Toby had always got himself-and very often both of them-out of scrapes at school by lying; Barney had always been awed by how accomplished at it he was. It was very rare for him not to get away with things: in no small part because he was a successful boy very good at games and bright, and the staff therefore liked him and were inclined to believe him anyway.
The Westons left at about ten thirty; they had a couple of things to pick up on the way, they said, before meeting their friends.
It was after twelve before Toby got back.
“Barney, I’m so sorry. She wasn’t there-no one was; she made me go to her office-”
“Couldn’t you have left it at the house?”
“No, she said she wanted it in her hands. Even then, I had to wait there for about ten minutes as well.”
“Yeah, all right, all right. Go and get changed, for Christ’s sake. We’re supposed to be having lunch with the ushers at one.”
“Well… we’ll have to cut it. Barney, the wedding’s not till four thirty. We’ll be fine…”
“OK,” said Barney reluctantly, “I’ll call them. Now, please. Hurry up.”
***
Toby, clearly shaken, was a long time in the shower; then he couldn’t find the Paul Smith socks he had bought, the only ones fine enough to make his new, stiff bridegroom shoes comfortable.
“Tobes, mate, we’ve got to go. And I’d better drive; you look bloody awful.”
“Yes, OK, OK. Oh-shit. I still haven’t filled the car up.”
“Toby! For Christ’s sake. Well, come on. Let’s go. Back way?”
“No, let’s nip along the M4. It’s only one junction, and we can fill up at the service station.”
“Toby, it’s Friday. Motorway’s not entirely the best idea-do we really have to get fuel?”
“We really have to. It’s bloody nearly empty. Anyway, we’ll be heading towards London, not out of it. It’ll be fine. Much quicker anyway than all those country lanes. We could just as easily get stuck behind a tractor-”
Barney was about to say that you could always get round a tractor if it was absolutely necessary, but Toby suddenly said he needed the lavatory. He disappeared for almost five minutes, came out looking very shaken.
“Sorry, Barney. Just been sick. Nerves, I suppose. Still don’t feel great. In fact-” he disappeared again.
Well, at least there’d be plenty of lavatories at the service station…
***
Georgia had discovered a message from Linda on Patrick’s phone. She looked at him, smiling radiantly.
“She doesn’t exactly say it’s all right, but she still wants me to get to London, so I think it must be, don’t you?”
“So tell me about yourself,” he said. And she did.
How she had wanted to be an actor all her life; how she had been the star of all the school productions, especially as Juliet. “Some of those bitches there said, ‘Oh, you can’t have a black Juliet,’ but our drama teacher was a complete legend, and she said of course you could; it was no stranger than all those white actors playing Othello.” And how she had then won a place at NAD, as she called her drama school, the National Academy of Drama, and how she had been spotted by Linda at the end-of-term performance.
“I’d like to be able to say the rest is history,” she said, biting into an apple, “but I can’t. If I get this thing today, well, it’s my big chance; it really is.”
She told him she’d been adopted when she had been a baby. “My birth mother was only fourteen and she couldn’t keep me-well, didn’t want to, more like it-so Mum and Dad took me on. They gave me a really happy childhood; I felt really safe and loved, had lots of nice things, went to a good school, you know? I think I was a bit of a disappointment to them, though. My mum dreamed of me being a teacher. God. I couldn’t do that. No patience. Not with little kids, anyway.”
Patrick agreed that you did indeed need a lot of patience with little kids. “I have three boys all under eight; life isn’t exactly peaceful.”
“I bet it’s not. Your wife must get quite… tired. What’s her name?”
“Maeve.”
“Maeve, that’s pretty. Does she work at all?”
“What, with three kids? She does not, although nothing makes her more annoyed than when people ask her that. ‘What do you think I do all day?’ she says. ‘My nails?’”
“Oh, sorry. Stupid of me. I should know; I get all that sort of shit as well.”
“What sort of shit would that be?” said Patrick, amused.
“Oh, people saying things like, ‘How lovely for you to live in Roath Park.’ That’s the really middle-class bit of Cardiff where our house is. Or, ‘Wasn’t it lucky for you that Jack and Bea adopted you?’ What they mean is, ‘How lovely for you to have been adopted by white, middle-class people, instead of dragged down by your black birth mother.’ Well, it is in a way, but it’s bloody hard as well.”
“And why should that be?”
“Well, if you’re black, you’re black,” said Georgia slowly, “and it feels odd to be all the time with white people. You have no idea what it was like, as I got to four or five, to go to a kids’ party and be the only black face there. You feel… I don’t know… terribly on your own. And a bit bewildered… as if you shouldn’t be there, not really. Can you imagine that?”
“I… think I can, yes.”
“Thing is, you’re only there because your own mum and your real family have failed you and someone’s conscience meant you got rescued. And you feel you ought to be grateful all the time, and you really resent that. It got better as I grew up, because Cardiff ’s a pretty mixed community and there were lots of black and Asian kids in my school. But then I thought, Well, what does that say for my relationship with my mum and dad, if I don’t feel good with the people they know and like?”
“Did you ever go and find your birth mother?”
“Yes,” said Georgia flatly, “but it didn’t work.”
“And did that upset you?”
“Yes, of course. Well, at first. Then I just sort of… pushed her back where she’d been all my life. Nowhere.” She looked at Patrick and smiled. “I never usually talk about all this stuff till I’ve known someone for ages, and not always then. You must have some kind of magic, makes people talk.”
“I’m just naturally nosy, I suppose. We’re doing well, you know, Georgia. You’ll be there by five, the rate we’re going. Here, your phone’s charged. Best take it; don’t want you leaving it behind. Oh, Jesus, these people…”
A van had cut them off, overtaking from the inside; Patrick had to brake quite sharply.
“That was hideous,” said Georgia, adding, “White van driver, are they really all bad?”
“Most…”
Something had fallen on the floor. Georgia bent down to pick it up; it was a small box.
“What’s this?”
“Oh, now take a look; I’d be glad of a woman’s opinion. It’s a present for my mother-in-law, for her birthday. Her fiftieth. We’re having a bit of a celebration tonight; it’s one of the reasons I have to press on.”
Georgia opened the box; it was a very pretty watch on a silver bracelet.
“It’s lovely, Patrick. I do like watches. My last boyfriend had bought me a beautiful one the very night I decided to dump him. I had to make him take it back; it nearly killed me.”
“So, why did you dump him? Or is that just one nosy question too many?”
“No. He was just… boring.”
“Well,” said Patrick firmly, “you did the right thing. Even if you did have to give up the watch. Maeve and I, now, we drive each other mad sometimes, but we’re never bored. Now just keep hold of that watch, would you? I should have stowed it away a bit better than that.”
“I’ll put it into my bag-it’ll be safe there-and give it to you when I get out.”
“Fine. Don’t go running off with it, will you?”
“Don’t be silly; of course I won’t.”
***
“Oh, Jesus. Oh, dear sweet Christ, it’s the fucking police. Right behind us. Jesus, that’s all we need.”
Barney pulled over, guided by the relentless blue light onto the hard shoulder, wound down the window.
“Afternoon, sir.”
“Good afternoon, Officer.”
“Perhaps you’d be kind enough to get out of the car, sir. Do you have any idea the speed you were doing then?”
“Er-not quite. No.”
“Ninety-eight, sir. Little above the speed limit.”
“Yes, yes, I’m sorry, Officer. I… well, I was in rather a hurry.”
“I could see that.” A half smile crossed his face. It wasn’t a very kind smile. “Going to a wedding, are you?”
“Er, yes. Yes, I am. I’m the best man. My friend here is the bridegroom.”
Surely, surely they’d get some points for sympathy.
“Could I see your licence, sir?”
“Yes. Yes, of course. Toby, could you give it to me, please? It’s in my wallet. I put it in the glove compartment.”
He passed it over; the cop looked at it carefully.
“So you are Barnaby John Fraser? This is your licence? And it’s your own car?”
“No, it belongs to Toby here. Mr. Weston.”
“But clearly you are insured to drive it, sir. I’ll just take down the details, sir. I see you live in London.”
“Yes, that’s correct. But we were staying with Mr. Weston’s parents in Elcombe.”
“And the wedding is?”
“In Marlborough. Well, just outside.”
“So why did you come up to the motorway, sir, I wonder… seeing Elcombe is on the south side as well.”
“Well… we thought… roads all windy and narrow, we thought the motorway would be a better bet.”
He knew why the policeman was keeping him talking: so he could smell his breath, see if he’d been drinking.
“Well, you could have made a mistake there, sir. Now I’m afraid I shall have to Breathalyze you.”
“But I haven’t had anything to drink.”
“Regulations, sir. We have to do it. Won’t take long.” And then, as Barney handed him back the tube, “What time is the wedding, sir?”
“Four thirty.”
“In Marlborough? That’s cutting it a little bit fine. Right, well, there’s no alcohol registered in this. You’d better be on your way, then. Good luck. You will be hearing from us, of course.”
They’d be watching them, Barney thought. Even though they were going ahead, he couldn’t risk overtaking them. Buggers. Total buggers. God, the petrol was low. Well, they were nearly at the service station. And it was still only just after three. OK, ten past. Should still be all right…
“Bastards,” Toby said, pushing his hair back as they swung onto the motorway. “Think we should call someone?”
“’Fraid so, mate, yeah. Who, though? Tamara? Her ma?”
“Jesus, no!” Toby turned white. “Whoever you called about the lunch.”
“Pete. Well, you’d better do it. Get it over.”
“OK. Christ, I’m sweating. Shit, Barney, how did this bloody well happen? Fine best man you’ve turned out to be.”
He thought Toby was joking, and then realised he wasn’t. Not entirely.
***
Just after three Jack Bryant pulled onto the motorway. He’d been looking forward to today for some time; he was driving up to Scotland for a bit of grouse shooting with some chums, which would be great fun, and moreover, he was able to drive up in the E-Type. She really needed a good run.
The E-Type was his pride and joy: bright red, not a scratch on her-well, not anymore there wasn’t-soft top, the works. She went like the bloody wind too, hundred and twenty easy, not that you could do that often these days.
He’d bought her after his last divorce: three years ago. He’d always wanted one, and after the handout he’d had to give his ex-wife, he felt he deserved something for himself.
Hard to believe he and the car were roughly the same age-well, he was a good bit older, truth to tell.
Jack had fallen on slightly hard times; he’d made a fair bit of money out of the first property boom, but not sufficient to keep him for the rest of his life, or support his ambition to lead the life of a country gentleman. He wasn’t a country gentleman, of course-he was a grammar-school boy made good-but he had a lot of friends who were, and though he now lived rather modestly in Fulham, he was to be found most weekends in the country; he was useful, as a single, socially acceptable man always is, and besides, it was impossible not to like him-he was so good-natured, so energetic, such a fund of good stories.
He had been in Bristol for a couple of days staying with friends; hence his presence on the M4 that afternoon. And while there, had had the E-Type overhauled by a very good mechanic he knew, and then had given her the final once-over himself. Well, you couldn’t be too careful with these old ladies, and it was a long way.
***
Mary was feeling a bit sleepy. It was the heat, of course; and the fact that she’d been awake most of the night. With excitement. She might have a little nap-it couldn’t do any harm, and it would make the journey seem shorter. The driver would tell her when they were nearly there, so that she could comb her hair and so on-not that there wouldn’t be lots of time when they arrived. The plane wasn’t due till six, and the taxi company had advised allowing an extra hour just in case. Mary had allowed an extra two.
“So, how are we doing?” she said.
“Fine, love.” Her driver, who had told her to call him Colin, was very nice, she thought. And middle-aged, so almost certainly a better driver. It would have been awful if he’d been one of those tough young ones, with a shaven head. “An hour and a half at the most from here. Even if the traffic snarls up a bit nearer London.”
“Is that likely?” said Mary anxiously.
“If I knew that, my love, I’d be a rich man. That’s what every motorist wants: to know how the traffic is going to be, whether there’ll be an accident, that sort of thing.”
“An accident! Oh, dear, I hadn’t thought of that…”
“Look, Mrs. Bristow, we’re in the inside lane, as you requested, doing a nice steady sixty-five. Not much chance of an accident happening to us. And even if there was an accident, the speed I’m going and us being right next to the hard shoulder, there’d be no way it would affect us.”
“Do you think so?”
“I know so, my love. Look, why don’t you have a little sleep. We’ll be there then before you know it.”
Mary settled herself peacefully in the corner. It had got very dark suddenly. Maybe it was going to rain; it was close enough for thunder. He was right, her nice driver: they would indeed be there before she knew it. And then she’d see Russell and… and…
Mary drifted into sleep smiling.
Thank Christ for that, Colin Sharp thought, put his foot down hard, and pulled over into the middle lane.
***
“Maybe we’d better have that chat now?” said Abi as they swung onto the M4.
They were in his new car: a Saab. He had had it only a week, and was still not entirely comfortable with it. The car itself was fine, but the sound system was slightly faulty, and the hands-free phone didn’t work at all.
Abi had turned on Radio I: very loudly. He turned it down; she turned it up again.
“Abi, I can’t think against that sort of noise. Let alone talk.”
“You’re showing your age, Jonathan.”
But she turned it off and picked up his phone from the dashboard, started fiddling with it.
“Abi, put that back.”
“Why? I was going to take a photograph of you. You look so sweet. All stern and distant. So different from an hour ago. There. That’s great. Now I want to check if you got that text I sent you-”
“What text?”
“While you were in the shower. Yes, here it is; you can look at it later. It�
��s a very nice text.”
“Abi, put that back, please. Now.”
“OK.” She shrugged.
“He took a deep breath. “Abi, I think it’s time we… we stopped this.”
“Stopped what?”
“Our… this… this relationship.”
“Why?” The question sounded very aggressive.
“Well, I think it’s run its course. I’ve been feeling increasingly… unhappy about it. It’s great-you’ve been great-but I think we should say good-bye before… well, before we regret it-”
“I’m not regretting it, Jonathan.”
“Abi, I… Look, you don’t understand.”
“I think I do,” she said, and her eyes were very hard. “You’ve had your fun and now you’re getting windy. The excitement isn’t quite enough anymore, so I’m supposed to let you just walk away into the sunset, am I? Just because you’re feeling a bit flaky”
“Well, you can’t have imagined there was any kind of future in it.”
“I might have done,” she said. “You came on pretty strong to me. As I recall.”
“You didn’t exactly hold back yourself either. As I recall.”
Her voice was very tense, very angry. “You’ve got a fucking nerve, Jonathan Gilliatt. For weeks I’ve been providing sex on demand-”
“I seem to remember you doing quite a lot of the demanding.”
She ignored this. “Now I’m just to fuck off, leave you to go back to perfect little wifey pretend I was never there. Well, I just might not do that, Jonathan. Sorry, but none of this strikes me as quite… fair.”
She was right: given how zealously he had pursued her, it wasn’t fair.
“Well, I’m sorry. But, Abi, you must see it can’t go on forever. It’s not… not realistic.”
“I don’t see, no. And what if I’d prefer it to continue? Had you thought of that?”
He felt a stab of absolute panic.
“I… well, I-”
“You hadn’t, had you. You thought because I was easy meat, what I felt or thought didn’t matter; you thought that I’d just go quietly, say, ‘Yes, Jonathan, no Jonathan, three bags full, Jonathan, good-bye and amen.’ Well, I’m not going to. I don’t see why I should. Actually.”
The Best Of Times Page 7