The Best Of Times

by Penny Vincenzi

  “So when I’m home in Bristol, will you still insist on staying there?” she had said, and, “No,” he had said; he was investigating a hotel between Bristol and Bath that sounded pretty decent…

  “Only pretty decent, Russell? You sure that’s good enough?”

  He had been fretting over the hospital too, saying he would rather she was in a private one, but she had told him that was ridiculous; this really was a very good place.

  They’d had to arrange the times of his visits quite carefully, so that they didn’t coincide with Christine’s. He said he couldn’t see the problem with that; he couldn’t wait to meet Mary’s children, both of them; but Mary told him she thought it might be a bit of a shock for them, particularly for Christine, who had adored her father, and she wanted her to be well prepared before being confronted by a totally strange man who would, after all, become her stepfather. It would be a hard thing for a woman of almost sixty to understand.

  But now they would be alone together all day and every day, for a while, and she could tell Christine all about it. And hopefully Christine would be really happy about it. Hopefully…

  ***

  “Abi?” It was William’s calm, deep voice. “Abi, it’s William here. I’ve just had the police on the phone-got to give them an interview, wondered if they’d approached you as well.”

  “Oh, William,” said Abi, thinking it would be worth going through any number of police interviews to have William discussing them with her. “William, it’s great to hear from you. Yes, they have. In fact, it’s tonight; I am so not looking forward to it.”

  “Oh, it’ll be all right,” he said easily. “You were just a witness, that’s all; nothing to worry about. All you’ve got to do is give them a straightforward account of it.”

  She wondered, What on earth would William say if he knew about the real her…? “When are they seeing you, then?”

  “Tomorrow morning. I can’t say I’m looking forward to it either; my father’ll be getting involved, probably, telling them the field’s been ruined with their helicopter.”

  There was a long silence, then he said: “Look. I was wondering. How would you like to have a drink tomorrow night? We can have a chat, compare notes.”

  “William, that’d be great. Really.” Was this for real? Was he actually asking her out? God…

  “OK. It’s a date. Where should we meet, Bristol, I s’pose?”

  “Well, that’d be nice. Long drive for you, though. And then you won’t be able to drink much.”

  “Oh, I’m not a big drinker anyway. Tell me where we can meet. You can show me a few of the bright lights over there; how would that be?”

  “Great,” said Abi. “Really great.”

  “Good.” He sounded slightly surprised himself. “And meanwhile, don’t worry about the interview. All you’ve got to do is tell the truth.” If only it was as simple as that; if only she hadn’t got to lie and lie, and remember so many crucial things… “It’s no big deal. What about your friend the doctor; I expect they’re seeing him as well?”

  “Yes, I believe so,” said Abi, and then: “He’s not a friend, William, just a business connection. I thought I’d told you, I’d never met him before Friday. He gave me a lift from the conference…” This was quite good; she could rehearse her lines.

  “Oh, OK. Well, it’ll be interesting to see what they do want to know. Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

  She sat thinking about him for a bit after ringing off: sitting there on the tractor, looking tanned and so bloody fit, with those lovely kind, sort of hazelish eyes…

  Oh, God. What was she doing fancying a farmer, of all things? And a posh farmer at that. What was she doing seeing him? Where was the sense in that? She should be distancing herself from everyone and everything to do with the crash, not going out with them. She was bound to give the game away, slip up…

  She had been genuinely hurt as well as angered by Jonathan’s rejection of her; she had not, of course, ever imagined their affair had any real future, but somehow he had beguiled her-with his generosity, his enjoyment of her company as well as her body, his apparently genuine interest in her-into thinking he did actually care about her as a person. And how stupid had that been? Of course he hadn’t. He was like all the rest of them. He had wanted what he could get out of her, and beyond that-nothing.

  Abi took a very dim view of men-not unnaturally, considering what she had endured at their hands. She was aware of being something of a walking cliché: knocked about by her mother’s first boyfriend, after her own father had walked out, seduced by the second, and then forced to listen to his lies that she had seduced him. Which had resulted in her being thrown out of the house at the age of fifteen. There had been a long parade of boyfriends, a few of them permanent. By the time she was twenty-one, Abi had turned into the sort of person she really didn’t like-without being able to see what she could have done about it.

  She couldn’t suddenly become marriage material now; she couldn’t wipe out her rather desperate past. No one was going to look after her; she had to do it herself, and part of that seemed to be taking her sexual pleasure where she could, rather as men did. Only it was all right for men. Even married ones like Jonathan. It was all very unfair.

  The reports in the Sunday papers had been awful: the lorry driver, who she now knew was called Patrick Connell, “very seriously injured and still in intensive care;” Toby Weston, the bridegroom (the media had latched on to that story in a big way), still “heavily sedated,” his leg with its multiple fractures a “grave cause for concern;” and there were several photographs of the families of people who had died, and of the blond girl in the Golf, taken on some beach the previous year, laughing, holding the hand of her boyfriend. And there were a lot of annoying stories about Jonathan, his courage, and how hard he had worked, how calm he was and how skilful. Although-annoying as they were-they were true. It was one of the reasons she didn’t actually want to drop him in the shit.

  ***

  What was he getting into? William wondered. It was insane, absolutely ridiculous. But… so what? Who said relationships had to be sensible? Wasn’t that the whole point, that relationships couldn’t necessarily be called to order, that an attraction was uncontrollable and could, if followed, lead to some very pleasant chaos? William would have welcomed a bit of chaos into his life just now. He was too young to be settled into total predictability, too old to have to conform to his parents’ lifestyle. He wanted an adventure-and if not an adventure, at least an excursion to adventure’s perimeter. And Abi had seemed to be leading him towards one, beckoning him with her long, magenta fingernails, luring him with her dark, knowing eyes. OK, she could clearly be troublesome, but God, she was a living, breathing master class in sexiness.

  So… what was wrong with that? Absolutely nothing at all. In fact, it looked rather the reverse.

  William put the tractor into gear and sent it up the hill feeling suddenly pretty bloody good.

  ***

  Maeve had been sitting with Patrick for some time, and was beginning to think rather longingly of the coffee shop for what had become her supper, a latte and a cookie, and thinking also that on her way back she’d pop up and see her new friend Mary.

  She was absolutely dreading Mary’s going home. She was so wonderfully comforting and cheering, and filled with common sense. Maeve had told her about the dreadful possibility of Patrick’s being paralysed: “It will be so unbearable for him; he’s so active, so strong; he loves haring about; he can carry two of the boys and run at the same time. How will he cope with sitting in a chair for the rest of his life?”

  “He will because he’ll have to,” Mary said. “You love him so much, and he loves you so much, and you know, Maeve, it’s a wonderful thing, love. They say faith can move mountains, but to my mind so can love. But you don’t know; he may recover completely-they can do such wonderful things these days…”

  Maeve had thought Patrick was getting more with it,
as she put it, day by day. It might be a long time before he came home, and the very least he had to face was major abdominal surgery, but he was still alive, which a week ago had seemed far too much to hope for. She was saying all this to Patrick when he reached out for her hand and squeezed it very tightly, and said, “Maeve-I’m beginning to remember.”

  “Remember… what?” she said, and there was a band round her chest as tight as his hand round hers.

  “The accident. What happened. How it happened. It was hot. Terribly hot. The sun was so bright. And I was so tired, Maeve. So tired…”

  “Oh, Patrick…” She’d been terrified of this ever since she’d heard about it, certainly since she’d known he was going to live. She wanted to stop him, to shut him up, to keep him-and her-safe from the memories. But…

  “I was eating jelly babies, you know, and they weren’t working. I can remember eating them, lots of them, handfuls, I could feel my head going, you know? The fuzzing, I’ve told you about the fuzzing.”

  “Yes, Patrick, you have.”

  He had: the feeling his brain was getting confused, not working for him.

  “I went to the doctor about it, you know, but he couldn’t help. That’s all I can remember. The fuzzing-and then blankness.”

  “Yes, but Patrick, darling, that was when you blacked out. Lost consciousness. Not went to sleep. Went unconscious. Of course you can’t remember.”

  “I think… well, I think I can. And Maeve… I think there was someone else in the cab.”

  “Someone else? What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. I just seem to remember… remember… there was someone else there.”

  “But, Patrick, how could there have been? There was no one with you when they found you, and where could they have gone…”

  “I know. But I still think… Oh, I’m so afraid, Maeve. So afraid I must have… must have… gone… gone to…”

  And then he stopped talking and tears squeezed slowly and painfully from his eyes, rolled down his cheeks, large, childlike tears. And Maeve, still clutching his hand, stroking it, trying to comfort him, thought that if he had gone to sleep, if he had caused that awful, dreadful crash, for which he had been punished, and was still being punished so horribly, then she was to blame as well: for hassling him, hurrying him home, when perhaps another hour or two of rest would have made all the difference. All the difference in the world-and for some people, indeed, the difference between life and death.

  ***

  “Dr. King? Emma?”

  Emma turned to see who had called her and saw Barney Fraser, Toby Weston’s friend.

  “I thought it was you. How are you?”

  He was looking different. She couldn’t think why, then realised he was in his city togs: sharp suit (although the jacket was slung over his shoulder), formal shirt (pink check, really suited him), tie even (although hanging loose round his neck).

  “Good.”

  “I’m on my way to the café, get a shot of caffeine before I go back to town. You?”

  “I’m in search of caffeine, too.”

  “OK… we could go together.”

  He smiled at her. God, he had a wonderful smile. God, he was so gorgeous… Stop it, Emma. He’s taken. And so are you… now.

  “OK. Mustn’t be long, though.”

  They went into the café; she grabbed a Diet Coke, and then joined him at the coffee counter, ordered an Americano.

  “Snap. Same as me. I actually wanted a double espresso, but they’re not great at coffee-speak here. Can you sit down for five minutes? Or do you have to rush back?”

  “Well, five minutes.”

  “Cool.”

  “So, have you been visiting Toby?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “Driven all the way down from London?”

  “No, I came on the train. I’m about to call a cab; there’s a notice about them in the main reception. How’s the service this time of night?”

  “Not bad. Not great. How… how is Toby?”

  She knew he wasn’t very well; she’d talked to Mark Collins about him the day before. He had been running recurrent fevers from Sunday night, and complaining of feeling generally unwell. Today he even seemed confused.

  “It points to infection, I’m afraid,” Mark had said. “We’ve upped the antibiotics and we’re going to take him to the theatre tomorrow and do a washout. And the end of this road-the bad end, anyway-well, you know what it is as well as I do.”

  Amputation, Emma thought, wincing: what a terrifying prospect for a bloke of thirty. She hoped Barney didn’t realise that, at least.

  “How is he?” she said again. As if she didn’t know.

  “Not great. They did some washout thing today.”

  “Well,” she said carefully, “that should do some good…”

  “And if it doesn’t, he’ll lose the leg, right?”

  She was shocked.

  “Nobody here told you that, did they?”

  “No, no, I rang a mate who’s a medic.”

  “Oh. Oh, I see. Well, without knowing Toby’s case-”

  “Emma, it’s OK. I’ve taken it on board. It’s hideous, but-”

  “But it really would be a last resort. And I’m sure-well, I hope-he’s miles from that. I… I hope you haven’t told his parents this.”

  “No, of course I haven’t. I’m not a total retard.”

  “Sorry. It’s just… well, we have to be so careful about that sort of thing.”

  “I’m sure. No, it’s fine; I haven’t told anyone. Except Amanda, that is.”

  Amanda. The preppy, perfect girlfriend. Correction, the preppy, perfect fiancée.

  “How did Toby seem in himself?”

  “Oh, bit out of it, actually. When… when will they know if it’s worked?”

  “Oh, not for several more days. Um… what about his fiancée; has she been down much?”

  “I’m not sure. She’s still at home with her parents, getting over her cancelled wedding.”

  His voice sounded bitter; Emma looked at him sharply. He interpreted the look, said, “Sorry, shouldn’t have said that.”

  “You can say what you like to me, Barney. But… well, it must be pretty awful for her, worrying about Toby, and she wouldn’t be human if she wasn’t upset about the wedding…”

  “Of course.”

  “What do you all do?” she said with a glance at her watch.

  “Oh, Tobes and I are those wicked banker people. You know, earn as much as the budget of a small country. If you believe the press, that is.”

  “And Amanda, what does she do?”

  “She’s in HR. In the same bank as Tobes. And Tamara, she’s on the French desk at my firm. Yeah, so it’s all a bit incestuous, really. Tamara is seriously cool. You should see their apartment-talk about retro.”

  “I probably wouldn’t appreciate it,” said Emma, laughing. “I’m still at the furnished-flat stage myself.”

  “Yeah? How long will you be here, do you think? Moving on, up to London or whatever?”

  “I have no idea where I’ll be. But I want, eventually, to go into obstetrics. At the moment I’m just a general surgeon. Doing my four months’ stint down here, in A and E, which I do love.”

  “You’re a surgeon? You mean you actually… well-”

  “Cut people up? Yes, I do.” She laughed. “Don’t look so horrified.”

  “Not horrified. Just seriously impressed. I mean, you don’t look old enough-well, hardly-to be a doctor at all, and-”

  “Oh, don’t,” she said. “If I had a pound for every time I’m told that… I think I’ll put it on my tombstone: ‘She didn’t look old enough…’ Barney, I really must go. It’s been lovely talking to you, but God knows what’s happening down there.” She nodded in the direction of A &E. “Look, I’ll pop up and see Toby tomorrow. If you think he’d like that.”

  “Emma, anyone out of short trousers would like being visited by you. Actually, even if they were in short tro
users. Thank you so much. And for your time. Really cheered me up.”

  “It was a pleasure. Honestly.”

  She held out her hand; he took it, then rather hesitantly bent down and kissed her cheek.

  “Pleasure for me too. Honestly. Thank you again. For all your help, not just this evening.”

  And then he was gone, hurrying out of the café, pulling on his jacket.

  Emma walked rather slowly back to A &E, then sat down at the doctor’s station and said, “Shit.”

  And Barney, settling into the corner of a cab, on his way to the station, said, “Fuck.”

  For much the same reason.

  CHAPTER 22

  It had gone pretty well, Abi thought. They’d questioned her closely, but she hadn’t let them rattle her.

  She’d been pretty stressed by a panicky phone call from Jonathan very early that morning, telling her more things that she must and must not say. Like the time they left the conference in Birmingham-that she must be vague, say between eleven thirty and twelve, that they’d been held up at the service station, and-change of information-he had now told them Laura had called his mobile at four. “Well, she told them, actually. But she said she only heard me saying hello and then it all went blank. Just say it rang and I answered it and hurled it on the floor when the lorry started to swerve. It might not even come up. Did you switch the phone off, incidentally? I didn’t, and-”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Fine. Well, I think that’s everything. Bye, then.”

  She didn’t answer. She felt very bleak suddenly, bleak and alone. He hadn’t even said “good luck.” Bastard. God, how she hated him.

  Anyway, she’d said what he’d told her: about their relationship, about her car not starting so she’d gone by train to the conference, and then all the stuff about the accident-a relief to be able to relax and just speak the truth for a bit-and then she’d told them how marvellous Jonathan had been afterwards. Which had been true as well.