“Well, what do you know?”
“Goodness, there you go again,” she said, giggling.
“What do you mean?”
“Saying, ‘what do you know?’ It’s so… so funny to hear it. It’s such a cliché somehow. I didn’t mean to sound rude, to offend you.”
“That’s OK. But… maybe in the cause of further cementing Anglo-American relations, you could agree to meet me. Just for half an hour.”
“Maybe I could. In the cause of Anglo-American relations.” She smiled back at him. “Well… all right. I’ll meet you here at ten past five. Anyway-better go now. Bye.”
And she was gone, with a quick sweet smile, half running, her brown curls flying in the spring breeze.
And so it began: their romance. Which now-most wonderfully, it seemed-might not be over…
***
Patrick Connell was tired and fed up; he’d stopped for a break on the motorway, and was drinking some filthy coffee-why couldn’t someone provide some decent stuff for lorry drivers? They’d make a fortune.
Life on the road wasn’t a lot of fun these days, and you didn’t make the money either, because you were allowed to work only forty-eight hours a week, and that included rest periods and traffic jams, and the traffic just got worse and worse…
And so did the sleep problem.
It was turning into a daytime nightmare. It started earlier and earlier in the day, a dreadful, heavy sleepiness that he knew made him a danger. Even when he slept well and set out early, it could catch him halfway through the morning; he would feel his head beginning its inexorable slide into confusion, force himself to concentrate, turn up the radio, eat sweets: nothing really licked it.
He’d actually gone to the doctor the week before-without telling Maeve, of course; she was such a worrier-to see if he could give him anything for it. The doctor had been sympathetic, but couldn’t. “If I give you pep pills, Mr. Connell, you’ll only get a kickback later, won’t be able to sleep that night, and that won’t help you, will it? Sounds like you need to change your job, do something quite different. Have you thought about that?”
With which unhelpful advice Patrick had found himself dismissed; he had continued to take his Pro Plus and drink Red Bull and eat sweets and struggle on somehow.
Everyone thought lorry drivers could do whatever speed they liked; everyone was wrong. The lorry itself saw to that: a governor in the fuel pump that allowed exactly the amount of fuel through to do the legal fifty-six mph and no more. Some of the foreign drivers removed the fuse, or adjusted the pump, but Patrick wouldn’t have dreamed of doing that. Not worth it. You got caught, you lost your licence. And anyway, then there was the tachograph fixed in your cab that told it all: how many hours you’d done, how long you’d stopped, whether you’d speeded at all. So you literally got stuck in some god-awful place, unable to leave because your hours were up. And they could be up simply because of being stuck in traffic, not because you’d made any progress.
What he longed for more than anything right this minute was a shower and a shave and a change of clothes. Life on the road didn’t do a lot for your personal hygiene. On the English roads, anyway; it was better in Europe. Like the food. And the coffee…
CHAPTER 4
“What a perfect summer it’s been,” said Jonathan, smiling at Laura, raising his glass of Sauvignon to her; and, “Yes,” she said, “indeed it has. And it’s even nice here now. For our return.”
“I thought maybe in future we could spend Easter in France, as well as the summer,” he said.
“Well… well, that would be lovely, except-”
“Except what?”
“Well… the thing is, Jonathan, the children are growing up so fast, they’ve got lives of their own now, and they want to be with their friends.”
“They can be with their friends the rest of the year,” he said, sounding mildly irritable.
“I know, but…” Her voice trailed off. How to explain that a remote, albeit beautiful farmhouse for weeks at a time wasn’t going to be quite enough for children approaching adolescence? She’d hoped Jonathan would realise that for himself, but he didn’t seem to.
He had a very strong controlling streak: everything had to be done his way, and she could see that already Charlie was beginning to kick against it. And, of course, the girls, while wonderfully sweet and biddable at the moment, would inevitably reach the same point. But it hadn’t happened yet; and Laura was quite adept at ignoring difficulties. She had even considered having another baby, in order to ensure that at least some of the family remained small and compliant; but babies weren’t that compliant, and Jonathan found them difficult anyway. Probably best to enjoy the near perfection of the present.
“Oh, now, I hope this is all right, darling,” he said. “I’m going to have to be away next Thursday night. Big conference in Birmingham: old medical student chum’s gone over into the pharmaceutical business; he seemed to think if I spoke he’d get a better attendance rate.”
“Well, of course he would,” she said, smiling at him. “You’re such a draw these days at these things, such a big name-I was so proud of you at that conference in Boston. That was fun; I loved being there with you. Maybe I should come next week…”
“Oh, darling, I hardly think Birmingham could compare with Boston. Not worth you packing your bag, even-”
“I wouldn’t mind,” she said, “if you’d like me to come.”
“Darling, don’t even think about it. I thought you had enough to do next week, what with getting the children fitted up for school and seeing that madwoman in Wiltshire about doing her house up for Christmas. What an absurd idea! Paying someone to put up a few garlands and fairy lights…”
“Jonathan,” said Laura, almost hurt, “not everyone has the time to do it for themselves. Or the… well, the ideas. That’s what I’m for.”
“Of course. I’m sorry, sweetheart, stupid of me. And you’ll make it look so lovely. Do you have any ideas about it yet? I’d love to hear them; you know I would…”
He did that sometimes: professed interest in what she did. It was only professing-he didn’t really care if the Wiltshire house was decked out with barbed wire-but it was very sweet. He was very sweet… She was very, very lucky.
***
Georgia knew virtually every word of every character already. Linda was right: this was a fantastic part. The series was a thriller about a grandmother who vanished from the family home without a trace. She could have just wandered off, she could have met with an accident, she could have been murdered. The part Georgia was up for was the granddaughter, Rose, very close to her grandmother, angry at the way her dad belittled and bullied her, convinced he had something to do with her disappearance. The more she read it, the more excited about it she became; she could really develop the character as she went along. She couldn’t think of anything else.
The first audition was a week from Friday; it was at the casting director’s office, and there would be loads of girls there, anywhere up to twenty or thirty. Tough as that was, Georgia didn’t mind the first audition as much as the later ones: it was less tense; the chance of getting the part seemed really rather remote; it was possible to relax just slightly. But it was still hideous.
The first thing that always struck her was how many girls there were, all looking rather like her. Which was logical, but always seemed surprising. And her next reaction was invariably that they were all much prettier than her.
Then there were all the awkward little conversations, the longest with the girl immediately ahead-Oh, hi, how are you, what have you been doing, love the dress/boots/hair. And then the long wait while she did her bit, and came out smiling, or looking really tense. And then they called you in and it began. At this stage, it was usually just you and the casting director, who would read a scene with you. With the camcorder running, of course. And then you waited-and waited. The first callback came within a day or two; if it didn’t, forget it. And if it did come, that audit
ion was much scarier: you knew they liked you; the pressure was on. And there were still five or seven or even eight of you. All, it seemed, better actors than you. You just felt sick for days and days, waiting. And quite often for a big part-like this one-there was a third call, with the choice whittled down to maybe two of you. That was really agony.
But… it would all be worth it if she got this part. She’d be on her way at last. And Linda did seem to think she had a real chance.
“You can act. You look perfect. And you’ve certainly got plenty of attitude, which is what they’re looking for. D’you want to come up the night before, stay with me?”
“No,” Georgia said quickly, “no, it’s really kind, but I’ll get the coach from Cardiff first thing.”
She didn’t like staying with Linda; she was nice, she was really fond of her, but her flat was so bloody perfect, Georgia was scared to move in case she made it untidy or knocked something over. The audition wasn’t till three thirty: she could get to London in loads of time.
“Fine,” said Linda. “As long as you’re not late.”
“Linda! As if I would be, opportunity like this. Do you really think I’ve a chance-”
“ Georgia, I really think so, yes. But there are lots of other girls. What do you think of the script?”
“I think it’s great.”
“Me too. And directed by Bryn Merrick. It should be superb.”
It was all absolutely amazing, really. She might actually be getting a part in a brilliant, high-profile Channel Four series, directed by one of the most award-winning people in the business. She might…
Georgia went back to her lines.
***
“Not long now, Toby,” said Barney.
“No. Absolutely not.”
There was a silence. The stag weekend had been a great success: they’d done all the touristy things in New York, Barney had managed to organise a Marilyn Monroe strip-o-gram for Toby, and they’d got some pretty good pictures of her-only Toby had got into one hell of a sweat over that and made them all swear to make sure Tamara never found out, or saw the pictures.
Tamara’s hen weekend didn’t sound exactly great; Amanda was very loyal about it, but even she admitted that an alcohol-free weekend at a spa retreat near Madrid, however wonderful the treatments, and however grand the clientele, ran out of fun.
Several of the girls suggested at least one trip into town, maybe for a meal or a bit of clubbing, but Tamara had said slightly coolly that of course they should do whatever they liked, but for her the concept of the whole weekend had been a luxurious detox, and she didn’t want to undo all the benefits for one night of what, after all, they did all the time in London.
And as the date of the wedding drew nearer she had become increasingly possessive of Toby, disturbing client evenings with endless phone calls, relentlessly e-mailing him about absurdly detailed arrangements, and even arriving at his desk in the middle of the morning with a handful of ties for his consideration; Amanda had struggled to explain this to Barney.
“I know it’s all a bit much, and she seems so cool and self-contained, but she’s actually a mass of insecurities. She’s absolutely terrified something’s going to go wrong, and she only feels better when Toby’s actually with her.”
Barney didn’t trust himself to speak.
***
Emma wasn’t sure how she felt about Luke’s news. Which was that he was going to Milan for six months. Seconded-that was the word-to some car manufacturers, called Becella: “They are the greatest cars in the world, you know. I’d have one while I was there.”
“Goodness.”
“Yeah. It really is a fantastic opportunity, Emma. I’m well chuffed.”
She had said it sounded great, yes, really wonderful, congratulations-while wondering if actually he was getting around to saying he thought they should stop seeing each other now, before he left-and then he said he knew she’d be pleased, and of course there’d be loads of trips back home-“every other weekend, actually, or they’re pretty good about flying people out. So you could come over whenever you wanted.”
Not finished then, which made smiling and seeming pleased easier-but how often did she have a whole weekend in which to go to Milan, for God’s sake? She’d thought at last she’d found the perfect boyfriend, settled in London, always around, and now he was going off for at least six months. It was… well, not very nice.
But no worse than that. Which probably meant she wasn’t actually in love with him. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that either.
***
It had been a particularly happy weekend. Jonathan had been relaxed and not even on call, which meant Laura could relax too, and at breakfast he had offered each of the children a treat of their choice. He did that occasionally: loved the conspicuous spoiling and role-playing of the perfect father.
“But it has to be in London -no point struggling out; the roads’ll be jammed. London ’s great in August; my treat is going to be-”
“You’re not a child,” said Daisy.
“I’m still allowed a treat. It’s a ride in the Eye, so we can have a look at everything. We haven’t been on it for ages. Any objections?”
“We’ll never get on,” said Laura.
“We will. I’ve bought tickets.”
“Oh, Jonathan, how lovely. When for?”
“Tomorrow morning. Eleven o’clock. And they’re VIP tickets, so absolutely no queuing. Now, then, what would Mummy’s treat be?”
“Um… a picnic. Which I didn’t have to prepare. In… let me see, Kew Gardens.”
“That’s easy. We’ll make the picnic, won’t we, kids? Lunchtime today, Laura?”
“Yes, please.”
They had their picnic; Lily’s wish was a rowboat on the river; and then they all went for supper on the terrace at Browns in Richmond, watching the sun set on the water.
“It’s so lovely,” said Daisy. “It’s all so lovely, I feel so happy, I don’t really want a treat.”
“That’s very sweet, darling,” said Laura, “and very grown-up of you. But how about you and I go shopping, just for a little while, in Covent Garden tomorrow, after the Eye? We could get one of those lockets you liked so much, from that jewellery stall. You too, Lily, if you want to come. Otherwise, Daddy can take you and Charlie to watch the buskers. Or on the roundabout.”
“I’ll come,” said Lily.
Charlie’s wish was a ride on the bungee jumps just beside the Eye, and after their ride they watched him soaring skywards, laughing, his skinny legs pretending to run, his brown hair shining in the sun, while they drank hot chocolate with whipped cream on top.
And then, after the shopping excursion, they went home for a late lunch in the garden, cold chicken salad and strawberry meringues, and then for a walk along the river, all holding hands.
I’m so happy, Laura thought, so happy and lucky. I wish these years could last forever…
CHAPTER 5
This was even worse, Patrick thought, than the week before. He had left London on Wednesday morning and now it was Thursday afternoon, and the night drive he had planned to get him home for Friday morning had been scuppered by a five-hour queue at the warehouse for loading up and a stroppy manager, with the words they all dreaded: “We’re closing, mate.”
Useless to argue, although Patrick tried to point out that it was only four thirty, with half an hour to closing; the man was unmoved. “I can’t get all that on board in half an hour; come back in the morning.”
Well, nothing else for it; he’d just have to bite the bullet and call Maeve; and then get some food and start looking for somewhere to spend the night.
And-wouldn’t you just know it-the weather was getting hotter and hotter.
***
This time tomorrow, Mary thought, she would be with Russell. She felt alternately terribly excited and terribly nervous. But now, actually, the excitement was winning. Her greatest fear-that they would be complete strangers, with nothing to
say to each other-seemed suddenly unlikely. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t been in contact all these years. And how odd that was, she thought, their two lives and lifestyles being so utterly different. But then they always had been; there had been nothing actually in common-unless you counted the war. Which had, of course, bound people very tightly together by its shared ideals and hopes, dangers and fears. Russell and she, growing up thousands of miles apart, in totally different cultures, had found each other through that war, found each other and loved each other; at no other time and in no other way could such a meeting and consequent relationship have taken place. And it was one of the things that had convinced Mary that their lives together could not be shared, that when the war was gone, much of the structure of their relationship would be gone too, the differences between them increased a thousandfold.
But now… well, now they had their past to bind them: the wonderful bridge between any two people, however different, who had raised children; seen grandchildren born and partners die; lost the strength and physical beauty of their youth; faced old age and loneliness; and shared, inevitably, the broader ideals of love, of loyalty and family, and wished to pass the importance of those things on to the generations that followed them, their own small piece of immortality.
All these things Mary thought that night as she lay in bed, unable to sleep and looking forward only just slightly anxiously to tomorrow.
***
What was she doing here? Georgia wondered. What? She must be totally, utterly, absolutely mad. Out clubbing in Bath with Esme and Esme’s up-himself boyfriend, drinking cocktails that she couldn’t afford, when she should be at home in bed in Cardiff, her alarm set for seven, giving her plenty of time to get to the coach station and take the ten-o’clock to London. Shit, shit, shit. It had seemed such a good idea at the time: an evening with Esme in her parents’ house; she’d even thought she might run through some of her scenes with Esme-it would help with the awful nerves-and then she could get the coach in the morning from Bath. Her mother hadn’t tried to stop her, just told her to be sensible and not miss the coach-as if she would; and then Georgia’d arrived and Esme was all stressed out because of the boyfriend, who she thought was about to dump her, so that when he called and asked Esme to meet him in town at some bar or other, Esme had acted like it was God himself, and insisted Georgia go too-“Honestly, Georgia, it’ll only be an hour or so; then we can come back and you can get to bed. I can’t go alone; I just can’t.” So she had gone, and how stupid had that been? Because now it was almost two, and no prospect of leaving, and she had no money for a cab, and the boyfriend kept saying he’d get them home.
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