And Russell had fallen in love with the beautiful countryside around Bath and the lovely houses that lay within it, and now, he said, he meant to show her one, one that he thought she would really like; she had thought he meant something like a National Trust property, perhaps, that they could look around and have lunch in.
So she dressed with particular care, put on the Jaeger suit, the fateful Jaeger suit; Russell was waiting for her on the doorstep and got in beside her, said they could have coffee later, and told Ted, the driver, to go “to the house near Tadwick we saw last night,” and they drove along in silence for about half an hour, Russell’s blue eyes shining as he looked out of the window. Mary could feel his excitement; it was like being with a child on Christmas Eve.
It was a perfect autumn day, golden and cobweb-hung, mists still lying in the small valleys; they were climbing slightly now, and then Russell said “Close your eyes.” She did so obediently, felt the car turn off, slow down, stop. “Open them,” he said, and she did, and saw a narrow lane curving down just a little to the left, with great chestnut trees overhanging it, and at the bottom, there it was: a house, a grey stone house, quite low, just two storeys, with a grey slate roof, tall windows and a wide, white front door, complete with fanlight and overhung with wisteria. At the right-hand end it bowed out into what Mary would have described-not knowing any architectural terms-as an extra bit, and which Russell-who seemed strong on architectural terms-described as a friendship. They drove down towards the house; Ted pulled outside the front door and they got out.
It was very quiet, very still, the only sound wood pigeons, and somewhere behind the house the wonderfully real, reassuring sound of a lawn mower.
“It’s lovely,” she said. “Does it belong to a friend of yours?”
“You could say so. Knock on the door; let’s see if we can go in.”
The door had a lion’s-head knocker; it was so heavy, Mary could hardly lift it.
She heard footsteps, heard the door being unbolted, watched it open, found herself looking at a grey-haired woman wearing a white apron. She smiled at them.
“Good morning, Mr. Mackenzie.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Salter. This is Mrs. Bristow. She’d like to see the house, if that’s OK.”
“Of course. Come in, Mrs. Bristow.”
The hall was big and square, with a slate floor; a wide, curving staircase rose from it, with a tall window on the turn. There was a drawing room, with tall windows and wooden shutters and a huge stone fireplace with a wonderful-smelling wood fire burning; there was a dining room, with another stone fireplace and French windows opening onto a terrace overhung with a rose-bearing pergola; there was a kitchen, with a vast wooden table and a dark green Aga; there was another smaller, very pretty room lined with books; and an even smaller one fitted out with coat hooks and boot racks. Upstairs were the bedrooms, some bigger, some smaller, two bathrooms with large, rather elderly-looking claw-footed baths and two rather thronelike lavatories, set in mahogany bench seats; after a while Mary ran out of polite, appreciative things to say and just smiled. It was an easy house to smile in; it contained an atmosphere of peace and happiness.
Finally, Mrs. Salter said she expected they would like some coffee and that, now the sun had come out, it might be nicer if they had it in the morning room… This turned out to be the book-lined one. “And would you like some biscuits or something, Mrs. Bristow? I’ve just made a lemon drizzle cake.”
Mary said coffee would be lovely and there was nothing she liked more than lemon drizzle cake. Russell ushered her into the morning room and she sat down in one of the deep armchairs by the fireplace and looked at him.
“Like it?” he said.
“I absolutely love it. It’s beautiful. The sort of house you see in illustrations in old books. But… whose is it?”
“I’m so glad you feel like that. I thought you probably would, but one can never be sure.” He paused. “And if you really like it, Little Sparrow, then”-he paused, smiled at her, blew her a kiss across the room-“then it’s yours.”
***
“Is that Emma? The Emma? The Dr. King Emma?”
“It is indeed. And is that Barney? The Barney? The banker Barney?”
This was another code; there was another Emma at the hospital who worked in A &E reception, and the Barney had grown out of that.
“It is indeed. How are you; what have you been doing?”
“Um… let me see. Stitched up a little boy’s foot; set an old lady’s arm; given an old man an enema…”
“All right, all right, too much information. When can I see you?”
“Um… I’ve got Thursday off. And Friday, actually. All day.”
“Friday all day? Jesus. There’s a temptation.”
She waited. Then he said, “OK. I can swing the afternoon. I’ll be down around… oh, I don’t know, two.”
“Call me when you’re near.”
“I will. And you think of something we can do…”
“Barney! So much.”
“OK, OK, but where to do it.”
“Er… my bed?”
***
“You’re on. Oh, God. I mustn’t even start thinking about it. Bye, the Emma.”
“Bye, the Barney!”
“You are extremely inconvenient, you know,” he said to her now, as they sat in her lumpy, dishevelled bed in her dingy bedroom, having had some extremely wonderful sex, and drinking the champagne he had produced from his laptop bag.
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right. But there I was, thinking I’d got it all sussed, that I knew where I was going, and how and when, and then along came you, and just blew it all up in the air.”
“Is there anything I can do to make myself less inconvenient?” she said.
“No, I’m afraid not. It’s the fact of you that’s inconvenient. Not you. You are… well, you’re pretty convenient. In yourself.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You suit me absolutely perfectly. You couldn’t possibly be even point nought nought nought per cent better for me.”
“Nor you for me.”
“You’re worth it all,” he said, suddenly very serious, “all the chaos, all the problems we’re going to have. In fact, if you were more convenient, I probably wouldn’t realise the worth of you nearly so well. I’d just think, ‘Yeah, well, she’s a bit of all right; I’d like a bit of that,’ and you’d just be easy. Pure pleasure. Which you are, of course, anyway, but kind of… well, inconveniently. I love you, Emma, so much.”
“I love you, too, Barney. So, so much.”
“Hey, you put an extra so in.”
“Well… how I feel needs an extra so.”
“You mean, you reckon you love me more than I love you? Emma, I love you more than anything I could ever imagine, more than anything else in the world.”
“And I love you more than more than anything else in the world.”
“I like that,” he said, smiling at her, looking like a delighted child. “I like that very much indeed.”
***
They delighted each other in every possible way. Each found the way the other looked, smiled, talked, thought, absolutely pleasing. Sex for Emma was different with Barney, moving from pure, heady pleasure to something more thoughtful, more emotionally grounded. And she for Barney was an astonishing delight: inventive, fun, tireless.
They both closed their minds-with enormous difficulty-to the thought of the other sex, with the Others. It was something that would end: with the resolution of things.
Which was drawing nearer, meeting by meeting, day by day.
And yet was being held off for a little longer-by Barney at least, and with Emma’s understanding. He had known Amanda for years, had lived with her for over a year; their backgrounds were identical-they had lived the same sort of lives with the same sort of people and, when they met, had found countless friends in common. It was a charmed, closed circle that Emma found herself confronted by
; Amanda was protected not only by her relationship with Barney, but by the conventions and mores of its members. Barney would be rejecting not only Amanda, but a large and powerful tribe; it would take great certainty as well as great courage to do so.
He felt in possession of both; but he was still aware of the huge and devastating effect it would have, not only on Amanda and not only on their personal life, but on his professional status and confidence as well.
It would not be easy-in any way at all.
CHAPTER 33
“Is that Georgia?”
“Oh… yes. Yes, it is.”
“ Georgia, this is Merlin Gerard.”
“Who?”
“Merlin Gerard. Second assistant to Bryn Merrick on-”
“Oh, Merlin, I’m sorry. Yes, of course, I… I was miles away.”
God. How embarrassing. He must think she was totally brain-dead.
“Look, wardrobe have asked me to get in touch. They want a day with you asap. How are you fixed for Monday. Is that OK?”
“Yes, fine.”
“Good. If you could be at the Charlotte Street office at… nine thirty?”
“Yes, nine thirty’s fine.”
She’d have to get a very early train. She really must sort out somewhere in London to live.
“I’ll tell them. Thanks, Georgia. And I’ll see you-maybe-next Monday.”
“Might you not be there?”
She shouldn’t have said that. It sounded soppy.
“Possibly not. We’re out looking at houses with the set designer. For filming in. We’ve got a short list of three.”
“Did you actually find them?” There seemed no end to his talents. And importance.
“No, course not,” he said, sounding amused, “the location manager does that sort of thing.”
She put the phone down feeling terrible. Not just because she’d been so pathetic with Merlin, but because it was actually going to start happening now. She’d got to face them, start working with them, and they’d all know she was the awful, cowardly, pathetic girl who’d run away from the crash. They’d probably all been discussing it, calling one another, saying, “Did you see those stories in the paper? She seemed such a nice girl, and all the time…” Oh, God.
She’d been to see Patrick twice more and felt she was doing something for him now, at least. The second time she’d gone, a very nice old lady had arrived; she was called Mary and seemed to know both Patrick and Maeve quite well.
“I was in the crash as well, you see,” she said, “and I was brought here for a few days. I met Maeve and we became good friends.”
Patrick had gone to sleep, and she’d suggested to Mary that they go and have a coffee together. Mary had seemed incredibly pleased by this, and they’d had a really good chat; she told Georgia that Maeve had told her all about her, and how kind she was being visiting Patrick, “And how brave you were, coming forward…”
“Hardly brave,” Georgia had said. “I waited a fortnight.” But Mary said nonsense, it was coming forward at all that mattered, and that moreover, it was very nice to see a young person giving up her time to visit someone in the hospital.
Georgia had really liked her; she was so pretty, in an old-lady sort of way, and very sparkly and seemed really interested in Georgia’s acting, which Maeve had also told her about: wanted to know all about the series and how it was going. She obviously had a lot of money; she’d had a huge car and a driver waiting for her, and she’d insisted on dropping Georgia off at the station.
“It’s been lovely talking to you,” she said, kissing Georgia goodbye. “I do so enjoy young people. Thank you for your time, my dear.”
She obviously saw shared time as a rare and precious gift; and how sad was that? Georgia thought.
***
It had happened-inevitably. Mrs. Grainger had arrived at cottage number one just as Abi had removed every stitch of clothing, apart from her high heels, and was dancing in front of William. Who was sitting on the sofa, wearing a shirt but nothing else-they had actually been playing Abi’s version of Strip Jack Naked-and grinning at her happily.
Abi always said later that Mrs. Grainger must have known she was going to find her son inside, doing something unsuitable; if she had actually feared intruders or squatters, as she said, she would have brought Mr. Grainger, complete with shotgun, with her.
In the event, she simply opened the front door, put all the downstairs lights on, and walked into the sitting room; seeing her face (as Abi also said) was almost worth all that followed: the complex mingling of embarrassment, shock, and grim disapproval.
“Ah, William,” was all she said; and the worst thing for Abi was his immediate reaction. He went very white, reached for his trousers, and started pulling them frantically on; Abi stood staring at him for a moment before sitting down on the sofa and pulling her dress around her shoulders, at least covering her breasts, on which Mrs. Grainger’s attention seemed to be focused.
“I’m sorry, Mother,” said William. (What for, for God’s sake? Abi wondered. For having, at the age of thirty-four, a sex life?)
“Yes,” Mrs. Grainger said, turning her gaze on him now. “Yes, well, it was rather alarming, realising there was someone in here. I didn’t know what to think. You should have told us you intended to use it.”
Abi giggled; she just couldn’t help it. What was he meant to tell them? “Please, Mother, I intend to use cottage number one this evening for some sexual activity. I hope that’s all right.” Mrs. Grainger gave her a very cold look, William a desperate one.
“Sorry,” she said hastily.
“Right. Well, please lock up carefully when you leave.”
And she stalked out.
“Oh, Lord,” said William.
“William,” said Abi. “William, I know it’s embarrassing, but you haven’t committed a crime. You’re having fun. And at least with a girl. Think if I’d been a boy. Or a cow.”
“Abi, please!” said William. “It isn’t funny.”
“Yes, it is. It’s terribly funny.” And then she realised how genuinely anguished he was and sat down, took his hand. “Come on. What’s so bad? The worst is that she’s seen me for what she clearly feared I am: no end of a hussy, leading her little boy astray. She’ll get over it.”
He shook her hand off.
“No, Abi. You don’t understand. She won’t. It wasn’t very… kind to her.”
“What on earth does that mean? What was unkind? You weren’t laughing at her.”
“You were,” he said, very quietly.
She stared at him. “William, I can’t believe you said that.”
“Sorry. But… but it’s true. She would have been very… very upset by that.”
“Well, she shouldn’t have been. What planet is she living on, for God’s sake?”
“Abi, please. Don’t be so… so harsh.”
“Oh, for God’s sake. This is absurd.” She stood up, started dressing. “I’m not listening to any more of this rubbish. If anyone’s harsh, it’s her. And arrogant. Where’s her sense of humour; where are her good manners, for God’s sake?”
“Good manners?”
“Yes. What she should have done was apologised for embarrassing us, me. Not made us both feel like we were in some kind of a porn show.”
“We were, as far as she was concerned,” said William. “You don’t understand.”
“No, I clearly don’t. And if this is how your lot behave, I’m glad I’m not one of them.”
“What do you mean, my lot?”
“You posh lot. What about thinking of me, William, how I felt-what about defending me? I’m not surprised you’re still on your own; that’s all I can say.” She picked up her bag. “I’m off. Cheers. Hope you don’t get your bottom smacked. Or maybe that’s how she gets her kicks. And you.” She was crying now, aware that she was beginning to show William the real Abi, not in that moment caring.
“Abi! Don’t talk like that, please!”
“I�
��ll talk how I like. You should try doing the same; you might find your life got a bit better.”
And she walked out of the cottage, slamming the door behind her.
***
Laura had bought Jonathan a really nice birthday present: he collected antique medical instruments, and she had found an old otoscope in a beautiful leather case, lined with blue silk. She gave it to him the night before his birthday, and he was terribly touched and pleased.
“I’m just thankful you haven’t got anything elaborate planned for tomorrow, darling,” he said when he had thanked her, and she had said (while crossing her fingers and touching the headboard at the same time), no, just dinner with the Edwardses, as she’d told him.
“Pity we can’t be with the kids, really,” he said. “I do like them to share in our birthdays.” And she said yes, but they were having the big family party next day, with her parents, Jonathan’s mother, and various cousins, and the children would be very much part of that.
“Not sure I feel quite up to that either,” he said with a grin, and then, kissing her very gently, “I do love you, Laura. You’re far too good for me. I couldn’t bear any of this without you.”
And somehow the ice that had been holding her heart had softened, and she had returned the kiss, and then he had turned the light out, and his hands had been on her, and she hadn’t felt anything but tenderness, and he was very gentle, very sweetly insistent, and she had felt herself moving to and with him; and when she came, trembling with the long, long release, she wept. And heard something from him that was half way between a sob and a sigh, and realised that there were his tears on her face as well as her own.
***
Abi really had expected William to call-to say he was sorry, that he could see her point of view, at least, to say he wanted to see her. But he didn’t.
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