but by life itself. It just wasn’t fucking fair.

When Emma phoned two weeks later to tell him that she’d been doing a lot of thinking and she really couldn’t see how they could possibly have a future together, or not one based on making Amanda, whom he obviously still loved so much, deeply unhappy, and not to argue and not to try to see her, he found he was hardly even surprised.

Wretched, wounded, shocked, but not surprised.

“Right,” said Freeman. He tapped the pile of papers on his desk. “Ready to go, I think. Dozens of interviews, hundreds of hours. But none of it warrants going to the CPS, in my opinion. No real charge against anyone here…”

“Not even our friend Mr. Thompson?”

“No chance. Nasty bit of work, and undoubtedly he contributed to the blowout, but you could never charge him.”

“Well, maybe he’ll be a bit more careful in future.”

“Maybe. For a bit. Then it’ll be two fingers to us all and he’ll be off again. I’d like to see him fined, at least. But… I’d say we simply have an inquest situation here.”

Constable Rowe felt quite sorry for him; he looked as if he was about to burst into tears.

Interviewed at a police station, Rick had been defiant, truculent; yes, he’d had a load of wood on board; that was his job. No, he hadn’t been driving dangerously.

“And… this wood, Mr. Thompson. Was it properly stowed in your van?”

“Yes, course it was.”

“And it was new wood, was it?”

“Yeah.”

“It had no nails in it, for instance?”

“Course not.”

“Right. Well, perhaps you could explain why several witnesses saw the back doors of your van tied together with some rope?”

“I might have tied some rope round the handles. Nothing wrong with that, is there? Doesn’t mean it wasn’t properly fastened.”

“So you’re quite sure that some pieces of wood, with nails in them, could not have fallen out of the van onto the road?”

“Yeah, quite sure. I told you, it was new wood.”

The man from the wood yard near Stroud had remembered Rick very clearly.

Particularly his request that he should dispose of the old timber for him, and that he had refused. And that Thompson had then asked for a length of rope to tie the doors together, which had been insufficient to do the job properly.

Rick was told he would be called as a witness at any trial or inquest on the crash.

“Oh, what! I wasn’t anywhere near the bloody crash.”

“People have died, Mr. Thompson,” Freeman said. “Proper explanations for that have to be found. You could certainly be judged to have played a part in the collision that caused it. You’ll be hearing from us in the fullness of time.”

“I think I should move out for a bit,” said Jonathan. “This isn’t getting us anywhere.”

He had walked into Laura’s studio, where she was struggling to work; it was late; the children were all in bed and asleep.

“What isn’t getting us anywhere?”

“Well… drifting along like this. With you obviously unable to bear the sight of me.”

“Are you surprised by that?”

“No, Laura. But we can’t go on like this for the next forty years or whatever.”

“Believe me, I don’t want to. I’m just… trying to decide what’s best. For all of us.”

“I presume by that you mean the children,” he said, “rather than me and you.”

“Well… me as well. But mainly them, yes.”

“Right. Well, I think rather than go on living in this poisonous atmosphere-”

“I hope you’re not implying I’m creating the poisonous atmosphere?”

“Well… to a degree, you are. Obviously with some justification, but…”

“Jonathan, I can’t believe you said that. I haven’t done anything.

I’m not doing anything. Just trying to… to cope with what you’ve done. You’ve betrayed me totally, Jonathan, lied and lied to me, broken every promise, all your marriage vows.”

“Laura, I’ve said so many times I’m sorry, desperately sorry; I would give everything I have for it not to have happened…”

“Oh, I don’t think so. Your precious career, your doting staff, your adoring patients? And if you’re that desperate about it, why didn’t you realise how wrong it was, what damage you were doing to us and our marriage? No, you must have felt you had some kind of right to it, to her. And in that case, then either you’re rotten through and through, which actually I don’t think you are, or there’s something wanting in our relationship. So don’t try to explain, because I don’t think I could bear it.”

She could see she had shocked him: not by what she had said, but that she had said it at all. This was not the Laura he knew, berating him; this was not his gentle, softly spoken wife. But then, she thought, he was not the Jonathan she had known, not the loving, loyal husband and father, who had the family at the very centre of his being. They were moving far and fast from their old selves, and there was no knowing where and how far apart they would end up.

“Well… in that case, I’ll go,” he said. “There’s no point in my staying. I really can’t see it’s of any benefit to the children. I’ll arrange to see them at weekends and so on. And then we can decide what to do next.”

“Yes. All right.”

She felt sick suddenly.

“I think I’ll go to bed,” she said, and walked over to the door. There was a scuffle on the stairs; she looked up and saw Charlie staring down at her, his face white, with two brilliant spots of colour forming on his cheeks. He had obviously heard every word.

Georgia was still slightly surprised to find herself living with a friend of Merlin’s… well, not actually living with him, obviously, but in a room in his house in Paddington. She had imagined herself living in a flat with a load of girls, or men and girls, sharing everything, eating together, going around together, not virtually on her own, having to budget and cook for herself and get herself up and out in the morning. It had all been a bit of a shock at first. But there simply hadn’t been an option.

It had all begun with a row with Linda, with whom she’d been staying; Linda was being really odd. Far less interested in Georgia than she used to be, demanding, critical, making a fuss about stupid things like a couple of cups left unwashed, or music being played too loudly, and nagging endlessly about finding a place of her own.

She’d looked at about a hundred-well, at least ten-room- and flat-shares one Monday morning, and they were all horrible. She’d just never expected it to be so hard. And then she’d gone in to work in the afternoon and Bryn Merrick had actually shouted at her when she kept getting a scene wrong, and she’d half run out of the hall at six and arrived back at Linda’s flat in floods of tears. To find Linda not there; she’d spent a miserable evening on her own until Linda came in at nine o’clock in a foul mood, all because some contract had been cancelled and she’d been with lawyers all evening.

Georgia managed to express sympathy, and to make Linda a cup of tea; but then once Linda had settled on the sofa and reached for the TV remote, she said, “Linda, I need to talk to you.”

“ Georgia, must it be now?”

“Well… yes. If you don’t mind.”

“And if I do?”

“I’d still like it.”

“Oh all right. “Linda put the remote down, folded her arms, and looked at her. “What is it?”

“It’s… well, Linda, I’m finding it all so hard. The series, the rehearsals, all of it. Mostly Bryn Merrick. He just doesn’t like me, and that makes me nervous. You know I still feel… bad about the accident, and I’m still so aware of what they must think of me. And today I totally blew a scene, and everyone was so… so, like, hostile to me, and I cried all the way home. I wondered if you could help, have a word with Bryn or something, or even if I should just resign or something, let them get someone else for Rose…”

She had never seen Linda totally lose it. Which was what happened then. She put down her cup, stood up and folded her arms, and confronted her across the room.

“ Georgia, I’m finding something hard too, and I’ll tell you what it is. You. You and your self-obsessed, pathetic attitude. You get this part, this amazing opportunity, and ever since the very beginning you’ve whinged about it. I can tell you I wouldn’t like you either if I was on that production. It is of no interest to them whatsoever that you’ve had a traumatic time and you’re suffering from survivor blame or whatever it’s called; although I’m sure initially they were very sympathetic. You’re been hired to do a job. Grow up. Life’s tough. Get used to it. And find yourself somewhere to live in the process.”

And then she turned and walked out of the room and into her own and slammed the door shut.

Georgia didn’t go to bed at all that night. She sat in the big comfy chair in her room, fully clothed, in a state of shock. She kept hearing what Linda had said, replayed it over and over again in her head, trying to make sense of it, trying to believe that Linda could have been so horrible to her; but as the night wore on, a small, sneaky voice began to tell her that there might, actually, be at least something in what she had said. She still felt Linda had been totally out of order and she should have seen that it was support that Georgia needed, not a bollocking, but as long as she could get out of the flat and in somewhere else… Someone had suggested the YMCA, which Georgia had been horrified by at the time, but it would be better than hanging around crowding Linda’s space.

At six o’clock, she got up and packed, wrote a note telling Linda she wouldn’t be getting in her way any longer, and called a cab and went to the church hall where rehearsals took place. She knew the cleaners came at six, but she hadn’t bargained on Merlin being there.

“Heavy night?” he said sympathetically, and, “No,” she said, “not in that way,” and started to cry.

Merlin was wonderful; he found her a box of Kleenex and sat down beside her, put his arm round her, and asked her to tell him what the matter was.

Which, having recovered from the considerable shock of finding herself where she had dreamed for the past four weeks-in close physical contact with Merlin Gerard, which suddenly wasn’t particularly exciting, but just cosy and comforting-she did.

All of it.

He really was very sweet: he said he could imagine how terrible she must have felt about the crash, and he’d really felt for her… “so vile, the tabloids,” but he told her no one else had really taken it in at all.

“They all really like you, Georgia. Davina’s always saying what a sweetheart you are, and I know Bryn can be awkward, but he’s a perfectionist, and he’s not remotely regretting casting you. You’re doing really well. You’re very talented, you know; you should believe in yourself a bit more.”

Georgia sniffed. “I don’t feel very talented. I don’t feel talented at all.”

“Well, you are. Now, look, I really have to get on; I came in early to catch up on some stuff, and if Mo finds me sitting here having a goss with you she’ll get very sniffy. But… what are you doing this evening?”

“Nothing,” said Georgia, trying very hard to believe this was actually happening. “Probably trying to find a park bench.”

“Why? Oh, yeah, Linda’s thrown you out. I’m sure she didn’t mean it. But it would be nice to have somewhere of your own. Anyway, I think I can probably help. Hang around if you finish before me and then we’ll go for a drink and I’ll tell you about it.”

He gave her a quick kiss and disappeared into the kitchen; Georgia went through the rest of the day in a trance.

Merlin’s help came in the form of his friend Jazz, whom he’d been at school with; Jazz helped his dad with his building business and what he called his property empire, which was the ownership of two large, crumbling houses the wrong end of the Portobello Road.

“They’re divided into bed-sits,” Merlin said, “and there’s usually at least a couple looking for occupants. I’ll give him a call.”

Jazz said he did have one, and if Merlin would bring Georgia round in an hour or so, he’d show it to her.

Jazz was fun: she liked him. He was taller than Merlin, and heavily built, with close-cropped black hair and almost black eyes; he kept punching Merlin on the arm and calling him his old mate; he also argued with him a lot, mocked his job, and told him more than once that he was a bloody great poof.

“Pardon my French,” he said, grinning, seeing Georgia ’s face, “just a joke-got stuck with it at school, didn’t you, mate? I thought so meself for a bit, used to stand with me back to the wall when he was around, but don’t you worry, my love; nothing fairylike about our Merl. OK, let’s go and have a look at this accommodation, shall we?”

It was pretty grim, right at the top of the house, one of two converted attics, and very cold. It had a gas ring and a sink behind a curtain, and a money-in-the-slot electric meter, and the bathroom was a floor down, not dirty exactly, but grubby, freezing cold, with stains in the bath and a suspicious wetness round the base of the loo. It was all a bit smelly.

But it had brilliant views, through a rather sweet little dormer window… and she loved the way the ceiling sloped almost to the floor on two sides. And it would be hers. Her very own home. She said she’d take it.

“Right-o,” said Jazz, “it’s yours. Next door’s some bloke who works for a charity real do-gooder. Won’t cause you no trouble. Anyone does, you just let me know. But we don’t take none of your rough types; they’re mostly a nice crowd, lotta females-you’ll be fine.”

And she was.

She replaced the filthy curtain that shielded the kitchen with a bamboo screen and bought some thick blinds at IKEA, and a gorgeous white furry throw for her bed and another for the lumpy armchair, which she supposed was what made the rooms officially bed-sits… and she bought a convector heater, which ate money, but even so, she was cold a lot of the time.

Nonetheless, she loved it; it was hers, her very own home that she was paying for; she felt independent and pleased with herself, and that kept her going through the very tough times she continued to have on the series.

She had also formed a hugely supportive friendship with Anna.

Anna had had a great life; she had trained as a classical singer, fallen in love with a jazz pianist called Sim Foster, and ran away with him. Georgia could see how it had happened; she was astonishingly glamorous and sexy out of makeup and looked far younger than her sixty years. She said she loved character roles: “The less I’m like myself the better I like it.”

Her parents had lived in Surrey, and were completely horrified that their beloved daughter should be living with what they called a coloured man and not even married, touring the world with him, singing jazz for fifteen years…

“He was fantastic, Georgia, not first division, but definitely top of the second. I adored him, and I adored the life we led, all those wonderful smoky bars-God, how I miss smoky bars-we even played New Orleans.”

They had been quite successful, if not exactly Cleo Laine and Johnny Dankworth: “But we put out the odd album, did quite a bit of TV.”

Sim had died-“Well, he killed himself, really, just one too many cocaine cocktails”-and she had come home and had to make a new life for herself and their daughter, Lila.

“She was only four. I couldn’t support her on the road, so I started doing modelling, mumsy stuff for the catalogues, and some commercials, and one thing led to another, and I got lucky and started acting. Twenty years later, here I am.”

Lila was at college training to be a musician: “She can play a mean clarinet, I tell you. You remind me of her, Georgia.”

Lila turned up on the set to collect her mother one night; she was very pretty, huge fun; Georgia was flattered by the comparison.

Anna had done a lot to help Georgia over her nerves. “I know what it’s like, and it was worse for me; I was a novice at forty, not twenty. You think it won’t be easy, of course, but you got the part, for God’s sake, so you must be OK, but everyone else belongs to this club with its own language and customs, and you’re on the outside, fighting to get in.”

They were actually filming now, and she found it much easier in some ways. She recognised that her problems were due to inexperience, not everyone being against her, and she felt more self-confident as a result.

And the others were actually very nice to her… even Bryn Merrick had taken time out to go through certain scenes with her.

She had had a rather emotional reunion with Linda, where Georgia cried a lot and Linda cried a bit, and Linda told her how proud of her she was and that Bryn Merrick had called her personally to say how well Georgia was working out and how he knew it must be difficult for her. And Linda was clearly impressed by all that she had done.

She even apologised for her behaviour the night she had lost her temper.

“I’m sorry, Georgia; it was wrong of me.”

“That’s OK,” said Georgia, giving her a hug. “I’d probably still be here if you hadn’t.” None of it would have happened, of course, without Merlin; Georgia felt she owed him everything. And said so, and even offered to cook him supper on her gas ring to show him her gratitude.

Merlin refused; she was disappointed, but not really surprised. He moved in such exalted circles, was always mentioning famous writers and artists and even the odd Labour politician who’d been to dinner with his parents. How could he be expected to enjoy chilli (her only culinary accomplishment) cooked in a bed-sit? But he continued to be really friendly, to ask her to go for drinks after work, to pass on any compliments.

The weather had been a big factor in the shooting; because it was winter, there were many days when they had to move inside and change scenes at a moment’s notice. This necessitated wardrobe changes as well as everything else and was a nightmare for continuity.

But in the end they ran out of indoor scenes, and one very cold November morning Georgia had to run down the street wearing a vest and shorts, buy an ice cream, and stand licking it while she chatted to a woman on a flower stall about her granny; the sun was brilliant, but not exactly warm, and kept going in, and she had to do it five times because, in spite of Merlin’s best efforts, cars kept coming across the shot. It was the sort of day guaranteed to produce one of Bryn’s hissy fits… although as she said to Merlin in the pub, he’d had “a thick coat on and a scarf and gloves, for God’s sake.”

She remained puzzled by Merlin’s attitude to her. He was so sweet, so attentive, and he really didn’t seem to have a regular girlfriend, so she couldn’t help being hopeful…

CHAPTER 42

“Alex, are you going to this wedding on Saturday?”

“I am indeed. I’m told by Maeve that if I don’t, she’ll never forgive me. I feel a bit of a fraud; I’ve never done anything for Mrs. Bristow, except chatted to her once or twice, but she said the hospital had been so fantastic to her, looked after her so well, and she wanted to have some representatives there. Plus the Connells are going to be there in force, apparently, Patrick’s first outing, and she said she knew what a lot I’d done for him.”

“I’ve been asked too.”

“Really? How very nice.”

“Yes. I had a sweet note from Mr. Mackenzie saying it was a small token of his gratitude for helping him to find Mary that day.”

“I didn’t know you did.”

“Well… I didn’t really. Bit of a long story. You don’t want to hear it.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, you’re not going to.” Emma sighed. “Anyway, maybe we could go together?”

“That would be delightful. I think the whole thing will be delightful. We can feel fraudulent together. You’re… you’re all right, are you, Emma?”

“Yes, thank you, I’m fine.”

“Good. You look a bit tired, that’s all; I wondered if-”

“Alex, I’m fine.”

“Good.”

But she wasn’t fine; she felt absolutely terrible. She hurt all over-physically, somehow, as well as emotionally. It was extraordinary. Her skin felt tender and her eyes were permanently sore, and she felt utterly weary, as if her bones were somehow twice their proper weight. When she allowed herself actually to think about Barney, she wanted to cry; and even when she managed not to think about him, the awful sadness was still there, oppressing her. She couldn’t imagine ever feeling properly happy again.

She had written to Luke, telling him she was very sorry, but she felt it was wrong of her to let him go on thinking she cared about him as she had. She had enclosed the necklace. He had called her, clearly very upset, had asked her to take time to think, to reconsider; he said he could not imagine life without her, that he needed her. “It’s not easy, this job, Emma, tougher than I’d thought; I’ve been really banking on coming home and seeing you at the weekends. Or like I said, getting you out here. It’s a really cool city; we could have a great time.”

But she stood firm, told him she was sorry, but she couldn’t see how it could possibly work out between them, and she liked him and admired him far too much to let him think she loved him when she didn’t.

She had been all right in the beginning, when Barney had told her about Amanda and that they must wait awhile. It had seemed the kind-indeed the only right-thing to do. But as time went by, she became increasingly anxious; she was in love with a man who, however much he said he loved her in return, was clearly deeply and tenderly concerned for someone else. Someone whom, until he had met Emma, he had wanted to spend the rest of his life with. And someone who, for whatever reason, had become his first priority once more. And the more she thought of herself dislodging that person, the more impossible it seemed; how could a brief affair, a flash of desire, replace that long, long time of being together?

It was a daydream, an acutely tempting fantasy: not for her-she had no doubt of the reality of her love for Barney-but for him. She should leave him to be with his Amanda, not be singing her siren song to him, luring him onto the rocks of a cancelled marriage.

For a few days, the very rightness of what she had done buoyed her up; she felt stronger, braver, a better person altogether. And then the misery set in, and she knew she had been right. For Barney had not argued, had not fought for her; he had been quiet, gentle, very sad, while seeming to accept absolutely what she said.

It was over; and it was horrible. And… while knowing such a thought was foolish and she should disabuse herself of it, she really could not imagine ever feeling properly happy again.

“Barney…”

He was working late; it was quiet on the floor. She was standing by his desk, seeming to have appeared out of nowhere. He hadn’t seen her since their last confrontation-surprising in a way, he supposed, since they were in the same building… but then, the building contained at least five thousand of them.

He looked at her warily. She was looking rather unfamiliar, slightly nervous, her face pale, her lips unglossed, her hair hanging straight onto her shoulders. Tamara undone. This must be serious.

“Hello, Tamara.”

“Barney, this is… well, it’s hard for me to say… Barney, I’m sorry.”

If she had disappeared into a pall of smoke, leaving only her shoes and bag on the floor, like the Wicked Witch in The Wizard of Oz, he could not have been more astonished. He hadn’t thought sorry was a word in Tamara’s lexicon.

“I… I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Done what, Tamara?”

“Shouted at you. Accused you of… well, of what I did. The thing is, I know now Toby was lying to me. It wasn’t you who made him late. I went to see him last night. We had a long conversation. Basically, it’s over, Barney. We’re not… not having a wedding. It’s him who’s the shit. Not you. I know that now.”

“I see…” said Barney.

“Yes. I began to think and I thought… well, I realised that you were driving when you were stopped by the police. And they’d have Breathalyzed you.”

“They did.”

“And if you’d been as drunk as Toby said, you would still probably have been over the limit. So I said that to Toby and started really asking questions. And he… well, he suddenly gave in.”

“Really?”

“Yes. He told me everything. About… well, all of it, the other girl, everything. I said… well, you can imagine, I expect.”

“Think so.”

“I just told him I never wanted to see him again. And left.”

“Right…”

“The other thing is, I don’t know how things are with you and Amanda now, but she says you’ve been fantastic over all this, that she’d never have got through it without you. So… well, I promise you I’ll never say anything to her, ever.”

“Thank you.”

“Right. Well, I must go now. Night, Barney.”

“Good night, Tamara.”

He didn’t feel anything much, except very tired.

Charlie was being completely impossible. He was cold and insolent to his father and completely uncooperative with Laura, refusing to join the girls for meals, and locking himself away in his room playing with his Game Boy or painting the Warhammer models that were his new passion, sometimes late into the night. If Laura came in and told him to turn the light off and go to bed he shrugged and didn’t even answer. If she turned the light out, he would simply wait until she had gone downstairs and then turn it on again. He did the minimum amount of homework, and when his work came back with low marks he simply shrugged. He refused a part in the Christmas play and didn’t turn up for soccer practice.

When Jonathan and Laura went in for a parents’ evening, his year tutor showed them the reports he had from all his teachers, and they were horrified. The charming, high-achieving Charlie was suddenly being labelled lazy, uncooperative, and even disruptive.

“Er…” David Richards looked awkward. “I wondered… is there some problem that we don’t know about? All boys get a bit like this towards puberty, but this has been so sudden and such a great change, I feel there must be a rather more immediate explanation.”

“Well-” said Laura.

“No,” said Jonathan, “no problems at all. I’ll talk to him. Clearly it can’t go on.”

“Yes, clearly it can’t go on,” she said, glaring at him across the table of the restaurant where they had agreed they should talk, safe from Charlie’s sharp ears. “But I don’t see how we’re going to stop him. He’s just so horribly upset and it’s his way of telling us so.”

“Fine.”

“What do you mean, fine?”

“I mean, of course he’s upset. Unfortunately there’s not a lot we can do about that. And yes, I know it’s my fault. But if we can make him see that he’s damaging his own chances, then I think he may start behaving a bit better.”

“I hope so,” said Laura.

She didn’t think it was actually very likely.

“Fuck you!” said Charlie. “Fuck you, talking to me like that.”

“Charlie, don’t you dare swear at me!”

“I’ll swear at you if I want to. You’re awful. Horrible. Doing that to Mum, sleeping with that girl. How could you, how could you when Mum’s so… so good to you.”

“I know she is, Charlie, and I’m deeply ashamed of myself. Terribly, terribly sorry, and so sorry too that you had to find out.”

“Yeah, well, if you’re so sorry you might have thought a bit harder before you did anything so disgusting.”

“Charlie… if you could just listen to me for a while. I’m not asking you to understand-”

“Yeah? Sounds like it to me.”

“No, I’m not. All I’m saying is I’m desperately sorry, and I would ask you to-”

“To what? Forgive you, I suppose. For wrecking our family, ruining Mum’s life. How am I supposed to forgive that?”

“I wasn’t going to say forgive, Charlie. Just to beg you not to ruin your own life, your own chances by behaving as you are. I may have made a mess of mine, but you have everything ahead of you. Don’t-”

“I don’t care if I get expelled; I don’t care if I end up in prison. I can’t have the only thing I want, which is our family back like it used to be, and you’ve taken that away from all of us forever. I wish you weren’t my father; I wish…”

Jonathan walked out of the room and into his study. When she went in much later, to tell him how distraught Charlie still was, Laura could see that he too had been weeping.

Abi thought she would never forgive herself for what she had done that night to Jonathan: or rather, not to Jonathan, who had deserved every ghastly moment of it, but to his family, who had not. She had contemplated every kind of restitution, from writing to Laura to apologise to seeking out the children and telling them their father was a wonderful man and she was simply a very nasty, angry patient of his and she had been very cross with him. She was afraid none of it would work. The harm had been done; she could not undo it. She could only hope that it had not been too great. Especially to the children.

She was obviously a bad person to be able to do such a thing; she had to learn to live with that.

But seeing William again had upset her badly. She hadn’t forgotten-of course-how great he was, how truly nice and good. But being confronted by him again had reminded her horribly vividly. She felt several miles back in the recovery process.

But… at least she’d ensured he couldn’t entertain any foolish fantasies about her. She’d made quite sure of that. It hadn’t been exactly easy, but she’d done it. By telling him how rotten she was, what she was capable of.

She had not allowed him to think for one moment that it wasn’t really so bad, that it was maybe not her fault, that her early life excused-to an extent-her behaviour. She had actually told him that dreadful night that she didn’t really buy all the crap about people being bad because bad things had happened to them. He had looked at her with those great brown eyes and half laughed and said, “Abi, how can you possibly say such a thing? Of course that’s right; of course people are influenced by how life’s treated them.”

She’d said it just felt like a cop-out to her, but she’d been finishing with him then; it hadn’t mattered what she’d said or what he’d believed. She’d been too distraught to care.

She had been beginning to feel better, to rebuild her life. She was looking for a new job, was thinking she might perhaps move into party planning, as it was called… well, it would be better than party wrecking… She knew she’d be good at it, and it looked like fun. (She’d told William about that, actually, and he’d said that it sounded great. God, he was so nice to talk to; he really, really listened and thought about what you’d said…)

Well, she’d advance down the recovery road again, no doubt. If life had taught her anything, it had taught her that. And the fact that she still missed William, really missed him… well, she should regard all that as some kind of a penance for the wrong she had done, not only to Laura and her children, but to William himself.

William had been equally upset by their meeting. It had been great in a way… they’d almost become friends once more. But it had made him miss her horribly all over again; he felt like a reformed alcoholic who had had the fatal, dangerous last sip, and he was back in the misery of his addiction.

It was true, of course, what she said: she was not the person he’d thought; in fact-to be brutal about it-she fell extremely short of the person he had thought, and it would be very hard ever to quite trust her again.

But then, she had been honest with him in the end, brutally honest; she had not spared herself; she had not taken the liar’s way out and continued to deceive him. And that had been brave. She was brave: immensely so. It was a quality in her that William liked and admired. She wasn’t just tough-she was cheerfully so; she didn’t whinge about things-she just got on with them. And he missed her… horribly. And so he thought, Why not see her again? Without any illusions? The attraction had still been there; what she did for him hadn’t changed. Why couldn’t he live with the bad, enjoy the good, the sexy, the totally unsuitable, which was-he knew-so much part of the pleasure of her?

He swung from decision to decision, backwards and forwards, as he went about the farm and fed the cows-now in their winter quarters-and mended fences and hedges and drilled for winter wheat and delivered calves and checked on the drives and the birds with the gamekeeper, and changed his mind almost hourly.

What he needed, William thought as he lay most unusually sleepless in his extremely uncomfortable bed, was some kind of a sign that would make up his mind for him. Only… what was Abi practically bumping into him, quite equally fancy-free, and clearly pleased to see him, but a sign? Was he really likely to get another one? Almost certainly not.

CHAPTER 43

The one sadness hanging over Mary’s wedding day was that Christine refused even to consider sharing her mother’s happiness.

“I’m sorry Mum,” she said when Mary asked her. “I can’t. It feels wrong, disloyal to Dad. And please don’t ask me again, because I can’t change my mind. I’m not being difficult; I just feel very… uneasy about it.”

Gerry was coming, and her son, Douglas, had arrived from Canada with his wife, Maureen, and their two children. Timothy would take her down the aisle, and that would make up-almost-for Christine’s absence; they had always had a very special close relationship, she and Timothy. He had always adored her, asking her to all his birthday parties-except the teenage ones, of course-demanded she was outside the school gates after his first day, invited her to all the interminable football matches he played in and the school plays, and, after he had left home, visited her at least once a fortnight demanding the cottage pie she made, he said, so much better than anyone else.

So there they would all be, and Russell’s children had taken her to their hearts, especially his son, Morton; and the girls, Coral and Pearl, were very sweet and kind.

She would be surrounded tomorrow with friends, some old, some new; it would be a wonderful day. But still… it hurt that Christine would not come, and more, that Christine knew it hurt, and even so was not persuaded.

They had been to New York, and she had had the most wonderful time; she had met a lot of Russell’s friends and attended so many welcome dinners and cocktail parties she became exhausted and had to go to bed for two days; but she had also been shown the sights, had gone up the Empire State and looked down in awe on the dazzling fairyland that was the city far below, drunk cocktails in the Rainbow Room, done the Circle Line tour, shopped in Saks and Bloomingdale’s, and taken a horse-and-carriage ride in Central Park.

But she had gone home at her insistence to her own dear house in Bristol until the wedding; she contemplated its sale with deep misery, but then Russell had had the idea of giving it to Timothy. “It’s so tough these days for kids, trying to get a foot on the property ladder, and when they can’t get a mortgage for love nor money. Try him out; see what he says.”

Timothy had said only one word when she told him, and that four-lettered; he had then gone bright red and said, “Sorry, Gran, sorry, sorry, but that is just so… so cool; you are just absolutely the best.”

Christine had been a bit funny about that too, said it wasn’t good for young people to have things made too easy for them, but Gerry said if anyone had made things a bit easier for him when he’d been young, he might have progressed a bit farther than he had.

Douglas and Maureen and their daughters were staying in the house with her; and Douglas would drive her over to Tadwick Church next day. Russell had moved into Tadwick House, and his three children were staying there; they had said they would go to hotels, but Mary had begged them to use the house. “I hate to think of it not lived in; it will be wonderful to have you there. And besides, it will be nice for Mrs. Salter to have something to do other than wait hand and foot on Russell. So bad for him anyway.”

“But, Mary, dear, he’s ruined already,” Pearl said, and Coral agreed.

“You have to blame Grandma Mackenzie; she thought he was the nearest thing to an angel on this earth.”

“Heaven help us all,” Mary said, “if we get up there and find it inhabited by people like your father!” And then added hastily that actually of course it would be very nice. You couldn’t be too careful with stepchildren: even if they were sixty…

It was a perfect December morning: bright and golden, with frost spangling the hedges and meadows and a sky that was brilliantly clear and blue.

The guests started to arrive at eleven thirty. Russell was deeply touched by how many people, some of them quite elderly, as he remarked to the girls-while clearly and blissfully unaware that this description could be equally applied to him-had accepted and made the really quite long journey to Somerset, England, as they all called it. Mary’s friends-also quite large in number; there was no doubt they were good, healthy stock, their generation-followed them in, and the organist began to play the lovely echoing, rounded sound soaring through the little church. Russell felt a dangerous lump in his throat, and gripped Morton’s hand suddenly.

Alex felt rather proud to be arriving with not one but two extremely pretty women; he had confessed to Emma that he and Linda had become “just friends, nothing more, seen each other for a meal once or twice.” Given that he flushed to the roots of his hair as he said it, and failed to meet Emma’s eyes, she guessed that the relationship might be just slightly more meaningful than that, but she nodded politely and said how nice that must be.

Linda had suggested she meet them at the hospital; they proceeded in her Mercedes… “I’m sorry, Alex, but I’m just not prepared to sit in that bone shaker of yours.” The Mercedes was very low-slung and swayed about a lot, and by the time they arrived in Tadwick, Emma, who had obviously been relegated to the back, was feeling extremely sick and had to stand in the lane breathing deeply for five minutes before she trusted herself to go into the church. She was wearing an off-the-shoulder red dress, with a white stole wrapped around her, and high-heeled red shoes, and her long legs were golden and bare. What was it about the young? Alex wondered. What extra, if short-lived gene did they possess that they didn’t feel the cold?

Linda was looking staggeringly beautiful in a pale grey silk suit with an ankle-length skirt; she had extraordinarily good ankles, Alex thought, studying them as she walked ahead of him down the aisle, and then as he settled into the pew, found himself thinking rather unsuitably carnal thoughts about the rest of her legs, and tried to concentrate on the organ music instead.

Dear old chap, the bridegroom looked; he had not met him before. He was tall, as far as Alex could make out, and he sat ramrod straight in the pew, occasionally running a hand through his thick white hair and staring fixedly ahead of him; presumably the chap beside him-well into his sixties-was his son. And how wonderful it was, Alex thought, that love could flower so sweetly and so late, that two really very old people could be celebrating their marriage in a spirit of such determination.

And these people coming in now, walking to the front of the church, they must be Mary’s family, a grey-haired, rather portly man and a very pretty young girl. And another man, slimmer and fitter-looking, together with a woman in a rather chic yellow coat and brown fur hat, and two girls in trouser suits with very high heels and a lot of makeup.

There was a flurry at the back of the church, and three little boys appeared, all dressed identically in tuxedos; fine-looking little chaps, with dark, curly hair and brilliant blue eyes, flanking a wheelchair in which sat Patrick Connell-also with the dark hair and the blue eyes-dressed in a very smart suit, smiling broadly and pushed by Georgia. Patrick had made such progress, Alex thought; it really was a little less than a miracle: he could sit up properly now, no longer belted tightly into the chair, and his legs in their perfectly pressed trousers were beginning to look larger somehow, and as if they knew how to work and walk, and less at variance with his heavy shoulders and broad chest.

Georgia looked amazing in a brilliant green dress-also bare shouldered-with a green feather arrangement in her wild hair. Linda was sporting similar headwear; they were known as fascinators, she had informed Alex on the way down.

Georgia urged the three little boys into a pew at the back and, after a whispered conversation with Patrick, inserted herself between them, clearly with a view to minimising talking and giggling; Patrick was beside them in the aisle.

This was a great day, Patrick thought, for all of them, and thought how far he had travelled from that darkest of the dark days all those months ago, and how impossible it would have seemed then that he could have been attending a wedding, dressed up to the nines, his conscience clear and his physical outlook so good… He was interrupted in this reverie by a change of pace and tune from the organ and a rustle of excitement from the opening door, and saw that the bride was standing on the porch, on the arm of a handsome young chap positively beaming with pride, and behind them, dressed in the palest, softest pink chiffon dress, his beloved, beautiful Maeve.

She should be here, Gerry thought, Christine really, really should be here. What demon had possessed her that she had been able to resent her mother’s new happiness so deeply; and worse, to be unable to suppress it or at the least conceal it? He was ashamed of her, and he wasn’t sure how he was going to cope with those emotions in the days ahead. He-

“Stand up, Gerry,” hissed Lorraine, Tim’s girlfriend-very nice to have on his arm that day. What did they call girls like her? Oh, yes, arm candy. “They’re here.”

Russell was afraid for a moment that he was going to pass out, so strong was the wave of emotion that passed through him then. The sound of the organ, the opening of the door, the knowledge that she was walking towards him down the aisle at last, after a wait of more than sixty years… it was an experience of such intensity that the light in the church seemed to fade a little, the sound of the organ to diminish, and all that existed for him was her, walking slowly towards him, then standing beside him, smiling up at him, his Mary, his adored and adorable Sparrow, her eyes as brilliant and blue as they had been then, her mouth as soft and sweetly smiling, and her hands shaking a little as she handed over her bouquet to Maeve.

And Mary, looking up at him, saw the young Russell again, whom she had loved so very much, whom she had never forgotten and never failed. She had feared she might cry, make a fool of herself at this moment, as she put it; but she felt steadfast and strong, purely and intensely happy.

This was how it should be, Linda thought; this was love she was looking at, true love, not the counterfeit version she had known, and wondered if it was what she felt for the man beside her, who had suddenly and unaccountably gripped her hand.

This was how I thought it was, Alex thought, and do I dare even to think I’ve found it now?

This is what I thought we had, Emma thought, and what I’ve lost, and will I ever find it again?, and first one large tear and then another fell onto her prayer book, and for a while she saw everything spangled with tears.

Mary reached up suddenly and kissed Russell, and the gesture was so sweet, so spontaneous, that a small fragment of applause started from somewhere near the back of the church and spread round it, and Mary turned to acknowledge it, smiling, and thought as she did so that she saw the door begin to open; and then turned back to the vicar as he bade them all welcome and prepared to embark on the lovely, familiar words. (While omitting, as they had agreed, those that might appear somewhat ludicrous, about the procreation of children, and carnal lusts and appetites.)

But then something truly wonderful happened: as the vicar began to speak, the door at the back did indeed open-everyone heard it and turned to look-and through it, with no expression on her face whatsoever except one of absolute determination, came Christine, bareheaded, wearing the old mackintosh in which she walked the dogs and some really quite sturdy boots, and Mary, catching sight of her, provided one of the most beautiful moments of the day, for her small face fragmented into joy and she left Russell and walked back up the aisle and put her arms round her daughter, her beloved, brave, difficult daughter, and kissed her, and then led her by the hand to her place in the front pew, next to Gerry. Who, in turn, put his own arm round her and gave her a kiss.

The service proceeded without any further departure from convention; Tim gave her away with his eyes suspiciously bright; Russell beamed throughout, until it was his turn to make his vows, and then as he said, “Thereto I give thee my troth,” his strong voice cracked and two great tears rolled down his handsome old face; and as Mary promised to love, cherish, and obey, a giggle rose unbidden in her voice, and it was more than a moment before she could compose herself once more.

And then, having uttered his final solemn exhortation that no man must put them asunder, the vicar pronounced them man and wife and told Russell he might kiss the bride; and Mary was not only kissed but held so tightly and so fervently that it seemed Russell was afraid, even now that she had been pronounced his, of losing her again. The bells began to peal; Mary turned, took Russell’s arm, and walked slowly down the aisle, smiling into the dozens of flashing cameras that had most assuredly not been a feature at her first wedding, waving at people, blowing kisses, and hugging the small boys who scrambled over their father and rushed from their pew to greet her.

“I’ve been to a great many weddings,” Maeve confided to Tim, who was walking her down the aisle, “but never in my entire life one more beautiful than this.”

CHAPTER 44

The concert had been Anna’s idea. Georgia had been talking to her in the pub one night, trying to explain how bad she still sometimes felt about the crash-“and not just about Patrick, the lorry driver, although there he is, three little kids to keep and no job, really-there are other people who are still really hurting. That man whose wife was killed, with a little boy he’s had to give up his job to look after him, and several other people who have lost their livelihoods, no fault of their own, like one girl who can’t walk, and she was a dance teacher, or who’ve had breakdowns, and I just feel so bad about them-here I am having a great time now, and it’s not fair. Is it?”

Anna had agreed it wasn’t fair. “But it absolutely wasn’t your fault, Georgia; you have to see that.”

“I know it wasn’t my fault-well, except for deserting Patrick-but that doesn’t stop me feeling terrible. I just wish there was something I could do.”

“Like what?”

“Well, I don’t know. Help. Really help. In a practical way.”

“What… like raise some money, maybe? Help them at least financially? Don’t look at me like that. Quite small things can help a lot. I did a gig for a concert, just a small one, that provides special bikes that physically disabled children can control. It means they can hare about like other kids. But… it’s only an idea.”

“I’m not looking at you like anything. Except in admiration. That… well, that could be a really great thing to do. D’you think I could?”

“With a lot of help, yes, I’m sure you could.”

Georgia felt as if a light had gone on in her head, shining into the dark, ugly memories and the rotting guilt, slowly but steadily shrinking them away. She could do something-actually do something to help all those people. It wouldn’t bring anyone back; it wouldn’t restore damaged muscles or bones or nervous systems; but it would be so, so much better than nothing.

She decided to talk to Linda about it.

Linda was cautiously enthusiastic; she thought it was a great idea… “But you really have to do it properly, Georgia. Think long and hard before you get into it, because it could turn into a monster. If you’re going to set up a charity, then you have to get it registered, appoint some trustees… I know that sounds like a lot of work and rather daunting, but people will be much more willing to help if it sounds official and not like a lot of kids raising a bit of money for fun. And it’s got to be done well. The venue alone will be a nightmare to find and fund, and you’ll have to scale everything to it. No use getting the Stones to agree to play and then offering them a rehearsal hall in Staines. Sorry, I don’t mean to discourage you. I just don’t want you getting into something you can’t cope with.”

Georgia said she was sure she could cope with it, and that she didn’t actually envisage getting the Stones; but a few enquiries revealed the extent of the venue problem. Hiring anywhere at all was hugely expensive and would wipe out any profit at a stroke; something radical was clearly required.

Linda said she’d sound a few people out, that she knew quite a lot of musicians, and maybe Georgia might even consider having a couple of dramatic items in the programme. The few people she’d sounded were cautiously interested; Georgia didn’t want to ask anyone yet on Moving Away-she had enough to cope with there-but it would be worth a try when it was over; Merlin, she was sure, knew a lot of people in the music business.

She could see it was all going to take a long time; it needed intensive long-term planning. But an optimism had gripped her; she felt absolutely certain something would turn up-in fact, she said this so often that Anna had nicknamed her Mrs. Micawber…

The other person she talked to about it was Emma; she and Emma had seriously bonded at Mary’s wedding, got quite drunk and danced together. Emma said she thought it was a great idea. She agreed with Linda that it might be better to raise the money specifically for the hospital; she said she didn’t think she’d be much use herself, but when Georgia said she was forming a committee and that she was hoping Alex would come on it, she told Georgia to count her in: “Only if you think I could help, of course. I’ve… well, I’ve got a bit of spare time at the moment, so I could write letters for you, stuff like that, if you like. My mum works for a school, and she’s always being asked to go on fund-raising committees. Only small local ones, of course, but the principle’s pretty much the same. She might have some ideas.”

Georgia said she was beginning to think quite small and local herself: “It’s hopeless thinking we can do something big in London; it’ll cost squillions, and we’d never get the sort of people we’d need. I mean, the crash was local, and the hospital’s local, and people are bound to remember it. And there must be places in Swindon, for instance-it’s not that small-or Reading, maybe. Anyway, it’s early days. The great thing is to keep trucking, as Dr. Pritchard calls it… I’m going to start writing letters.”

She and Emma were both very intrigued by the relationship between Linda and Alex, which had become extremely obvious after Mary’s wedding.

“It’s a match made in heaven, really,” said Georgia. “I mean, Linda’s so lonely and needy…”

“Is she? She doesn’t come across lonely and needy…”

“No, but that’s her whole problem. Ballsy women, especially good-looking ones, just scare men off. Anyway, then there’s Dr. Pritchard, also lonely, you say…”

“Well, pretty miserable a lot of the time. His wife is an ace cow. She’s literally turfed him out of the house, sold it more or less over his head, as far as I can make out. He’s had to move into some cruddy flat in Swindon; it’s so not fair. They’ve got some nice kids, though. Like fourteen, fifteen, that sort of age. How’d Linda be with kids, do you think?”

“Mmm… she’s been pretty cool to me. We’ve had a few fights, but we’ve always worked it out.”

“Yes, but you’re twenty-two,” said Emma. “And she’s not having a relationship with your dad. Well, we’ll have to hope for the best. I love Alex, I really do; he’s such a sweetheart-all bark and really no bite at all. And he does seem much happier these days. I shall be very sad to leave him.”

“Which is when?”

“Oh… January, February time. Depends what I can get.”

“You’d better not go to some hospital in Scotland or something,” said Georgia. “Not until after the concert, anyway.”

“Right now Scotland looks quite appealing,” said Emma with a sigh. “Far away from London as possible, that’s what I want.”

She didn’t tell Georgia why, and Georgia didn’t ask. She could see something was hurting Emma a lot, and equally that she didn’t want to talk about it. Which usually meant in Georgia’s experience that she’d been dumped. Men were such idiots. Who’d dump someone as lovely as Emma?

The days when Alex mooded around, as Emma put it, and shouted were the days when he was undergoing severe anxieties over his relationship with Linda. She was gorgeous, she was sexy, she seemed really to care about him; on the other hand he had vowed he would not enter another relationship with anyone who didn’t totally understand the demands of his career and profession. Linda might understand them, but she was hardly going to give them priority. If it came to a conflict between a first night or a major audition, and a dinner with other doctors and their wives, the dinner would not win. They had already had a couple of run-ins over a South African trip, funded by a pharmaceutical company, which she’d persuaded him to accept. Having promised to be totally accommodating with the spousal programme-“I cannot believe there are things called that”-she had said there was no way she was going to go on a boat trip to Robben Island-where Nelson Mandela had been imprisoned-without him, or go on what she called an obscene trip to one of the townships.

“Patronising, utterly ghastly, I wouldn’t even contemplate it.”

“I seem to remember your saying that the tourist trade benefited the country.”

“I’m sure it does. I just don’t think sitting in an air-conditioned car and looking graciously around a series of shantytowns benefits the inhabitants very much. I’m not going to go, Alex, and that’s all there is to it.”

“Linda, you seem to be embarking on this trip in a rather different spirit from what you’d promised. I really don’t think it’s viable on this basis, and I don’t see how we can go.”

“Alex, that’s crap.”

“It is not crap. I said I didn’t like any of it in principle, that I never had, and you talked me round…”

“I did not talk you round!”

“Oh, really? I seem to remember a lot of talk about how it wouldn’t help anyone, my sulking in Swindon, while someone else went in my place…”

“I do dislike the way you play back everything I say to you. All right, then let’s not go. Let’s not do anything nice. You jut sit in your bed-sit and contemplate your navel.”

“I think I’d prefer to do that than see you alienating everyone on the trip. Not just your hosts, but the other wives.”

“I’ll be delighted to alienate the other wives. If they’re the sort of people who enjoy a lot of patronising garbage by way of a meal ticket…”

He’d left at that, without another word, too angry for twenty-four hours even to return her dozen or so missed calls. Finally she’d texted him:

VV sorry, totally wrong on this, need bottom smacked. xxx

Alex had replied that he would perform the smacking in person that Saturday; it had all blown over; she had meekly agreed to do everything on the spousal programme-“even the shopping trip”-but it had left him worried. Not just about the trip, but about Linda’s whole attitude. He was beginning to be afraid that she wasn’t going to be a supportive consort; the whole incident had illustrated that.

And what about the children; how was she going to cope with them? He needed a proper base, a real home, and a decent setup, in order to be able to claim their time and attention to any degree. Not to be haring up to Marylebone at every available opportunity to see a mistress who was hardly likely to welcome him with two inevitably awkward children in tow. A mistress, moreover, who would not in two dozen years consider moving to Swindon…

It couldn’t work; it was impossible-and the fact that he enjoyed her so much and for so much of the time was depressing in itself.

Dear Mr. Grainger,

I hope you don’t mind my writing to you out of the blue, but a friend suggested that you might be able to help in some way, however small.

I’m hoping you will get this safely and that I’ve got the right address; I looked up Grainger in the directory and your farm was definitely in the right place: if you see what I mean!

My name is Georgia Linley, and I’m the girl you met wandering round your property on the day of the M4 crash last August. You were very kind to me, and I hope I wasn’t rude!

I know you were incredibly helpful to everybody that day-allowed the air ambulance to land on your field, and brought water for people to drink, and did all sorts of other kind things-so I’m hoping you’ll feel sufficiently interested to read on!

I am trying to organise a fund-raising concert in aid of the crash victims and their families, many of whom are still in considerable difficulties. I have the support of several people at St. Marks Hospital in Swindon, where the injured were all taken; I could let you have names there, if you’re wanting to check my credentials.

Patrick Connell and his family have all become good friends of mine. He was the lorry driver who was at the forefront of the crash, and who had given me a lift that day. He was very badly injured, and can’t work at the moment; he’s just an example of one of the many deserving causes.

We are setting up a charity, in order to make sure that everything is done properly and in a businesslike way. If you log onto crashconcert.linley.com you can check that as well.

Several musicians have already expressed an interest-nobody very grand yet, I’m afraid-but until we have a venue, we can’t get a great deal further, and that is proving the biggest obstacle so far.

I wondered if you would be willing to contribute anything, however small, to our setting-up fund; and in due course, obviously, to bring as many people to the concert as possible.

We’re also looking for a sponsor: any suggestions in that area would be hugely helpful.

Yours sincerely,

Georgia Linley (Ms.)

William sat staring at the letter, concerned not so much with helping Ms. Linley, who sounded rather engaging, and whom he remembered as being extremely pretty, or even with the unfortunate crash victims, who were undoubtedly a very good cause, but wondering if this was a second enormous nudge on the part of the Almighty in the direction of his reestablishing a relationship with Abi. If so, then he should surely respond-before the Almighty gave up on him altogether.

Abi had been at work when he rang.

“Hello, Abi. You all right?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine, thanks. You?”

“Absolutely fine. Abi, I’ve had an idea. Well, I’ve had a letter, actually.”

“Well… which? Or is it a letter with an idea?”

“Um… bit of both.”

“Hmm. Hard to guess this one, William. Film, book, play…”

“What?”

“Charades. Didn’t you ever play charades?”

“Few times. Yes, I see what you mean. Well… what’s the sign for concert?”

“There isn’t one. William, do spit it out. Please.”

William spat it out.

Three days later, Georgia arrived in the location house, breathless and flushed. “Is Merlin here? Or Anna?”

“Anna’s in Makeup,” said Mo. “Don’t know where Merlin is.” Georgia hared up the stairs to the bedroom that doubled as Makeup.

“Anna, Anna, listen to this; it’s amazing, totally amazing. I think we’ve got our venue!”

CHAPTER 45

The letters arrived after Christmas. Their presence would be required as witnesses at an inquest on February 19 into the deaths of Sarah Tomkins, Jennifer Marks, and Edward Barnes which occurred on August 22, on the M4 motorway. Details of the time and place of the inquest were also given; and the letter was signed by the coroner’s officer.

“Well, thank God it didn’t come before Christmas,” said Maeve. “It would have cast a bit of a blight. Not that you’ve got anything to worry about. But still… good to have it over. A line drawn.”

Patrick nodded; he actually felt he had quite a lot to worry about, however much he’d been reassured that the accident had in no way been his fault. The fact remained that his lorry had gone sprawling across the motorway, bursting through the crash barrier, and the result had been three deaths and dozens of injuries, some of them major. Every time he thought about the inquest, he felt the old, panicky fear…

Abi found the thought of the inquest pretty scary also; she had, after all, lied to the police, albeit about nothing to do with the crash, and she still had nightmares about them charging her in connection with drug offences. She had actually taken legal advice on this; the solicitor had told her that since she had not been in possession of any drugs, either at the time the police talked to her or later, they were extremely unlikely to press charges.

Nevertheless she was a major witness; she would have to stand in the dock or whatever they had at inquests and swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the bloody truth, and it could well transpire that she had lied the first time around, and in front of all those people. It was a complete nightmare.

But at least Christmas was over. Abi hated Christmas usually; she had a few misfit friends, equally at odds with their families, and they would spend the day together, drinking mostly, although they’d cobble a meal together-Christmas odds and sods from M &S and Tesco-and pull some crackers, and even occasionally play charades before the evening really disintegrated, but she was always hugely relieved when it, and its insistence that everyone was part of one great big, happy family, was over.

The best thing that had happened all Christmas was a text from William that she’d got on Christmas night: Happy Xmas, hope it’s a good one, mine isn’t. William, x. She struggled not to read too much into it, not to presume his wasn’t good because he wasn’t with her, and that the kiss was simply what anyone would put at the end of a text on Christmas Day; but the fact remained that he’d been thinking of her enough to send it. She texted back, Happy one to u2, not bad, thanx, gd 2 hear from you. Abi, and after that a kiss also. She’d put gt at first instead of gd, but that looked a bit keen.

And now, astonishingly, she was seeing quite a bit of him, albeit on a completely platonic basis…

She was extremely excited about Georgia’s concert. It had been her idea that it should be held at the farm, festival-style. She had actually suggested something similar to William once before, when he had been talking about diversifications and moneymaking schemes; and he had been surprisingly receptive to the idea then. It really hadn’t been too difficult-amazingly easy, in fact-to repersuade him.

It was very scary-on a professional basis-and she wasn’t even sure they would be able to pull it off; but if they did… she could launch her party-planning career on the back of it. And see lots of William in the bargain.

The first meeting about the concert had been… well, it had been extraordinary. An absolutely violent tangle of emotions. She’d expected the tangle, of course, had expected it to be awkward, had expected it to be painful seeing William; in fact, she’d been so scared the few days before she’d almost decided to pull out of the whole thing, to put Georgia-and him-in touch with a friend who was a party planner. But she didn’t.

They’d agreed to meet in a pub in Bristol on a Saturday afternoon; Abi had arrived far too early and had spent at least fifteen minutes in the loo to avoid sitting waiting for them and looking like a complete loser. When she came out William was sitting at a table with a very pretty black girl, which rattled her considerably at first, until she realised she must be Georgia. And she stood there, just staring at him, drinking him in; and she felt a wave of emotion so violent, so charged with regret and love and intense physical memory, it quite literally took her breath away.

She must just stay really cool, she thought, refuse to see it as anything but a business arrangement, as William being kind and good and wanting to help both her and Georgia in a venture that would clearly seem relevant to him as well as to them.

And then, as she stood there, still watching, he saw her; and he stood up, with those bloody old-fashioned manners of his, pulled out a chair, and beckoned to her to join them.

“Hi,” she said, walking over, hearing her own voice, calm and steady, not weak and breathless as she was afraid it might be, smiling at him, kissing him briefly, coolly on the cheek-how could she do that when she wanted to kiss him endlessly, desperately?-and then turned swiftly to Georgia.

“You must be Georgia. Hi. I’m Abi.”

“Hi, Abi. It’s so good of you to come. William-Mr. Grainger-has been telling me all about you. How you’ve done this sort of thing before, and how you can tell me how to go about it…”

“Well… I hope so. It’s a huge project, Georgia; I hope you realise just how huge.”

“I probably don’t. But I’m ready for anything. I’m so, so determined to do it.”

Georgia smiled; she was sweet, pretty, rather earnest. It would be fun working with her. “Good,” was all Abi said.

Gradually, the emotional situation eased as they discussed the form of the thing-“I did once suggest a rock festival to William, didn’t I? But I think maybe you’ve got more of a single concert in mind”-possible lead times, possible dates, the vast amount of time and planning it would absorb, how, with the best will in the world, they would need many more people on board-“Don’t look so frightened; it’s for charity-we can get mostly volunteers. It’s a wonderful project, Georgia; I’m really excited about it.”

Not about working with William, not about having endless access to William; that was out of the equation. Entirely.

Georgia said they could at least look at a festival.

“Tell us more what it might entail…”

Abi told them more: much more. Probably too much more, she thought afterwards. When she started outlining the need for security guards, parking facilities, police involvement, and the infrastructure required, William became visibly worried.

“A road! Abi, I can’t start building roads.”

“Well, you might have to. The contractors-”

“What contractors?” said Georgia.

“The ones building the stage, setting up the sound systems, all that sort of thing. You’ve got to think big, or it won’t work. Anyway, the contractors and the punters, come to that, need to know they’re not going to get stuck in the mud. You do realise it will rain, don’t you?”

“No, why?” said William.

“It just always does. Part of the package.”

“Oh,” said William.

Georgia looked at him and then said rather nervously that maybe they should just stick to the idea of a concert. “An open-air one, in the evening, next summer-it could be lovely.”

Abi said a concert would be all right, but it would be hard to make nearly so much of it. “I think a festival would be much more exciting. You’d get far more publicity, for a start, and a much bigger crowd, something where families could come, bring their kids, camp just for one night, have a few bands playing, dance. People really love that sort of thing; it’s like a miniholiday, and it’s so cool at the moment. That way you’d probably end up with a couple of thousand people… and make a fair bit of money. Even quite big bands bring their fee down if they know it’s for charity. Anyway, whatever the size of the thing, you have to have a stage and audio equipment, and loos, of course. William, are you really up for all this? And are your parents all right about it?”

William said rather airily that they’d been persuaded to do it: he didn’t add that he’d been pretty evasive about the implications, had sold it to them as a charity concert, which sounded rather charming; he knew they’d be totally opposed to the idea of a festival, with all its unfortunate implications of deafening noise, drugs, and general squalor…

“No, they’re fine about it,” he said now.

“Well, that’s great,” Abi said. “Let’s just hope they stay on that side, because they won’t be able to switch very easily. Now, you need a sponsor. To make it financially viable. Put up something like a couple of grand, say, in return for publicity. You might start thinking who to approach.”

“What, like one of the TV companies or something?”

“Well, more of a commercial concern, some local manufacturing company or other. I’ll think too. Anyway… what do you think? Now’s the time to say no.”

Georgia emitted a sort of squeak. Abi looked at her. Her eyes were shining and her hands were clasped together, making a sort of fist. Abi was to get to know that gesture well in the months to come.

“I think it sounds wonderful,” she said. “We’ve absolutely got to do it. If… well, that is if William… Mr. Grainger’s really up for it. It’s… it’s obviously a very big undertaking.”

“Please call me William,” said William. “Mr. Grainger makes me feel like I’m my dad.”

He looked at the pair of them, two sassy, sexy girls, girls he would never have known a year ago, and thought of spending a lot of time with them over the next six months or so. It made him feel dizzy. “I’m up for it,” he said. “Yeah, course.”

It was just as well, Georgia thought, that she had the concert to distract her. She viewed the inquest with absolute terror. At the thought of having to stand up in a courtroom, in front of a crowd of people, several of whom were still grieving, and describe under oath how she had abandoned Patrick Connell in his cab and disappeared, failing to provide the evidence that only she could and that had been so crucial to him, she felt violently sick.

She knew there was no way out of it-it had to be got through-but it was still there, driving her back into her guilt and remorse.

Moving Away was in the final stages of filming, and the first episode was to be screened in the spring.

It was awful to think she wouldn’t be seeing Merlin more or less every day; it had been such an incredibly exciting element in the whole thing, just getting ready in the morning, wondering what to wear, whether he’d be there, what he’d say to her. She was still slightly baffled as to what his feelings about her were: nonexistent, she thought on her bad days, but then she would think, on the good ones… Why ask her to go for a drink so often after they’d finished for the day; why spend so much time with her; why make sure she was all right in Jazz’s house?

He’d even-once or twice-asked her to the cinema, to see some incredibly intellectual foreign films at what he called his local, the Hampstead Everyman, which she hadn’t understood at all, let alone enjoyed-although she’d pretended to, of course-and one wonderful Saturday he’d called her and said he was going to do some Christmas shopping in the Portobello, and if she was around, would she like to join him? She’d loved that, wandering along the stalls, and when they’d finished he asked her if she’d like to have lunch at Camden Lock-“I can’t believe you haven’t been there yet, all this time in London”-and she’d said, trying to sound totally cool, that she’d like that, and had sat in one of the bars alongside the canal, convinced this was really it, that he was going to say he really liked her. But he didn’t; he said he had to get back quite soon after lunch: “The parents are having a party tonight; I have to go back and help.”

“Will it… will it be a big party?” she said, trying to sound casual, half wondering if he might be going to ask her.

“About a hundred. Anyone else would have proper help, but Mummy won’t-against her principles, like not having a cleaner, so she’s run herself ragged cooking for weeks, and Pa just hides in his study and pretends he hasn’t noticed.”

“And lots of famous people there?” she said.

And, “Yeah, lot of Beeb types, Humphreys, Paxman, Benn, I imagine, the Millibands, possibly Charlie Falconer, but not the Blairs.”

“God,” she said, “I call that pretty impressive.”

“Not really. You’re so sweet, Georgia,” he added, smiling at her, “so totally unspoilt still. Stay like it, for goodness’ sake. Don’t get spoilt. I must dash; can you find your own way back?”

“Yes, of course. I want to look in some of those shops anyway,” she said quickly.

And that was how their relationship-or rather their non -relationship-proceeded: two steps forward, two steps back. Exasperating, frustrating, baffling.

Most of the time she managed to think it was just luvvie stuff, no more than that, along with the hugs and the brotherly kisses; but she still found grounds for thinking it was more.

She had never talked about him to anyone involved in the production-deliberately. There was no way she was going to risk being laughed at for having an unrequited crush on him. And in any case she wasn’t on those sorts of terms with any of them, except for Anna.

She tried to find out a bit about him from Linda, who always knew all the gossip about everybody, but she just said vaguely that she really didn’t know much about him except that he was incredibly talented and would soon be a first assistant, probably in the next production he worked on. “You don’t fancy him, darling, do you?”

“God, no,” said Georgia.

“Good. Because the words little and shit do come rather to mind.”

Georgia ignored this; it was such a typical Linda comment.

And then the mystery was solved-painfully.

The wrap party was taking place just a week before Christmas; Georgia had bought a sequinned dress that was virtually nonexistent, so short and low-cut it was, and some incredibly long, sequinned fake eyelashes to go with it.

The party was at Bryn’s house in Putney, a wonderful glass-fronted place on the river. He’d been incredibly generous, provided champagne by the crateful, and Mrs. Bryn, who was a glamorous actress called Jan Lloyd, provided fantastic food. Particularly generous, as she then went out for the evening: “She says no one should be at the wrap parties of other people’s productions,” Bryn said, laughing, when he made his little speech, and actually, as Anna said to Georgia, it really wasn’t very pleasant; you felt like a complete outsider, understood none of the in-jokes, and were deeply wary of discovering any illicit relationships.

Georgia could feel herself going over the top, flirting with everyone, including Bryn-and Merlin, of course-making people dance with her, but it was the last time she’d see most of them, and she was enjoying herself so much.

Merlin was a fantastic dancer, and he was looking absolutely amazing, all in black-black skinny jeans, black T-shirt, black leather jacket. She thought he must be rather hot in the jacket, and suggested he take it off more than once, but he said he liked it, and he liked being hot. She hoped he meant what she thought by that.

And then suddenly the front doorbell went off, and Georgia, who was in the hall, opened it. A girl stood there, a really beautiful girl, tall, with long blond hair and astonishingly blue eyes; she was wearing a short black dress and black knee boots with very high heels. She smiled at Georgia just slightly dismissively and looked her up and down and said, “Hi. Is Merlin here?”

Georgia said he was and that she’d go and find him-the girl was the sort who inspired such behaviour-and had just turned to go into the party when Bryn appeared and said, “Ticky! Darling! What a surprise. Merlin didn’t warn us.”

The girl kissed Bryn and said, “He didn’t know I was flying in today. I promise, Bryn, darling, I haven’t come to crash your wrap party. I just thought I might steal him away in a little while.”

“You can crash anything of mine, sweetie. Let me go and find the boy.”

Merlin, it seemed, and Ticky-whoever was called Ticky, and what was it short for? Georgia wondered-were an item. Had been since drama school. Only Ticky, who had a very rich daddy, was now attending the New York University film school. And came back to London only for the vacations.

Merlin clearly adored her; so did most of the cast. Davina threw her arms round her and told her she looked divine. Which she did, Georgia thought miserably; she was the sort of girl who was on the cover of Tatler, or even Vogue. Understated, superconfident, totally classy, she had become, briefly, the centre of the party.

And when she and Merlin left, after half an hour, looking like a Prada ad, Georgia sat down next to Anna and said, trying to sound cool, “What happened to not being at other people’s wrap parties?”

“I guess if you look like that, you can be anywhere you damn well like,” Anna said, and then, looking rather hard at Georgia: “Listen, sweetie, I’ve had enough. Want to come home with me? Lila’s on her own and she’d love to see you. And catch up on the concert. If there’s anything to catch up on…”

“That’d be great,” said Georgia. “Thank you.”

All she felt now was a consuming terror that the whole production had been laughing at her behind her back.

Anna, who had clearly put two and two together, and confronted the issue in the cab home, told her they hadn’t.

“I swear to you, nobody ever mentioned it. Listen, even I never guessed. You played it really cool, Georgia. Well done. And good riddance, I’d say. Leading you on like that, never mentioning her. Ticky! What a name.”

“No, no, not really,” said poor Georgia, the tears beginning to flow now, “and he didn’t lead me on; he was just… really kind. Oh, I’m sorry, Anna, I think I might change my mind, go home after all.”

“All right,” said Anna, “of course I understand. But please, please, sweetie, believe me. I never heard a whisper about you and Merlin. Honestly.”

It was comfort of a sort.

Linda had an incredible Christmas. She always enjoyed it; she loved the theatricality of it, spent many hours decorating her flat, went to endless parties, bought a mountain of presents for everyone, and went for the day to the home of Francis and his partner, who was an incredible cook. None of that was altered this year; except that Alex, who had spent the day with the children and his now ex-wife, came up for the evening and, as Linda put it, they fucked their way into Boxing Day.

Linda didn’t know quite what she felt about her relationship with Alex. In many ways it was extremely difficult; he was moody and bad tempered and introspective to an absurd degree, and what felt like at least half their dates ended in rows, the less serious resolved in bed, the more serious unresolved for days. Several times, after he had slammed out, she decided that she must finish things, that they just made each other unhappy, and would call him to tell him so and more than once he had agreed. But then, somehow, they would resolve things; one or the other of them would make some approach, without actually apologising, and they would agree to meet and then, having met, found themselves almost against their respective wills quite unable to continue with the hostilities. And then they would start again, amusing, charming, pleasing each other, agreeing that they made each other happier than anyone else had ever done… until the next time.

It seemed to Linda quite impossible that it could be a long-term relationship; it was just too uncomfortable and disturbing. On the other hand, she looked into a future without Alex, without the intense colour and interest and drama, and that seemed impossible to contemplate too.

She was perfectly aware what caused the rows: they were both arrogant, opinionated, and for too long had been able to hold on to their opinions and behaviour and not consider anyone else, Linda because she lived alone, with all the self-indulgence that offered, and Alex because his status at the hospital meant that very few people ever confronted him there either.

On her up days-and Linda was an extremely up person-she would think it was fine, that the drama and passion and difficulty of it all were actually part of the pleasure; but when she was down, she could see that it was not at all what she needed, not the warm reassurance and companionship she had been dreaming of. Alex was about as reassuring as a roll of thunder. He also brought with him the burden of teenage children-whom he had not even allowed her to meet, and that in itself had to be significant, and indeed she found it fairly hurtful-and a demanding career entirely out of her orbit.

The only thing she could do-or try to do, and it went against her nature-was enjoy the relationship for as long as she could, and to continue to look for someone more enduringly suitable. The trouble was that Alex, for all his appalling drawbacks, had set the bar rather high… Laura had hated every moment of Christmas. She had always loved it so much, looked forward to it for months, the planning the shopping, the decorating, the cooking, creating the perfect performance for everyone, had always thought how lucky she was to be able to do it all on such an extravagant scale; and now she discovered that actually it wasn’t the present giving, or the family feasts, or the delight of doing the tree with the children, or even the carol concerts and the children’s party that she and Jonathan had always given; it was the sense of being at the heart of her perfect, happy family. Her family this Christmas was not only not perfect, it was not even happy; and she was not at the heart of it. At the heart of it this year was a bitter unhappiness: two little girls crying most nights for their daddy and begging her to make sure he came for Christmas, a little boy who said he hated his father, and that he would walk out if he came for Christmas, and a house that was a cold showcase for the lights and the tinsel and the tree and the presents underneath it. She had lavished enormous sums of money on PlayStations and Nintendo games for Charlie, and dolls and clothes for the girls, and iPods for all of them; they had had the tallest tree and the biggest crackers ever, the most perfect Christmas dinner, and even though the girls had expressed delight and told her they loved their presents and loved her, and had sung Christmas carols determinedly as they helped to lay and decorate the dinner table, and even Charlie had tried to be cheerful and said how cool his PlayStation was, and submitted to his grandfather’s endless terrible jokes with a good grace, and they had all managed to play a round of charades and a game of Trivial Pursuit after dinner, there had been an emptiness, a greyness over everything, and when they hugged and kissed her good night and settled into bed with their new books, their iPods clamped to their heads, she knew that above anything else, they were relieved it was over and they could stop trying to seem happy.

The compromise reached over Jonathan’s visit had been that he would come on Christmas morning and give them presents (during which Charlie glowered from a corner), and then go away, “because I’ve got to deliver some babies,” and then have them on Boxing Day in his flat, and take them to the pantomime at Richmond in the evening. But Charlie had refused to go at the last minute, which had upset the girls, and there had been the hideous empty seat beside them in the theatre, which they could almost hear shouting, “Charlie should be here,” and they had cried all the way home after Laura collected them.

And, left alone in his flat without them, contemplating the ugly, empty day that had passed, Jonathan had cried too.

Barney was literally having nightmares about the inquest. Every time he thought about being asked about the tyres and how he would have to say that Toby hadn’t let him check them, he thought he would throw up. The fact that there had been a nail in one of them, initially an immense relief, now seemed of less importance. He should have insisted on doing all he could to ensure the car’s safety; that was the whole point.

And he would think about Emma and how happily and quickly they had tumbled into love; and then how much he missed her still. And he would even, in spite of everything, realise how much he missed Toby too, missed having him there to have a laugh with, to send stupid e-mails to, to get drunk with… Toby would be back at work after Christmas; he was bound to run into him in bars and so on, and Amanda was bound to ask why they weren’t seeing each other. She knew about Tamara, of course, and the broken engagement, and she’d been very upset, her great blue eyes filled with tears. “But I suppose it’s for the best; Tamara said they’d just fallen out of love-how awful is that?”

How awful indeed…

Emma spent much of Christmas trying not to wonder what Barney was doing, which large country house he and Amanda would be staying in, and whether there would be discussion with their families-

Christmas being the sort of time such conversations did take place-about their wedding plans.

It was a relief to get back to work.

Mary and Russell had a perfect Christmas. Tadwick House was absurdly overdecorated, with fairy lights in every room, round every fireplace, and entwined round every stair rail, and strung along every hedge outside as well. A vast Christmas tree stood in the hall, a second in the drawing room, complete with a mountainous pile of presents, mistletoe hung in every doorway, huge log fires burned in every grate, and the house was filled with the irresistible mingling of wood smoke and baking. And it was wonderfully, noisily full.

Not only were Christine and Gerry, Douglas and Maureen and their children, Timothy and the lovely Lorraine there for Christmas Day, together with Lorraine’s parents, but to Mary’s absolute surprise and delight, Coral and Pearl and their respective spouses asked if they might join them as well, an English Christmas having long been a dream of theirs.

Russell was delighted as well. Christine’s initial rejection of him had hurt him badly, and he felt rather proud that his own daughters were more generous-hearted than Mary’s. He still found Christine rather hard to embrace-both physically and emotionally. She had failed to say anything to him by way of an apology, and every time he looked at her rather self-satisfied, plump face he wondered at her dissimilarity from her mother.

The weather was most obligingly Christmassy, crisp and sunny; the entire party went to morning service on Christmas Day, came back for a vast lunch (with a break for the Queen’s speech), and then went for a short walk before having presents in the drawing room. After that everyone withdrew for a short rest and then reassembled for games and to sing carols round the piano. The piano had been Russell’s Christmas present to Mary, who had always longed for one ever since learning to play on her own grandmother’s when she was a small girl, and had never been allowed one since. Rusty at first, by sherry time she was sufficiently adept to play “Jingle Bells” and “Away in a Manger.” Russell was a superb pianist and took over for the evening performance, finishing with a flamboyant, concert-style rendition of Rhapsody in Blue that reduced Lorraine’s mother and both Coral and Pearl to tears.

The party broke up at about ten, apart from Timothy and Lorraine and the Canadian cousins, who were watching an old Bond movie; Christine walked to the bottom of the stairs, then turned and went back to Russell and kissed him.

“It’s been wonderful,” she said. “Thank you very much for having us here today… and I’m very sorry about my… about… well, I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you’re here. You’ve made my mother happier than I can ever remember. Since Dad died, that is, of course.”

At which Russell kissed her back and said, “Of course,” and added that he was proud to have succeeded someone who had clearly been so remarkable a gentleman as Donald.

Later, as they sat in bed, Russell leaned over and kissed Mary and said, “I meant it about Donald. I’m going to have a tough job living up to him.”

Mary kissed him back and told him he wasn’t doing too badly so far.

CHAPTER 46

She supposed she should have realised, really: if they squabbled as much as they did when they were living in different houses-and different cities, come to that-what hope for them when they were sharing the same room with no escape in any form, even into work?

Actually, and perversely, she had enjoyed the first part of the trip, the conference in Cape Town, a great deal more than she had expected. She had thought it would be tedious in the extreme, and it had actually turned out to be rather fun. Not least because she was quickly established as something of a star, certainly among the men, not just because of what she looked like and how she dressed, but because of what she did: a glossy, entertaining creature from another world altogether.

She had made two friends in particular, one a rather dashing neurosurgeon, who had actually first trained as a barrister; he told her life was too short to spend it in one discipline, as he put it, and asked her, his blue eyes dancing with appreciation at her very low-cut black velvet top, what she was going to do when she grew up. Linda told him she was going to be a lap dancer, and he laughed so much and so loudly that the entire dining room turned round to look.

The other friend was a part-time primary-school teacher called Martin, rather plain but very funny, accompanying his wife; he said he was quite used to coming on the spousal programmes.

“I don’t mind a bit, actually. I enjoy it all except the shopping. And the other wives are very nice to me. There’s usually more than one of us these days, but I can handle there being just me.”

He said he had always looked after the children, ever since his wife, an orthopaedic surgeon, had got her first consultancy. “I mean, why not? She earns squillions more than I ever could. She gets a bit tetchy if dinner isn’t ready when she gets home, but I can handle that.”

Linda laughed. Maybe that was what she needed-a house husband. It would be great to get home every night to find dinner cooked and the fridge stocked. Not to mention all her dry cleaning and laundry sorted, and the cleaning women organised. Wonderful…

But then, house husbands just weren’t very sexy.

On the second day the spousal programme took them up Table Mountain via the cable car. Linda walked round the top with Martin; they admired the views, the almost literally intoxicating air, and agreed that they might both duck out of the visit to the township the following day.

“But Alex tells me they don’t like that,” she said.

“Oh, they don’t mind once or twice. I usually say I’ve got my period.”

Linda giggled.

“Your husband come on these things a lot?”

“My partner. We’re not married. Well, if you can keep a secret, he’s just my boyfriend. I dared him to bring me on this and he did.”

“I won’t tell a soul. Why should you need to dare him? Any normal red-blooded man would be dying to take you anywhere. Or is his blood a bit pink?”

“No, of course not,” said Linda, laughing. “And… it’s a bit of an in-joke, the dares. Anyway, he doesn’t approve of these trips. Says they’re thinly disguised bribes.”

“Quite right. Fortunately my wife doesn’t have such principles.”

And all might have been well, had he not brought his wife-a pretty girl with freckles and a Scottish accent, called Fiona-to meet Alex and Linda at predinner drinks and told Alex what Linda had said about the bribery, and how much he agreed with him.

“Frightful racket. Still, who are we to complain?” Martin asked.

“Well, you certainly don’t,” said Fiona. “I have to work very hard for it. Anyway, it’s not exactly true.”

“Of course it’s not,” said Alex. He glared at Linda.

“I call the spousal programme pretty hard work,” said Martin. “Linda and I are ducking out tomorrow, aren’t we?”

“Yes. Doing a heavy day at the spa,” said Linda, and then rather hurriedly, “And how was today’s conference session?”

“Very good,” said Fiona, “some really interesting ideas, didn’t you think, Alex?”

“Yes, not bad.”

“Well, if it isn’t the lap dancer. Not working tonight?”

It was the neurosurgeon. Linda reached up to kiss him.

“Hi. Not yet. I don’t usually start until after dinner.”

“I’ll look forward to it. Come and rescue my wife, will you? I’ve told her about you; she’s longing to meet you, and she’s stuck with some gnome from R and D. Can you spare her, Alex, old chap?”

“Yes, of course,” said Alex. He smiled at the neurosurgeon. Linda knew that smile. It came with great difficulty. She winked at him, said she’d soon be back, and followed the neurosurgeon across the room.

Mrs. NS was rather fun: a doctor herself, a GP from Ireland. She was extremely grateful for the rescue-“I really thought I’d pass out with boredom in a minute”-and asked Linda who her husband was.

“Ah, yes,” she said, squinting across the room, “very sexy, I thought. Touch of the Heathcliffs.”

“That’s exactly what I thought the first time I saw him,” said Linda. “And the resemblance doesn’t end there. Very dark and brooding, he can be. Not that full of sunshine right this minute, actually. I think he’s cross because I’m ducking out of the programme tomorrow.”

“I might join you in that. Hate the idea of it. What are you doing instead?”

“Beautifying myself in the spa.”

“Sounds good. Well, see you there, maybe. We’ve got to go in to dinner.”

Alex scowled at Linda as she sat down beside him.

“Linda, how dare you go round telling people I regard these things as bribery. It’s outrageous.”

“But you do. You said so.”

“That was a private remark. Passing it on here is rather like telling your hostess you don’t like her cooking. I can’t believe you can be so socially inept. Not to mention rude.”

“Sorry,” she said, slightly alarmed at his anger. “I really am. You know, I’m truly enjoying it all; it’s a bit like being back at school.”

“Well, try not to behave as if you actually were.”

“Oh, do stop scowling at me, Alex; I’ve said I’m sorry. And you should be glad I’m enjoying myself.”

“I’m afraid not. Or rather, not the way you’ve chosen.”

“Oh, God,” she said, putting down her fork, “you really are a miserable bastard, aren’t you? First sign of a bit of a laugh, and you’re down on everyone like a load of shit. I’m glad I don’t work at that hospital of yours.”

“Linda, you know perfectly well what I mean. It’s very discourteous, setting yourself up in some rebel group like this. You wanted to come and-”

“Oh, fuck off!” she said, and turned her attention to the man the other side of her.

“Shall we go to the bar?” she said, finally turning back to Alex.

“I’d rather not. I’m tired. I’m going upstairs. You can join me if you like.”

“I’ve had more promising invitations,” she said. “I’ll see you later.”

She had one drink with Martin and his wife, and then said good night to everyone and went up to their room. Alex was in bed, reading.

“Good book?”

“Very.”

She pulled off her clothes, slid into bed beside him.

“Let me distract you from it.”

He turned away slightly; she snatched the book from him.

“Oh, Alex. You’re so sexy when you’re cross.”

Against all the odds he laughed. “I must be sexy a lot of the time, in that case.”

“You are. And I’m not the only one who thinks so. Mrs. Neurosurgeon was saying how sexy you were.”

“Oh, Linda,” he said, switching the light off, taking her in his arms. “I’m sorry. You’re a very generous woman.”

“I am?”

“Yes. Sam would never have told me some other woman thought I was attractive. Are we friends again?”

“I never wasn’t,” she said.

She managed to behave after that more as Alex would have wished: went on the obligatory shopping trip-not exactly a hardship in the delicious bounty of Cape Town stores-and went on the other major outing, down the winding coast road to Chapman’s Peak, an incredibly beautiful promontory carved out of the cliffs, and then on to Cape Point.

They were heading north after that, to do a few days’ safari: travelling on the Blue Train for the first leg to Pretoria, where they were picking up a small private plane to Kruger National Park.

The Blue Train was her idea, and her contribution to the trip.

“If you think I’m going on an ordinary old plane for two hours when we can do the same thing in total luxury in twenty-four, then you’ve brought the wrong woman.”

The Blue Train was sheer indulgence, an excessive, elaborate treat that made her feel, she said, like Lauren Bacall in Murder on the Orient Express. She and Alex had their own private suite: a drawing room that converted into a bedroom, complete with immense double bed, and an absurdly elaborate bathroom in which you could take a deep, hot bath and enjoy the landscape at the same time, a peculiarly heady, sexy pleasure. They also had their own butler; all the suites did. Alex didn’t approve, was hating most of it: Linda didn’t care.

They had the first squabble before lunch, as she tidied up the suite for the third time.

“Linda, do, for God’s sake, stop that; I can’t stand it.”

“Well, I can’t stand the mess!”

“Just sit down and watch the scenery!”

She sat there, watching the incredible mountain ranges go past, sipping a glass of very nice Sancerre, and felt better tempered; by the time lunch was served she was feeling very sleek and told Alex so.

“I know what that means,” he said, grinning at her.

“You do?”

“Yes. Some considerable activity a little later.”

“You’re being very presumptuous.”

“Sorry. Am I wrong?”

“No, Alex,” she said, closing her eyes briefly and smiling at the intense sensation that quite literally swept through her, leaving her almost dizzy, “no, you’re not wrong.”

“Thank Christ for that. I was beginning to think I’d never say the right thing again.”

“I’m not terribly interested in what you say,” she said, reaching under the table, gently massaging his thigh, “not just now. More what you do.”

“Oh, OK. Linda, do stop that. I can’t enjoy my food while I’m having an erection.”

“Try,” she said. “It’s my challenge for the afternoon.”

Much, much later she sat in the bath with yet another glass of champagne; he sat on the edge and smiled down at her.

“That was very lovely.”

“Yes, it was. Oh, look, Alex, there’s some wildebeest. See, there? God, how amazing to sit in a bath drinking champagne and watching wildebeest. I told you it would be wonderful.”

“You were right,” he said, reaching out, tracing the outline of one of her nipples with his thumb. “It is very wonderful. All of it.”

“Please, please don’t do that,” she said, reaching down for his hand, kissing it, then replacing it. “You know I can’t bear it.”

“I thought you liked it.”

“I love it. But it makes me feel I’ll have to… Oh, God, Alex, I’ll have to… We’ll have to…”

“Have to what?”

“You know.” She stood up, her red hair slicked back. He stood up too, lifted her out, bent his head, and kissed her; very slowly she eased off his bathrobe, and then reached out to pull down the bathroom blind.

“Who do you think’s going to see us?” he said, laughing. “The wildebeest?”

It was their first night at the lodge that the trouble really began. Set unfenced in the middle of the park, their hotel consisted of a main building and then a series of bungalows. Beautifully furnished, colonial style, with its own Jacuzzi in its own small garden, and a huge deck lit only by candles and oil lamps, it was, as Linda happily said, like something out of one of the really posh travel magazines.

Dinner was outside, under the stars, tables set in a horseshoe round a vast fire; afterwards they were escorted back to their room by a guide, complete with rifle.

“Never do this walk alone at night,” he said. “It’s very dangerous. Remember we’re not fenced. The animals can get in and they’re not pets. They’re wild and they kill. And there are snakes, really nasty pieces of work. Breakfast’s at six,” he added cheerfully. “I’ll knock on the door at five thirty for morning safari.”

“Oh, wow,” said Linda, wandering into the candlelit room, “this is my idea of true heaven. Such a wonderful idea, Alex. Thank you so, so much. I might not get up at five thirty, though. Give that bit a miss.”

“Linda, you have to. It’s the reason we’re here, to go on safari, see the animals.”

“Yeah, OK, but there’s another in the afternoon. I can see them then.”

“You’re expected to go on both each day. They’re all different.”

“Alex, I don’t want to. Not tomorrow. I’m tired.”

“Well, I think that’s a little pathetic,” he said.

“Oh, don’t be so stuffy. This is a holiday, not an army workout.”

“Yes, and a very expensive holiday. I was expecting you’d participate rather more fully. I’m disappointed.”

“Alex, you are joking, aren’t you? No, you’re not. Expensive indeed! Is that supposed to make me change my mind?”

“I’d have thought it was a factor.”

“Well, I’m sorry if I’m a disappointment to you, but I hadn’t expected to have to earn my stay here.”

“That’s a filthy thing to say!”

“It’s pretty filthy talking to me about how much it cost. Remind me to write you a cheque when we get back.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. I’m going to bed.”

“Good. Because I’m going back to the bar. And don’t worry; I’ll pay for my own drinks.”

She phoned for the escort and slammed the door after her.

In the morning when she woke, he was gone; she turned over, went back to sleep, and was sitting in the Jacuzzi when he returned.

“Good safari?”

“Very good.”

“What did you see?”

“Animals. Wild animals,” he said stiffly. “I’m going to have breakfast. I’ll see you later.”

Linda stuck out her tongue at his back. It spoke of huge hostility, that back. In fact, it was the most expressive back she knew.

Later they made up, lunched by the pool, and went out on the evening safari together. It was very wonderful. Nothing could have prepared Linda for the moment when a pride of lions walked by in a long, sinuous line, so close to the Land Rover they could have touched them. Or when two giraffes stalked languidly past them supermodel-style, heads held high, eyes on some far horizon, totally ignoring them. She’d somehow expected the animals to be about two hundred yards away, not within blinking distance. It was astonishing enough to get her up at five thirty the following day for more.

The highlight of that morning’s safari was an elephant and her baby; just a few days old, the baby was being caressed and urged along by its mother’s swishing trunk.

“So sweet,” Linda said to the ranger, “and so gentle. But elephants always are, aren’t they?”

“Until they’re threatened. Let her think you might hurt that little chap and you’d have three tons of aggression heaped onto you.”

Probably because Linda was tired, they quarrelled dramatically that afternoon, so dramatically indeed that when they emerged from their bungalow for dinner-having missed the safari-they realised from their slightly embarrassed expressions that their fellow guests must have heard them. The initial cause was Linda’s getting sunburnt; Alex told her she was a fool to lie out at midday; she told him he was a stuffy old fart; he said he had seen enough skin cancer cases to make him cautious; she accused him of being overdramatic and depressing. Somehow after that they got onto the children, with him informing her it was as well she’d never become a mother, given her total irresponsibility of attitude: which was, she informed him, so far below the belt as to be totally obscene.

He did apologise at that; they had a making up of sorts, and braved dinner; but afterwards, alone in the bungalow, she said, “Just as a matter of interest, Alex, why have you never allowed me to meet your children?”

“What do you mean, never?” he said. “We’ve known each other only a few weeks.”

“Months. Actually.”

“All right. But we don’t meet very frequently. It just hasn’t been practical.”

“I hope that is the reason. I’d have thought if you were in the least serious about me, you’d have realised I’d like to meet them. And them me.”

“Linda, you know I’m serious about you. Neither of us would be here if I wasn’t.”

“OK, then. Maybe it’s even worse than that; maybe you think they won’t like me.”

“They probably won’t.”

“Oh, what? Alex, how can you talk to me like that? You are-”

“I mean, of course, they won’t like you because you’re not their mother. They’re bound to be hostile to any new girlfriend.”

“What about her boyfriend?”

“Yes, well, they certainly don’t like him.”

“I thought they lived with him.”

“No, they don’t. His house is in Marlow; Sam has her own near Cirencester.”

“But they do see him?”

“They have to.”

“Well, why don’t they have to see me?”

“Linda, this is absurd. Of course they don’t have to see you… I’m not in a permanent relationship with you.”

“Well, thanks for that. I’m glad to have it spelt out.”

Whereupon she pulled on a jacket, opened the door, and walked out into the darkness.

Alex waited for a few minutes; he was sure she’d be back. The bar was closed; there was nowhere for her to go. And she’d never dare walk far without an escort. An escort with a gun.

Five minutes later, he was growing anxious; only a few months ago a tourist had been savaged by a lion when he had got out of the Land Rover (totally against instruction) and crept up on a lioness and her cub to take photographs. Both lioness and lion had been shot.

They had all sat soberly in the Land Rover while the scout told them this story, shocked. And now here was Linda, doing something even more insane, out in the darkness, endangering not only her own life but those of the people who must find her. Stupid, bloody-minded, stubborn woman. Arrogant beyond belief. Self-centred, over-dramatic; she deserved all she got.

Alex rang for help.

There was a track leading away from the lodge; one way it broadened into a wide dirt road, the other into the track the Land Rovers drove along on safari. Linda could see that might be a little dangerous; she simply could not imagine the road could be in any way so. They would exaggerate the dangers to make everything more exciting, and so that people didn’t take silly risks. There certainly hadn’t been anything more aggressive than an impala as they drove along it on their way.

Fucking Alex; God, she hated him. How dared he talk to her like some patronising father figure, and then tell her his children wouldn’t like her. That had been hugely hurtful. Thank God tomorrow it would be over and they would be going home. She realised she was crying-as much as at the disappointment of the trip, which she had so hoped would be happy and fun, as at the hurt he had just slung at her. Thank God they weren’t in much of a relationship; they could part at the airport and never meet again. Apart from the toothbrush and razor he kept at her flat, there would be no trace of him left in her life. Bastard! Bloody arrogant, bad-tempered bastard! She hated him. She…

Linda turned; better not go too far; it was very black, and it was the middle of the night. The park was noisy, sound cutting through the thick darkness, the raw cries of the birds and the chattering of the monkeys mixed with the occasional bellow or roar. Something moved on the ground horribly close to her; she jumped. Couldn’t have been a snake. Could it? No, of course not. She heard, from about fifty yards away, a rustling, pushing in the undergrowth; nothing dangerous, she was sure, a bird probably. But still… best get back.

She turned and realised that she had actually wandered off the main track, had taken, in the darkness, a minor one; grass brushed at her ankles. Damn. Bloody silly. Well, she couldn’t be far from the compound; she’d been walking only a few minutes. Actually, looking at her watch, nearly ten. You could walk quite a way in ten minutes. Still, she was fine; it was fine. The hotel lights were… shit, where were they? The track sloped slightly; she must just walk back down it, rather than up, and she’d hit the main track. Then she could easily…

Fuck. She couldn’t easily see anything. It was pitch-black-she hadn’t even had the sense to bring the torch. Well, that was Alex’s fault; she’d been too upset to think. She walked a few steps tentatively; was that up- or downhill? Hard to tell; the slope was very slight. She could be walking farther into the bush, or out of it. It was impossible to tell. Maybe she should shout… shout for help. But if she did, an animal could hear her. A hungry animal. Like the lion that had caught the tourist. Or the mother elephant, startled into defending her baby. What had the ranger said? Three tons of aggression. So… no shouting then. Just keep calm, Linda; walk steadily back. But… she didn’t know which way was back.

She stood there, willing herself not to panic, her mouth dry, her heart thudding. What should she do? What the fuck should she do?

“Several of us will go,” the ranger told Alex, “since you have no idea where she went.” His voice was calm, but cold. He was obviously very angry: with good reason.

“Yes. Thank you. I’m so… so sorry. Should I come with you?”

“Absolutely not. No. Stay here. If she turns up, if you find she’s just sitting by the pool or something, tell them at the hotel. And they can radio us.”

“Of course,” said Alex. He was absolutely confident Linda was not sitting by the pool. Or the bar. Or anywhere. She was out there in all that danger, possibly even now being savaged by something, her lovely body being ripped quite literally apart, and it was his fault for being so harsh with her, so critical, so cruel. Sam had been right: he really wasn’t worth having a relationship with.

He stood at the doorway, the light of the room behind him, that gentle, sweet candlelight, so at odds with what he was feeling, what was happening. He strained his eyes into the darkness. He couldn’t see or hear anything, except the Land Rovers that the rangers had taken. Jesus, those lions the other day had been only a mile or so away. Several of the other bungalows were lit up; he could see faces at the windows. What stories these people would have to tell when they got home: about this misfit couple who fought endlessly, put the safety of the whole camp and all the rangers at risk…

He tensed; he could hear the Land Rover now, drawing nearer. It pulled into the courtyard, its engine silenced. Alex stood, unable to move, more fearful than he could ever remember. They had called off the search; she had been found dead or horribly mutilated; no one could find her, she-

“Right, Alex. Here she is. Safe and sound, although she might not have been much longer; something quite big out there, could have been anything, leopard, lion… Please don’t do that again, Linda; you’re putting us at risk as well as yourself. Good night.”

“Good night.” Linda’s face was drawn and tearstained, distorted by fear and remorse. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“That’s OK. Night.”

He looked pretty cheesed off, Alex thought. He would have been, too. Some silly cow endangering his life, all for a bit of drama. He took Linda’s arm, pulled her in, shut the door. He shook her-hard. Again and again. Her eyes were shocked and afraid in her white face.

“I’m sorry, Alex. I’m so sorry.”

“You stupid fucking thoughtless bitch. How could you be so selfish, so insanely stupid…”

“I don’t know. I’m sorry. I… well, I’m sorry.”

“You’d better be.” He stopped shaking her suddenly, set her away from him. “You know, I could…”

“What?”

Suddenly he couldn’t stand it any longer. Her fear, her misery, his relief. He sat down abruptly on the bed, his legs weak, sat looking at her. She didn’t move, just stood there, staring back at him.

“What?” she said again.

“Oh, Linda,” he said after a long silence. “I’m afraid I love you. That’s what.”

CHAPTER 47

It was very odd to be seeing him again. Being with him, talking to him, having a laugh with him, doing everything with him, really… except touching him. That seemed to be totally off-limits. And it was all, really, she wanted to do. Well, more or less.

Still… it was something even to be working with him.

And Georgia. Georgia was great. Really cool-bit immature, bit spoiled, but funny and clever, and really good to work with, full of ideas, willing to do anything, put in endless hours. A real trouper.

They had formed a committee, which met regularly and then issued properly reported minutes at Abi’s instigation: “Formalising it all is the only way to push it forward; otherwise it just turns into a wank, everyone discussing their wonderful ideas and never doing anything.”

The committee members were Abi, who was chair-“Only because I’ve been involved in all this stuff a bit before”-Georgia, and William.

Then there was Emma, representing the hospital, and a friend of Abi’s called Fred, who worked for a charity and knew a great deal about the ins and outs of that industry, about fund-raising, about sponsorship, and running events in general. He said he might even be able to find a sponsor for them. He was doing it for nothing.

Fred wasn’t too much like anyone would expect a charity worker to be: he looked like a secondhand-car salesman, as Abi said when she introduced him to the group. Fred had taken the implied criticism of this with great good nature and said that selling charities and selling cars were much more similar processes than anyone would think. “You’re still getting people to part with more than they want for something. Charities are easier really, in a way, because you can work on their consciences.”

Abi knew that William had thought initially that Fred was doing it because he fancied her, but in fact he wasn’t; he was a happily unmarried man, as he put it, with a sweet-faced girlfriend called Molly, and a baby on the way. Abi spent a lot of time at the first meeting she brought him to asking Fred about Molly and the baby and when it might be due.

They had a notional date for the festival now, of July eighth and ninth; but as Abi said, it was no use setting anything in stone until they knew they could get some bands.

“There are literally thousands of them,” she said, “and they’ll all be on MySpace. You’ll only get unsigned ones to come, obviously, although it would be great to have one slightly bigger name.”

“Would a slightly bigger name come?” asked Georgia, and Fred said they might, if the idea appealed, and there was going to be some good publicity.

“Which there will be, won’t there?”

“There certainly will,” said Abi coolly. “And quite big bands will bring their fee right down if it’s for charity. The smaller ones will probably do it for cost. Just to get the chance to play and be heard. We’re just going to have to hit the keyboard, Georgia, e-mail all their agents. Those who have them. We also want quite a good spread of music styles. Like rock, obviously, but also jazz, bit of folk even, for the families…”

It was William who came up with the really clever idea: “I was talking to a bloke the other night in the pub, telling him what we were going to do; he was awfully impressed. Anyway, he’d been to a small festival the other side of Bath, and what they did was have a whole load of sort of auditions-play-offs, he called them-called Battle of the Bands, in pubs. Each area fielded a few bands and they played in the pub and the punters voted and the winner was put forward to play. He said it was great because everyone who’d voted wanted to go the festival and hear their band. So they got loads more people than they would have done.”

“That is such a good idea,” said Georgia, “wonderful local publicity too. You are clever, William. Isn’t that clever, Fred?”

Fred said it was a good idea. “Only thing is, what sort of standard would the bands be? Bit of a gamble.”

“No worse a gamble than if we chose them from MySpace,” said Abi briskly, “and obviously we’d hear them too, and if they were dreadful we wouldn’t book them. We should get cracking on this straightaway. William, you give us a list of villages, or small towns I s’pose might be better, not too close together, with really good pubs that you think’d cooperate, and we’ll get some flyers done… I can run them off at work. Oh, God, if only we had some money. And a name. We’ve got to have a name. Georgia, you’re the creative one; get us a name.”

William felt rather pleased at having made such a large contribution to what he thought of as the theatrical side. Everyone-including him-had seen his role as strictly functional: providing the site, finding the contractors, organising the infrastructure… The cost of providing power lines and building the arena was eye-watering, and he hoped his father would never find out. They had settled on a ticket fee of thirty pounds, children half price; it sounded a lot, but not set against the thousands they were going to have to find. In his darker moments, he worried that they wouldn’t make any money at all, just a whacking loss, and half wished he had said no in the first place. But then he thought of the heady pleasure of the thing, the sense of purpose it had given them all, and of creating something so original and exciting, and he knew it was worth it.

And besides, it meant he could see so much of Abi.

The hurt of the memories had gone; he just longed now to go back to where they had been. She clearly felt quite differently; and working with her on the festival, seeing her more on her home turf, so to speak, he imagined himself through her eyes: very sound, nice, bit dull, someone she had once undoubtedly been fond of, and had fun with, a good friend, but who really was not in her orbit of consideration for anything more…

Laura was sitting in her mother’s kitchen, crying. She was in complete despair over Charlie. Jonathan’s moving out had made him slightly less tense, but his behaviour was no better. Indeed, his year tutor had said that his work was increasingly erratic, “and quite honestly, Mrs. Gilliatt, he seems to have lost most of his social skills as well.”

She had tried everything: persuasion, threats, bribes, even emotional blackmail: “you could do it for me, Charlie, even if you won’t for Dad. It upsets me so much, your behaving like this, and life is quite… quite difficult just at the moment.”

She got little response beyond the now horribly predictable shrug; he clearly felt she must bear some of the blame for his father’s behaviour.

Occasionally she thought she had made a breakthrough; one night he had found her crying, after the girls had gone to bed. He had sat down beside her on the sofa, put his arms round her, and asked her if there was anything he could do.

“I’m so sorry, Mum; it must be horrible for you.”

Laura told him it would make her feel better if he started working at school again, and told him what his year tutor had said; that had been a mistake.

“Mum, I don’t mind helping at home, or trying to cheer the girls up, but I can’t go back to being good little Charlie again. He’s gone. Dad’s sent him packing.”

“But, Charlie, that’s not fair. To me or to you. You could perfectly well start working again if you wanted to.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to. Maybe in time, but not right now. I don’t see the point.”

“The point is your future, Charlie. Doesn’t that matter to you?”

He shrugged. “Not much, no. I couldn’t care less about it.”

“I don’t know what to do, Mummy,” Laura said now, blowing her nose. “He’s just wrecking his own life and I can’t get that through to him.”

“I’m no psychologist, darling, but I’d say he was feeling completely disillusioned with everything. He idolised his father and he feels utterly let down. And not just with Jonathan, but Jonathan’s way of life. Why should he try to be like him, to emulate him in any way, when he despises him so much?”

“But that doesn’t make sense!”

“I think you’d find it did to Charlie. He’s rejected the way Jonathan brought him up, and that includes working hard and doing well.”

“Oh, God,” said Laura, “it’s all so hideous. Tell me what to do. Mummy, I can’t think straight anymore.”

“Nothing for now, darling. Give it time. You have no idea how things might turn out.”

“Yes, I do. Jonathan’s not coming back, because I couldn’t bear it if he did. Charlie won’t forgive Jonathan, or change his attitude in any way. I can’t see how anything could change.”

“Laura, just now neither can I. I only know, after living for quite a long time, that things do. Stuff happens, as the horrible expression goes. Try to be patient.”

“Oh, Mummy, you know what I often think?”

“No, what do you often think?”

“That if it hadn’t been for that bloody car crash, everything would have been all right. I’d never have known about Abi Scott; it would have played itself out; Jonathan would have got sick of her…”

“He might not have.”

“Well, thanks for that.”

“Darling, don’t get me wrong. I think what Jonathan’s done is dreadful, unforgivable. I can hardly bear to see you so unhappy. And if he wanted to come back, if you did forgive him, I’d find it very hard to accept. All I’m saying is that men do seem to need these… relationships sometimes. Well, saying they need them rather overdignifies them. They decide they’re going to have them. Especially at Jonathan’s age, it’s a grab at their lost youth. If it hadn’t been Abi Scott, it might have been someone else.”

“Daddy didn’t do that, did he?” She stared at her mother, suddenly understanding for a brief moment how Charlie felt, the shock of betrayal.

“No, he didn’t; he never cheated on me, thank God, but several of my friends had to endure it. Some of the marriages survived. Well, most of them, actually. They did in those days. And there was a lot of turning a blind eye, pretending you didn’t know.”

“So… are you saying I should take him back?”

“No, of course not. Unless you really want to. And as I say, I wouldn’t find it easy if you did. I’m simply saying that you’re not the first woman to have to endure this.”

“No, I know.” She hesitated. “He… well, he did say he was about to finish the relationship. That it was over.”

“Well… that’s something in his favour.”

“You don’t believe that, do you?”

“Laura, you know Jonathan a great deal better than I do. If you believe him, then I’d trust your judgment. And maybe you’ve been too perfect, too good to him. You do-well, you did-spoil him dreadfully.”

“Would you like to go for a walk, Russell, dear?” said Mary, walking into the morning room where Russell was reading the Financial Times. He had been persuaded to take it instead of the Wall Street Journal; he complained every day about how unsatisfactory it was, and made a great thing of reading the Journal online, but Mary had observed he still became totally absorbed in the FT for at least an hour and a half each morning. Which was a relief, actually; now that all the excitement of the wedding and Christmas was over, Russell was often restless. He spent a lot of time on the Internet studying the markets and then instructing his broker to buy this or sell that. And he was on the phone for at least an hour a day to Morton discussing the business. Mary had a pretty shrewd idea that Morton didn’t welcome these calls, and indeed he had told her over Christmas that it was wonderful to see his father so relaxed and happy.

“He really seems to be letting go of the reins at last.”

“The reins?”

“Yeah, of the business. He was supposed to have retired ten years ago; we gave him a dinner, everyone made speeches, we presented him with a wonderful vintage gold watch-that was a kind of a joke, of course-and he even wept a bit, and said good-bye to everyone. Monday morning, nine a.m., he was back at his desk. He’s cut down a bit since then, of course, but I’d like to see him taking it really easy.”

Mary could see very clearly that what Morton meant was that he’d thank God on bended knees for his father to be taking it really easy, and assured him that she absolutely agreed and that she had all sorts of plans for the coming year: “A bit of travelling, for a start. We haven’t had our honeymoon yet, and I’m not letting him get away with that,” she said, “and he seems to have plans for making over some of the land here to what he calls a vegetable farm. So that we can be self-sufficient.”

Morton grinned at her. “Sounds good to me. He needs new projects. May I warn you, though, he could get tired of the vegetable farm…”

Mary said she didn’t need the warning. “It’s a problem with retirement, Morton. Donald had his bird-watching; it had been a passion all his life; he’d longed for more time to spend on it, and after a few months, he even got bored with that. We started learning bridge just so he could focus on something else.”

“Don’t play bridge with my father, Mary,” said Morton. “He becomes extremely aggressive.”

“How do you think he’d be on archaeology? That’s always interested me.”

Morton considered this. “I can only say the world would hear of some amazing new buried city within months. As for the archaeological outfitters, how are they on bespoke shorts?”

“Russell, dear, do listen to me. I said, would you like to go for a walk?”

“Not just now, Sparrow. I’m worried about some of my stocks. Thinking of selling them. I’m going to draft a letter to my accountant just as soon as I’ve finished reading this.”

“Well, all right, dear. I’ll go on my own.”

“Mary, you know I don’t like you going out on your own.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” said Mary impatiently, “what on earth do you think might happen to me? Might I meet a herd of wild boar in the lane?”

“Don’t mock me, Sparrow,” he said, and his eyes were quite hurt. “I want to look after you.”

“I know you do. But I need to get out. Can’t the stocks wait another day?”

“Possibly. Yes, all right.”

“Now, Russell, dear,” she said, tucking her arm into his as they walked through the gate at the bottom of the garden and into the wood, “I really would like to start planning our honeymoon. I don’t want to be cheated of it. Where would you like to go?”

“Anywhere you like, Sparrow. Italy, maybe-I’ve always longed to go there, would find all those works of art so wonderful. Or maybe the Seychelles, or even Vietnam…”

“Russell, I don’t think I want to do anything quite as… as adventurous as that,” said Mary.

“Well, why on earth not?” he said, looking genuinely puzzled. “We should do these things while we can, Mary, before we get old and stuck in our ways.”

“Oh, Russell,” she said, reaching up to kiss him, “I love you for so many reasons, but perhaps most because you don’t see us as old.”

“Well, of course I don’t. We’re not old. We’re certainly quite young enough to enjoy ourselves.”

“Yes, of course. But… well I would still rather have a quiet honeymoon. I’ve never been to the lake district. Wonderful scenery, good driving… and walking. Would you consider that? Just for now.”

“If that’s what you want, Sparrow. As long as we can go to Italy in the spring.”

“I promise you,” she said, “we’ll go to Italy in the spring.”

It had gone… not badly, but not really very well, Linda thought. They had been polite, but wary, undemonstrative. And Alex had been pretty similar; obviously nervous of appearing in any way foolish, romantically inclined, uncool. He hadn’t even touched her, except to kiss her hello and good-bye. And she felt under inspection by him all over again, seeing herself through their eyes.

It had been her idea to take them to a preview. A formal meal would be a minefield: where would they go? Somewhere easy and informal, obviously, but… high-profile like Carluccio’s or the Bluebird, or really local and undemanding. And then the former might seem like trying too hard, the latter like selling them short and not bothering much. And then it would be a minefield as well of silences and studied manners. If it had just been Amy, then maybe they could have gone shopping; although what self-respecting fifteen-year-old would want to go shopping with someone of… well, knocking on forty, and where on earth could she take her? And would she buy her lots of stuff, which would look like trying too hard, or not anything at all, which would look mean?

Not shopping, then. Anyway, they were all coming together, the three of them.

And then the tickets arrived for a new comedy smash hit, and that seemed too good to be true. She was sent two, asked for two more. The show was for early Friday evening, which was ideal, really; they could just go for a pizza afterwards, the ice broken by laughing-hopefully-and if it was going really badly, just a coffee at Starbucks and then Alex could take them home.

She chose what to wear with as much anguish as if she was going to meet the Queen or Brad Pitt. Both of whom would actually have been easier, she thought. In the end she settled on a short black skirt and polo shirt, and a leather jacket. Any hint of cleavage seemed a bad idea; the skirt was shortish, but that was all right. She initially put on pumps, but they looked wrong and frumpy, so she slightly anxiously changed into some Christian Louboutin high heels. She removed her red nail varnish, and wore much less eye makeup than usual.

Alex brought them to her office, because that seemed safer territory than her flat and a bit more welcoming than the cinema lobby, an acknowledgement that she was a bit more than a casual acquaintance, a bit less than a permanent fixture.

They walked in, smiled, shook her hand, said how do you do; she was pleasantly surprised by that, and by their slightly formal clothes. She had half expected grunting hoods. They were good-looking children, both of them, Amy an incipient beauty, with Alex’s dark colouring, all pushed-back hair and posh, languid voice, Adam blond, overtall and thin and horribly self-conscious, with spots, braces on his teeth, and a voice perilously close to breaking. Amy wandered round the office, looking at photographs, expressing polite interest when she recognised someone; Adam sat on the sofa, trying not to look at anyone as he sipped his Coke.

The taxi ride was silent; they arrived at the preview cinema in Wardour Street half an hour early. Not good. Linda met a couple of people, introduced them, and then withdrew into the safety of showbiz gossip. Amy looked bored, Adam embarrassed, Alex glowering and Heathcliff-like.

The film was a success: very funny, very glossy, quite cool. Linda sat next to Amy, then Adam, then Alex. They both laughed a lot, and afterwards Amy turned to her and said, “That was really cool, thank you so much.” Adam shuffled out, muttering, “Great, cool, yeah.”

“So… pizza, anyone? Or shall we just go to Starbucks or somewhere for a coffee? You guys choose.”

Guys? Should she have said that? More pathetic groping for street cred.

“Pizza?” said Amy.

“Don’t mind,” said Adam.

They went to Pizza Express in the end, the kids talking and giggling between themselves; what were they saying? Linda thought. Were they agreeing that she was gross, or pathetic, or even-just possibly-nice? There was no clue from the subsequent exchanges.

They ordered pizzas, preceded by garlic bread; conversation was strained and mostly about the film and other films they had seen. She longed to ask them what they wanted to do when they grew up, but knew that this above all was what people their age hated. She asked them their plans for the weekend, and they both said they didn’t know.

She asked them if their father had told them much about South Africa, and Amy said yes, and it had sounded really cool. Adam said yes, it had sounded great.

She had ordered one small glass of wine, but it was gone in her nervousness before they had even finished the garlic bread; she ordered another-“a large one this time, please”-and then worried they might put her down as an alcoholic.

A very large silence now settled; she almost let it go on, and then, thinking things could hardly be worse, asked them if they had heard about the music festival that Georgia, one of her clients, was putting on “for the victims of the M4 crash last summer; I’m sure your father will have told you about it.”

“He tells us about so many awful things,” said Amy, smiling suddenly at her father, then at her, “we wouldn’t remember.”

“Oh. Right. Well, Georgia-Georgia Linley she’s called-is going to be in a big new thriller series in March. She was involved in the crash and wanted to raise some money for the people who were hurt, who can’t work and so on. But now it’s more for your dad’s hospital.”

“Cool,” said Amy. “Was that her, the black girl in the photograph with you?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“So… when’s the festival?”

“Oh… July.”

“Where?”

“On someone’s farm. Nice young guy called William Grainger; his farm borders the M4, and the air ambulance landed on his field.”

“Oh, OK.”

“Would you like to go?” asked Alex. It was virtually the first time he’d spoken since they got to the restaurant.

“Yeah, maybe. What’s it called?”

“I don’t think it’s got a name yet,” said Linda. “They can’t seem to get it quite right, the last thing I heard. Got any ideas? All suggestions welcomed.”

“God, no,” said Amy.

Adam shrugged.

Shortly after that they left; Alex was driving them home to their mother. He still hadn’t found anywhere decent to live.

“You’ve been a great help,” hissed Linda, as they stood at the edge of the pavement, hailing taxis for her rather fruitlessly.

“Sorry. I thought it was better to let you make the running.”

“Hmm. Oh, shit, look, there’s one miles down the road, hasn’t seen us…” She put two fingers in her mouth and whistled loudly. Amy and Adam looked startled, then grinned at her. Or were they laughing at her? How loud, how brash, not the sort of thing a nice, seemly stepmother should be doing.

“Bye, then,” she said, holding out her hand, taking theirs one by one. “It’s been really fun. I’m glad you liked the film.”

“Bye,” said Amy. “And thanks.”

“Bye,” said Adam. “Yeah, thanks.”

“Bye, Linda,” said Alex.

The last she saw of them was the two children, heads together, laughing… at her, no doubt, pathetic, would-be-cool woman, and Alex, looking ferocious.

What a disaster. What a bloody disaster. He’d never want to marry her now.

She was half-asleep when the phone rang.

“Hi.” It was Alex.

“Oh, hi. You OK?”

“Yes, thanks. I’m fine.”

“Sorry, Alex.”

“What on earth for? Right… now, as the kids would say, were you a hit, or were you a hit?”

“What?”

“You, my darling beloved, are just soooo cool. That’s Amy’s verdict. You are pretty nice. That’s Adam’s. You have great legs. That was also Adam. You are so not embarrassing. Amy again. She wants to come and see you on her own, maybe-go shopping; your shoes were just uh-may-zing. And ohmigod, the way you whistled for the cab. Oh, Linda. I love you.”

“I love you too,” she said.

It felt like any other evening. Not good, not bad, Barney thought, just… an evening. For going home, eating dinner-dutifully; smiling-a lot; talking-carefully; listening-even more carefully. Trying not to think too much, not to remember… and most of all, not to look forward. Forward into God knew what. More of this? This odd, calm sadness, this pleasant unease, this lie of a life? Lived with someone who loved him so much. Whom he-still-loved too. In a way. In a concerned, tender, guilty way.

It was a horrible night, wet, cold, windy. He was carrying a brown paper bag with a couple of bottles of wine in it, and it was getting dangerously soggy. He’d also got her some flowers. Those Kenyan two-tone roses that she liked so much. It was Wednesday and he always bought her flowers on Wednesday; it was half joke, half tradition. She said if he ever forgot, she’d know there was something terribly wrong. Well, he hadn’t forgotten yet.

When he got home, she wasn’t there. Which wasn’t particularly unusual; she was terminally sociable, always having quick drinks or even supper with girlfriends after work. Although he couldn’t remember her saying anything about this evening.

He went in, put the wine in the fridge, the roses in water-without cutting the stems, which would have induced a ticking off if she’d known; she was very strict about such things: “Barney-darling-it doesn’t take a minute, and they live so much longer; you’re just lazy…”

He wondered if Emma fussed over rose stems. He decided it was very unlikely… Don’t start thinking about Emma, Fraser, just don’t. Doesn’t help.

He wondered if he should do something about supper. He looked in the fridge; there didn’t seem to be a lot there. Well, if she was much later, they could go out. Only if she’d eaten-he’d call her. See what she was doing. She’d be amused, not cross, if he’d forgotten some arrangement, would tell him he was hopeless, that she’d be home soon.

Her mobile was switched off.

He sat down, turned on the TV, was watching the end of the seven-o’clock news when he heard her footsteps in the street, heard her key in the lock. She’d be soaked, miserable; he should make her a cup of tea.

He went into the kitchen and was filling the kettle when she came in. He turned to smile at her, and then saw her face. It wasn’t quite… quite right somehow, her face. It wasn’t wearing its usual smile; her eyes weren’t warm; in fact, they were staring at him as if she had never seen him before. Barney put the kettle down.

She was taking her coat off, her wet coat; he reached for it, to hang it up.

“It’s all right,” she said, “I can do it.”

He followed her as she walked out of the kitchen, throwing the coat down on a chair-unthinkable, that-went into the sitting room, and sat down. Barney sat opposite her. It seemed the only thing to do.

A silence, then:

“Barney, why didn’t you tell me?”

His stomach lurched hideously.

“Tell you what?”

“You know perfectly well what. I saw Tamara today, and she told me all about it.”

The cow. The bitch. How dared she? How dared she? She’d promised, as he had; that was what came of making a pact with the devil.

“Yes,” he said, “yes, I see. Well, she had no right to do that. To tell you. It’s nothing to do with her.”

“Well, it is a bit, I think. She is my best friend.”

“Yes, I know, but…”

How had they ever got to be best friends, these two? One so good, so transparently sweet and kind, the other so bad, so devious and cruel.

“Well, she has. Do you want to talk about it?”

“If you do.”

“Well, of course I do; it affects us both, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, Amanda, it does.”

“Well… go on.”

“I think I… might”-he pushed his hair back-“think I might have a beer. You?”

“Not a beer. Maybe a glass of wine.”

He poured her her favourite, chardonnay-not very smart, as she often said, but it was so lovely who cared about smart? And poured himself a Beck’s.

“Come on, Barney, please. I do need to know.”

Oh, God. God, how do I get through this? He looked at her. Her pretty, peaches-and-cream face was very calm, her blue eyes fixed on him intently.

“Well…” he said. “Well, it… it all happened because of the crash. And while Toby was in hospital.”

“Yes, that’s what Tamara said. Well, sort of.”

“Let’s forget about what Tamara might have said. I want you to have the story as it really happened. I… never meant it to happen, Amanda. I loved you so much. I do love you so much. It… just… well, it sort of took me over.”

She was silent; he didn’t dare look at her. Then she said, “I don’t quite see what that’s got to do with it.”

“Amanda, of course it has.”

“Well… go on.”

“Yes, well, I think it was partly the emotion about Toby, you know. And I was full of guilt about the crash. She… well, she helped me over that.”

“Who, Tamara?”

“No, of course not Tamara. Her. Emma.”

“Emma? Just a minute, Barney, I’m losing it a bit here…”

Afterwards, he thought, if he’d looked at her then… but he didn’t.

“Yes, she’s a doctor there. Oh, Amanda, I’m so, so sorry. Anyway, she was just fantastic the day Toby had his operation. I couldn’t have got through it without her. Of course, if you’d been there… but you weren’t.”

“No. No, I wasn’t.”

He did look at her now; she was very pale suddenly, and very still, her eyes darker.

“Go… go on,” she said. Her voice was strange, rather breathless…

“And… well, it just went on from there. Our relationship. It developed so quickly. It sounds kind of… well, cheesy, I know, but I couldn’t seem to help it. Neither of us could. We saw each other a few times, not many at all, but we did decide… well, I… I was going to tell you that night.”

“What night?” she said. Very slowly.

“The night your father died, I was waiting for you, and then while I was waiting your mother phoned, and of course I couldn’t… then.”

“No. Well, that was… very good of you.” Her voice wasn’t breathless now; it was low and very level.

“I know I’m a shit, Amanda. I know I behaved badly. Terribly badly. But… well, I did want to take care of you while you were so unhappy.”

“Yes, I see. And… what about her? Emma. While I was so unhappy?”

“I didn’t see her. Of course. We agreed it would be very wrong.”

“Nice of you both.”

He was silent; then he said, “Anyway, it’s over. For what it’s worth. Finally, I mean. She… finished it. She said it mustn’t go on.”

“Right. Well, that was very noble of her.” There was a silence while she looked round the room, rather wildly, as if she was seeking an escape, her eyes brilliant with tears. Her voice wasn’t tearful, though; it was still very level. “Yes, Barney. Very noble. I don’t suppose it occurred to her that it shouldn’t have gone on while you were engaged to someone else. Or occurred to you…”

“Amanda, I know that, obviously. Of course it shouldn’t have gone on. I can’t justify it or even explain it. I just didn’t seem to be able to help it.”

“No. So you keep saying. Anyway, it’s… it’s over, is it? Have you seen her since?”

“No. I haven’t. And yes, it is over. But… well, that doesn’t quite alter what I feel for you. Now.”

Another silence; he could feel her gathering her courage to go on.

“And what’s that?” she said finally.

“It’s not the same, Amanda. It just isn’t. It doesn’t feel right anymore. It used to be so perfect, and now it isn’t. I still love you very much, but-”

“Oh, please. So all that time while I was so wretched over Daddy and his funeral and even Christmas, you were thinking about her?”

“Well… in a way, yes. I was. But-”

She was crying now. “But it was her who finished it?”

“Yes, it was.”

“Well, good for her. At least she has some sense of right and wrong. I suppose you thought you’d just let it go on and on, enjoying both of us… or maybe you weren’t enjoying me. Just staying with me because you were sorry for me. God, Barney, that’s so horrible.”

“Amanda, I’m sorry. I can’t say it enough. I do still love you. Very much.”

“Yes, you keep saying. But… you… you don’t want to marry me, is that it?”

There was a long silence; it was the most difficult thing he had ever done, but he managed it.

“Yes, Amanda,” he said. “I’m so sorry, but that is it.”

When he heard the car finally pulling away from the house he picked up the phone and called Tamara.

“You cow,” he said. “How dare you, how dare you do that.”

“Do what?”

“You know perfectly well fucking what. Tell Amanda about me and Emma.”

There was a long silence; then she said, “Barney, I didn’t. I really, really didn’t.”

“But”-now he really was going to throw up-“but she knew. She said you told her.”

“I didn’t tell her about you and Emma, Barney. I told her about Toby and what he’d done to you. And me. That’s all. I swear to you, that’s absolutely all.”

CHAPTER 48

“Mummy, I want to go and get some sweets and my magazines.”

“Daisy darling, I’m awfully busy. I’ve got these plans to finish for someone.”

“You’re always busy now.”

This was true; it was the only way she could distract herself.

“I’m sorry, sweetie. Maybe when I’ve finished… Oh, no, Granny’s coming to take you all to the science museum.”

“Again? Boring.” This was Charlie.

“Charlie, don’t be rude. If you can’t find anything to interest you there, then I’m sorry for you.”

He shrugged. “So? It’s boring.”

“But, Mummy,” said Daisy, “I so want my magazines. Especially Animals and You; it’s got a free necklace. I could wear it to the museum and show Granny.”

“Daisy, I just haven’t got time.”

“It’s not fair. You never have time anymore.”

“Yes, darling, and I’m sorry. After this job, I won’t be so busy. Promise.”

“You said that last time,” said Charlie.

“Charlie, will you please stop being so difficult.”

“I’m not. I’m just telling the truth. And why shouldn’t Daisy get her stuff if she wants to?”

“Could Charlie take me?” said Daisy.

“I’m not taking her,” he said.

“Charlie, that’s not very helpful.”

“So? I don’t want to; I’m going to go on the computer, look at my Warhammer stuff.”

“Charlie, you are not going on the computer.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m about to need it, that’s why.”

“That is just so mean. Anyway, I’m not taking her to get her stupid comic.”

“It’s not a comic.”

“Daisy, it’s a comic.”

Laura suddenly lost her temper.

“Charlie, stop being so difficult. Now, get your coat and Daisy’s and take her to the shop.”

“No.”

“I hate you,” wailed Daisy. “You’re so mean.”

“Charlie, I’m not telling you again. If you don’t take her you don’t get your pocket money, and then you won’t be able to buy any more Warhammer stuff.”

“That’s blackmail.”

“I don’t care. Go and get the coats. And, Charlie, look after her properly; don’t walk miles ahead.”

She’d at least get ten minutes’ peace. And maybe if she finished sooner, she could go and meet them all at the science museum for tea.

It was a difficult job, this one: a very dull modern flat that the owner had requested be given “some character. Only not too modern. Maybe a bit pretty, even. Curtains, not blinds, that sort of thing. But still contemporary; I don’t want it to look like something out of the seventies.”

Such instructions were fairly common.

Charlie and Daisy walked along the sidewalk, Daisy chattering, Charlie kicking a stone, ignoring her.

“Charlie, if I got a kitten, which I think I might-Mummy said just possibly-what shall I call it?”

He shrugged.

“I thought Paddypaws would be a nice name.”

“It’s a stupid name.”

“It’s not. It’s sweet. Well, what would you call it?”

“I don’t want a stupid kitten.”

“Kittens aren’t stupid.”

“Course they are.”

“Well… what pet would you like?”

“I don’t want a pet.”

“Everyone wants pets.”

“I don’t. Well, maybe a boa constrictor.”

“What’s that?”

“A snake.”

“A snake! You couldn’t have a snake; where would you keep it?”

“In my room.”

“Charlie, you’re so stupid.”

“Oh, and you’re not, I s’pose. Look, here we are. I’ll wait outside. Be quick; don’t start looking at all the other comics.”

“They’re not comics.”

He shrugged.

She came out, clutching several magazines and a bag of sweets.

“OK. All done.”

He began to walk faster; Daisy had to half run to keep up with him, and dropped one of her magazines.

“Charlie! Wait for me!”

“Well, buck up then.”

“I can’t buck up. I’ve dropped one of my magazines.”

He stood, arms folded, elaborately patient, while she picked everything up, then set off again.

“Look, here’s a picture of a kitten-look, isn’t it sweet?”

“No.”

“It is. And… Charlie, please wait; you’re doing it again. I can’t keep up…”

“Well, walk faster then…”

“I am walking faster. Oh, no, now the cover’s ripped off; it’s got the necklace on it. Charlie, wait, wait…”

But he didn’t wait; and he didn’t see the crumpled cover of the magazine caught by the wind and blown across the road; nor did he see Daisy dashing into the street after it. He only heard things: a car, driving fast, faster than usual down the road, a scream, a screech of brakes, a hideous silence. And then he turned and he did see: the car halted, slewed across the street; a man, not much more than a boy his face distorted with fear, getting out of it; and Daisy, lying horribly, horribly still where it had flung her, facedown, her long, fair hair splayed out, one small hand still clutching her bag of sweets, and her pastel-coloured magazines filled with pictures of smiling little girls fluttering away down the street.

They were sitting there in Emergency together when Jonathan arrived: Lily and Charlie. Lily hurled herself at him, crying, “Daddy, Daddy, do something, please, please, make her better, make her better.”

Charlie was sitting, arms folded, shoulders hunched, his head somehow sunk down into his body. He didn’t look up.

A young man with a shaven head was sitting two chairs away from them; he was a greenish colour.

“Where’s Mummy?”

“In there,” said Lily. She nodded towards a set of double doors. “With Daisy.” Her blue eyes were enormous with fear.

“Charlie, what happened?”

“She… she ran into the road.”

“Into the road. But… how, why…”

The young man stood up, came over.

“You the dad?”

“Yes.”

“I hit her,” he said.

“You hit her. With your car?”

“Yeah. I’m… well, I’m sorry. She just… ran out. I couldn’t help it. I really couldn’t; I’m sorry. Really sorry. I…” He started to sob himself, like a child.

“Yes, all right, all right.” Jonathan could feel a steely professional calm taking over; just as well, they couldn’t all be hysterical. “Try to pull yourself together. How… how bad is she, what sort of injuries?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t. I didn’t… well, I didn’t go over her, if that’s what you mean. Just hit her.”

“The ambulance man said internal injuries,” said Charlie. His voice was hoarse, odd. Then he suddenly leaned forward and threw up.

“Poor old chap. Don’t worry…”

A weary-looking woman came over, looked at the pile of vomit, and sighed. “That’ll need clearing up.”

“Yes, indeed it will. Maybe you could find someone to do it,” said Jonathan. “Look… Charlie, go into the toilet; have a wash… I must go and find Mummy. And Daisy. Lily, you stay here. I-Oh, look, here’s Granny. She’ll stay with you. Hello, Stella. Could you get Charlie some water? He’s just been sick.”

“Yes, of course. How… how is she; what’s happened?”

“I don’t know. I only just got here. I’m going to try to find out.”

“You can’t go in there,” the woman on reception called to him as he pushed open the double doors Daisy had indicated. “That’s for medical staff only.”

“I am medical staff,” said Jonathan, and disappeared.

Laura was standing outside a curtained cubicle, very pale, very calm. She looked at him and almost smiled.

“Hello.”

“Hello. How is she?”

“We don’t know. Internal injuries, that’s all they’ll say. A doctor’s with her now.”

“Is she conscious?”

“No.”

“Has she been? Since it happened?”

“Not… not really. Well… a bit, in and out. Mostly out.”

“Oh, God. Jesus. Laura, how-”

“It was my fault. Really.”

“Yours?”

“Yes. She wanted to go to the shop, get some sweets. I didn’t have time.”

“She didn’t go alone?”

“No, no. She went with… with Charlie.”

“Charlie!”

“Yes. Don’t look like that; he’s taken her before. And Lily. Several times before… Well, you know he has, it was you who said he could in the first place.”

It was true. He had. It had been a huge adventure… for Charlie. They had watched him from the gateway as he had walked carefully and proudly down the road, never taking his eyes off Lily, calling her back if she went so much as five yards ahead of him. They had had to keep ducking out of sight, in case he saw them; when the kids were nearly back Laura and Jonathan both fled into the house, laughing-Laura to the kitchen, Jonathan to his study-and pretended they hadn’t even heard them come in, expressing huge surprise when Charlie called out, “We’re back.”

Different times. Happy, safe times.

“Anyway, she ran into the road; she’d dropped her comic. Some lad was driving up-much too fast, I imagine.”

“Yes, he’s out there.”

“To give him his due, he stayed with her while Charlie came for me, insisted on coming to the hospital; he’s all right, really, nice boy, just desperately frightened… Has Mummy come…?”

“Yes, she’s there. Charlie’s just thrown up.”

“I’m not surprised. He’s beside himself. He was hysterical; I couldn’t stop him crying, screaming, almost, at first. Then he went terribly quiet, sort of disappeared into himself…”

“So what actually happened? I mean, why did she run into the road?”

“I told you, to get her comic; it was blowing away.”

“She knows better than that.”

“I know she does. But Charlie said she was all bothered, as he put it; she kept dropping things.”

“Chap must have been going a hell of a lick. Or he’d have seen her.”

“I know, I know.”

They stood there, staring at each other: she wild eyed, ashen, shaking, he frozen faced, shock-still. Unable to reach each other, comfort each other; each filled with the torment of guilt.

“I’m so, so sorry, Jonathan.”

“Laura, it wasn’t your fault.”

“It was, it was… I wasn’t there…”

“Neither was I,” he said, his voice hardly audible, “was I?”

He took a deep breath, stood silent for a moment, then: “What does the lad say? The driver?”

“He says he doesn’t know what happened. But he said… well…”

“Yes?”

“He said Charlie came running back to the car. So it sounds like he’d gone ahead. Not… well… not with Daisy. Not looking after her. But-”

“Oh, Christ.”

“Yes. He didn’t want to go, Jonathan; he was arguing with me, saying he wanted to go on the computer, do his wretched Warhammer stuff. I… well, I made him. I shouldn’t have; I should have seen what might happen… Oh, God.”

She dropped her face into her hands, began to cry.

“Don’t,” he said, and his voice was odd, cracked, “Don’t cry. It’s all right. It was an accident. These things happen.”

“They don’t have to. They-”

The curtains opened abruptly; a doctor came out. Behind him they could see Daisy, very white and still, a nurse standing by her, checking her pulse.

“I’m her father,” said Jonathan quickly, “and a doctor. What’s the verdict?”

“Well, it’s hard to say with any confidence. We need to do a brain scan. See if there’s any real damage to the skull. It could be just the violence of the contact, rather than a direct blow; it’s the equivalent of a very hard shaking. She’s certainly in shock… medical shock, that is. Only half-conscious, very distressed. Her blood pressure’s very low, which is worrying; it would indicate some internal bleeding. She has some broken ribs, which could cause liver damage. Or indeed lung damage. One of her legs is broken and one arm as well. And I think possibly her pelvis.”

“Oh, God,” said Laura, “poor little girl.”

“We’re setting a drip up immediately. Send her down to X-ray. And we’re probably going to intubate her; she’s having a bit of trouble breathing. I’m getting my colleague, Dr. Armstrong, down to have a look at her; he’s the main chest and lung consultant here. You’re lucky; he’s often in the country on Saturdays, but he’s on call today…”

“I know him,” said Jonathan. “Tony Armstrong. Good bloke,” he added to Laura. “Really excellent.”

The young doctor looked at him, and he seemed to be having trouble speaking. Finally: “I’m afraid this child is very sick,” he said, “very sick indeed.”

CHAPTER 49

It was very quiet on the ward; they called it a ward, ICU, standing for Intensive Care Unit, but actually it was a long corridor, outside some doors. Behind each door was someone very ill indeed, in need of the intensive care. Like Daisy. He hadn’t been allowed into the room where she was, but he had got a glimpse once when his father came out: it was a mass of machines and screens. She lay on a high bed, her eyes closed; there was a tube in her nose, which his father said was helping her to breathe. Her hair was spread out over the pillow.

Charlie felt so afraid and so sick that he didn’t know what to do with himself. Keeping still was awful, because his head just filled up with what he had done; he saw pictures over and over again, and they seemed to go backwards in time, first of Daisy lying in the road, near the car, then Daisy running along behind him, asking him to wait, then Daisy trying to show him pictures in her magazine, then Daisy skipping out of the gate ahead of him, calling, “bye, Mummy.”

She’d been fine then: he hadn’t done it then, hadn’t killed her. He hadn’t argued with her, told her she was stupid, hadn’t got crosser and crosser with her, hadn’t not seen the car, hadn’t not seen her running after the page of her magazine; she’d been safe, held in the past, happy, laughing, alive, alive, alive…

At this point he felt so terrible he had to get up and walk down the corridor, away from the pictures; he kept going into the lavatory, thinking he was going to be sick, standing there, bending over the bowl, staring down into it, wondering how he was going to get through the next five minutes even, let alone the rest of his life. He hoped he could find some way of dying too, maybe run under a car himself; that would be right, really; that would make it fair, his death traded for hers; he certainly couldn’t contemplate years of this, or even many more hours…

His grandmother had gone, taking Lily with her; his parents sat on the chairs in the corridor outside the room. They had been told they could have a parents’ room for the night, but they’d both refused, said they wanted to be near Daisy.

It was when they’d said that that he’d known: known that it was so bad that she really was likely to die. Until then, he’d realised it had been terribly serious, that she was very, very badly hurt, in danger of dying; but now he could see from their faces, hear from their voices, that it was actually more likely that she would.

They’d told him to go with Lily, but he refused; he didn’t actually argue-he didn’t seem to be able to say anything anyway; he couldn’t remember speaking since it had happened-he just shook his head and then folded his arms and stood there, daring them to make him go against his will.

“Darling,” his mother said, “you’ll be better with Granny, and the minute we know anything we’ll call you, promise, even if it’s the middle of the night…”

But he’d shaken his head again, furiously, and his father had said quite gently, “Laura, let him be. He’s better here.”

His father had been terribly nice to him-they both had; he wished they hadn’t. He wished they’d both attack him, shout at him, beat him up, injure him really badly so he’d hurt too, so he might need intensive care too, and then when he was all wired up, he could pull the wires all out so he couldn’t breathe or live any longer.

He walked back to them now, after another visit to the lavatory; his mother was holding his father’s hand, her head on his shoulder. For a minute he thought she was asleep, but then he saw her eyes were staring down at the floor.

“Hello,” his father said. “You OK?”

But still he couldn’t speak; just nodded and sat down next to his mother.

His father had explained as much as he could to him; Daisy had had a brain scan, and her skull had what was called a hairline crack in it. She also had some damage to her liver, which had caused it to bleed inside her, and that meant giving her some blood. The most worrying thing, it seemed, was that she had some broken ribs and one of them had punctured her lung, which could lead to an infection. “And you see, as she’s very poorly, she’ll have trouble fighting that. So they’re giving her some antibiotics as well.”

The other things, the broken leg and arm, sounded like nothing in comparison.

He wanted, more than anything, to say how sorry he was, but somehow he couldn’t. It was such a useless thing to say, because it wouldn’t do any good; it wouldn’t bring Daisy back or make her better, and anyway, it was too easy; saying sorry was what you did when you’d spilt or broken something or not done your homework. Not when you’d broken your sister, broken her so that she could never be mended again.

The man who’d been driving the car was still downstairs; Charlie felt almost sorry for him. He had been driving a bit fast, but it hadn’t been all his fault; Daisy had run into the road in front of him. It had been Charlie’s fault for not looking after her, not seeing what she was doing, what she might do. She’d been crying in the end-no one knew that except him-he’d heard the tears in her high little voice as she called, “Charlie, please, please wait,” and thought how stupid and annoying she was, and how he wasn’t going to give in to her, make her more of a spoilt baby than she was already. It was completely his fault.

Suddenly he really couldn’t bear it any longer; he managed to speak, to say, “I’m going for a walk, OK?”

His mother said, “Darling, don’t go away, or at least let one of us go with you.”

But he’d shaken his head said he’d be OK, and his father had said, “Let him go, Laura; he’ll be fine. Charlie, don’t go into any of the wards; just go down to the front hall, I would, and if you get lost, just ask anyone where ICU is and they’ll show you.”

He’d nodded and stood up, and walked rather quickly down the corridor, into the lift. It felt better walking away from it; it felt like he could escape.

He went into the main reception area, and then walked down towards A &E. As he went in through the door, he saw the man, Mick, lying down on three chairs that he’d pushed together; he was all right, Mick was, staying all this time.

He thought he was asleep, but he was awake, like his mother, staring at the ceiling; he saw Charlie and jumped, sat up with a rush, said, “What’s happened; has she-”

“Nothing’s happened,” Charlie said. “She’s the same. Just the same.”

“Oh, shit,” he said, and lay down again; and then: “I’m going out for a fag. I’ll be just outside the main door if there’s any news, OK?”

Charlie nodded.

He sat down on a chair in A &E for a bit, but then the pictures began to come back and he started pacing up and down, between the front door and the lift, and then when they stayed with him there as well, he went to the front door and looked out into the area where the ambulances came in, and beyond that the high lights of the car park, and thought maybe it would be better if he ran; maybe he could get away from them that way; and he ran round the car park, round and round, weaving his way in between the few cars, until he was breathless and sat down on the wall by the road, staring out at it, and wondering if he had the courage to run into a car himself now, get it over. He looked back at the hospital, up at the third floor, at the lighted window where Daisy lay, probably dying, maybe even dead, and then back across the car park and saw his father walking towards him, waving at him, calling his name. This was it then; he’d come to tell him it was over; he’d not just nearly killed her now: he’d actually killed her, and he closed his eyes and waited, waited for the words.

But, “You all right, Charlie?” his father said.

And he shook his head, and finally managed, “What… what’s happened?”

“Nothing. She’s just the same. I came to find you, make sure you were OK.”

He didn’t deserve this, this kindness; it was wrong, all wrong. Why couldn’t they be cruel, as cruel as he’d been…?

And then his father put his hand on his shoulder and something happened, inside his head, and he started to cry, quite quietly, but desperately, and his father said, “Come on, old chap; let’s go inside, see if we can find somewhere a bit nice to sit, shall we?”

They couldn’t find anywhere exactly nice, but they did find a corner near a radiator, and his father fetched two chairs from down the corridor, and they sat down, and Charlie felt a bit dizzy and leaned forward and put his head on his knees.

“Poor old boy,” his father said, and he felt his hand gently rubbing his back.

And he sat up and pushed him away, saying through his tears, “Don’t, don’t do that; don’t be so… so nice to me. Why don’t you hit me-go on, hit me, hard, please, please…”

But then somehow he was in his father’s arms, where he had never thought he would be again, and his face was buried in his chest, and he was sobbing and clutching at him desperately, as if he might go away, and then he stopped suddenly and looked up and said, “Dad, it was my fault.”

And instead of saying something stupid and trying to comfort him, as if he was some kind of a retard, his father looked back at him very steadily and said, “Yes, I know it was.”

The words hit him like a lash; they were shocking, but they helped, made him calmer, stopped his tears.

“Did… did Mum tell you?”

“Sort of. Of course, she didn’t see-she wasn’t there-but Mick told me as well what happened, and I can put two and two together. Not all your fault, Charlie; these things never are. Mummy and I both played our part, but… well, in a way, of course it was, yes. I can see why you feel so bad.”

“Not even in a way,” he said, and the relief of being able to talk about it, to let the pictures out, made him feel just slightly better. “I… I wasn’t looking after her. That was why it happened. No other reason.”

“Go on. Just hang on a minute…” He pulled his mobile out of his pocket and looked at it. “No, it’s OK. Just wanted to check that Mummy hadn’t called me. Sorry.” He pressed a key, said, “Hi. I’ve got him; he’s fine; we’re downstairs together having a chat. Any news? No, OK. Ring me if you want me.”

“I thought you weren’t allowed to use mobiles in hospitals,” said Charlie.

“You’re not.” He smiled at him suddenly, a warm, almost cheerful smile. “They’d better not tell me not to, that’s all.”

“I’m sure they won’t.”

“I’m sure too. Now… want to go on?”

He nodded, settled back on his chair. The words came slowly, had to be forced out. “She was annoying me. Making me cross. I couldn’t help it. I know I shouldn’t have felt like that, but… Anyway, Mum made me take her to the shop, and I wanted to go on the computer, and I was horrible to her, really horrible, telling her she was stupid when she went on about some kitten she wanted…” He stopped, remembering Daisy’s face as she talked about the kitten, so serious, so anxious to discuss the kitten’s possible name; she’d been all right then, fine… He gulped, swallowed some tears.

“It was on the way back. I just walked ahead, faster and faster; she was dropping things, Dad, and I wouldn’t help, wouldn’t wait. I knew she was getting upset; you know how she does.”

“Yes, I do. Go on.”

“Well, that was it. I was walking farther and farther ahead, and she called to me to wait, to help her, said the cover had come off her comic, and I still walked on, and then… then I heard it. Heard the car…

“You didn’t see it?”

“No, and I don’t know why, because it all happened really slowly…”

“Accidents do. Or seem to.”

“I just heard the brakes and I heard her scream and I turned round then and… there she was. On the road. Like a… a…” Dead person, he had been going to say, and he couldn’t, and then he started crying harder again, and hurled himself at his father, clutching at him, and saying, “I’m sorry, Dad, I’m so, so sorry,” over and over again.

Finally he stopped, looked up at him, and waited. Waited for the words, the shocked, shocking, angry words. Or worse, the stupid, rubbish words, saying he couldn’t have helped it. They didn’t come. Nothing came. Just a silence. His father was staring in front of him, and his eyes were sadder than Charlie had ever seen them; and then finally he looked at him and said, “Charlie, we all make mistakes.

Some don’t matter very much; some are terrible. Terrible mistakes that make other people very unhappy. Mistakes we’d give anything, anything at all, to change. To take back. But… we can’t. I made one, as you know. You’ve made one. Both serious mistakes that can’t be unmade. And that’s the thing. They are unchangeable. They won’t go away, whatever you do. So… the only thing to do is to live with them. Do the best you can. You can’t put them right. But you can put them behind you. Which isn’t easy, but… well, it isn’t easy.”

He was silent again; Charlie sat looking at him, his sobs quieted, his feelings oddly quieter too. After a while, Jonathan put his arm round him, pulled him closer; Charlie relaxed against him, rested his head on his chest.

And then Jonathan said, “I love you, Charlie. Very much.” And after quite a long time, Charlie heard his own voice, very quiet, almost as if it didn’t belong to him: “I love you too, Dad.”

“Oh, God. That’s so awful.”

“What?” Sylvie looked up from the TV; Abi was sitting at the table, staring at the newspaper, her face very white.

“It’s… Oh, God, how horrible. I… Sylvie, look at this. Look.”

Sylvie looked: a small paragraph, next to an item about yet another politician caught taking bribes: “Hero Doctor’s Child in Coma,” it was headed. “Daisy Gilliatt, seven-year-old daughter of top gynaecologist Jonathan Gilliatt, dubbed the hero of the M4 crash last August, has been knocked down by a car and is in intensive care. Her parents and her elder brother were at her bedside last night. No one from the hospital was available for comment. Our medical correspondent writes…”

“God,” said Sylvie, “how sad.”

“I don’t know what to do, Sylvie.”

“What do you mean? What could you do?”

“Like I said, I don’t know. But I ought to do something, don’t you think?”

“No. Like what?”

“Oh… I don’t know. Call him, maybe, send some flowers to the mother…”

“Abi, are you out of your head? Do you really think that poor woman would feel any better if she got some flowers from you? I don’t want to be offensive, but it’d probably make her feel much worse.”

“Yeah, yeah, I s’pose so. You’re right. I just feel… well, I don’t know. I met those kids, you know…”

“Yes, I know. And I can see why you’re upset. But I really don’t think you can do anything.”

“No. No, maybe not.”

“Because he really is not going to feel better if he hears from you.”

“No. No, you’re right. Oh, shit, Sylvie, where is this thing going to end?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean it just won’t let me go. The crash.”

“I can’t see what the poor kid getting run over has got to do with the crash. Or you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Well… maybe it has. Maybe finding out about me stopped the mother from looking after them properly. Don’t look at me like that, Sylvie; it’s possible.”

“Of course it’s not possible. Mothers aren’t like that. They function whatever. My auntie Cath didn’t start letting her kids run around doing what they liked when my uncle ran off with that totty from his firm. She got harder on them, if anything. Stop beating yourself up, Abi.”

“Yeah, OK, I’ll try. But…”

“Abi!”

“Sorry. Look, we’ve got a committee meeting this afternoon here; you want to go out, or what?”

“No, I’ll stay, if you don’t mind. I won’t get in the way. And I always enjoy the sexy farmer.”

“Yeah, well. Anyway, get in the way as much as you like. You might have some ideas. We need them. Oh, shit, and it’s the inquest in a fortnight. S’pose the kid… well, doesn’t get any better-how will Jonathan cope with that?”

Sylvie sighed. “I don’t know, Abi. But it’s not your problem, honestly. Want a croissant?”

“It’s the first forty-eight hours that are crucial.” The paediatrician looked at Jonathan. “She gets through that, then we have reason for optimism.”

“And… now? It’s twenty-four. How’s she doing?”

“Well… she’s holding her own. The BP’s gone up, which is good. She’s definitely coming out of it a bit. She’s woken up several times this morning, sister tells me. Which is excellent. Those fractures are nothing. Apart from the fact that her lung’s been punctured. Biggest worry now, to be honest, is infection. She’s running a bit of a fever.”

“What is it?”

“Oh… only thirty-nine.”

He spoke overcasually; Jonathan winced.

“Thirty-nine is high.”

“Ish.”

“No, it’s high. She’s still on the antibiotics, isn’t she?”

“Of course. Look… have you been in to see her this morning?”

“Yes, of course.”

Well, how does she look to you?”

“Pretty bad,” said Jonathan, “to be honest.”

Laura stood, watching her daughter. Her pretty, sweet, merry-hearted little daughter. Reduced to something devoid of personality, a still, white ghost, most of her bodily functions taken over by machines. It was all very well for the doctors to keep saying her vital signs were good, that the concussion was serious but far from fatal, that a few broken limbs were of no great importance. The fact remained that she was extremely badly hurt, her small, slender body knocked about by half a ton of moving metal, her small skull cracked, one of her lungs ruptured, a mounting fever invading her. They were talking now of packing her in ice; Laura knew what that meant. It meant the fever was very serious, very high. She was in pain, too, restless, turning her head constantly; her hair had been getting tangled, and Laura had asked if she might tie it back somehow, but it was difficult; Daisy seemed aware that something was bothering her, tried to push her away with her good arm.

More than anything Laura wanted to hold her, hold her safe, as she had all through all her small troubles, her minor childish illnesses and the more major recent hurts, to be able to say, “There, it’s all right, Mummy’s here, Mummy will look after you, Mummy loves you.” But she couldn’t look after her, however much she loved her; her efforts were of absolutely no value; indeed if she held her now, she would die. The only things that could help her were the machines, cold, unfeeling, efficient machines, helping her breathe, hydrating her, dulling her pain, telling them when her pulse rose, her blood pressure dropped.

She hated the machines, even while she knew she must be grateful to them. She wanted Daisy to be able to tell her that she hurt, that she was hot, that she felt sick; she didn’t want her function as a mother negated, didn’t want to be told that all she must do was stand back, be quiet, wait, not interfere. It was wrong, against the natural order of things: and yet she knew that without the machines, and without the skills of the doctors and the awesome power of the drugs, Daisy would most certainly have died by now.

Jonathan came in, stood watching Daisy with her, put his arm round her.

“All right?”

“Yes. I’m all right. Where’s Charlie?”

“He’s asleep in the parents’ room. I mustn’t be long; I promised I’d be there when he woke up.”

“How is he?”

“Oh… you know. Poor little boy.”

Jonathan was being amazing: not just sympathetic, not just supportive, but calm, positive, absolutely unreproachful. She had said she was sorry, that she knew she shouldn’t have sent Daisy out with Charlie, and he’d said nonsense, that she was right, they’d done it countless times, that children couldn’t be wrapped in cotton wool… “But they should be,” she’d cried, tears coming suddenly. “We should wrap them in cotton wool; that’s exactly what we ought to do; then they’d be safe, stay safe…”

“And grow up helpless, unable to look after themselves.”

“They’d grow up, at least,” she’d said, and he was powerless to answer that.

“How’s Lily?” she asked then.

“She’s all right. Your mother’s being so good. She said should she bring her over, did I want her to fetch Charlie, should she bring some food in, all sorts of wonderful things…”

“Should she bring Lily? Do you think?”

“No,” he said, “not unless she really wants to come. And your mother said she was better at home with her. They’re watching movies. Of course, if-”

“Don’t. Don’t say it.”

She knew what he meant. If Daisy got worse, if they had to say good-bye, then Lily must be there too.

“Right. Well, I think that’s about it. Well done, everybody.”

God, this was an effort. It was hard to think the wretched festival mattered. While that poor little girl…

“We’ll go firm on the date then?”

“Yup. Sure. And the dates for the play-offs. No news on a sponsor, I s’pose, Fred?”

“Nope. Sorry. They like higher-profile causes, most of them.”

“Surely not local ones?”

“Well… maybe.”

“Fred, haven’t you tried locally at all? Georgia?”

“Not… not really.”

“Well, why not, for fuck’s sake? Jesus, I thought you were going to take all that off us. I suppose I’ll have to do it, like I do everything else.”

“Abi…” said Georgia, “I’m sure Fred’s doing his best; we all are. But everyone’s busy…”

“You’re not.”

“Well, thanks for that. I am, actually-got three auditions this week. Look, I know this was all my idea, but it seems to be getting everyone down; it’s running away with us. Maybe we should rethink-”

“No,” said Abi, “sorry, I shouldn’t have lost it. Sorry, Fred.”

“That’s OK. I should have done more; you’re right.”

“No, you’ve got a lot going on. And you’re not even personally involved like the rest of us. I’ll take that over.”

“Well… if you can pull a few things out of the bag…”

“Sure.”

“I might go then, if that’s all right. Got a lot going on at home this weekend.”

“Sure. Sorry again, I’m… well, I’m a bit worried about something.”

“I’ll see you out,” said Sylvie, standing up. “Georgia, William, want a coffee or anything?”

“I should go too,” said Georgia. “Promised my mum I’d be back for this evening. Thanks, everyone, so much. Fred, wait for me.”

She was going to apologise to him again, on her behalf, Abi thought; perversely, it annoyed her.

“I’ll have a coffee, please, Sylvie,” said William, smiling at her. He quite clearly fancied her, Abi thought. And she played up to it. Bit annoying.

“I’ll have some wine, Sylvie, please,” she said tartly. “Oh, dear.” She looked at William. “I’m a prize cow, aren’t I?”

“I don’t think you’d get many prizes,” he said. “Not at the shows I go to.”

“Don’t joke. I am. I shouldn’t have said that to Fred.”

“Maybe not. What are you worried about?”

“Oh… doesn’t matter.” Of all the things William wouldn’t want to hear about, or be reminded of, it was the Gilliatt family.

“It obviously does. Come on, Abi, tell me.”

“I… That is… Oh, God, William, Jonathan Gilliatt’s little girl’s been run over. She’s in the hospital. In intensive care.”

“That’s very sad.”

“I know. It’s worse than sad. It’s terrible. They don’t deserve that, do they?”

“Well… no. Life isn’t about what you deserve, though, is it? Not always.” There was a pause; then he said, obviously with difficulty, “How… how do you know?”

Jesus, she thought, fuck, he thinks I’m still in touch with Jonathan. How awful is that; he mustn’t, no, no…

“I read it in the paper,” she said, “this morning.” She looked at him; his large brown eyes were thoughtful, doubtful even. “William, I swear to you, I have not spoken to Jonathan, not since that night. You really can’t think that.”

“No. No, of course not. No.”

But he didn’t sound completely sure.

“Look…” she said, reaching for the paper, “it’s here. See? William, please believe me.”

“I… do,” he said, “yes, of course I do. Well… this was yesterday’s news. How is she today?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “How could I?”

“You could ring the hospital.”

“William, it doesn’t say what hospital she’s in even. And anyway, they wouldn’t tell me; they never do unless you’re family.”

“No, no, I suppose not.”

Shock at his clearly still not quite trusting her, combined with anxiety and guilt, suddenly got the better of her, and she started to cry.

“I feel so bad about it,” she said, “so bad.”

“But why?”

“Why? Because maybe what I did-having the affair with Jonathan, going to the house that night-maybe that contributed in some way. I don’t know. Maybe the little girl was upset, maybe her mother was upset, maybe she wasn’t looking after her properly…”

“Abi, Abi,” he said, and he came round the table to where she was sitting, put his arm rather awkwardly round her shoulders. “You can’t go on blaming yourself for what you might or might not have done to that family. It’s a while ago now…”

“Yes, I know, I know,” she said, looking up, trying to smile, wiping her nose on the back of her hand. Sylvie had come in with the drinks, and stood looking awkward.

“Thanks,” he said, withdrawing his arm. “Here, Abi, have a hankie.”

“No, it’s OK,” she said. “I’ve got some tissues in the kitchen; excuse me…”

“It’s all right,” he said, grinning suddenly. “It hasn’t been up some cow’s bottom or anything, if that’s what you think. Clean out of my drawer when I left. Where my mother put it.”

“Your mother spoils you, obviously,” said Sylvie. “Abs, I’m off now. See you later.”

“OK. Cheers. William,” she said when the door had shut, “you don’t really think I’m still in touch with Jonathan, do you?”

“No,” he said, and this time he managed to smile back. “No, I suppose not. But I can’t help wondering… well, you know, sometimes…”

“William, I’m not. I swear to you. I still hate him. I just… well, I feel bad for the little girl. And Laura.”

“Of course. Right… well, I’d better go. Milking to do. And the ewes’ feeding to sort out.”

“The ewes?”

“Yes. About this time of year we scan them. See how many lambs they’re having.”

“You scan them?”

“Yup.”

“What, like you scan pregnant women?”

“Well… pretty much. Of course, they don’t lie on their backs, but…”

“And then what?”

“Well, then we separate out the ones who are having triplets and twins from the singletons.”

“Why?”

“Well, to adjust their feeds. So that the ones having more lambs get more food.”

“How clever.”

“Not really. Just common sense.”

“I s’pose so. Well, thanks, William. Thanks for coming. It’s such a long way.”

A long way, William thought, starting up the truck. If only she knew.

“Oh, my God. Abi, are you mental or what?”

“What do you mean?”

“William. God, he’s well fit, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, OK. What about him?”

“He’s still nuts about you. Obviously.”

“Sylvie, don’t be stupid. He never says or does anything.”

“I don’t know what’s happened to you, Abi. You’ve got so thick. He might not do anything, but he wants to. Blimey. It shows, all right.”

“D’you think so?”

“Yeah, course. I mean, he had his arm round you last night, for God’s sake.”

“Because I was crying. That’s all.”

“Why were you crying?”

“Oh… about that little girl.”

“Must have been nice for William to have you crying over that lot.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I don’t suppose he likes thinking about him too much. About you and him, that is.”

“No,” said Abi slowly, remembering William’s hurt face, “no, I don’t think he does. But that doesn’t mean he… well, he still… still fancies me.”

“Well, it would make it worse,” said Sylvie, “make him mind worse. Don’t you think?”

“S’pose so. Yeah. Oh, shit. It’s all such a mess. Still.”

“Mr. Gilliatt! Could you come in, please? Quickly.”

This was it. She was dying. Or she’d died.

He went in, very quietly, shut the door behind him. She was lying very still, apparently sleeping. Her face was pale, her expression very peaceful. Surely, surely she hadn’t… not without him saying goodbye, sending her on her way with his love. His special love. It was special. She was his baby; he still thought of her as three or four; it made her-used to make her-cross. “I’m not a baby,” she used to say indignantly. “Don’t treat me like one. I’m seven.” She used to say; she used to say…

And now she’d never be eight, never grow up, never change, always stay thus in his memory, Daisy, whom he’d loved so much, who loved him so much… “My daddy,” she used to say, putting the emphasis on the my. “My special daddy.”

Who’d also, just by the way, betrayed her; her and her sister and her brother and her mother… How could he have done that: failed them all, shattered their security, broken the faith?

“Oh, God,” he said, and for the first time since it had happened, his calm broke; he felt the tears, hot, fierce tears, filling his eyes, a sob rising in his throat. He stepped forward, took her hand-no longer hot, cool even, smoothed back her hair…

“Mr. Gilliatt, she’s-”

“Yes, yes, I know…” he said, and felt a tear drop onto their hands, their two joined hands. It would never be in his again, that hand, that small, trusting hand, letting him lead her, running with her, skipping with her-she loved him to skip; it made her giggle. He would haul her off the ground as he took great bounds, laughing too… “I know. I understand.”

“No, you don’t know. She’s better. Really, she is. Her temperature’s down; she’s peaceful. I’m just going to call Dr. Armstrong to discuss removing the tube.”

“Oh, God. Dear God. I…” And then he really started to weep, bent over Daisy, kissed her cheek and then her hand, over and over again, and then said, “Stay there, my darling,” as if she could do anything else, and went out to find Laura and Charlie, who were in the parents’ room.

Laura looked up as he went in, saw the tears streaming down his face, and just for a moment thought as he had, what he had; and then saw that he was smiling, laughing even, as he cried, and she said only, “Is she?”

And he said, “Yes, yes, she’s better; she’s going to be all right; her temperature’s right down. Charlie, come here-give me a hug; your sister’s better; she’s going to be fine.” And they stood there, their arms around one another, the three of them, laughing and crying, bound together not only physically but by their relief and joy and their love of the small, precious being they had thought was lost to them forever and who, by some miracle worked by either God or science, or even her small, determined self, and quite possibly all three, had been given back safely to them once more.

CHAPTER 50

Barney was horribly depressed. He might have fallen out of love with Amanda, but he missed her, missed her sweetness and her thoughtfulness, the way she cared for him, the sense of order she had created in their lives. She was so efficient; she ran the house and their life so well, and she was so happy always, so optimistic, distracting him when he was stressed about work, always ready with some new plan or idea for a holiday or a weekend or a dinner party.

He had moved out of the house and into a flat. His life seemed to be disintegrating into a dismal chaos. He didn’t want to see anyone; he couldn’t be bothered to cook for himself or even get his laundry organised; he spent a fortune on new shirts, as the dirty ones piled up in the bathroom and washing them seemed more difficult than simply buying a whole lot more. It wasn’t just Amanda, of course; it was Toby-he had lost both of them, both his best friends; nobody else seemed worth spending time on. It involved too many explanations, too much effort. He just drifted along aimlessly, working absurdly long hours… and dreading the inquest. He’d be under oath and therefore surely required to recount what happened over the tyre, and worse, he would obviously have to face Toby across the court. However disillusioned he was about Toby, he had no wish to see his reputation blackened, and possibly for him to face legal redress.

It wasn’t the best of times…

He spent a lot of time now wondering what Emma was doing.

Back with the boyfriend, maybe, which quite hurt. Or with someone new, which hurt more; or with no one at all, which hurt more than anything. Of course, she didn’t know that it was over with Amanda; but somehow, some odd sense of pride kept him from telling her. She had finished it; she had decided it wasn’t to be, that she didn’t want to wait until Amanda could cope with her engagement being broken off-and he could hardly blame her; it did slightly cast her in the role of understudy-and she had obviously decided she couldn’t cope with any of it. What price love then? Barney thought, remembering those fierce few weeks when the world had changed and him with it: when he had looked at a relationship he had thought was forever and found it wanting, and found another that had seemed not to want for anything at all.

Alex had been called as a witness at the inquest; he and Linda had settled into an uneasy peace, or, as Alex called it, an easy war. Their relationship was never going to be comfortable; they continued to argue, to compete, to fight and reunite, and to enjoy each other physically and emotionally with a passion that still half surprised them. Their latest battleground was where they would live: they had agreed that they wanted to live together; that had been the easy part. Where was proving impossible. Clearly Linda was not going to settle down in Swindon, nor Alex move to NWI. Various compromises like Windsor, Beaconsfield, and even Ealing had been scrutinised and dismissed as too suburban, too far out, and just too horrible. Currently he was looking at Gloucestershire and Wiltshire cottages where they could weekend together, at least; it was a compromise, and like all compromises provided the worst as well as the best of both worlds.

Linda was going to the inquest too, partly as support for Alex, which he said was very nice but hardly essential-he’d attended thousands of the bloody things-but mainly as support for Georgia. Georgia was absolutely terrified at having the whole thing relived, and her own behaviour-and what she saw as her cowardice-publicly recorded. She dreamt about it night after night, couldn’t eat, was irritable and tearful. None of which, as Linda remarked to Alex, was unusual.

The only good thing was that she had got a part in another production. It wasn’t quite such a good one-in fact, nothing probably ever would be again, she thought, so perfect for her-but it was pretty nice, a comedy about a threesome, two girls and a boy, living together supposedly platonically; both the girls were secretly in love with the boy, and he was meanwhile hopelessly-and also secretly-in love with someone else entirely.

“It’s a marvellous script,” Linda said to Georgia, “shades of Noel Coward. You’re a lucky girl.”

It wasn’t until she turned up for a preproduction meeting that she discovered the first assistant director was Merlin Gerard…

“ Georgia, hi. Lovely to see you. And wonderful to be working with you again.”

“Yes. Yes, it’s great.” Thinking, thank God, thank God she had never let him know how hurt she’d been, how deceived she’d felt. “Er… how’s Ticky?”

“She’s great, thanks. Yeah. Gone back to New York, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Want to come for a drink tonight?”

“I’m sorry, Merlin, I can’t. Not tonight. Another time, maybe.” She’d even managed to smile at him.

She’d never felt more proud of herself than she had at that moment.

“You total star,” Lila said, when she told her. Lila had become just about her best friend. They spent a lot of time together, shopping, going to the cinema, and to clubs when they could afford it, sometimes jazz clubs-Lila and Anna had introduced Georgia to jazz, and she was slightly surprised by how much she loved it-but mostly just talking, often late into the night.

“Yeah, I was pretty pleased with myself. He looked pretty… pretty surprised.”

“Good. He needs to be. And… did you still fancy him?”

“Oh, yes. Completely,” said Georgia rather sadly.

Anna had agreed-rather nervously, but with great delight-that she and Lila would play a set at the festival. Abi had said she thought they should have some jazz, and Georgia-who was still a little in awe of Abi-said rather tentatively that she knew someone who had played jazz in quite a big way. Abi had never heard of Sim Foster, but she mentioned his name to a jazz enthusiast at work and had been astonished at his reaction.

“My God, Abi, he was one of the greats, you know. Some of his early stuff, absolute classics. And she was fantastic too, great voice. Anyone who knows anything about jazz’d give a lot to hear her. Even without him. They were an absolute legend.”

Abi went back rather humbly to Georgia and told her to ask the legend if she’d be kind enough to consider playing at the festival.

She was totally dreading the inquest; she shrank from having her relationship with Jonathan brought out in court, together with the fact that she had lied when she had first given evidence. She couldn’t imagine what the outcome might be; in her darkest hours, she saw herself in jail, or at best with a criminal record.

William had tried rather cursorily to reassure her once, but after that refused to discuss the whole thing. William just wanted it over: for more reasons than one. The thought of being in the same courtroom as Jonathan Gilliatt was not appealing.

Daisy was home now, frail and very thin, moving around with great difficulty but equal determination; fortunately it was her left leg but her right arm that were broken, so she could use a crutch to hobble from room to room. The family room had been turned into a bedroom for her, and her toys installed, so that she didn’t have to cope with the stairs.

With the resilience of children, she seemed fairly unaffected by her trauma emotionally: no nightmares, no display of anxiety. The thing that most worried her was that she had broken the rules, done what was expressly forbidden, and she said over and over again that she was very sorry she had run into the road, and that she would never do such a thing again; Laura had privately resolved that Daisy would never run anywhere unaccompanied again, or not for a very long time.

The person perhaps most adversely affected by the whole thing was Lily, whose pretty little nose had been put distinctly out of joint by all the attention lavished on her sister. Initially delighted when Daisy was pronounced out of danger, and especially when she was allowed home, she now spent a large part of every day quarrelling with her, and demanding that the bounty of new toys pouring into Daisy’s possession, supplied not only by her parents and grandparents, but school friends and neighbours, be replicated in her own, and bursting into hysterical tears when she was told they would not.

Charlie, who appeared in some ways to have become at least five years older than he had been before the accident, was alternately to be found telling her to shut up and to be glad she still had a sister to fight with, and patiently playing games with one or the other of them. He had begged not to have to go back to school until Daisy was completely well; after two weeks of acting the perfect brother he suddenly announced that even school was preferable. Laura and Jonathan, who had been a little worried by his newly saintly persona, were secretly relieved.

Jonathan had moved back home. Charlie had begged him to, and so had the girls; Laura could hardly refuse. She didn’t exactly want to refuse. But even given the surge of positive emotion towards him that she had experienced in the hospital, she wasn’t sure that she was remotely ready to start living with him again. Or indeed if she ever would be. A slow, but savage surge of anger and resentment was filling her once more; in the adrenaline crash after Daisy’s initial recovery, it shocked her. She had thought, felt indeed, that if Daisy was given back to her, she would never mind anything again. She was horrified to discover that she still minded about Jonathan and Abi Scott very much indeed.

Once the desperate, clawing fear had subsided, once they had gone home, properly home, faced with the long, long days of sitting at Daisy’s bedside, the exhaustion of coping with her querulous demands, her boredom, and her pain, then it began. She would look at him over the table as he laughed and joked with Charlie, teased Lily, as he sat by Daisy reading to her, as he helped her with things like shopping and the school run, for he had taken compassionate leave, would watch him being the perfect husband and the perfect father once more and at times she hated him. And was shocked at herself for it.

She struggled to fight it; she reminded herself constantly of his courage and his tenderness in the dreadful days at the hospital, when Daisy had swung so close to death; she told herself that more than ever now he had earned her generosity and her forgiveness… but she was still haunted by the betrayal, the easy lies that he had shown himself to be capable of, and the way he had allowed Abi Scott to cut into the heart of their marriage.

And the thought of sleeping with him was abhorrent; she could not imagine it ever again. There would be a third person in their bed forevermore now, and no longer a shadowy presence, a vague threat, but one she had seen, heard, smelt-she would never forget that rich, cloying perfume-and watched as she sashayed across the room and kissed her husband’s mouth.

Jonathan had not suggested that he join her in their bed; he continued to sleep in the spare room without comment, and indeed as if he assumed it was the proper place for him; but one night, quite late, after they had been reading in the drawing room and she said she was tired and thought she would go to bed, he had looked at her and smiled and said, “Do, darling. You look tired. Shall I make you a nightcap?”

He had always done that in the old days, when she was particularly exhausted, brought her a hot toddy; she hardly ever drank spirits, but she loved that; the effect of the whisky in the hot milk never failed to make her sleep. But for some reason tonight, she found the thought of it unbearable, that he was trying to deny the present, to work back into the past, when he had been a source of comfort, not pain, of reassurance, not fear, and she stood up and said, “No, thank you, I can do that for myself,” and she could hear the coldness, the rejection in her own voice.

His eyes as he looked at her then were surprised, hurt even. “All right, darling,” he said, “but the offer’s there.”

And suddenly, it happened; she could hold it back no longer, the force of her rage. “Jonathan, don’t call me darling, please,” was all she said, but her tone was ugly, almost savage, and he could not but react.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and his voice in its turn was ice-cold, heavy with anger. “I didn’t realise you still felt so strongly against me.”

“Is that so?” she said. “You didn’t realise? What did you think, then? That I had forgotten about… about what you did, your lies, how you betrayed me, betrayed us all?”

“No,” he said, “of course not. But I thought… perhaps… we had moved on. That you could at least start to… to accept it, if not forgive.”

“Jonathan, how could you even begin to think that? Accept it, you say! Accept the fact that you preferred her to me…”

“I did not prefer her,” he said wearily. “No comparison came into it. She was… well, she was what she was. Nothing to do with you. I love you…”

“Oh, please! You love me! So much that you fucked someone else. Not just once-I could endure that-but many times. And not just fucked her-slept with her, really slept with her, lay with her all night, woke up with her beside you. Lied and lied to me so that you could. How could you do that, Jonathan; how could you want to do that?”

“I… don’t know,” he said, “I really don’t know. It was some kind of… madness. I know, all erring husbands say that, but it’s true; it was as if I became someone else. I didn’t stop loving you, Laura; I didn’t love you any less. It was greed, a grab at something else that I knew I shouldn’t have. I can’t expect you to understand, but-”

“No,” she said, “I don’t understand. Of course I don’t. Well, I can see that you would want her, but the fact is, you couldn’t want her without rejecting me. That’s how I see it, a rejection of me, of what I could do for you, what I could offer. It makes me feel so… so lacking.”

“Lacking in what?” he said, and he looked so bewildered she almost smiled.

“In myself, Jonathan. I know…” She faltered, took a breath, started again. “I know I’m not particularly… sexy. I know that very well. I mean, I like sex, of course…”

“And why do you say ‘of course’?” he said. “It’s not compulsory, you know, liking it.”

“What do you mean?” she said, staring at him in astonishment. “Of course it is; it’s part of a marriage, part of loving someone.”

“And did you really see it as part of loving me?”

“Of course I did”-and she was shouting now-“of course I saw it as that. It was so precious to me; it was ours, and no one else’s, what we shared, only between us. Now it’s not anymore; it’s hers; she’s taken it, or rather you’ve given it; it’s gone; it’s gone forever and no one can bring it back.”

He was absolutely silent, looking at her with a dreadful sadness in his eyes; then he said, “Well, it seems we are done for, then. We can’t be as we were again, can we?”

“No,” she said, “no, we can’t. Never. Never.”

“Well… in that case, maybe I should go again. But I want to say a few things first. That really need saying. I did love you. So very, very much. I do love you very, very much. You are the centre of my life and the centre of our family. I can’t contemplate life without you, Laura. Oh, that’s not some idle suicidal threat; it’s true. Of course I’d go on living, but I’d be changed. I’d be lost. I’d be pathetic, useless, dysfunctional.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’d be just fine. Still the successful, attractive, wonderful Jonathan Gilliatt.”

“Laura, I wouldn’t. I’m only those things because I have you. I’d be anxious; I’d lose confidence, judgment. God in heaven, that happened even when I was living away for those few weeks. I dithered, I took second opinions, I did what others said instead of what I knew was right, I didn’t even know what was right anymore. I made one appalling mistake-I didn’t tell you about it, and you wouldn’t have cared, I should think, given the circumstances-but I missed a cord presentation… You know what that is?”

“The baby’s head pressing on the cord?”

“Exactly. How often I must have bored you with these technical details. Anyway, the baby nearly died; could so well have been brain damaged. And I missed it, because I was so wretched, so… so lost. And deservedly so, no doubt you would say. But… well, that is how dependent on you I am. I’m nothing without you, Laura, nothing at all.”

She was silent.

“I’m talking professionally, of course, but it extends to everything. The charming, attractive Jonathan Gilliatt, as you call him, is a pathetically different chap on his own…”

“Jonathan, this is all very touching, but if I’m so important to you, why risk losing me? Why start an affair with someone else? It doesn’t quite add up. Sorry.”

“I know that. Of course I do. It was insanity. It was dangerous insanity. And I had never done anything like it before, and I never would again. And I know you don’t believe me when I tell you it was over, that I’d finished with her that day, but it’s true. But… haven’t you ever, in your perfectly controlled, beautifully behaved life, Laura, done anything remotely wrong? Or dangerous? Haven’t you ever been tempted to kick over the traces? Oh, not to have an affair, but… I don’t know, spend too much and lie to me about it, or take a day off from cooking and buy a ready meal for the children, or go back to bed or spend the day with your girlfriends and not do any work, or not help with the homework, or…”

“No,” she said, after a few moments’ thought, “no, I haven’t.”

“Well, then,” he said, and he almost smiled, “there you have it, perhaps.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, it’s quite… tough being married to you.”

“Jonathan, I devote my entire life to you. To doing what you want, going where you want me to be. It’s me it’s tough for, I’d say. Not you.”

“No,” he said. “Well, it may be. But that’s why-I think-I had this affair with Abi Scott. I’m trying to be honest now. Because she was bad quite a lot of the time. She wasn’t perfect. She was certainly less perfect than me. She’s greedy and amoral and she tells lies, all the time; I didn’t have to live up to her. And I have to say, I treated her very badly.”

“Oh, my heart bleeds for her. I’m so sorry.”

“I am sorry… actually. I should have shown her some consideration, after the crash. It was a trauma for her, as well, a dreadful one. And what did I do? I was so shit scared of you finding out about her that I threatened her…”

“You what?” She was shocked by that.

“I threatened her. I told her if the didn’t go along with my story that she was a work colleague, I’d tell the police about her drug habit. Not nice behaviour.”

“No. Not really. But…”

“But it was for you. I was so terrified of you finding out-not because you’d be angry, which you’d have every right to be, but because you’d be desperately hurt-that I bullied her. Harassed her ruthlessly. The irony is that if I’d been a bit nicer to her, she probably wouldn’t have turned up here that night. At my party. I was a complete shit. I am a complete shit. Oh, God…”

He looked at her, and she could see tears in his eyes. He brushed them away.

“But, Jonathan,” she said, “I can’t be what I’m not. I’m me. I can’t start being lazy or extravagant, or neglecting the children. Just so that you don’t have to live up to me, as you put it. It’s crazy; you’re talking rubbish. Self-indulgent rubbish.”

“It may be self-indulgent,” he said, “but it isn’t rubbish. Everyone’s so fucking envious of me. Or was. ‘Lucky chap,’ they used to say, ‘being married to Laura; wish my wife was more like Laura.’ God, Mark never stopped going on about it, and how Serena never let him get away with anything, how wonderful you were… You remember that song, that music hall song, ‘She’s Only a Bird in a Gilded Cage’? I felt like a bird in a gilded cage, and I flew out of it… just once, once for the hell of it. Or so I thought. Fate trapped me, shut the door behind me, and I’ll never be back in it now, and it serves me right.”

She said nothing, trying to make sense of what he was saying.

He stood up now, in front of her, staring down into her eyes. “I guess that’s it by way of explanation. I have never regretted anything more. I would give everything I have-everything except you and the children-to alter it. But I can’t. As I said to Charlie in the hospital, you have to live with what you’ve done. There’s no alternative. It’s hardly a justification, I know, but-”

“No,” she said, “it isn’t.”

“Well, that’s my swan song. I’ll go, Laura. Don’t worry. Or if you’d prefer it, I’ll stay here, for the sake of the children, carry on pretending. I’m not sure they could face losing me again. That’s not meant to be emotional blackmail; it’s a fact. But I won’t ask anything of you, anything at all. And when they’re older, maybe we can get divorced. It’s up to you. Whatever you want. It’s the least I can do for you. To make amends. I only ask one thing: that you try to believe how much I love you.”

“I’ll try,” she said after a very long time. “I really will try. And… don’t go, Jonathan. You’re right. The children couldn’t bear it.”

She wasn’t sure she would be able to bear it herself. But she really wasn’t ready to say that.

CHAPTER 51

Michael Andrews always said the most important quality a coroner should possess was courtesy. And indeed, he had never come across one who didn’t. It was important for all concerned: for the relatives of the deceased, of course, still grieving, often disappointed that there was to be no criminal trial, so that they might find retribution for the death of their loved ones, and at least anxious to establish the truth; for the police who had worked so hard to establish that truth and whose evidence, often rather ponderous, must be heard in full, that the hard work might be justified; for the witnesses, often distressed themselves, always nervous; and of course for the coroner’s office staff, so at pains to be courteous themselves, to put people at ease, to ensure that proceedings ran smoothly and as swiftly as possible.

The inquest he was to conduct the following week, on the people who had died in the M4 crash the previous August, would be long, possibly running over two days. There were three deceased, and many witnesses; the crash had been complex and high-profile. It would test his skills considerably, and he would need to prepare for it with great care.

Since it was to be so large, and with so many attendees, it was to be held in the council chambers at the county court, rather than in one of the committee rooms; in a way people preferred that; they felt the deaths of the loved ones was being considered a matter of some importance, accorded proper dignity. The other thing about inquests, of course, was that they differed from criminal enquiries in that all the witnesses heard all the evidence. It gave a sense of greater openness and fairness, and it meant those involved could more easily see any concerns laid properly to rest.

There would be lawyers present, of course, because of insurance issues, and several doctors. One of the doctors, Dr. Jonathan Gilliatt, would be giving evidence on two counts: his own involvement in the crash, and his professional observations of the injured and deceased.

It would be wrong, Michael Andrews supposed, to say he was looking forward to the inquest-it would be both gruelling and sad-but it did promise to be what he privately called a yardstick, one by which he would judge and compare others.

His wife, Susan, was prepared for a somewhat solitary weekend.

“All rise.”

Michael Andrews liked this moment, as he walked into the court: not from any delusions of grandeur, but because it was an acknowledgement of his authority and through him the court’s.

He sat in the council chamber on a high dais, flanked by his clerk and coroner’s officer. The public sat before him, the seats ranged amphitheatre style, and banking up towards the back of the chamber; the witness table-also slightly raised and complete with microphone and Bible-was to his left.

He began as he always did: by welcoming everyone, by explaining the purpose of the inquest. “We are here to answer four questions: who the deceased were, and when, where, and how they came to their deaths. It is not to establish any blame, and no charges will be brought as a result.” He paused. “Three of the four answers are straightforward. The fourth, establishing by what means death arose, is the main purpose of this inquest. The families, if they wish, may ask relevant questions.”

The families, sitting together in their prescribed area, all looked at one another and then nervously about them. He knew from experience that it was likely at least one of them would ask questions, probably of the pathologist. He also knew what the first question, at least, was likely to be: would the victim have suffered at all?

He named the deceased and described them briefly: their ages, their status, where they lived-the young girl, Sarah Tomkins, the minibus driver, Edward Barnes, the young mother, Jennifer Marks.

He called the pathologist, Dr. Paul Jackson from St. Marks Hospital, who had carried out the postmortems on the deceased and asked him to take the oath. People were very respectful of the oath; they spoke it clearly and audibly, even if they became less so as they gave their evidence. And it reassured the relatives further, he knew: that no one was going to lie, to prevaricate; they were going to hear, finally, exactly what had happened to cause the deaths of those they loved.

Dr. Jackson gave his evidence: the awful bald facts, the exact cause in each case of the deaths. The mother of the young girl began to cry; the husband blew his nose hard and repeatedly. Andrews asked if there were any questions: the wife of the minibus driver, a middle-aged woman, her face pale and etched with strain, said, “I would like to ask a question. In your opinion, Doctor,” she said, speaking to the pathologist, “would my husband have suffered at all?”

“I think I can state quite categorically,” Dr. Jackson said, “that he would not. It is my professional opinion that all three would have died instantly.”

“Thank you,” said the woman. The others looked at her and half smiled; Sarah’s mother said, her voice shaky with nerves and emotion, “I was going to ask the same thing. But I wondered if whoever found my daughter-I believe it was another doctor-would have agreed.”

“We shall come to that evidence a little later,” said Andrews, “and you will be free to speak to the gentleman in question-who was indeed a doctor-then.”

The police evidence describing the background of the victims, how they had come to be on the road that afternoon, followed: the always tragic accounts of lives ended too soon. They were rich in clichés: “a devoted and selfless mother,”

“a lively, popular, and clever daughter,” “a loving and generous grandfather.” He hated the clichés, but they seemed de rigueur; they were what people told the police and, in any case, undoubtedly comforted the families.

He called Dr. Alexander Pritchard, the A &E consultant at St. Marks, to describe what medical procedures, if any, were carried out on the victims. Pritchard, who, like the pathologist, had clearly given evidence at many inquests before this one, spoke straightforwardly and with equal and careful tact: no procedures were carried out, the victims were all dead on arrival, and neither basic nor intensive life-support techniques were indicated. He added that in his opinion also, the deaths would all have been instantaneous.

Nice man, Andrews thought: an old-fashioned doctor of the best kind.

The inquest machinery ground on.

A large sheaf of photographs of the crash, taken from every angle, with relevant vehicles and trajectories painstakingly marked, were handed out to everyone. A description of the crash was given by Inspector Greg Dixon; he said people were for the most part very calm and helpful and that he would like to pay tribute to the courage of a doctor on the scene, “Mr. Jonathan Gilliatt, who worked tirelessly among the injured for many hours, and cared for a woman who had gone into premature labour, reassuring her and monitoring her condition until the ambulance arrived. He also most courageously climbed up into the lorry to turn the ignition off.”

Andrews asked for the forensic evidence; it was complex and highly technical, as it always was. Clearly the cause of the whole thing had been the wheel nut shattering the lorry’s windscreen; there was also considerable detail about a car two behind the lorry, which had apparently had a blowout, and caused considerable further damage, and which had had a large rusty nail in one of its tyres that would certainly have contributed to, if not caused, the blowout.

Michael Andrews called Sergeant Freeman to present the police evidence. He liked and respected Freeman; he had heard evidence from him many times. He had a certain lack of humour, and he tended to be rather self-important, but was inordinately thorough, incredibly hardworking, and he presented his evidence with great clarity. It took almost half an hour; at the end of it, Andrews was already tired, and it was only eleven. The concentration required by these big cases was exhausting; it never ceased to surprise him. He called a break for fifteen minutes, and sank gratefully into the peace of his own room, a huge mug of strong, sweet coffee supplied by his staff. He worried sometimes that at the age of fifty he was getting a bit old for this game, and then reminded himself that he had found inquests tough at thirty.

Patrick Connell had obviously once been a big man, Andrews thought, watching him as he came to the witness stand; he was tall, but frail, and walked leaning on two sticks and with a heavy limp. He asked him if he would like to sit down to give his evidence; Connell said he would rather stand, but halfway through what was obviously a gruelling experience, he was forced to give in and sit.

“Now, Mr. Connell, tell us about your recollections, as far as you can remember. We have heard you suffered memory loss, but anything you can tell us will be important.”

The evidence was faltering, faulty indeed; Connell had no real memory of the aftermath of the crash before he reached the hospital, and indeed very little of the next few days; memory had begun to return, but only in fragments. “It was a very disturbing time, sir, as you can imagine, I’m sure.”

“Indeed. Now… you weren’t feeling sleepy beforehand? It says in your statement, if I might remind you again, that you had been to see your doctor about this tendency of yours to feel sleepy on the road. Remember you are under oath.”

A hesitation; he could feel the lawyers stiffen.

“I had been, sir, yes. About half an hour earlier. But I’d stopped for a coffee, and I was eating sweets, jelly babies-they’re my life-savers, odd though it may sound to you, sir-and I was talking to my passenger immediately before the crash; I do remember that very clearly…”

He had gained confidence now; he gave a clearly honest description of blame-free driving, within the speed limit, of the other vehicles, of the E-Type ahead of him, “just pulling ahead… He was driving very nicely, as a matter of fact.”

“I’m pleased to hear it… and may I say how pleased I am also that you have made such a good recovery, Mr. Connell, from your injuries. You may step down.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Andrews asked for Connell’s passenger next: he looked at her as she took the stand, tiny, pretty little thing, clearly absolutely terrified, and asked her very gently to take the oath. Her hand shook as she held the card; he wondered how good a witness she would be.

But she was very good: calm and clear describing how one moment everything had seemed perfectly fine, nobody speeding, nobody cutting across anybody, and then how the windscreen had so suddenly shattered. “It was terrifying. Like being in a thick fog. And then somehow, we stopped and we were in the middle of all this… this chaos.”

“How long would you say it was before you felt the lorry veer over across the lanes of the motorway?”

“Oh… it all happened so slowly. It seemed like hours; I suppose it couldn’t have been more than… what, ten seconds. And then quite quickly there was this terrible, awful noise and horns going and brakes screaming and then we… we stopped.”

“Yes. I don’t think we need to go over the next few minutes; your statement was very clear, and it must have been very traumatic for you.”

He felt bound, driven by personal curiosity as much as professional, to ask her why she left the scene of the crash.

“I don’t know,” she said simply. “I wish I did, and I’m terribly ashamed of it. But I can’t explain it; I really can’t. I suppose I panicked. I remember thinking that if I got away, left the accident, it would be all right-no one would know I’d been there. I could just… just forget about it. It was so horrible, all the injured people especially-Patrick… Mr. Connell-and the wrecked cars, and people shouting and screaming. I felt I… well, I had to get away.”

“So you walked quite a long way, you say, and then hitched another lift and went home to Cardiff?”

“Yes, that’s right. And then I sort of managed to persuade myself that it hadn’t happened. Or rather that I hadn’t been there. That it was nothing to do with me. And the more time passed, the more impossible it got to admit. Until there were stories in the press, implying that Patrick-Mr. Connell-had gone to sleep.”

She started to cry; Michael Andrews waited patiently, then said, “Try not to feel too distressed, Miss Linley We all make mistakes and do things we can’t explain. I’m sure Mr. and Mrs. Connell are most grateful that you told your story when you did.”

“Yes. Thank you. And we have become good friends now. But only because they’re so good; they’ve been so forgiving.”

Andrews found himself rather taken by her; he thanked her for all her evidence, and then asked her if she had managed to get the part she’d been auditioning for. He did that sometimes, ventured into the personal or lighthearted where he felt it would help the atmosphere. Georgia said she had, and added that it would be shown on Channel Four in the spring.

“I have to tell you, Miss Linley,” he said, “commercial advertising is not normally allowed in the courtroom. However, I will make an exception in this case.”

He heard the evidence of Jack Bryant, the owner of the E-Type. He couldn’t think who he reminded him of, and then realised; he was a dead ringer for that Nigel Havers character, the Charmer, the same smooth dress style, the same confident public-school manner. Andrews was about to dislike him, when he said right at the beginning of his evidence, after taking the oath, “I feel absolutely ghastly about this. Terrible. The whole thing could be said to be my fault…”

“Mr. Bryant,” said Andrews, “as I said at the beginning, we are not here to establish blame. Merely to find out what happened. Now, we have heard it was one of your wheel nuts that flew off and shattered the windscreen of Mr. Connell’s lorry; can you tell us how you think this could have happened?”

“No,” said Bryant, “I really can’t. I checked them all really carefully-my mechanic will second that-before I set out. I was going to Scotland, long way, for a bit of shooting, and I wanted everything to be as safe as possible.”

“Indeed. And you weren’t speeding at all?”

“No, I most definitely was not. Chance’d be a fine thing, in that car. Very beautiful, but not much of a goer these days. She’s an old lady, bit past her prime…”

Every inquest has its turning point; this one was provided by one of the experts at the police Forensics department.

“Thing is, you can overtighten those old nuts. One turn too far and it can break the thread-in our opinion, and on examining the car when it came into our possession, that’s what happened.”

Andrews looked at Bryant; he was visibly limp with relief. And then at the families: it was the kind of thing that was in a way most painful, the fatal event that was still an accident, an act that had killed, but made in good faith. He was not surprised to see them all sitting up very straight suddenly, their faces taut, and, in the case of the young girl’s mother, already in tears…

The morning moved on. He heard some excellent evidence given by a young man, William Grainger, a farmer whose land bordered the M4: clear, concise, very helpful. Some more, very painful to hear, from the husband of the young mother who had been killed. They broke for lunch after this; Andrews felt he was not the only one who needed it.

In the afternoon Jonathan Gilliatt took the stand; now here was a smoothie, Andrews thought-even if he was a hero… Very self-confident he’d be, his evidence very well presented.

He was wrong; and it was not.

Gilliatt was uncomfortable, nervous, unclear as to exactly what he had seen of the crash, admitted-wiping his forehead repeatedly-that he and his passenger had been having what he called “a rather heated exchange” just beforehand.

“Sufficiently heated to distract you?” Andrews said, and yes, he said, and he was very ashamed that he had allowed it to do so.

“Not a good thing to be distracted on a crowded motorway, I’m afraid. Fortunate you were in the inside lane. You had met your passenger at a business function, I believe?”

“We had met through business, yes.”

Cagey answer. Should he press this? Andrews thought. No. It was hardly relevant.

“Now, I believe also that you were on the phone? Which must have added to your distraction.”

“I was, yes. Very, very briefly.”

“You don’t have a hands-free?”

“Not in the car I was driving, no. Well… that is to say, I do, but it wasn’t working properly. The car was brand-new, and there were teething troubles generally with the communication systems. The GPS wasn’t working properly either. I knew I shouldn’t have answered the phone, but I was pretty sure it was my wife; she’d been trying to get through, and she’d have been worried. And I had to get to my clinic in Harley Street…”

“I see. But you were obviously driving perhaps unnecessarily slowly, given that you were under pressure. Why was that?”

“Well… as I said, there’d been the storm; conditions were nasty. I was tired; I think I must have been feeling generally nervous.”

“And then…?”

“Then, as it says in my statement, I realised the lorry was all over the place, that it could be very dangerous. I literally flung the phone into the back and… next thing I knew, I was on the hard shoulder. With all the… the carnage about a hundred metres behind me.”

“And then you walked back to see what you could do?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Which was very commendable. Well done. Now… I would like to ask you about the victims, and your undoubtedly splendid work amongst the injured… and I think that when I have finished, some of the relatives may want to question you. I hope that’s all right.”

“Of course.”

“I would like to call Abigail Scott. Miss Scott, please take the oath. But first we shall hear your statement from Sergeant Freeman…

Bit of a baggage, this one, Andrews thought. Very attractive, and very, very sexy. Unlikely the relationship with Gilliatt had been purely professional. No doubt he’d considered himself perfectly safe… and then found himself skewered by fate.

“Miss Scott. You were in the car with Mr. Gilliatt. I wonder if you can add to his evidence in any way, or rather confirm that, as far as you could see, there was no question of anything cutting in front of Mr. Connell’s lorry, from any direction, that might have caused him to swerve.”

“No. Nothing. I saw the whole thing, obviously, and everyone seemed to be driving very carefully and well.”

“Including Dr. Gilliatt?”

“Yes, he was driving very carefully.”

“But he admits himself he was distracted, that you and he were having a… a heated discussion?”

“Yes. We were. But it wasn’t making him drive badly. He… he’s a very good and careful driver always.”

“You’ve been driven by Mr. Gilliatt before, I assume from that?”

“Yes. Yes, I had.”

“In the course of your mutual professional duties, I presume?”

There was a long silence; the legendary pin dropping would have sounded like thunder.

Then: “Not always, no.”

Andrews could feel the entire courtroom tautening.

“Your relationship wasn’t entirely professional. Is that what you’re telling us? Remember, you are under oath.”

“Yes. I mean it wasn’t. I… liked him a lot. For a while.”

“I see. So… I want to keep this conversation relevant to the proceedings, Miss Scott.”

“Of course.”

“So… this heated exchange. Was it of a personal nature? I ask only because it seems to me that could have been more distracting for him.”

“Well, it was personal. Yes. He had told me that he didn’t think we should continue with our… our friendship.”

“And…?”

“And I was… disappointed. So I was arguing with him.”

“And… did you win this argument?”

“No. No, I didn’t. Any ideas I had of continuing with our… relationship were futile. He made that very clear.”

“Your relationship? I thought you said it was a friendship. Or do you regard the two as the same?”

“Not really,” she said, and her eyes meeting his were what Andrews could only describe as bold. “I suppose you could say it was-had been-more than a friendship.”

“Well, we need not concern ourselves with the precise nature of it,” said Andrews, aware that the entire court longed to concern itself exactly thus. “But you are still quite sure that this conversation didn’t distract him in any way from his driving?”

“I’m quite sure.”

“Or that you might have failed to notice something untoward or dangerous yourself?”

“I’m sure about that too.”

Then: “How did you get home from the crash? Did Mr. Gilliatt drive you?”

“No, of course not. I told you. Our relationship was over. Anyway, I was helping to look after some little boys, the ones from the minibus. I went back to the hospital in the ambulance with one of them, who was having an asthma attack. Shaun, he was called; he was a great little boy. I’d had asthma as a child, so I knew how to help.”

“Well… thank you for your frankness, Miss Scott. It’s been most helpful and much appreciated. Thank you. You may step down.”

Andrews looked round the court; if this was a play he thought-and inquests so frequently provided wonderful theatre-it would be the obvious point for an interval. He called another break. He desperately wanted to get this over in one day.

He heard evidence then from the young couple whose baby had been induced prematurely by the accident; he found them mildly irritating without being sure why. And then he said he would like to hear from Toby Weston, the bridegroom who had crashed into the back of them following a blowout.

“But first we should hear your statement, Mr. Weston. Sergeant Freeman…”

Weston stood up: good-looking young chap, Andrews thought, seemed pleasant, very conventionally dressed. He’d had a tough time, almost lost his leg. And missed his wedding. Fate again: relentless, unpredictable fate…

“Er… could I say something, please?” Weston said.

“You may, Mr. Weston. As much as you like. Once you have taken the oath. First we should hear your statement. Sergeant…”

“Yes, but-”

“Sergeant Freeman, please go on.”

Freeman cleared his throat and began to read the statement; told of the desperate rush to get to the church, the buildup of delays… and how Weston had wanted to check the tyre pressures, had been concerned that one of them was soft. “‘However, Mr. Fraser, my best man, persuaded me not to, said it was unnecessary and that we should get on our way again.’”

At which point another young man stood up very suddenly in his seat and said, “But… I… That’s not…” His face was scarlet and distorted with some kind of emotion; Andrews held up his hand.

“Your turn will come,” he said. “And I will decide when. Please sit down, and be good enough not to interrupt proceedings again. I would remind you this is a court of law, and you are required to show it a proper respect. Sergeant Freeman, continue, please.”

Sergeant Freeman continued; and then Weston took the stand and the oath. Andrews watched him with interest. Another emotional revelation, perhaps?

“Now, Mr. Weston, perhaps you would like to start by telling us what you wanted to say.”

“Ah. Yes. Well, you see… well, that is, my statement wasn’t entirely correct.”

“Really?” Andrews’s voice was full of innocent disbelief.

“No. No, the thing is… that bit about the tyres, that’s not right. I… When I gave my statement to the inspector, I wasn’t at all well. I was in a lot of pain: I’d been running a temperature; I had an infection in my leg; they… well, they’d thought they might have to amputate. It had all been very traumatic; I was still very upset. And confused.”

“I’m sure. Very understandable. I believe your leg is to a large extent recovered now.”

“Yes. Yes, it is, thank you. Anyway, it was not correct to say that Barney-Mr. Fraser-had persuaded me… not to check the type pressures. It was at my insistence that we left immediately and drove on. I’d had… well, I’d had a rather… rather pressing call from my father-in-law-to-be. I just felt that we had to get to the wedding no matter what. Mr. Fraser was very anxious to check them, very unhappy at leaving them. I’m extremely sorry about the… the confusion. Really very sorry indeed.”

“Well, well,” said Andrews, “thank you for that, Mr. Weston. Of course, we have heard from Forensics that in their opinion the blowout was caused by the presence of the nail in the tyre, so I don’t think you need to worry on that score. But accuracy in statements is, of course, very important, as I’m sure you realise, and mistakes can waste time and indeed change the outcome of an enquiry in certain instances. It’s always a pity when it is lacking, and indeed deliberate inaccuracies can be regarded as an offence. Do you have any other corrections?”

“No, no others.”

“Good. Then let’s go on.”

Weston’s evidence was without further dramatic input.

Fraser, his best man, he who had clearly been so distressed earlier, was called; he appeared shocked, strained; his answers were often faltering; then suddenly he spoke of his remorse that he had escaped “literally without a scratch, while everyone around us, it seemed, was horribly hurt. To this day, I feel bad. One of the doctors at the hospital was great; she told me how common that was, helped me to come to terms with it, this survivor-guilt thing.”

“I’m glad to hear it, Mr. Fraser. May I say, this kind of remorse is very common. It doesn’t mean you should feel you bear any of the blame. And we now know,” he added, looking directly at Toby, “that you were keen to do the right thing and check your tyres. I think you will find that gradually you will lose your sense of guilt. I hope so.”

More evidence followed: from a rather sleazy-looking chap, the white van driver, whose nail-studded planks had slithered out onto the road; Andrews rather enjoyed questioning him very closely as to how this had happened. It was not for him to apportion blame; it was still possible to make plain where blame lay.

And finally, an old lady gave evidence, a very anxious old lady, who said that she felt responsible in a small way, because she’d made Mr. Weston wait while she paid for her own petrol.

“I feel absolutely awful,” she said. “I kept thinking how wrong of me it had been; he asked to go first, he said he was in a terrible hurry, and for some reason, I told him he had to take his turn. Who knows, had I not done that, those young men might not have been caught in the accident, but arrived at the church in time, and… Well, I’d like to apologise to them.” She looked across at them both rather nervously.

“I really don’t think, Mrs. Mackenzie, you should feel too bad,” said Michael Andrews gently. “It would have made so little difference to the time and-”

“Yes, yes, but that little difference might have been crucial, don’t you think? I’m sure you know the old parable about the horseshoe nail?”

“I’m… not sure,” said Andrews.

“Oh, yes…” And as he waited, clearly expectant, she went on. “Well, it goes like this. ‘For the want of a nail a horseshoe was lost; for the want of a shoe the horse was lost; for the want of a horse the rider was lost; for the want of a rider the battle was lost; for the want of a battle, the kingdom was lost. And all for the lack of a horseshoe nail. Who knows? I might have been that nail. If you follow me.”

“I… think so, yes. But I think even the rather more tangible nail would not alone have kept them from the wedding, you know. Still it’s a very interesting thought. Thank you, Mrs. Mackenzie. You may step down now.”

It was five o’clock when Andrews rose to do his summing up. He was surprised by how positive an experience this inquest had been. Long, gruelling, and very sad at times-but uplifting in its own way: the courage displayed by the victims’ families, and indeed by some of the witnesses, the general clarity of the evidence. It had also been very satisfying to conduct; there had been no serious confusion, no conflicting evidence, no self-justification… except for that ghastly van driver chap.

It had been one of those rare things, this: an accident, pure and simple; nevertheless, for the families of the victims this was little comfort.

He began by speaking to them, saying how sad it was when lives were cut short… “any lives, not only young lives; one cannot compare or quantify losses or tragedies. Mr. Barnes had much to look forward to in his retirement; Sarah Tomkins had her whole life ahead of her; and for the Marks family a wife and a mother have both been lost. I am sure I speak for the whole court today when I say our hearts go out to you. Accidents are terrible things: one moment everything is under our control; the next we lose that control, fate takes over, and the world changes. No one can anticipate accidents, and they are in many cases virtually unavoidable. We have heard how the road on the afternoon in question was dangerous because of the recent spell of hot, dry weather and the heavy hailstorm; we have heard that no one was driving in any way dangerously. We have heard that the nut came off the wheel of Mr. Bryant’s E-Type not through lack of care, but if anything too much. We have heard that Mr. Connell was driving meticulously and that nothing could have prevented his lorry jack-knifing and his load spilling on the road. We have heard of much courageous and unselfish behaviour, and I would like to pay tribute in particular to Mr. Gilliatt, and of course to the emergency services and the staff at St. Marks Hospital, Swindon. And I would like to thank certain witnesses for their courage in coming forward when they were clearly nervous as to the outcome.

“There is much talk these days of the perfect storm-a confluence of weather patterns that separately would not be fatal or even dangerous, but which combine to be both; I would make an analogy between those perfect storms and this accident-everything conspiring to make it happen as and when it did. Rather as in the old nursery rhyme, as Mrs. Mackenzie reminded us. It is so easy to say if; and yes, if Mr. Weston had left the petrol station a few minutes earlier, if there had not been the queue for petrol, if the thunderstorm had not taken place… One can go on ad infinitum: the fact remains that it was not because these things happened in isolation; it was because they happened in a sequence that was tragically fatal. I therefore return the only verdict I can, that of misadventure.”

CHAPTER 52

Abi stalked out of the building. She felt absurdly near to tears. She looked behind her; there was no sign of William. Shit. She’d really upset him; he must have felt utterly betrayed. Dragging it all up again, more or less spelling out that she’d been chasing Jonathan Gilliatt, when she’d always sworn he’d done the chasing.

But… she knew that she had done the right thing. Her evidence had been, in a strange, subliminal way, a public apology to Laura. Not for having the affair with Jonathan, although she was pretty fucking sorry about that on her own account, but for what she’d done that night, at the party. Testifying had been hard, and it had certainly taken her by surprise; she’d never meant to say any of it, but she’d done it. Without telling a word of a lie either. Not technically, anyway, and certainly not in a way that would pervert the course of justice.

As she had returned to her seat, she’d been aware of two things. One was that William turned his back on her, as far as he was able. And then Laura turned round, and her eyes, meeting Abi’s, were very steady, no longer hostile. She didn’t smile at her, but there was no hostility in that look. It was almost gratitude. She knew what that meant. She’d got the message. An affirmation that at least Jonathan had had finished the affair that day, the day of the crash. She need feel humiliated no longer.

Abi had made her amends to Laura at last. She could close the book.

“Abi!” It was William. His face was dark with anger. She hadn’t seen him look like that before. He was always so even tempered, so level altogether.

“Yes, William.”

“What the fuck was that about?”

He never swore usually either. Not real swearing.

“I can’t talk about it here.”

“You’re going to bloody well have to talk about it somewhere.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because I want some answers.”

“To what?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

“I don’t think heaven has much to do with it. William, please leave me alone. You must have something to milk, or scan or something.”

He turned then, walked away, over to his mother; she watched them getting into the Land Rover, saw it drive off, saw his bleak, set face. She struggled not to cry.

And then suddenly she knew, with a certainty that took her by surprise, that she had to talk to William, to try to explain and tell him that even while it was clearly hopeless, she did love him. She had to tell him that, in order to be able to wipe the slate clean. She couldn’t leave it unsaid. She’d humiliated herself over one man today, in front of a crowded courtroom; she could certainly do it over another in private…

Barney thought he would never forget leaving that courtroom: alone. He thought he had never felt more alone in his life. He looked at Toby, getting into a car with someone who looked like a driver; still avoiding his eyes, he had positively scuttled out of the courtroom, bloody coward he was, as well as a total arsehole. He felt sick just thinking about him. And humiliated and totally stupid. OK, Toby had done the decent thing, in the end, but he had still been prepared to see Barney go to the wall to save his own skin. His best friend. His lifelong best friend. Barney could still hardly believe it.

He saw the Abi girl getting into her car. How extraordinary, saying all that in court. Humiliating herself, in a way. Pretty brave. Dead sexy she looked. Gilliatt must be a pretty cool customer to turn his back on her. The pretty blond wife-bit preppy, bit of an Amanda-must be very good at her job as well. Her job as a wife, that was. As Amanda would have been too. She-

“Hi. Nice to see you. Barney, isn’t it? How’s it going?”

It was Mark Collins, the surgeon who’d operated on Toby that day. In another time, another life altogether. When he’d had a lot. Instead of nothing.

“Yes. Hello.” He didn’t really want to talk to him. He didn’t want to talk to anybody. Ever again. But he managed to smile, took Collins’s outstretched hand.

“And your friend. Toby. I see he’s walking pretty well.”

“Pretty well, yes,” said Barney shortly.

“Has the wedding taken place yet? I was thinking about it the other day, wondering if you’d be here.”

“No,” said Barney, “no, it hasn’t. The wedding’s off. Cancelled. Actually.”

“I see.” He could see Collins was taken aback. “Oh… I’m sorry. What about yours? Weren’t you getting married too?”

“I was, yes. That’s off as well.”

“I see.” Now he was really embarrassed. Poor sod. Thought he was going to have a quick cheerful chat, and he’d got lumbered with an episode from some kind of a soap opera.

“Er… how’s Emma?” he said. He was astonished to hear himself asking, so terrified was he of the answer.

“Oh… she’s fine, yes. Off to pastures new when she can organise it.”

“Really? What, you mean to… to Milan?”

“What? Oh, no, no, that’s history, I think. No, she’s applying for new jobs. She’s very excited about something up in Scotland; not sure how that’s going.”

“Great. I mean, well, I hope she gets it. Give her… that is, remember me to her, please.”

“I will, Barney. Look… I’d better go. Dr. Pritchard’s waiting. Nice to see you, anyway.”

“Yes, sure. And… do give my regards to Emma.”

“I will. Cheers.”

And he was gone.

So… what had that meant? About Milan being history? That the boyfriend was history? Or just… no longer in Milan? Maybe he should call her. But… supposing she was with Luke again? It would be painful for her. Well… he’d made it pretty clear he hadn’t… forgotten her. Forgotten her. If only. If only you could do that to order, just neatly get rid of something, remove it, throw it away.

Throw away something that had become an intrinsic part of you, grown into you; entwined itself into your memories, tangled into your feelings, changed forever the way you were.

If only.

He got into his car and headed for the M4. The M4, where so much of his life had been changed forever. He would never hear the words again without a sense of absolute despair.

“Good day, dear?” Susan Andrews had been making marmalade; the house was warm and tangy and welcoming. Michael Andrews felt as he so often did after a day spent hearing sad stories of cutoff lives: that he was inordinately blessed.

“Yes. Yes, pretty good, I think.”

“Difficult?”

“No, not really difficult. It’s perfectly clear what happened. But… surprising in some ways. Extraordinary things, human beings. I’m always saying that, aren’t I?”

“Yes, dear, you are.”

“Brave and cowardly, foolish and wise, reckless and careful. All at one and the same time. Unbelievable, really.”

Susan Andrews looked at her husband. He was looking very drawn, in spite of his positive words.

“Come into the kitchen and have a cup of tea,” she said, “and tell me about it.”

Emma had been trying not to think about the inquest all day; but first Alex and then Mark had come in to tell her about it. About the various people they’d been involved with who were there, most notably Patrick Connell and, of course, Toby. “Funny chap, that,” Mark had said. “Some confusion over his evidence; he got very aerated. Oh, and your boyfriend was there, of course.”

“My… boyfriend? What do you mean?” she said.

“You know, the good-looking one, best man, you brought him up to the theatre that day when I operated on Weston’s leg.”

“Oh,” she’d said, “him. Yes, well, I supposed he would have been.”

“Nice chap,” said Mark, and then proceeded to tell her that not only was Toby’s wedding off, but so was Barney’s engagement. Adding that Barney had asked to be remembered to her. That had hurt her so much she could hardly bear it; she’d had to say she was in the middle of something and run to the loo, where she cried for a long time.

Barney had finished with Amanda, but he hadn’t got in touch with her. As rejections went, that was pretty final. How could it have happened? Where had it gone, that lovely, singing happiness they had found together, that instant closeness, that absolute certainty that they were right for each other? OK, their relationship hadn’t lasted long; it hadn’t needed to. It had been like a fireworks show: starting from nowhere and suddenly everywhere, explosive, amazing, impossible to ignore. And now… what? A poor, damp squib had landed, leaving nothing behind it, a bleak, sorry memento of the blazing display.

She knew now, absolutely certainly, that he didn’t want her. If he had, he would have called her; there was no reason on earth left not to. Probably, after all, it had just been a fling for him, fun, good indeed, but no more. The commitment had been fake, the love phony; he was probably even now pursuing some other well-bred, preppy creature more suited to his background, less of a discord in his life.

She would have been outraged had she not been so totally miserable; and maybe that would come. She hoped so. Meanwhile she felt like one of the girls she most despised: feebly clinging to what might have been, unable to break totally away. He’s gone, Emma; get over it.

But she hadn’t; and she couldn’t…

Abi drove into the farmyard just after six. The lights were on, and she could see Mrs. Grainger in the kitchen, bending over the kitchen table, making some no doubt wonderful dish or other. William often described what they’d had for lunch or supper; he was very keen on his food. She was clearly the most wonderful cook. Well, fine. William was never going to have to live with her cooking, her spag bol (usually burnt), her lamb chops (always burnt), her pasta salad (not burnt, but pretty tasteless, really). After today, he wasn’t going to have to have anything to do with her; he’d probably pull out of the festival, even; they’d have to find a new venue; Georgia would go mental; they’d-

“Yes?”

“Oh. Hello, Mrs. Grainger.”

She’d been so absorbed in her thoughts of William, she’d hardly realised she’d got out of the car and banged on the farmhouse door.

“Miss Scott!”

“Yes. It’s me. Sorry.”

“That’s perfectly all right. But if you want to see William I’m afraid you’re out of luck. He’s out on the farm.”

“Oh, right. What, in the dark?”

“Well… he’s in one of the buildings. He went off with his father.”

“Yes, I see. What, the milking parlour? Or the grain store, somewhere like that?”

“I imagine so.”

“But you don’t know which?”

“No, I couldn’t possibly say.”

“How long might they be?”

“I have no idea. As even you must realise”-God, she was an offensive woman-“farming is not a nine-to-five occupation. I think the best thing you can do is go home, and I’ll tell William you called. Then he can contact you in his own good time.”

“Mrs. Grainger, I really want to see him.”

“Well, no doubt you will.”

She began to close the door; Abi put her foot in the doorway.

“Please tell me where he is. I really won’t keep him long.”

“Miss Scott, I don’t know where he is…”

At this point, the old farm truck swung into the yard; Mr. Grainger got out of it.

Abi knew it was Mr. Grainger, not because she had ever been introduced to him, but because he looked exactly like William, or rather exactly as William might look in thirty-odd years. He looked at her rather uncertainly as she walked towards him.

“Hi. Mr. Grainger?”

“Good evening.”

“I’m looking for William. I’m a friend of his. Abi Scott. William might have mentioned me.”

“Ah, yes. The young lady involved in the concert. How’s it coming along?”

“Oh… pretty well. We’re so, so pleased to be able to have it here. Um… I wonder if you could tell me where William is?”

“Yes. Well, he was in the lambing shed. I left him there, working on the accounts. Would you like me to call him, to find out if he’s still there?”

“Um… no. No, it’s OK, thank you. I know where it is. I’ll just go and find him, if that’s all right.”

“Well… I suppose so, yes. You’ll drive down there, will you? Won’t do that smart car of yours much good.” He smiled at her. He seemed rather nice. What on earth was he doing with the old bat?

“Oh, it’s fine. Really. Yes. Thank you. Thank you, Mr. Grainger. And Mrs. Grainger, for your help,” she called towards the lighted doorway. Mrs. Grainger turned and went inside, followed by her husband.

“She seemed very nice,” he said. “Attractive girl, isn’t she? Not William’s usual type. Is there anything still going on, do you think?”

“I really couldn’t say,” said Mrs. Grainger. She had been making bread; she was kneading it now, almost viciously, Mr. Grainger thought.

Abi drove down the track to the lambing shed. Since the time spent in cottage number one, she’d got to know her way round the farm quite well.

It was very dark; she put her lights on full beam. Rabbits ran constantly out onto the track, and she kept stopping, fearful of running over them. William would have found that hugely amusing, she thought; he’d told her how he and his brother had parked the Jeep in the fields at night, turned the lights full on, and then shot the unsuspecting rabbits that were caught petrified in the beam.

It’s so cruel-how could you; they’re so sweet,” she’d said, and he’d said, “Abi, rabbits are total pests; they consume vast quantities of cereal if they’re not kept under control. And they make wonderful stew.”

Other smaller animals ran across her path as well-God knew what they were-and there was a hedgehog, frozen with terror until she turned the lights off and waited patiently while it scuttled away. A large bird suddenly swooped past her windscreen. An owl, she supposed; the first time William had pointed one out, she’d been amazed by how big its wingspan was.

She’d learnt a lot in her time with him.

She reached the shed; the office was at the far end of it, so he wouldn’t have seen her, although he might have heard the car. And probably thought it was his father. She switched the lights off, got out; the quiet was stifling. An owl-maybe the same one-hooted; something scuffled in the hedgerow near her. She reached for her bag-how absurd was that, to take a handbag with her? William was always teasing her about it, but it held her phone and her car keys, easier than carrying them separately. She stepped forward; it was very muddy, and that was-Oh, what! Gross… She’d stepped in a cowpat. She could see it in the light from the shed. A great, round, liquid pile of shit; and her boot, one of her precious new boots from Office-how very inappropriate-sank deep into it. She stood there, staring down at it, and thought it was rather symbolic-of her, also sunk deep into shit.

She eased her foot out and stepped gingerly forward towards the shed, wary of finding another. The cows didn’t usually come this way-it wasn’t their territory; maybe they’d got out of whatever field they were meant to be in. They did that, William had told her; they leaned on the fences endlessly, unless they were electric, all together, usually because they could see some better, more lush grass, with their great solid bulk, and every so often they managed to push them over and wander out. Only… actually, she’d thought they were usually kept inside this time of year, in the cowshed.

She made the door of the shed without further mishap, opened it, looked inside. It was still empty, no lambing going on yet, and very quiet. She closed the door after her and walked, as quietly as she could, down to the other end of the building, towards the outline of light round the door that had William behind it.

When she got there, she was suddenly rather frightened. Suppose he was abusive, started shouting at her. Suppose he actually hit her. She wouldn’t be able to blame him, if he did. Then she thought it would be totally out of his gentle character; and anyway, whatever happened, she couldn’t feel worse. Her sense of nobility from her actions in the court had left her; she just felt miserable and rather foolish.

She opened the door carefully; he was sitting at the desk with his back to her; didn’t even hear her at first. He was engrossed in a pile of forms; then he suddenly thrust them aside and sighed, very heavily, and pushed his hands through his hair.

“Hello,” she said. “Hello, William.”

He swung round; he looked extremely shocked. Not just surprised-shocked. Well, more like horrified, if she was truthful.

“Hello,” she said again.

“Hi.” His voice was dull, flat.

“I… came to find you.”

“As I see.”

“I… wanted to talk to you.”

“I really don’t think there’s anything to talk about.”

“There is, William.”

“Abi, there is not. I’m so tired of hearing your lies and your excuses and your phony concerns. Just go away, would you? I’m very busy.”

“No. Not till I’ve said what I’ve come to say.”

“I don’t see any point in your saying it. I won’t be able to believe it.”

“You could… try.” She looked down at her boot; it was a hideous sight, the greenish brown cow shit beginning to dry a little, cake round the edges.

“Um… do you have any newspaper or anything? Or maybe I could go into the toilet?”

“What for?”

“I stepped in some cow shit. Outside.”

“Oh, yes?”

He sounded absolutely disinterested. She felt a pang of panic.

“Yes. Actually, I was surprised; I thought you said you were keeping the cows in this time of year?”

“We’re keeping a few out this winter. As an experiment. To see if we can-” He stopped.

“If you can what?”

“Abi, you’re not really interested in cows. Or farming. Or me, come to that. Certainly not me. It’s all a bloody act. I can’t cope with it. Now go and clean up your fucking boot in the lavatory and then go. Please.”

Well, that was pretty final. Pretty clear. She really had blown it this time. She couldn’t imagine getting past this wall of indifference. And dislike. And mistrust. Better go. She’d tried, at least. Given it a go.

She walked through to the loo, pulled off her boot, sat wiping it with the toilet paper, rather feebly and helplessly. She didn’t seem to be able to see properly, and realised that her eyes were filled with tears. God, she was an idiot. Such a stupid, pathetic, hopeless idiot. He must hate her. Really hate her. Well, all she could hope for now was to escape with a bit of dignity. Dignity. Precious little she’d left for herself in the court that day. Saying to them all, “I fancied this man, this married man; I was running after him, actually, and he didn’t want me.” They must have all found it highly amusing.

She stood up again and walked back into the office. William was apparently absorbed in the forms again. He didn’t look round.

“Right,” she said, “well, bye, William, then. I’m… sorry.”

“I’m sure you are,” he said, and then suddenly, “Why did you do that today, for Christ’s sake? Why? In front of all those people, in front of me, rubbing my nose in it, telling everyone you… you’d wanted to go on with it, with that… that pile of shit, after what he’d done to you. Are you still in love with him or something? I don’t understand…”

“Oh, God,” she said, “no, of course I’m not in love with him; I loathe him; I’d like to see him strung up by his balls…”

“Well, then-”

“William, it’s so complicated. But I’ve always felt so bad-you know I have-about what I did that night. It’s not her fault, not Laura’s fault. You say I rubbed your nose in it; what did I do to her? And her kids? It was such a ghastly thing to do. And suddenly today, I thought… well, I didn’t exactly think. I just could see how I could put it a bit right. Let her know that her vile, slimy husband-how she can still be with him I don’t know-but anyway, he had wanted to finish it that day. To get rid of me. That it hadn’t still been going on. I just… just… felt I owed it to her. It wasn’t easy,” she added.

“And how do I know that’s true?” he said, and his face was harsh and distorted, a stranger’s face, not kind, gentle William’s at all. “How do I know it wasn’t some kind of a… a bid to get him back? To have him thinking well of you again? You’ve told me so many lies, Abi, about him, about your relationship; how can I be expected to believe anything? And then there was all that shit about how terrible you felt about the child; I had to listen to that, and did I think you should ring him-ring him, for Christ’s sake-you ask me that, and then how scared you were of the inquest today. It was fucking endless. Endless. And you seemed to have no idea at all how much it hurt, how horrible it was for me. It was all about you, you, you. You didn’t seem very scared, incidentally; you seemed very cool and collected. Almost enjoying it, I’d say. Star of the show.”

“That’s a horrible thing to say.”

“Well, it was a horrible thing to do. Now, please, just go away. Leave me alone.”

She walked the length of the shed, her heels clacking on the stone floor. And then stopped. She’d left her bag behind. How stupid was that. She’d have to return, go back into that office, confront him again, confront all that dislike, that sullen, heavy hostility. Horrible. She might have left it there if it hadn’t had her car keys in it. But… she couldn’t get home without them. She turned, walked back as quietly as she could, opened the door.

“Sorry,” she said. “Sorry, William, I-”

And then she stopped. Because he wasn’t looking at the forms anymore; he was sitting with his head in his arms on the desk; and when he looked round at her, she saw that he was weeping.

“Oh, William,” she said, her own tears blurring her vision again, stepping forward, bending over him, putting her arm on his shoulders. “William I…”

And, “Don’t,” he said, turning away, so that she couldn’t see his face, “don’t touch me.”

“But-”

“Don’t,” he said. “I’ll go mad if you do.”

“All right,” she said, and very slowly, reluctantly almost, she drew back and would have left then; only he suddenly put out his hand and caught hers in it, and held it, and sat looking at it, as if he wasn’t sure how it had come to be there at all; and then he turned it, palm upwards, and bent his head and kissed it, kissed the palm, very sweetly and tenderly and then…

“Christ,” he said, “dear God, Abi, what are you?” And then she pushed his head up and began to kiss him, desperate, hungry for him, her mouth working frantically at his, moaning, almost crying with wanting him, and then suddenly she was astride him on the chair and he had pushed up her sweater and his mouth was on her breasts, licking, teasing, pleasing them, and then she stood up and wrenched off her dress and her pants and then she was astride him again, and he was sinking into her, up her, creating great, searing waves in her of a raw, sweet violence and pleasure that was so close to pain she could hardly bear it, and she came so fast it was shocking, and felt him come too; and they both stayed there for what seemed like a long time, his head on her breast, and she felt him sigh, and then sigh again; then he said, his voice still heavy, “I shouldn’t have done that; I’m sorry.”

“William, you should, you should; it was wonderful, so, so lovely; I’ve wanted it for so long.”

“For so long?” he said. “You can’t have, you-”

And, “I did, I did,” she said, “so much I could hardly bear it; every time I saw you I wanted it and-”

“You too,” he said, and suddenly it came, his wonderful giggle. “That is just so… so stupid…”

“What do you mean, me too-you’re not saying you wanted it too?” she said.

And, “Yes,” he said, “of course I did, you silly cow…”

“Don’t call me a silly cow.”

“Why not? It’s a compliment; you know how much I love my girls.”

“Oh, all right. Go on.”

“Abi, it was driving me insane; I wanted you so much, and I thought you didn’t want me, that you just saw me as a… a… well, I didn’t know how you saw me. Some kind of loser, I suppose…”

“Loser! William, you can’t have thought that…”

“Well, I did, of course I did, and then today…”

“Oh, God,” she said, “oh, William, I’m so, so sorry about today. I really am…”

“Don’t keep saying that,” he said, “please. Let today go. Please. It upsets me, even now; I don’t want to…”

“All right. But I have something to tell you… something rather awful, in a way. I don’t know what to do about it, but I have to tell you, just so-”

“Jesus,” he said, and his expression had changed-was wary suddenly, almost scared. “Jesus, Abi, there’s someone else; is that what you…”

“Someone else! William, how can you even think such a thing? There’s never going to be someone else, not now, not ever. I love you, William. That’s what I have to tell you. I… well, I love you.”

“You what?” he said, and his tone was so odd, filled with disbelief, and his face too, with something close to shock, and she felt quite scared herself, but she had to go on, had to know he knew, just so they could go forward, in whatever direction that might be.

“I said I love you, and I don’t care what you think; I don’t care if you don’t want to hear it. I love you, William. So, so much, I can’t begin to tell you. But if you don’t want me-and I wouldn’t blame you-I swear I’ll never come near you again; I absolutely swear it…”

“You’d better bloody not,” he said, and her heart literally sank; she felt it, heavy and sad and infinitely disappointed.

“I won’t,” she said. “I-”

“No,” he said, “I mean you’d better bloody not swear it. Do you think I want to lose you, you stupid, stupid girl? Do you think I don’t want you…?”

“Well… I-”

“Abi. Say it again. Keep saying it. I can’t hear it enough.”

“All right,” she said. “OK, I love you, William. I really love you. I’ve never said that before, except to my dad-oh, and maybe to that boy I told you about, the one who-”

“Do shut up,” he said. “I don’t want to hear about any boys.”

“No, sorry, I’m just trying to be truthful. Completely truthful. I love you, William. I always have, from that first day, I think, only I-”

“You can’t do,” he said, staring at her.

“But I do. If you mean because of how I’ve behaved, well, I’m pretty bloody stupid. As you know. But ignoring that, I do love you. I love everything about you. I love the way you look, and the way you talk, and the way you giggle, and I love having sex with you so, so much; it’s just… just… Oh, don’t laugh, William; don’t laugh at me; it’s not funny; it’s pathetic, really, sitting here without any clothes on, telling you all this when you made it pretty clear about half an hour ago that you thoroughly disliked me-”

“Of course I don’t dislike you,” he said, his tone impatient. “I love you too, Abi. I really, really do love you. I can’t imagine life without you now; that was why I was so miserable and… and hostile to you. I… Oh, hell. Look, do you think we could move? I’m getting a cramp in one of my legs.”

“You… love me?”

“Yes, I love you too. I just said so, didn’t I? I’m a simple sort of chap, you know; I don’t go in for anything very complex.”

Abi stood up. She felt very odd. Odd and physically feeble.

“OK. Sorry about the cramp. Shall we… shall we move over to the couch? And maybe we could… could… Why are you laughing, William? I don’t see what’s so funny.”

“You are,” he said. “If you could see yourself you’d see it.”

“Well, thanks.”

“No, really. Stark naked from the waist down, except for a pair of boots. One covered in cow shit. Quite appropriate, really.”

She looked down at herself and grinned. “No wonder I was getting cold.”

“You look cold. Here…” He went and pulled a large green sheet off a hook on the door. “Let’s put this over us.”

“What is it? It looks sort of waterproof.”

“It is. We use it for… Well, never mind. It might put you off.”

“It stinks,” she said.

“Yes, well, so do I quite a lot of the time. I’m not always freshly washed and brushed up, you know. You’re going to have to get used to smells. If you’re going to be a farmer’s wife.”

“A what?”

“A farmer’s wife. Well, I’m not going to change careers. Even for you.”

“Did you say wife?”

“Yes, I did. It seems the best thing to me. Don’t you want that?”

“William, William, but I can’t cook.”

“You’ll learn.”

“And I feel sorry for rabbits.”

“You’ll get over it.”

“And foxes.”

“You’ll certainly have to get over that.”

“And I’m not posh.”

“Good.”

“Oh, William, I’d love to marry you. Love, love, love it.”

“Me too.” He looked at her and grinned suddenly. “Really love it. Now, if we could just… ah, I think… yes, someone’s coming through the shed. Um, ah, hallo, Mother.”

Mrs. Grainger, clad in Barbour and headscarf and heavy green wellies, looked at Abi-at her naked lower half, her tousled hair, her smudged eye makeup, her high-heeled, shitty boots.

“Yes, hallo, William,” she said.

“Mother, I have some really exciting news. Abi has agreed to marry me.”

This is what happiness looks and sounds like, Mary thought, smiling at Russell: a warm room, thick curtains closed against the cold night, a big jug of winter jasmine on the mantelpiece, a log fire, a concert (Haydn) on the wireless-now, Mary, not wireless, but Russell’s state-of-the-art sound system; not that it mattered, the music was lovely anyway-new silks for a new tapestry spread out on her sewing table, Russell contentedly sipping at his bourbon and leafing through travel brochures, planning a trip to Italy for them in the spring. And by the hearth, slumbering sweetly, curled up with one another, the latest additions to their household: two Persian blue kittens.

How lucky she was, how lucky they both were, to have found so much so late, and not to have been disappointed by it in any respect.

“You obviously did so well today, Sparrow. I wish I’d come now, I’d have been so proud of you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, there was nothing to be proud of…”

“Oh now, you say that, but Georgia told me how you recited that nursery rhyme to the judge-”

“The coroner.”

“Pardon me, the coroner.”

“And what on earth was Georgia telling you that for?”

“She said you’d told her I was tired, and she was worried about me. Really, Sparrow, people will think I’m an invalid or an old man if you keep talking like that.”

“How could anyone think you were an old man,” said Mary, walking over to him and kissing the top of his head, “when you look so extremely youthful and handsome? Anyway, I didn’t recite it exactly…”

“She said you did.”

“Well, maybe I did. Anyway, it caught his fancy and he quoted it in his summing up at the end. Which was very nice. And I said how anxious I had been about holding up the young man-the bridegroom, you know-and the coroner said-such a courteous, kind man-that I should have no concerns about it, that it would have made no difference. I still think perhaps it might, but… he was so very good at his job, Russell; everyone left looking happier, even the poor families of those who died.”

“Good. And Georgia was happier at the end of it?”

“So much happier. He was very gentle with her.”

“Good. Well, he sounds like a fine chap.”

“He is a fine chap.”

“Well done anyway. Oh, my Sparrow. You don’t have any regrets, do you?”

“Regrets?” she said, surprised at the question. “Of course not. Unless it is that we weren’t together sooner. But then, we couldn’t have been, could we?”

“Not playing it your way, no. If it had been down to me, we’d have had sixty years together now, instead of six months.”

“I know, I know. But… we did the right thing.”

She sat smiling into the fire, remembering. She had been seventeen at the beginning of the war, Donald nineteen; she had loved him so much, and if anyone had told her she would fall in love with someone else, she would not have believed them; she would have said her heart was far too occupied, her future too settled. But Russell had been irresistible. She told him so now.

“I wasn’t, though, Sparrow, was I? You resisted me very well.”

“I know. But it was more… as you know, keeping faith with Donald. I suppose I might have changed my mind at one stage. But then, you know…”

“I know. The letters.”

The many letters from Donald, in a prisoner-of-war camp in Italy, all telling her that it was only knowing she was there, waiting for him, that was keeping him going at all.

“Yes. I couldn’t have failed him, Russell, could I?”

“I don’t believe you could. Being you.”

“And I was happy, and so indeed were you. And we have each other now. It’s been so perfectly lovely, these past months. At long, long last. Worth waiting for.”

“Worth it indeed… Now, Mary, do you think Rome and then Florence or the other way round? Remember we’ll have just spent a month in New York; I’ll have been working, so we’ll need a proper break. Maybe we should take a villa in the Tuscan hills and base ourselves there and then we can travel at our leisure; we could hire a driver… or we could take the train between the two; that sounds a lovely journey.”

“I think either would be very nice. You do have to do this month in New York, do you, working so hard? I’m sure Morton could manage with your being there for a shorter time…”

“Mary, we have a very big shareholders’ meeting at the beginning of April; it’s essential I’m there, and we have to prepare for that.”

“Yes, but Russell, dear, perhaps you don’t. You’ve been tired lately, even living down here and-”

“That’s purely because I had a touch of flu. I’m never tired normally, as you very well know.”

“Of course not, dear. Well… I think the villa sounds a wonderful idea. Although…”

“Yes?” Russell smiled at her. “I’m getting to know your ‘althoughs.’”

“Well, you know, we could just stay here. Spring in England is so very lovely, and I can’t imagine anything nicer than sitting in the garden and going for walks and just… well… just sharing all of it with you, hearing the birds-they sing so beautifully in the spring-oh, and I’ve been meaning to tell you, I think there’s a thrush nesting in the apple tree; I’ve been watching it, either Mr. or Mrs. Thrush, I’m never sure which, flying in and out, in and out with twigs… We’ll have to watch our wicked kittens; we don’t want any tragedies… And then we can see the bulbs come up-we don’t know what will grow where; it will be so exciting-and then there’ll be the blossoms on the trees in the orchard, and… But of course, if you’ve set your heart on Italy…”

“I think I have, dearest Sparrow. We have plenty of years to enjoy the English spring, and I do so want to see Italy with you. I…”

Mary was bending over her silks now, sorting out the blues and the greens; she was not looking at Russell, so she did not see his face suddenly change, did not see him momentarily thump at his chest, nor the fright in his eyes; nor did she notice that he was slowly slumping down in his chair; all she was aware of was an odd sound, halfway between a whimper and a gasp, and by the time she did look up, he was losing consciousness fast and she was never to know whether he heard her as she cradled his head in her arms and whispered again and again how much she loved him.

CHAPTER 53

It had been a stroke, they said: a massive haemorrhage in his brain. If he had recovered, he would have been paralysed, probably unable to speak. Or to smile, Mary thought-there would have been no more of that wonderful, quick, loving smile; or indeed of anything else that made him Russell: not just the brilliant blue eyes, the thick white hair, the beautifully kept hands, the proudly erect back; but the fast, almost urgent walk, the swift turn of his head, the way he sat lost to the world, visibly devouring books, the absurdly careful way he folded things-his table napkin, his scarf, the Wall Street Journal… how often had she teased him about that-the way he laughed, slowly at first, almost reluctantly, then throwing his head back and giving himself up to jokes, to amusement, to fun.

And his voice, not deep, quite light really, but very clear, calling her as he did a hundred times a day, for he liked to know where she was in the house, not so much to be constantly with her as to be able to find her if he needed to. “Where are you, Sparrow?” he would shout from the hall, the kitchen, his study, and she would answer him, quite impatiently sometimes, for she liked to do as she pleased, be where she wished… And what would she have given now, she thought, arriving home that first day from the hospital, arriving home to that quiet, dead house, to be summoned, called to account. Now she could wander where she would, from room to room, to the garden and beyond, and no one would care or need to know.

He had died peacefully and apparently happily, twenty-four hours after the stroke, with Mary holding his hand; she hoped above all things that he knew she was there. The nurses assured her he would.

She had sat by him almost all that time. “They don’t make them like that anymore,” one of the nurses said, looking at her small, upright figure, her eyes fixed on Russell’s face, and indeed they did not, the doctor had agreed; they were a special breed, her generation, with the courage to face down for six long years the worst that a savage enemy could do to them and still remain strong, generous, merry hearted.

When she finally became exhausted, they urged her to sleep, but she refused to leave the room, and they brought her a bed so that she could stay with him. She slept fitfully, woke every hour or so to make sure that he had not gone, and was afraid even to go to the bathroom they had made available to her.

“He won’t go without you, Mary,” the ward sister had said. “He’ll wait until you are back with him again; they do, I promise you.” But she didn’t believe her and each time came scuttling back into the room, fearful of not having properly been with him at this, their darkest hour together.

She had been told that hearing was the last sense to go, and she talked to him from time to time, told him how much she loved him, how happy she had been with him, how wonderful their few months together had been.

“I shall go to Italy, dearest Russell,” she said, “even without you. I will see it for you, all those wonders, as I know you would have wished. And I shall watch the spring garden grow and the apple trees blossom in the orchard, and when the baby thrushes fly I will know you are part of it all.”

Every so often his hold on her hand tightened and she would tense, thinking he was coming back to her; once he seemed to try to speak; once he half smiled. But in the end he left her, slipped away with a sigh and a long, long breath, and she knew it was over without having to be told, knew that she was alone now, alone in the room, alone in the world.

They all came, of course, his children. Shocked, grieving, but saying that it had after all been a blessing, given how much he would have been changed, how poor the quality of his life would have been, and that he could not have suffered; it had been so swift, so mercifully swift. Mary listened, politely patient, nodding, smiling, sometimes weeping, but thinking that he was their father, not their husband; he was not the centre of their worlds anymore. So much easier to see it as a blessing, given all that; so very much harder for her.

Her children came too, Christine remorseful, as well as visibly grieving; Douglas shocked; and Tim and Lorraine both genuinely and horribly upset. All rallying round, loving her, but quite unable to comfort her, to ease the jagged place in her heart.

She kept telling herself that a year ago, Russell had been no more to her than a writer of letters, a happy memory. She had been content then; she would be content again. But it was not quite true, for she had changed; Russell’s love and vigour and generosity had brought her back to life, had given her indeed more life, a new, broader, richer one. She had grown accustomed to a voice in the darkness, a presence in the bed, a smile first thing in the morning, a kiss last thing at night; to a face opposite her at the table, an arm to take as she walked. She had come to enjoy ideas, suggestions, to being argued and reasoned with, to being appreciated and loved.

The funeral was small, family only, apart from the Connells, who had become family. In the same little church where the wedding had been. Maeve found it almost unbearable, looking at Mary standing beside the flower-covered coffin, all alone, when three months earlier she had stood beside Russell, becoming so happily his wife. She was brave, so brave-cried only once, when the coffin was carried in-and after that held her small, strong self together.

Morton spoke of a wise and wonderful father who had been all the world to him; and then Tim, briefly, of a new grandfather in his life whom he had come to love and revere.

“And who made my grandmother absolutely happy. They never seemed old to us, just a wonderful couple who had found each other, and relaunched their lives. We shall remember him always. And we will take care of Grandma for him.”

And then Russell left the church again, and was buried in the small churchyard; Mary stood looking down into the grave, quite composed, even when she threw the handful of earth onto the coffin; then she walked quickly away, on Tim’s arm. Her flowers went into the coffin, with her simple message: “Russell, thank you, with all my love.”

Morton stayed only a few days, Coral and Pearl for over a week; Mary was glad of their company but more glad when they left. She wanted the house to herself, to grieve and to explore her feelings. It seemed very large, very empty, very silent. But Russell lingered in every room.

One of the hardest things to deal with was his clothes, the vast dressing room in which he stored literally dozens of suits-more than Donald had had in his whole life, she thought: jackets, trousers, shirts, drawers full of ties and sweaters and belts and the silk pyjamas without which he said he would not be able to sleep. She stood there one afternoon, looking at them all, remembering him buying them-or some of them-seeing him wearing them, wondering where to begin sorting them out and getting rid of them… and then realised she did not have to begin at all. They could stay there for as long as she wished.

She applied the same principle to his study, to all his absurd gadgets, some of them hardly used, most of them quite useless to her; she called Timothy and told him to come and take what he wanted, and then after that she simply kept it all.

It was all part of Russell, this superabundance of things; and therefore, now, part of her.

She found routine helpful; she walked in the morning, watched TV in the evenings, in the company of the kittens-another source of comfort-making a great effort to watch at least some of the vast number of DVDs Russell had brought and told her she would enjoy… and in the afternoon, she played the piano, his last gift to her. She found this more comforting than anything; she had found a teacher, a sparky sixty-year-old called Genevieve, who came to the house twice a week, saw exactly what Mary needed, and created quite a punishing programme of pieces and practice. Moreover, if Mary hadn’t done her practice, she didn’t tell her it didn’t matter, but that if she hadn’t improved by her next lesson, she wouldn’t teach her anymore. She also entered Mary for her grade-three piano exam (she had passed one and two as a child) and booked several concerts for them to attend together in Bath, “just so you can hear how it should be done.” Mary was frequently to be found weeping over the piano in the afternoons, partly through frustration, partly through sorrow, but she knew it was helping her more than she would have believed.

People were very kind: Tim and Lorraine came once a week, sometimes in the evening, sometimes at the weekend, and Christine came twice, once to take her mother to the farmers’ market, which she enjoyed, and once to have lunch with her at home. She had ventured quite early on into the realms of apology for her hostility to Russell; Mary told her quite briskly to be quiet.

“You came to the wedding, dear-that was marvellous-and became friends with Russell after that, and I really don’t want to discuss it any further.”

Everyone told her she was being wonderful; Mary thought they should see her at night, when she had gone to bed, and wept and sometimes howled with misery.

Other people visited her: Georgia had been terribly upset and wept so long and so copiously after Tim had called her-they had made rather good friends at the wedding, so good indeed that Lorraine had become quite spiky-that her mother thought something dreadful had happened to her.

“It is dreadful,” Georgia wailed; “Russell has died, and I was going to visit them the very next week, and now I’ll never see him again and I can’t bear it.”

“You won’t see him again, Georgia, no, but neither will Mary. She’s the one something dreadful has happened to, and I think she’s the one who feels she can’t bear it. Go and see her, keep her company, tell her about your life, go for walks with her-that’s what you can do for her now.

“Sometimes,” Bea said to Jack with a sigh, “I feel Georgia’s development was arrested at about the age of six.”

Georgia telephoned Mary to arrange a day, and Mary said that if she was coming on the train, then she would send the car to meet her in Bath. Georgia, who felt her visit should be as difficult as possible by way of reparation, said that wouldn’t be necessary and arrived therefore an hour and a half late on the twice-daily bus to Tadwick. Mary, who had by then decided she couldn’t be coming, was trying to comfort herself by playing the piano, which was in fact rather fortuitous, as Georgia found some old sheet music of Russell’s and they spent an extremely happy afternoon together, Georgia singing while Mary accompanied her.

“Right,” Georgia said when they were both exhausted and she was hoarse, “that’s Oklahoma and My Fair Lady ticked off; next week we’ll do Annie Get Your Gun and Carousel. And how do you think you’d be with Scott Joplin? This is fun.”

“It is indeed,” said Mary, “and next week, dear, please do allow yourself to be driven. We’ll have more time together; we can even go for a walk as well.”

Georgia ’s visit had cheered Mary immensely; she insisted on hearing all about the festival and said she’d be there.

“Really? Goodness, Mary, that would be… well… wonderful,” said Georgia slightly doubtfully. “But it’ll be very noisy and… well, very noisy. And a lot of people.”

“That’s fine; I like noise and lots of people. Tim and Lorraine can look after me, or perhaps the Connells; I presume they’ll be there. I may not stay very long, and I certainly won’t be camping, but I’d love to see it all.”

“You are so cool,” said Georgia, giving her a kiss.

Two days later a letter arrived from Mary, enclosing a cheque for a thousand pounds.

“You said you were hoping to find a sponsor for your festival. Of course, I am not in that league, and I’m sure this won’t make a great deal of difference, but it might pay for some posters or something. I know that Russell would have loved to have helped you; he so loved young people-as I do-and even got involved. In fact, he rather fancied himself a song-and-dance man; you might have got more than you bargained for! Please pass this to your committee as a token of my great interest and pleasure in being involved, in a small way.”

“Shit!” said Abi, when Georgia told her. “A thousand fucking quid! Shit!”

Georgia felt that this was not quite the response Mary might have expected, but thought that she would have recognised its sincerity all the same.

The other person who came to visit, to Mary’s great delight, was Emma. She was very upset to hear that Russell had died… “I shall never forget seeing him in the Dorchester that night,” she wrote, “and thinking how handsome he was. And it was such a privilege to come to your wedding. If you’d like a little visit from me, please let me know; if not don’t give it a moment’s thought.”

Mary wrote back and said that the only thought she had given it was how very nice it would be to see her.

“Come and have lunch with me, when you can. I shall look forward to it so much.”

Emma arrived with a large bunch of daffodils, and was then mortified to see the drive down from the gate to the house lined with them.

“Talk about coals to Newcastle.”

“No,” said Mary, taking the daffodils, leading her into the kitchen, where Mrs. Salter found them a huge white jug. “I hate picking them, you see; they die so quickly, and it’s wonderful to have yours.”

“Well… I’m glad,” said Emma slightly doubtfully. “Goodness, that is a lovely smell.”

“What, dear, the daffodils? I never can find much of a perfume in them, to be honest.”

“No, no, it’s bread. Baking bread. Isn’t it?” she said to Mrs. Salter.

“It is, my dear, yes.”

“My mum used to make bread when we were all at home,” said Emma. “I’ve never done it, although I sort of know how. It’s hardly worth it for just for me.”

“Time enough when you have a family of your own,” said Mrs. Salter.

Emma nodded and smiled politely, thinking that while it was clearly ridiculous to completely write off the family of her own, and the bread she might make for it, its likelihood in the near future was so small as to be inconsiderable, given that the only person she would wish to have fathered the family clearly cared for her not in the least, and she had neither the energy nor the inclination to even begin looking for another. Damn Barney. Damn him. It was as if he’d cast a spell on her, rendered her incapable of normal sexual and emotional thought. She had to get over him; she had to.

Mary suggested a walk round the garden after lunch.

“I was half thinking you might be at the inquest,” she said, tucking her arm in Emma’s.

“Oh… no. I had nothing to do with it. No point, really.”

“Dr. Pritchard was there. He gave some very good evidence, spoke so well. Such a charming man.”

“Yes, he is a sweetheart. And he’s very happy with Linda, you know? The lady he brought to your… your…” She stopped, clearly afraid of stirring up unhappy emotions.

Mary smiled at her, patted her arm.

“My wedding. Nothing makes me happier than thinking about that day, Emma. Nothing. Wonderful things, good memories.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Emma. She sighed without meaning to, then thought how selfish she was. “Sorry.”

“Is anything the matter, dear? You look tired.”

“No, no, I’m fine. Really. Well… maybe a bit tired. It’s hard work, A and E. I was on nights all last week. Takes time to get over that.”

“I’m sure. Well, if that’s all. Now, I wonder if you heard from Georgia, and those two young men, the bridegroom-Mr. Weston, I think his name was-and his best man, Barnaby someone…”

“Fraser?”

“Yes, that’s right. They were both there, of course. I was able to apologise to them, rather obliquely. I always felt I’d held them up, you know, wouldn’t let Mr. Weston go in front of me in the queue. And then Barnaby paid a tribute to someone I thought might have been you.”

“Me!”

“Yes, dear. Not necessarily, of course, but he said how a doctor at the hospital had helped him so much to get over his… his guilt at escaping from the whole thing without a scratch. I believe there’s some technical phrase for it.”

“Oh… yes. Yes, there is. Survivor guilt.”

“That’s it. Yes, and Georgia said you’d been wonderful with her, very kind and patient.”

“Goodness.” She felt herself blushing. “Um, what… what exactly did he say; can you remember?”

“Let me think. Not much more than that, really. But I thought it was you because he said ‘she.’ ‘She helped me so much,’ he said.”

“Oh. Oh, well, maybe it was me. I don’t… That is… Oh, dear.”

And as the memories swept over her-of those early conversations with Barney, of how she tried to comfort him and to reassure him about Toby, and then the day, the fateful day of Toby’s operation, when it had all begun between them-she suddenly felt her eyes fill with tears.

“Oh, now, you mustn’t cry.” Mary looked at her with great concern. “Or rather, cry as much as you like-so helpful, tears, I’ve always found-but then tell me all about it, what’s upsetting you. Shall we go back inside? Mrs. Salter has made some scones; I do know that…”

“I’d better not come and see you too often, or I’ll be the size of a house,” said Emma, smiling through her tears.

“I hardly think so, dear. And if you mean that, I shall give you a glass of water and a dry biscuit next time. Come along, let’s go in; here, I’ve got a hankie you can borrow; it’s quite clean…”

“… and it’s just so stupid,” said Emma. “I mean, why can’t I get over him, just forget about him and move on?”

“I expect because it has never been properly resolved,” said Mary gently. “You parted thinking it was only for a few weeks, knowing you loved each other…”

“Thinking we loved each other. He clearly doesn’t love me.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Mary, if he did, then surely he’d have contacted me. He knows I’m not with Luke-that was my boyfriend before, the one at the Dorchester that night-and I know he’s not with Amanda. So… if he wanted to see me, then surely he would have called me. Or something.”

“He might be thinking exactly as you are. Why haven’t you contacted him, when you know it’s over with Amanda…”

“He doesn’t know I know.”

“I thought you said he told your doctor friend.”

“Oh… yes. Yes, that’s right.”

“Well…?”

“Oh, Mary, I’d look such a fool. If there was someone else.”

“Does that matter? So much? There are worse things, after all.”

She considered this.

“Maybe not. It would be a terrible risk.”

“Most worthwhile things are a risk, Emma. It was a risk for me, you know, meeting Russell again after all those years. It could have spoilt everything, spoilt all those wonderful memories; it could have been dreadful. But… I decided it was worth it. You ring your Barnaby The worst that can happen is that you’ll know he doesn’t love you anymore-know for certain. And you’ll feel a little foolish. And then at least you can move on.”

“Yes, but, Mary, it’s been so long now. Months and months since we met. However much he cared for me, if he did, surely he’d have got over it by now. Forgotten me.”

“My darling,” said Mary very gently, “Russell didn’t forget me or get over me, nor I him. We waited more than sixty years for each other. Love survives, you know. Forever, if need be.”

CHAPTER 54

It was all very astonishing. She still couldn’t quite believe it: that she was actually in a relationship with him, seeing him all the time, sleeping with him even. It just didn’t seem possible.

But… it was.

It had all begun the day after the inquest; he’d asked her for a drink-again-and when she’d said she didn’t think so, he’d said, “Please, Georgia. I want to hear about how yesterday went. I was thinking about you all day.”

She was touched by that-that he should care.

“Well… all right. A quick one,” she said. “Thank you.”

They were rehearsing in downtown Chiswick; he took her to a bar in the High Road, not the pub, insisted on buying her a cocktail. She was surprised, but tried not to read too much into it. Maybe he had more money, now that he was a first assistant.

She’d told him about the inquest, in some detail. She thought he might be bored, but she didn’t care. It was good to talk about it, and she wasn’t into impressing Merlin anymore. There was no point.

“It must have been terrifying,” he said, “reliving it publicly like that. Such a ghastly experience.”

“Yes, it was. Especially having to talk about why I… well, ran away. But, you know, it was actually the best thing. I really feel it’s over now. I never did before.”

“Well… good for you,” he said, and then added, looking as close to embarrassed as Merlin ever could, “I think you’re marvellous, Georgia.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” she said, mildly irritated even by such excess, “of course I’m not. I’m a wimp. You of all people know that. Weeping and wailing all over the set of Moving Away, saying everyone hated me, that I couldn’t do the part. Honestly, Merlin. Not marvellous at all.”

“Well, I’m entitled to my opinion,” he said, smiling at her. “Another one of those?”

“Oh… why not?”

When he came back, she took a deep breath and said, “How’s… Ticky?”

“Oh… she’s fine. Yes. Fine.”

“Good.” She could hear a but somewhere; she didn’t even dare think about what it might be.

“Yes. Fine. Doing really well in New York. But”-here it came-“but she… I… Well, we’re not together anymore.”

“You’re not together. Oh, Merlin, I’m sorry. So sorry.”

He looked so wretched, she really was sorry. She didn’t feel remotely glad. Well… not very remotely…

“Yeah, well. You know. It was hard conducting a relationship across two continents. It just wasn’t… wasn’t working anymore.”

And if anyone had stopped it working, Georgia thought, it would have been Ticky Not Merlin. No doubt whatsoever about that.

He sighed. “I miss her, of course. I miss her like hell. But… we were never together anyway. Or hardly. So what’s new?”

“A lot, I guess,” Georgia said. And then said again, “I’m sorry, Merlin.”

“You’re so sweet,” he said, “to be so nice about it. But then you would be. You’re such a nice person, Georgia.” There was a pause; then he said, “I hope you didn’t feel I was… well, playing around with you a bit. On Moving Away. I mean, I wasn’t; I really enjoyed your company and I hoped I was helping. But after the party, I thought that maybe…”

“Merlin, of course I didn’t,” she said, her eyes meeting his in absolute astonishment. “Of course not. I just was so glad to have you as a friend. You were marvellous. A sort of wonderful big brother. But… heavens, no, it never even crossed my mind.”

If I ever get an Oscar, she thought, I won’t have acted any better than that.

The next thing that happened was that he became involved in the festival. He thought it was a wonderful idea; he was clearly and genuinely impressed by how much they had achieved. And it turned out that he knew a lot of bands as friends-“mostly unsigned, but…”

“We’re looking for unsigned. Although we’re hoping to find quite a few through these play-offs we’re organising. We’ve had a pretty big response to our flyers…”

“Yeah, that’s a very clever idea.”

“It is, isn’t it? We still need a headliner, though. Do you know anyone remotely famous?”

He thought, then said, “I might. I’ll see what I can do.”

Three days later, she rang Abi.

“Abi, Abi, Abi, you’ll never believe this. We’ve got BroadBand. And they can do the eighth. So we can get the Web site up and running…”

“Ohmigod. Oh. My. God. BroadBand! How, why-”

“Oh, you know what they say,” said Georgia carelessly. “It’s not what you know; it’s who you know.”

Merlin came to the next committee meeting. Abi was initially deeply suspicious of him-in fact, she’d told Georgia he sounded like a complete wanker. Georgia defended him rather feebly.

“He really isn’t, Abi. He’s actually very sweet and kind. Honestly.”

“Doesn’t sound too sweet and kind to me, treating you how he did.”

“No, no, you don’t understand; he didn’t treat me any way, not like that; he really, really wanted to help, he told me, and he apologised if I felt he’d… well, you know…”

“Played around with you?”

“But he didn’t. He behaved like a gentleman, honestly, always; he never tried anything…”

“I never did like gentlemen,” said Abi.

“But you’re marrying one.”

Abi was silent for a moment; then she grinned.

“Yeah. S’pose I am. Still can’t believe it. God, Georgia, he’s bought me the most amazing rock; it’s being sized right now, but it’s just so… so beautiful. Mind you, I’ll make the most terrible farmer’s wife; I don’t understand any of it, and God knows how I’m going to deal with the in-laws. Specially her.”

“Abi, I’d back you against any mother-in-law. Against anything on the planet, really. I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

In the event, Abi quite liked Merlin; he made her laugh, and he certainly knew a lot about festivals.

“My parents used to take me to Glastonbury every year; I loved it. It’s a kid’s idea of heaven, all that mud and not having to have a bath. Have you thought about what you should do for the kids?”

“Like what?”

“Well, like face painting and weaving, stuff like that; it’ll all add to the atmosphere, and anyway, it’ll make more money.”

“No, we hadn’t thought of that. Good idea.”

“And then you should sell tents, the little ones, and those waterproof cape things, and wellies.”

“Yeah, and someone suggested blankets to me,” Abi said.

“Blankets definitely. And I don’t know what you’re thinking about food, but I went to Reading last year, and they had some massive paella just bubbling away, and the punters just came and got bowlsful, made a change from burgers, really popular. Oh, now, here’s another thought: you could do a CD of the festival. It needn’t cost much, honestly; I know a bloke who knocks them out-well, you know him, Georgia, Jazz…”

“Oh, really? Jazz’s great,” she said to Abi. “You’d love him. He’s my landlord.”

“CD’s a brilliant idea,” said Abi, scribbling furiously. “You’re a real find, Merlin. This is all great stuff.”

“What did you think of Merlin?” she asked William later.

“He was all right. Bit of a poof, I thought. Wasn’t too keen on the bracelets.”

“Yeah. He probably swings both ways.”

“What does that mean?” said William, looking genuinely puzzled.

Abi stared at him, her face blank; then she smiled and leaned forward to kiss him.

“Oh, William,” she said, “I love you so much. You’re so… so wonderful.”

William gave up.

Things escalated fairly fast after that. Merlin drove Georgia back to London, took her out for a meal and then to a club. When the cab stopped outside her house, he kissed her good night, rather chastely, and then said, “Do you really see me as a big brother, Georgia?”

“Course.”

“Right. Good. Well, good night.”

“Night, Merlin. And thank you again. Not just for the evening, but for coming today.”

“It’s fine. See you on Monday.”

“Yeah, Monday.”

This wasn’t easy. It so wasn’t easy.

They were rehearsing until really late on Monday; Georgia was depressed, felt she’d done badly.

“It’s so hard, doing comedy,” she said to Merlin. “So different. I feel I’m right back to square one.”

“You’re doing great. Come on; let’s grab something to eat.”

They went to a Pizza Express; she picked at her lasagna rather halfheartedly.

“Come on,” he said, “cheer up. You’re doing absolutely fine. Honestly.”

“You really think so?”

“I really think so. I’ll tell you who isn’t-Milly”

“Oh, really?” Milly Buchanan was playing the other girl.

“Yeah. She’s our problem; she’s what’s making you feel you’re crap.”

“Oh. Well… maybe. I do find her quite… quite over-the-top.”

“Exactly. She’s playing it like it’s Romeo and Juliet. Very, very difficult to deal with. But I think Bryn’s onto her. I saw him talking to her rather intently as we left.”

“Mmm. Maybe. Suddenly I feel hungrier.”

“Good. Big brother at work again.” He raised his glass to her. “To… to stardom. You’ll get there.”

Georgia looked at him. He was wearing a white T-shirt and blue jeans; his face was tanned still from a family skiing holiday. He looked… well, he looked amazing.

“Yeah,” she said with great difficulty. “Yeah, you’re a really great brother.”

Merlin put down his glass and looked at her in silence for a moment. His eyes moved over her face. She sat there, trying to appear cool.

“I have to tell you something,” he said. “You can tell me to get lost if you like.”

“Yes?”

“I don’t exactly see you the same way,” he said, “not really as a sister at all.”

“No?”

“No. Not in the least. Actually, I think you’re utterly gorgeous. Sorry.”

Georgia stared at him; then she stood up, went round the table, and put her arms round his neck.

“Oh, Merlin,” she said, kissing him repeatedly, first on his cheek, then on his forehead, then finally and rather recklessly on the mouth, “oh, Merlin, don’t get lost. Don’t say sorry. I…”

“Let’s get out of here,” he said.

They went to her room. She said she’d rather, although he did offer her his place: “I’m self-contained, and anyway, they won’t mind; it’s part of their religion…”

“No, no, I wouldn’t feel… happy.”

“I want you to feel happy,” he said. “Come on.”

She was nervous again, going back. He was probably incredibly experienced-which she wasn’t. He’d find her dull, disappointing, and she hadn’t made the bed properly that morning; he’d think she was a slut, and she was wearing some really grotty old pants; he must be used to the likes of Ticky in Agent Provocateur…

None of it mattered. He clearly didn’t find her dull; in fact, he was surprisingly… well, straightforward, which was a relief, and there certainly wasn’t time to notice the unmade bed; they were on it in seconds after shutting the door behind them, and as for her knickers, well, he just yanked them off completely unceremoniously; anything better would have been a complete waste.

In fact, it was all wonderful; it was as if they had been ready and waiting for each other, perfectly matched, perfectly tuned… “That was totally amazing,” he said afterwards, lying with his face buried in her hair. “We saw, we conquered, we came.”

She hoped he didn’t say that to all the girls.

That was the only thing that worried her: how could he be so suddenly and so totally taken with her, Merlin Gerard, so gorgeous, so sexy, so… so sophisticated. Merlin, who was used to girls like Ticky, as gorgeous and sexy and sophisticated as he was; how could he want to be involved with her?

After a few days, a few nights, when she was beginning to feel more confident, she managed to ask him that; he smiled and kissed her and sat up on the pillows.

“I find you totally gorgeous and sexy, Georgia. I always did. You’re so special. So unique. So not like anyone else. The first moment I saw you, I felt a catch in my heart…”

“Merlin!” That really did sound a bit rehearsed.

“No, I did. But…”

“Well, but you had Ticky then.”

“Yes, of course. And now I’ve got you. My own beautiful brown bird. Would you like to sing for me once more? Before we go to sleep?”

Crushing the distaste for this, telling herself he was just… wonderfully poetic, that was all… she smiled at him ecstatically and climbed onto him, her legs straddling him.

“I love your energy,” he said. “It’s so amazing.” They fell asleep with his head on her breast.

In the morning they met Jazz on his early rounds, as he put it: checking the terminally leaking taps, the blocked lavatories in the house.

“Ah,” he said, “very nice. Thought that might be how it was, Merlin, you old bugger. How come you get to pull all the best ones? Georgia, my lovely, any trouble with him, you come straight to me, OK?”

She laughed and said OK; she loved Jazz.

And now, nearly three weeks later, she could hardly imagine life being any different. It was totally, totally wonderful; she was the luckiest, happiest girl in the world.

Emma hadn’t got the job in Glasgow; she went to see Alex, almost in tears.

“That’s the second. I’m beginning to feel victimised.”

“My dear Emma, you wait till you’re trying to get a consultancy. That really does feel like victimisation. Nine jobs I went for before I got this one; it was ghastly. You get there and you see the same old faces each time, with a few variations, and it’s always the bloke you least like who gets it, gets called into the boardroom while you all sit waiting like a load of cretins, and then you all shake hands and say you never really wanted it anyway, and crawl back to your hospital with your tail between your legs. I had a special interview shirt; it got quite threadbare towards the end.”

“Yes, well, thanks for all that. I can’t wait,” said Emma. “Meanwhile, it’s tail-between-the-legs time for me. Can I stay, Alex?”

“Of course you can. Nothing could please me more. Sorry… not what you want to hear.”

“It sort of is. Thank you. There are lots more jobs I can apply for in the pipeline, but…”

“Emma, the thing about obstetrics is that it’s a very popular discipline. There’s always going to be lots of jobs, but also lots of people applying for them. You’ll get one in the end, promise. Meanwhile, you’re a fantastic member of the team here. You can stay as long as you like.”

At least she still had a job… even if she didn’t have anything else.

“Barney! Hi, darling! How are you?”

“Fine. Yes. Thanks. And you?”

“Oh, pretty good. I called to invite you to my leaving do.”

“Your leaving do! That’s a bit sudden, isn’t it?”

“Not really. It’s just that it’s so long since we talked. I’ve done my time. Start at Darwood’s in a fortnight. At the French desk there. Taking a bit of a break first.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. We-Micky and I-are off to Barbados for ten days…”

“Micky?”

“Yes, I’m engaged. Again. To Micky Burne Proctor. Getting married in the summer. Slightly déjà vu, but at least I’ll be in a different dress. I thought that really would be unlucky, wearing the same. Or could be. But… otherwise, same venue, same church, same time of day even. I think. Mummy and I are working on that one. Anyway, Friday evening, sixish, Terminus. Hope you can come.”

Well. She didn’t let the grass grow under her feet. You had to hand it to her, Barney thought with a sense of grudging admiration: she’d survive an earthquake and hurricane combined, Tamara would. And come up looking immaculate. And sexy. Micky Burne Proctor, eh? In the Sunday Times rich list the previous year. Hedge-fund boy. Better prospect than Toby.

He couldn’t think why she’d want him at her leaving do. But… might be fun. He hadn’t had much of that lately. He wondered if Toby knew. Or cared.

“Order, order. Georgia, you first.”

“Right. Well the play-offs are going brilliantly. We’ve already got three winners from three pubs. One’s really fantastic. Called Literate. I don’t think they’ll be unsigned for much longer. Oh, and a sweet folk band as well. Lots of stalls are coming on board… face painting, weaving, a little roundabout, a bouncy castle. Everything we discussed, really. Some guy’s got a hat stall… says they went really well at Glastonbury”

“What sort of hats?” said Abi.

“Every sort. Baseball hats, sort of trilbies, berets, reggae hats, sun hats for kids. Oh, and some really nice girl’s got a sort of beauty stall, does, like, makeovers and massages and all stuff like that. What do you think?”

“Mmm.” Abi considered this. “No, don’t think so. Doesn’t go with the family feel. But quite like hats. Welly stall?”

“Oh, yes, got one of those. Merlin says it’s essential, don’t you, Merlin?”

“Yup.”

“Oh, I do hope it doesn’t rain,” said Emma.

“It will,” said Abi. “Best to accept it. After that anything’s a bonus. We might even get some good gear out of it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Some guy I met, friend of William’s, he had a festival on his land. It rained so hard, two-day festival it was, people were just getting into their cars at the end, stepping out of their filthy, muddy clothes and just leaving them. This guy said lots of it was really good stuff: Fat Face, Abercrombie, all that. His wife washed it about thee times and then they wore it. And their kids, loads of Boden.”

“Cool. Best pray for rain then.”

“Who’s responsible for litter?” asked Merlin.

“Me, I s’pose,” said Abi. “Comes under the heading of site management.”

“Make sure you’ve got loads and loads of bins and bags. Twice as much as you think.”

“Yes, please do,” said William. He had a sudden vision of endless acres of litter and what his father might say or do.

“OK, OK.”

“You need people specially briefed to pick it up too,” said Merlin. “It’s really important. And loos… Abi, is that you?”

“Yeah, I’m toilet queen.”

“Can we not have those awful urinals in rows where you face the other blokes and try not to look at them, and you all pee into a pit in the middle?”

“Sounds fun. I’ll do my best. How are the bookings looking, Georgia?”

“Oh, nothing much yet. But the Web site’s only been up and running a couple of weeks. Lots of hits, though.”

“Great. Any reactions to the name?”

“Nope. Well, only from my mum. She thinks it’s great. She had an LP called In Good Company in the seventies.”

“Great. Exactly the image we’re after. Mum’s favourites. Oh, dear. Maybe we should change it.”

“We shouldn’t,” said Merlin firmly. “It’s a great name.”

“Yeah, well, you would say that,” said Georgia. “You thought of it.”

“Shut up. Any other objections?”

There weren’t.

“OK. Well, I’ve got everything booked site-wise,” said Abi.

“Arena, electrics, sound systems, water. What does everyone think about campfires?”

“We think no campfires,” said William firmly.

“Barbecues?”

“Not happy.”

“William! People love them. Specially families.”

“I’ll… think about it.”

“Bless. We’ve got the alcohol licence; the police are on-side. Got St. John’s for the first-aid tent as well.”

“You’ve done so well,” said Georgia, beaming at her. “Security?”

“I’ve talked to a couple of firms. Both very expensive.”

“You have to have security,” said Merlin. “And they have to check for drugs.”

“Yes, all right. I know that. I just said they were expensive. Now, what are we going to do with our thousand pounds from wonderful Mrs. Mackenzie? Blow the lot on publicity, say, or split it, put it into the various pots?”

“I think split it,” said William, “in case we don’t get any more.”

“William, you are such a ray of sunshine,” said Georgia irritably.

She was very jumpy now; Moving Away was going on air in three weeks, and the publicity machine was cranking up. Davina and Bryn Merrick had been the most in demand. Davina’s lovely, laughing face had been everywhere, but Georgia had done two interviews already, one for the Daily News arts roundup and one for You magazine, both of them talking her up as one of the new faces of the summer. She was surprised about it, hadn’t thought anyone would take any notice of her. The one in You had been a big profile, very personal, had asked her about being adopted-and by white parents, had that been difficult, how had she coped-and had mentioned, inevitably, the crash. She’d hated it, but Linda told her it was fantastic she was getting so much coverage, and she should just be grateful.

“You’re getting talked about; most people at your stage would give their eyeteeth for any publicity.”

The DVDs of the show hadn’t gone out to the critics yet; she was dreading that, everyone seeing how bad she’d been. Although the girl from You magazine, who had managed to wangle one out of the press office, said she’d been “stunningly good.” Well, what did she know?

The meeting was over; the others left. Abi looked at William and smiled. “Love you.”

“Love you too. You… busy now?”

“Not terribly. You?”

“I’ve got an hour or so.”

“Cool.”

“Where’s Sylvie?”

“Out for the night. With Mr. Perv.”

“Right then. Shall we…”

“Yeah. I want to show you something first, though.”

“That’ll be nice.”

“No, no,” said Abi. “It’s what I’m going to wear on Friday.”

“Couldn’t it be afterwards?”

“No. You might find it exciting; you never know. Although, actually, I hope not. Give me five minutes.”

“OK. No more, though.”

“No, promise.”

She was back in ten.

“How do I look?”

“Blimey,” said William.

“Is that it? Don’t you like it?”

“Quite… you don’t look quite yourself.”

“That was the idea.”

“Abi, you are yourself. That’s why I love you.”

“I know, but…”

She walked out into the hall and looked at herself in the long mirror there. It was true: she didn’t look quite herself. She looked good, though, she thought. She was wearing grey trousers and a pink wraparound sweater. And low-heeled shoes. Her makeup was… well, it was rather nice, she thought. Grey eyeshadow, grey eyeliner, not much mascara, pink lip gloss. Her hair was tied back.

She went back to William.

“I think I look great.”

“Well… you do. But… not yourself. Like I said. And why?”

“I thought it would be more suitable this way. More the sort of girl they’d like. Approve of.”

“I’m afraid it’s a bit late for that.”

“It’s never too late. That’s my motto.”

“Abi, my mother’s already seen you starkers. Twice.”

“Not starkers. I’ve always worn shoes, at least. Oh, you’re so disappointing, William. Here I am trying to be a lady and you tell me there’s no point.”

“I don’t want a lady. I want you.”

“This isn’t for you. Anyway, this is what I’m wearing on Friday.”

“OK. But… get it off now. Please.”

They were going to have dinner with the Graingers on Friday at the farm. It was not a keenly anticipated evening. Except just possibly by Mr. Grainger.

CHAPTER 55

“So… tonight’s the night, is it?”

“Yup. I am shit scared.”

“Oh, don’t be so ridiculous. When were you frightened of anything?”

“I’m frightened of Mrs. Grainger. Or rather, upsetting Mrs. Grainger.”

“I’d have thought you’d done that plenty already, Abi.”

“Well, OK. But I do want tonight to go well. She’s being very good, he said…”

“That’s big of her.”

“ Georgia, you’re not being very helpful. She’s said, apparently, that she’s considering letting us have cottage number one, to live in.”

“Even bigger…”

“No, well, it is a source of income for them.”

“So is William.”

“I s’pose. Anyway, it would be cool. It’s really sweet, or could be. Needs tarting up a bit. But it’s got three bedrooms…”

“One for you, one for the children, one for her.”

“Oh, stop it. No, I could use one as an office. When I start my company. I mean, it doesn’t matter these days where you work, does it? I can go and see clients; they don’t have to come to me. I’m really excited about it.”

“Won’t you be living on her doorstep? Literally?”

“Well… sort of. But it’s about quarter of a mile from the farmhouse. Right at the bottom of a track thing. I don’t think we’d have to see much of her. Anyway, listen, what I’ve really rung to say is, have you seen the Mail?”

“No. Why? I’ve had two missed calls from Linda; could that be a clue? I was just going to call her.”

“Could be. It’s got a really nice piece in it about Moving Away. Saying how great it is.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. And then it says something about some promising newcomer, Georgia Linley”

“What, like she’s crap, lets the whole thing down?”

“Well, obviously But then it says your performance is… let’s see, oh, yes, extraordinary. And that you’re… yes, here it is, ‘that rare thing, a completely fresh, individual talent. One minute funny, the next heartbreaking, she looks set to steal the show.’”

“Oh. My. God. Oh, my God.”

“Yeah, I know. So cool. Georgia, you’re not crying, are you? How extremely unusual.”

Friday. Her lucky day. Always used to be. And she’d met Barney on a Friday… if you could call it lucky. And Luke, actually, come to that. And got her finals results. And passed her grade-five ballet with distinction.

So… this would be the day to do it. She really would. She’d… well, that was a good idea: she’d text him; that would be so much less embarrassing for both of them; why hadn’t she thought of that before? He could ignore a text, or send her something noncommittal back, like… well, like, “Nice to hear from you.” He wouldn’t have to struggle to find the right words, or to sound pleased to hear from her. And she wouldn’t have to act either-at sounding all casual and as if she’d just suddenly thought she might call him, just for old times’ sake. Yes, that’s what she’d do. When she was on her way out for the evening, not a Billy-no-mates, sitting in her room at the hospital. Mark and some of the others had asked her for a curry. Or even when she’d had a couple of drinks. Nothing like a bit of drink dialling…

Abi had gone to have her hair blow-dried. It was the only way to get it all silky smooth, like those posh girls had. Then she’d go home, change, and set off in enough time to arrive really cool and collected. She’d even bought a much lighter perfume, not her usual heavy stuff.

She had a manicure as well, no colour on her nails, just left them all natural and shiny. She was going to do William really proud…

He’d told her to arrive at about seven thirty: “Then we can have a drink; Mother likes to feed everybody at eight sharp.”

She resisted the temptation to say, What if everybody didn’t want to be fed at eight sharp? Tonight, the world was going to see a new Abi. Or rather, the Graingers were. And actually, who knew? She might even stay that way.

She’d read a Telegraph that was lying around the office, so she could converse intelligently, if required, on politics or whatever. Not the foreign stuff; that completely baffled her. And listened to PM on Radio 4 as she drove back from the hairdresser. God, it was boring: how could people like that stuff?

She left Bristol at six; that would give her so much time.

“Barney, hi. Lovely to see you. Come along in. You’ll know nearly everyone, I’m sure… Micky, darling, have you met Barney Fraser? He’s at BKM, on the commodities desk.”

“Not sure. Hi, Barney.”

Burne Proctor gave Barney an ice-cold smile. What a cliché, Barney thought: the Etonian drawl, the slicked-back blond hair, the blue eyes, the striped pink-and-white shirt, worn tieless under the excruciatingly well-cut dark suit… and worth how many millions? Well, it was usually billions now, on that list. A good few anyway. He reputedly took home over a million every year in salary and bonuses alone. Well done, Tamara.

“Hi,” said Barney. “Congratulations.”

“Yeah, great, thanks.”

“Off to Barbados, I hear.”

“Yah, well, not quite Barbados -one of the little islands off that coast I’ve bought. Should be fun. And Tam needs a break; she’s had a tough time.”

“Indeed,” said Barney.

“Well, nice to have met you. Hope we’ll be seeing you when we’re settled.”

Yeah, right. He was about as likely to receive an invitation from the Burne Proctors as from the Queen. Probably rather less.

He looked around the bar. It was huge, very, very long, one of the old-fashioned brass-and-glass jobs. With the usual impossible din going on. He must be getting old to notice that. Tamara was right: he did know nearly everyone. Well, they did work for the same firm, so it was hardly surprising. Loads of pretty girls, which was nice. They all looked the same, these girls, with their long hair and their long legs and their dark suits and their high heels. One of the things about Emma was that she didn’t look like that. Well, she had long hair and long legs, but she was quirkily pretty, not one of your preppy monotones; her voice was quick and light; she never drawled, and when she smiled… God, when she smiled. She’d light up the city of London unaided with that smile. And her nose, and the way it wrinkled up when she giggled. He loved her nose…

Shit, Barney, stop thinking about the girl and call her. Go on. Just do it. Lay the ghost if nothing else. Go and… Damn. He’d left his phone on his desk. He never did that, ever. Better go and get it. He-

“Barney! Hi! Lovely to see you. You know Sasha, don’t you? Yes, I thought you did. Sasha’s got the most incredible new job, out in Dubai. How are you, you old bastard? Come and tell us what you’ve been up to.”

The phone would have to wait.

She’d written the text; she just hadn’t sent it. She’d do that bit later. When she’d got her courage up.

She’d written it on the bus: Hi, Barney. How are you? I was thinking about you and wondering if we could meet sometime. Just for a chat. Call me if you have a minute. Emma.

She’d added two kisses and then taken them off again about six times. At the moment they were there.

Her phone rang sharply; she jumped. Had she sent it already, by mistake; was he ringing her…? Don’t be ridiculous, Emma; you’re getting Alzheimer’s.

“Emma? It’s Mark… Listen, we’re in a different place, not the Indian; it’s a Thai, just by the big shopping arcade; that OK? Got a pen…?

Emma scribbled down the address and went back to looking at her text. And deleting and reinstating the kisses.

This was good. She was in really good time. She’d even been able to put her car through the car wash. That would amuse William; he didn’t believe in cleaning cars. He treated his cars like shit. Not like his tractors. He tended them as carefully as if they were his animals. One of his cows. One of his girls.

It was a funny thing, their relationship. Everyone was baffled by it; she could see that. Even Sylvie, who was always going on about how fit William was.

“You can’t marry him, Abi,” she’d said. “You don’t have anything in common. What are you going to do in the evenings, talk to the sheep or something?”

As long as it was in the lambing shed, Abi thought, that’d be fine. She really couldn’t see the problem with having nothing in common with William. It made life more interesting. Anyway, they did. They found the same things funny; they liked the same people… She even liked his farming friends, and they certainly seemed to like her, and he loved people like Georgia… And actually she did find the farming genuinely interesting. The pattern of it intrigued her, the progress through the year, the hatching and dispatching of animals, as William called it, the way it all worked: stuff was planted and grew and was harvested and then you started all over again, and it was all rather… neat. Neat and satisfying.

She was not particularly fastidious; she didn’t mind the mess and the smells-except perhaps the silage; that was quite gross-and she genuinely liked the animals. Especially the cows. They were so sweet, with their big, curious faces and kindly eyes, their swinging walk. She had seen a calf born a couple of weeks earlier, and she had found it wonderful; this little thing slithering out, wet and curly and a bit bewildered, and the mother’s great tongue licking it, and the hot, sweet, strong smell. William said it wasn’t always like that; they often didn’t slither out; they had to be hauled, brutally; she’d been lucky. He’d promised her a night in the lambing shed when the lambs were born: “You’ll like that; it’s such chaos, and so noisy. They come out one after the other; it’s like a sort of conveyor belt; you’ve hardly delivered one, or rather a set, when there’s another one on the go. And they just come out, stagger up on their little legs, make for the milk, and-Don’t look at me like that; there’ll be no time for us to do anything. Together, that is. You’ll have too much to do. You won’t be able to just watch.”

She was impressed by the rams’ performances: “One ram to fifty ewes, thereabouts.”

“Not even you could manage that, William, could you?” she said.

And, “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “Over a few days, you’d be surprised.”

They had discussed the matter of children; they both liked children, wanted several.

“But not yet. I want to get my company up and running first.”

“That’s fine. I can wait. Although not too long; you’re marrying an old man, don’t forget.”

She did forget how old he was: ten years more than her. It was quite a lot.

He was completely relaxed about her working; he said it was what made her interesting; he didn’t want her hanging about, bored.

“You can carry on working when we have kids, if you like. It’s fine by me. Just don’t expect any help, all right? Farmers are not new men.”

Abi said she wasn’t too keen on new men; they always seemed a bit suspect to her.

“All that wanting to breast-feed their own babies. Yuck!”

“Sherry, Abi?”

She was doing it on purpose, Abi thought. She must know that nobody young drank sherry. She’d hardly ever tasted it; she seemed to remember it was absolutely filthy.

Mrs. Grainger had done a double take when Abi had walked in; her disguise as well-bred, well-brought-up girl had certainly worked.

“How nice to see you,” she said. “William, take Miss Scott’s coat.”

“Please call me Abi,” she said, thinking how bizarre it was to be addressed as Miss Scott by a woman who had seen her pubes. Twice.

And, “Very well… Abi,” Mrs. Grainger had said. Mr. Grainger had pumped her hand vigorously and told her it was jolly good to see her; he was a bit of a sweetheart, she’d decided, definitely where William got his charm from.

“Now, I do hope you don’t mind,” said Mrs. Grainger, “if we eat in the kitchen. It’s just scruffy supper, as I’m sure William will have told you.” What was scruffy supper, for God’s sake? “Do forgive me, but I’ve been so busy this week. But let’s go through to the drawing room and have a drink.”

The drawing room was the room where Abi had sat that first day after the crash, waiting for William. It looked rather better, as William had lit a fire in the huge fireplace, but struggle as it did, the fire wasn’t making much of a job of heating the room. She made for the chair nearest to it, then drew back, fearing that was not what posh people did. They were used to the cold; for some reason central heating seemed to be regarded-by the older generation, at any rate-as a bit common. Well, cottage number one was going to be dead common; she’d make sure of that.

“Well, congratulations to you both,” said Mr. Grainger. “Jolly well done.” He smiled, and she could have sworn winked at her; she presumed he’d heard about the encounters between her and Mrs. Grainger.

“Yes, it’s very… nice,” said Mrs. Grainger. Nice was clearly the best she could do, but she was definitely trying.

“Any idea when you’ll be actually tying the knot?” said Mr. Grainger. “William’s been a bit vague about it.”

“Oh… we’re both pretty vague, I think,” said Abi. “Probably when William’s not too busy.”

“I’m afraid there’s no such time,” said Mrs. Grainger. “Farming is a nonstop process, as you will discover.”

“Um… yes.” She looked at William for help. He smiled at her rather foolishly.

“We don’t want to leave it too long, actually,” he said. “I can’t wait to have Abi here instead of miles down the road.”

“Ah, yes,” said Mrs. Grainger. “Now, I don’t know if William has told you, Abi, but we are proposing you have one of the cottages to live in.”

“Yes. Yes, he did; it sounds coo-wonderful. Thank you.”

“I hope you’ll be comfortable there. Of course, we’ve had to take it out of the brochures. We have families who come back year after year. They’ll be quite distressed, I imagine, to find that their holiday home is no longer available.”

Quite distressed. What an extraordinary thing to say. God, she was a strange woman. Was it really going to be worth it? Living next-door to her?

Then she looked at William, grinning at her, lounging back in his chair, dressed up for the occasion in clean jeans and a pair of suspiciously new-looking boots, and knew it was.

“You must tell us about your job,” said Mr. Grainger. “I don’t really understand it, I’m afraid. I think William said you were involved in photography…”

“Well… sort of. But I’m hoping to set up my own company.”

“Taking photographs?”

“No, no, organising events. You know, like for companies. Conferences and so on.”

“Will it be worth it, starting something now?” said Mrs. Grainger. She was looking very determinedly puzzled. “I mean, surely once you’re married, you’ll be needed by William up here.”

“Well… I’m not sure…” She looked at William helplessly.

“Well, of course you will. You marry a farmer, you marry the farm.”

“She could organise some shoots for us,” said Mr. Grainger, and this time she knew he winked.

“I… don’t know anything about shooting. Yet. I’m sure William can teach me.”

“You won’t be going out with the guns,” said Mrs. Grainger. “Wives don’t, for the most part. Unless you do some picking up.”

Picking up? Picking up what? The farmers? Well, there were a few she could fancy…

“It’s the lunches, coffees, all that sort of thing. I… well, I…” She appeared to be struggling to get some words out; finally she managed it: “I shall certainly appreciate some help with it all. It’s very hard work, and I’m beginning to find it very tiring.” She actually managed a smile. Abi smiled determinedly back.

“I’m not much of a cook,” she said carefully, “but of course I’d like to help. You can guide me, I’m sure.”

“Indeed. Melanie did wonderful lunches, didn’t she, William? I remember once I was ill and she produced lunch for twenty-eight without turning a hair. Melanie was one of William’s former girlfriends,” she added.

OK, you old witch. So it’s to be war. In spite of the low heels. She might as well have saved the money. But: “Still, as I say, I’m sure we’ll get along very well.”

That was a concession. A big one. She was at least trying.

“More sherry, Abi?” said Mr. Grainger.

“That would be lovely. And then I’m so looking forward to my scruffy supper…”

She couldn’t do it. She just couldn’t. She’d look so pathetic; he’d be so embarrassed; it was ridiculous. Totally, totally a bad idea. She deleted the text, switched her phone off, and walked into the restaurant.

God, he needed to get out of here. He’d drunk far too much. And stayed far too long. He’d reckoned on half an hour. It was… God, nearly nine.

He’d just retrieve his phone and-

“Barney! Oh, Barney, I’m going to miss you!”

Tamara’s arms were round his neck, her lips on his cheek, her thick scent everywhere.

“Well… I’ll miss you too. But Darwood’s isn’t exactly in another country. I’m sure we’ll see each other around.”

“Yeah, of course. Isn’t Micky sweet? Aren’t I lucky?”

“You are, yes,” said Barney, adding dutifully, “And he’s lucky too.”

He suddenly saw himself as he must seem to her: rather pathetic, a none-too-successful relic of their old life. While she… she’d got everything perfectly sorted: looked at that life, rejected it, and ordered a new one rather more to her satisfaction. Sleek, sassy, winner-takes-all Tamara.

“Sweet of you to say so. It does all seem terribly meant. Just think, if there hadn’t been that crash, Toby and I would have been an old married couple by now.”

“Indeed.”

“And so might you and Amanda.”

“Possibly.”

“And… Emma? You with her?”

“Oh… no, no.”

“No! Why not? I thought that was why-”

“You thought wrong,” said Barney briskly.

“Barney! So what happened? Come on, you can tell me.”

“I…” How could he possibly tell her-Tamara, of all people-about his broken heart? That most definitely wasn’t a cliché, he thought; his heart did indeed feel as if it was snapped in two. Or, no, more like dead and crumbling to dust. But then…

“It was all a terrible mistake,” he said finally. “We’d… I’d got it wrong.”

“In what way?” She looked round, took his hand. “Come on, Barney, let’s go outside; I can’t hear you in this.”

“But-”

“No, I insist. It sounds important.”

Outside, in the cold, she listened as he gave her a brief résumé, her dark eyes fixed on his face… Then she said, “Barney, you absolutely have to call her.”

“Tamara, why? She finished it.”

“Only because she thought you were still with Amanda.”

“No!”

“Yes!”

“Well…” He digested this for a moment; then he said, “Well, she knows I’m not anymore. So she could have rung me.”

“Oh, Barney, please! Girls do not make those sorts of phone calls. That’s a bloke’s prerogative. Is she with anyone else?”

“Don’t think so. No. No she’s not. At least-”

“Then, for God’s sake, what are you doing? Look, you don’t have anything to lose. Do you? It’s crazy, what you’re not doing. Just get out your phone and give her a call. It is so, so obvious. I can’t believe it. Anyway, I’d better get back; Micky will think I’ve run away with you.”

“I don’t think so,” said Barney, “loser like me.”

“Barney, you are so not a loser. You’re just great. Never tell anyone, but I really, really fancied you for ages. If you’d asked me first, I’d have married you, not Toby. Anyway, just as well; I’d have made your life a complete misery. Bye, darling. And just make that call. Otherwise I will.”

“You don’t have her number,” said Barney. He was smiling now, thinking how wrong he’d been about her. Or partly wrong, anyway.

“I can ring the hospital. I mean it. Promise me.”

“I promise,” said Barney. He leaned forward, gave her a kiss. “Thanks, Tamara. And thanks for the party. And have a great wedding.”

“I will.”

She would. She got everything she wanted. But… she knew how to get it.

No possible doubt about that.

The food was great. She had to admit that. A wonderful chicken pie, and before that, tiny salmon parcels. Followed by a gooseberry mousse. And thick, thick cream. If this was scruffy supper, what would the full-blown dinner party be like? And if this was the sort of food William was used to, he was going to be popping home from cottage number one pretty often.

The wine was very nice too, and Mr. Grainger had made a great thing of letting her taste it, to make sure she liked it, but… God! One bottle between the four of them. She finished her two small glasses, made a great thing of lifting it and looking in it, and then at William, but he was studiously ignoring her. In more ways than one; he and his father had started talking about GM crops and whether they might consider a trial.

Finally, as she sipped at her empty glass for about the tenth time, Mrs. Grainger said, “Would you like a soft drink, Abi? I thought, as you were driving…”

“Oh, but…” She looked at William. “William, I thought… well, I thought I was staying here tonight.”

“Really? I wish you’d said something to me, William,” said Mrs. Grainger. “I would have made up the spare room bed.”

Abi waited for William to say something that would indicate she wouldn’t be needing the spare room, but he smiled rather awkwardly at her, passed her the bottle of red he was sharing with his father, and returned to the discussion.

Abi poured herself a large glass, smiled at Mrs. Grainger, and wondered what on earth she could find to say to her; in the end she just sat and ate and learnt a lot about GM crops.

It was very quiet on the trading floor. He didn’t often see it like this. It looked and sounded dead, the screens blank, the phones silent.

He went over to his desk; his phone was still there. Well, it would have been; it was hardly state-of-the-art anymore. He was getting one of the new generation of iPhones, but it was taking a time to arrive.

He sat looking at it, hearing Tamara’s voice: “It’s crazy what you’re not doing.”

He scrolled down the numbers, found her name, took a deep breath, as if he was about to do something physically difficult, and pressed the button. And listened. Listened for her voice. Her pretty, slightly breathless voice.

It came. “Hi, this is Emma. Sorry I’m not around; just leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”

Shit. He hadn’t expected that. And why not? Had he really thought she’d just be sitting there, waiting patiently for him to call? Of course not. She was probably out somewhere; or maybe she was working. Yes, that’d be it; she was at the hospital. He called the number, asked for the doctor’s station in A &E. A female, rather bored voice said, “Accident and Emergency.”

“Oh,” said Barney. “Ah. Yes. Er… is… that is, is Dr. King there? Dr. Emma King?”

“No, she’s not on duty tonight.”

“Ah. Well… well, what about tomorrow?”

“Not sure. Do you want me to find out?”

No, thought Barney, of course not, that’s why I asked.

“That’d be great.”

“Just hold on.”

She was a long time; when she came back, she said, “Yes, she’s on duty from six a.m.”

“Right. Fine. OK. Er… thank you. Thank you very much.”

He felt quite differently now. Charged, up and running.

He sat for a moment thinking. If she was on duty from six, she was unlikely to be anywhere but in that flat of hers. That rather dreary flat, where he had spent those few extremely happy hours. OK, he’d go there. He’d drive down right now… No, maybe not, he’d had far too much to drink. Well, never mind. He’d take the train. And then get a cab. Easy. And if… well, if she told him to get lost, he could… well, he didn’t know quite what he’d do then. Best not to think about it. Live for now. As Tamara would have done. Of all the advice from all the people in the world… It was very ironic.

He called Emma again; it was still switched off. He left a message this time.

“Emma, it’s me. I’m coming down to Swindon.”

That was all.

He left the building, hailed a cab.

“Now, you must tell us about this concert, Abigail.” Mr. Grainger clearly felt he and William had been talking about GM crops long enough. “We’re looking forward to it, aren’t we?” he added to his wife. She gave him one of her pained smiles.

“July, isn’t it? July eighth?”

“And ninth,” said Abi.

“The ninth as well? There are two?”

“No,” said Abi, looking at William in bewilderment, “it’s running over two days. It’s a… well, it’s a… a music festival. People will be staying, camping…”

“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Grainger, “that won’t be possible.”

William looked at her, startled.

“What do you mean, Mother, it won’t be possible?”

“I mean exactly that. I… we can’t have strangers camping on the farm. It’s ridiculous. I had no idea. We shall have people breaking into the house, frightening the animals, letting them out onto the roads, quite possibly. Peter, did you realise this was happening?”

“I… Not exactly,” said Mr. Grainger. He was looking very uncomfortable.

“Dad!” said William. “Come on! I did explain.”

“Perhaps you did. I… don’t remember.”

“Well, whether you remember or not, it’s not going to happen,” said Mrs. Grainger. “It must be cancelled.”

“It can’t be,” said Abi, “not now.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said it can’t be cancelled. Tickets have been sold, bands have been booked, there’s a Web site, people will come anyway.”

“This is appalling,” said Mrs. Grainger, “absolutely appalling. Well, you’ll just have to return the tickets, and say on the Web site that it’s been cancelled. I’ve never heard of anything quite so… so highhanded. Or so rude,” she added.

“Mother!”

“Well, it is.”

“Honestly,” said Abi, endeavouring to ease the atmosphere a little, “there’ll be no trouble with break-ins or letting the cattle out. We’ve got a very good firm handling the security…”

“You’ve got a very good firm handling the security! With whose permission, may I ask? I’m sorry, but I’m finding this completely incomprehensible. I absolutely refuse to agree to any of it. I was opposed even to what I thought was a small concert in the first place; I was afraid it would get out of hand. But a… a campsite. On our land. With bands!” Her tone implied unspeakable connotations. “No doubt there’ll be drugs, knives probably, all sorts of undesirables…”

“They’ll be searched for drugs and knives,” said Abi.

“They won’t. Because none of it will take place. I’m sorry if you’ve been under a misapprehension, but I do assure you, so have I. William, I’m astonished at you.”

William, William, thought Abi, stand up to her; fight back. But he didn’t. He just sat there, flushed, wretched, pushing his hands through his hair.

She stood up, pushed her chair back, enjoying the ugly, harsh sound it made on the flagged floor, and left.

“I… think I’ll go,” said Emma. The evening was turning into hard work; her head ached, and she wanted to be home. Home alone. Again. “Sorry… Just feeling a bit… tired. Hard week. And I’m on duty at six. In the morning.”

“You party pooper!” said Mark. “OK. We understand. Want me to get you a cab?”

“No, it’s OK.” She stood up. “I’ll get the bus.”

“Emma, you are not getting the bus. Not the nicest place, Swindon, this time of night. I’ll do it. Finish your drink…” He looked up at her. “It’ll be about half an hour, OK?”

“OK.”

She felt the bus might have been quicker, but she was too tired to argue.

Abi was crying so hard, she could hardly see; she stopped at the end of the road, sat there sobbing for what seemed ages, trying to pull herself together. How could he be so pathetic, so cowardly: how could he? Thank God she’d found out. How awful if she’d gone ahead and married him. Sylvie was right: she’d have married the mother as well. It could never, ever have worked.

God, she was a bitch. But she was allowed to be. That was the worst thing. William and his father just allowed her to get away with everything. They were obviously both terrified of her. All those brave words of William’s, and they hadn’t meant a thing. He was… he was…

She suddenly realised a car had pulled up behind her. It was flashing at her. Someone was getting out. It was William. He was running over to her; she wound down the window and put her head out. She realised it was pouring rain.

“Fuck off. Just fuck off. You’re a wimp and a coward and I never, ever want to see you again. Ever.”

“Abi, I-”

“No, just shut the fuck up. I can’t believe how you behaved in there. How you let her behave. It was pitiful. Pathetic. I’m going home, and I never, ever want to see you again. Mummy’s boy! Thirty-four-year-old mummy’s boy. You make me feel sick.”

“Abi, please. Listen. Just for one second. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. It’s my fault and-”

“It’s not your fault she’s so… so rude and vile and snobbish. I know her sort. She thinks I’m common, so she can treat me exactly how she likes. Well, I may be common-I am actually, very common-but that’s for me to decide, not her. Please get out of my way, William. I want to go home. At least I won’t have to sleep in the guest room.”

“No,” he said, “you won’t.”

“Is that all you have to say?”

“No. You’ll be sleeping in the cottage. With me. OK?”

“I don’t believe you. I’m not sure I want to, anyway.”

“Yes, you do. I told her so. And I told her she’d been incredibly rude to you and she was to apologise. And I said there was no question of cancelling the festival, and if she tried to, then I was leaving. Leaving home, leaving the farm…”

“You can’t do that,” said Abi. “You love the farm.”

“I know. But not as much as I love you. I meant it; I wasn’t just saying it.”

“But… what would you do?”

“I don’t know. Help you with your events company.”

“You’d be terrible at that,” said Abi. “Really terrible.”

“Thanks. OK, well, I’ll go and run someone else’s farm. Abi, I’m so sorry. I… suppose we’re so used to her, we just let her… let her behave how she does for the sake of peace. When we notice, that is. She’s not such a bad old thing underneath. Her bark’s so much worse than her bite. But… well, that was so awful tonight. I was so ashamed. Of her and myself. I have been feeble-I know I have-but I just kept hoping she wouldn’t find out about the festival until it really was too late.”

“William,” said Abi, “it would never have been too late. She’d have turfed everyone off when the bands were playing, and I’ve got to hand it to her: she’s very formidable. She should have gone into politics. Mrs. Thatcher rides again.”

“Well… maybe. But… please, Abi, please come back. I’m so sorry. I love you so much. I can’t lose you again. Please.”

She hesitated, then looked at him and grinned. A wide, happy, glorious grin.

“OK,” she said, “you win. Fair enough. I don’t suppose it’ll be the last battle we have with her. But that’s OK. Oh, shit, William, I love you too. You’re getting awfully wet.”

“Lock your car up,” he said. “I’ll drive you to the cottage. I’ve got the key.”

“OK.”

Inside the door, he looked at her and grinned.

“You know, I told you those clothes weren’t a good idea. You’d have done much better if you’d worn your usual stuff. I think you should take them off right now. Starting with those very boring trousers…”

And thus it was that when Mrs. Grainger arrived at cottage number one, wearing a most determined smile, her arms full of clean linen, and bearing a flask of hot coffee, she found Abi sitting on the stairs, naked from the waist down, and William tenderly removing her flat shoes, kissing her toes as he did so.

In the event, the cab was at least forty minutes; they always were, Emma thought. Why did they do that, say they’d be there before it was remotely possible? She had finished her drink long since, and had actually left the table, was waiting in the lobby of the restaurant, amongst the wet coats and umbrellas. She didn’t think she’d ever felt so unhappy. Yes. She had. Lots of times lately. God, she was turning into a misery. What had happened to her; where had the bouncy, smiling, always happy Emma gone? Maybe it was just as well; she’d probably been a bit annoying…

The taxi seemed to be going a long way round; the fare would be running up into thousands. Well… tens, anyway.

“You know I wanted Rosemary Gardens, don’t you?” she said finally. “By Rosemary Park.”

The driver didn’t seem to hear her. He just carried on speaking into his phone, a headset, in Polish. Or Bulgarian. Or Czech… Probably didn’t understand English anyway, she thought; he was taking her to some completely different place that she didn’t know, and the fare would be so stupendous, she wouldn’t have enough money, and…

“We here. Fifty pounds…”

“Fifty!”

“No. Fifty. One five.”

“Oh… fifteen.”

“That’s what I said. Fifty.”

“OK.”

She counted out sixteen pounds, got out. It was absolutely pouring. There was another car parked on the street. It had its interior light on. The person in the back was reading. Must be waiting for someone.

She got out of the cab, ran towards the house, went inside, slammed the door shut. She thought she’d heard footsteps behind her; she didn’t want to hang about. She put the chain on the door, turned away.

The bell rang. She ignored it. It rang again. She really didn’t want to open it. Not at this time of night. But… maybe she’d locked someone for one of the other flats out.

“Who is it?” she called finally.

There was a silence; then: “It’s Barney.”

This had happened so many times in her imagination, and her dreams, that she more or less assumed he couldn’t be real. She waited, unable even to move the chain, to open the door a crack, too afraid that if she did, she would wake up, or he would simply not be there.

“Emma! Please open the door. Please.”

It did sound like him. It really did. There was a big mirror in the hall; she looked at herself in it. She looked terrible. She was very pale, and her eye makeup had smudged, and her hair was all lank and wet. She couldn’t open the door to Barney looking like that. If it was him.

She rummaged in her bag, pulled out a comb, dragged it through her hair. Wiped a tissue under her eyes, which promptly seemed to smudge more, licked it and tried again, tried desperately to find her makeup bag…

“Emma, what on earth are you doing?”

“Sorry. Sorry.” She had to do it, had to open the door. Whatever she looked like. She did-very cautiously, leaving it on the chain. She peered through the crack. And…

“It is you. Isn’t it?”

“Of course it’s me. Who else would it be, standing here in the pouring rain, begging you to open the door…”

She fumbled at the chain; it seemed to be jammed; it took ages. Finally she pulled it out. Opened the door. And…

“Hello, Emma.” There was a pause. Then he added-and then she knew it was him-“Hello, the Emma. You all right?” He was staring at her, very intently.

“I’m fine. Yes. Hello, Barney. The Barney. Come… come in. Please.”

He came in. She stood looking at him, trying to take in the enormity of it, that he was really here, actually standing in front of her, looking a little dishevelled, not smiling.

“I can’t believe I’m really here,” he said. And put out his hand to touch her arm. She put hers out. And absurdly took his hand and shook it. And giggled.

“Oh, God,” she said, snatching her hand back. “I’m sorry. This is so, so stupid. Oh, Barney, Barney, but why are you here?”

“I’m here,” he said, “because Tamara told me to.”

“Tamara! Now I know I’m dreaming.”

“No,” he said, “you’re not.”

“You’ll have to explain.”

“All right.”

“Well…” She caught sight of herself again in the mirror. “I’m sorry I look so awful.”

“You don’t. You look beautiful to me. Absolutely beautiful.”

It was still all rather surreal.

And then they were standing inside her flat and he was still staring at her and looking very serious, and not touching her, and he said, “I can’t believe this is happening. I really can’t.”

“Nor can I.”

“I’ve tried so hard to get over you. I couldn’t.”

“Nor could I.”

“I… wanted to call you so much, find out what had happened. I just couldn’t.”

“Nor could I. Even after I knew you’d finished with Amanda.”

“I was so afraid you’d… you’d…”

“I know,” she said. “I know what you were afraid of. Same as me. That I was getting over it, had someone else.”

“And,” he said, moving towards her, reaching out, taking one strand of her hair, winding it just a little round his finger, beginning to smile now, “how stupid was that? How stupid.”

“Of both of us,” she said, “so, so stupid. As if that would have been possible.”

“As if indeed.”

“So… what happened?”

“Well… like I said. Tamara told me to ring you. So I did.”

“Since when did you do what Tamara says?”

“Since tonight. She’s my new very, very best friend. Yes, she really is.”

“Mary told me I should ring you. Only I wasn’t so sensible. I went on being too scared.”

“Who’s Mary, for heaven’s sake?”

“Oh, Barney. You know. The old lady who was in the crash. I told you, she was meeting her boyfriend from the war; it was so, so sweet.”

“Oh, the one you met in the restaurant. Yes.” He was staring at her, absolutely still, looking dazed. “I love you, Emma. I can’t bear it, I love you so much. What was so sweet? Did you say?”

“I love you too. I can’t believe it. So much. What was so sweet was she told me to call you to get in touch. It’s so sad; her Russell’s died now. She’s been widowed twice.”

“Poor Mary. Poor Russell.”

“I know.”

“Go on telling me what she said.”

“She said I should call you. And I said you’d probably have forgotten about me by now, it was such a long time. And she said you wouldn’t have. That Russell hadn’t forgotten her, not even after more than sixty years. How amazing is that?”

“Well, Emma King,” he said, “I’m not being beaten at love by anyone. I couldn’t forget you if I didn’t see you for… for seventy years. How’s that?”

“We’d have to be quite old,” she said, “for you to remember me for seventy years.”

“I’d hang on,” he said. “I’d just hang on if I thought I was going to see you again. One day. I’d wait.”

“Well… you don’t have to.”

“No, I don’t, thank God. I’ll have you with me. For all of seventy years, I hope. I love you, Emma. I never, ever want to spend another hour without you.”

“You might have to spend an hour. Here and there. While you’re banking and I’m doctoring. But after that…”

“After that, it’d be OK. So OK. And you know something, my darling, lovely Emma?”

“No. What?”

“You don’t look old enough to be a doctor.”