The Best Of Times

by Penny Vincenzi

  “Do you think you’ll feel better then?”

  “I hope so. I’ll miss the kids horribly.”

  “But you’ll still see them, I imagine.”

  “Obviously. But that’s not quite the same thing as living with them. And I worry about them, how they’ll cope.”

  “Well… I don’t know them or anything about them. But living in a miserable household can’t be doing them any good either.”

  Her tone was brisk, almost abrasive; it annoyed him.

  “I didn’t say the household was miserable; I said I was.”

  “But, Alex, if they have an ounce of sensitivity, they must know that. And it should worry them. I just think if they care about you and their mother they’ll see it’s for the best. And deal with it.”

  “I don’t think you can know many teenagers,” he said. “And I don’t think you really know what you’re talking about. That’s a very simplistic view.”

  She stared at him, and flushed suddenly; it was endearing, the first sign he had seen of any crack in her self-confidence.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  He was silent; he felt depressed and defensive, a shadow over the evening. The silence grew.

  Then, “I’m sorry, Alex,” she said suddenly, surprising him, “if I upset you. And of course I don’t know what I’m talking about.” She smiled at him rather awkwardly. “I’m just terribly bossy. I can’t help it. Well, I suppose I could, if I really tried, but by the time I realise I’m doing it, it’s too late. I’ll stop now. I just… well, I just didn’t like the idea of you being unhappy all the time.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” he said, “but I think I know how to look after myself.”

  He could hear himself, pompous, a bit stiff.

  “Right,” she said, clearly edgy herself, “how about some coffee? And brandy?”

  “That’d be very nice,” he said. He didn’t really want it, but to have turned that away as well as her apology would have seemed very aggressive.

  She disappeared, and he leafed rather nervously through a coffee table book on art deco in the cinema. This might have been a mistake. The whole thing might have been a mistake.

  “Well,” she said on her return, “let’s start again. What shall we talk about; what would be safe? You choose a subject.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Why?”

  “Well to be honest,” he said, “I’m still a bit nervous of boring you.”

  “Boring me! Why? I find you not remotely boring; I promise you that.”

  “I’ll try to believe you. I mean… you do lead this rather glamorous life. In theatres and so on. And I spend mine…”

  “Yes. How do you spend yours; what do you do? Day by day, I mean? Tell me.”

  “Oh, staring into people’s orifices. Patching them up. Not the orifices, the people. Dealing with overdoses, cardiac arrests, stab wounds, even the occasional death on site, so to speak. I mean, I love it and it’s fascinating, but it can hardly compete with first nights and talent spotting, can it?”

  “Alex, I spend about ten per cent of my time at first nights. The rest is hard graft, talking to a load of rather pretentious people, trying to persuade them mediocre actors are wonderful and wonderful ones are worth hiring. And nannying actors, nursing their egos, making sure they get to auditions, listening to them whining, sorting out their money.”

  “Bit like being a parent.”

  “Possibly. But… I think I might prefer the orifices.”

  “You wouldn’t,” he said, and laughed. “Believe me. Not very nice things, orifices. Well, not the ones who land up in Casualty.”

  “Tell me,” she said, “do you really get people coming in with golf balls up their bums, things like that?”

  “’Fraid so. And people get up to the most extraordinary things with vacuum cleaner hoses.”

  “You’re kidding! Now, that really is sad.”

  She leant forward to top up his brandy; he found himself studying her cleavage. She noticed and grinned at him.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “Don’t be. I don’t mind. I’d wear polo necks if I did.”

  “Promise me,” he said, laughing, “you’ll never come out with me wearing a polo neck. That would make me very sad indeed.”

  “It’s a promise.”

  “Well, that is… if you do come out with me again. I hope I’m not being presumptuous.”

  “Oh, Alex,” she said, and her voice was impatient, “of course you’re not being presumptuous. You shouldn’t put yourself down so much. You’re a very attractive, sexy man. Get used to the idea. If you ask me out, I’ll come. There you are; that’s another promise. Oh, God. I’m being bossy again, aren’t I? What about your wife, is she bossy?”

  “Not… not exactly. She just does what she wants. But… lots of wives do that.”

  “Do they? I wouldn’t know. Most of my friends aren’t wives, you see.”

  No, he thought, they wouldn’t be. You don’t move in a married world; you don’t know about marriage. Not really.

  “So… lots of fights?”

  “Not really. I don’t fight.”

  She looked at him thoughtfully. “I’m surprised. I’d have thought you’d be rather good in a fight. You’re quite… quite powerful, aren’t you? Emotionally.”

  “Linda, you hardly know me.”

  “I realise that. But… I can rather see you roaring and raging away.”

  “I think you’re letting your imagination run away with you,” he said, edgy again. “I don’t do much roaring and raging. Not at home, anyway.”

  “Ah. How about work? From what I could see that day in the hospital, you were quite… fierce. I bet you’re one of those terrible men who takes everything out on their colleagues.” She smiled at him, lay back on the cushions. “Am I right?”

  “That’s a dreadful thing to say,” he said. He didn’t smile back.

  “Oh, Alex, I was only joking. Look, this conversation’s going nowhere. Let’s go to bed, shall we?”

  “Fine.” He stood up. And then added, “Maybe I should try to get a cab after all.”

  “That really is ridiculous,” she said. “Why, for God’s sake?”

  “Because I don’t seem to feel very comfortable here.”

  “Oh, please,” she said. “You should stop being so sorry for yourself, Alex. It’s very dangerous. You’re not the only person who’s had a bad marriage; other people go through it and out the other side. Even other people with kids.”

  He stared at her, suddenly angry. “I don’t think you’re exactly an expert on the subject,” he said. “By your own admission, you haven’t done too well yourself.”

  “Oh, do shut up,” she said wearily. “Good night, Alex. There’s a towel on your bed. And a spare toothbrush on the chest of drawers. The bathroom’s down the corridor. Just… let yourself out quietly in the morning, will you?”

  It was the reference to the toothbrush that did it. He suddenly felt rather stricken at his rudeness, and thought that whatever else, she had been very generous, not to mention thoughtful. Not many people kept spare toothbrushes for unexpected guests.

  “I’m… sorry,” he said stiffly, “if I was rude. You’ve been very… very hospitable. I shall be glad of the toothbrush. Thank you. Good night.”

  He turned away, and heard the unmistakable sound of a giggle.

  “That was the most ridiculous little speech,” she said, “but thank you for it. I’m glad you think I’m hospitable, at least. I seem to have one virtue.”

  Alex turned; she was shaking with silent laughter, biting her lip, her lovely face alive as she looked at him.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “if I’ve hurt your feelings. I truly didn’t mean to. It was… well, it was seeing you doing your Heathcliff number. All brooding and wounded.”

  “I was not doing a number,” he said. And then he grinned back, albeit reluctantly.

  “Yes, you were. You are Heathcliff. To
the life. Don’t look so cross. Heathcliff was very sexy as well as brooding. Come on, let’s go to bed friends, shall we?” She walked over to him, lifted her face to his, reached up, and kissed him-very lightly on the mouth. But it was enough.

  Five minutes later they were in her bed.

  ***

  “Saturday was lovely,” she said now. “Very lovely. Thank you.”

  “I thought so too. When…?”

  “Oh, as soon as possible, I’d think,” she said, “if that doesn’t sound too bossy. Of course.”

  “Well… it does, quite. But I’ll try to ignore that. How about the weekend?”

  “Maybe… Friday running over into Saturday? Or does that sound bossy?”

  “Very bossy. But… I think I can handle it.”

  “I’ll book somewhere, shall I?”

  “No,” he said, “I’ll bloody book. I do know how to. Bye, Linda.”

  “Bye, Alex.”

  He started the car and drove home quite fast, smiling at the prospect of the weekend and of her. She might be… well, she was difficult. But she just made him feel as if he mattered. It was a very good sensation.

  ***

  The note lay on the hall table when Barney got in.

  “Sorry, darling, tried to ring you, but your phone was switched off. Left a message, but in case you didn’t get it, I’ve gone to see that Keira Knightley film with Nicola. Hope that’s OK, knew you’d hate it. Lots of salady stuff in fridge, back about ten. Love you.”

  Oh, God, Barney thought. Oh, shit. Well, it bought him some time.

  Maybe he should do it tonight. It wasn’t fair on Amanda, the lying. The cheating wasn’t fair either, but it was the lying that was so awful. Pretending all the time, smiling at her when he didn’t feel like smiling, saying he loved her when she’d said she loved him, because that really was the only thing to say.

  Returning her kisses, pretending he was too tired for sex; it was all horrible. When she knew, she’d hate that, hate thinking that was what he’d been doing.

  Yes, he would, he’d tell Amanda tonight. Get it over.

  He poured himself a beer, sat there thinking about her, about Amanda, his Amanda, whom he had once thought he loved…

  The landline rang sharply, cutting into his thoughts. Who could that be, who used the landline anymore, except parents, of course…?

  He picked it up.

  ***

  Amanda arrived home two hours later. He heard the taxi door slam, heard her pretty, light voice saying, “Thank you so much, good night.”

  He sat there thinking of what he must tell her, feeling like an executioner, waiting to do his dreadful deed.

  She came in, smiling, kissed him, said, “Hello, darling, it was such a lovely film; I really think you might have liked it. Barney, what is it, what’s the matter?”

  And: “I’m sorry, Amanda,” he said, “so, so sorry. It’s… it’s bad news, I’m afraid. It’s your father, Amanda, he’s… Oh God, I’m so sorry; he’s had a heart attack; he’s… well, he’s dead.”

  And then he stood there, holding her as she sobbed and shook with grief, and thought how cruel, how doubly cruel was fate, mostly to her, of course, robbing her of her beloved father, but also in a small part to him, robbing him for the foreseeable future, of the chance to set his life straight and to do the right thing and be with the person he really loved.

  And hating himself for finding room even to think it.

  CHAPTER 39

  “Toby?”

  “Yes, Tamara.”

  “Toby, I really want to talk to you about something.”

  “Darling, if it’s the date, next May’s fine by me.”

  “Good. But it’s not. It’s about the wedding: the one that didn’t happen.”

  “Ye-es?”

  “Toby, I really need to know… why did you leave so late? You’ve waffled away about your being ill and the police stopping you and then the crash. The fact remains, you should have left literally hours earlier. Why didn’t you?”

  “Well… Look, do we really have to do this?”

  “Yes, we really do. Because however much I try to believe all that stuff about your being ill, I somehow can’t. And if you weren’t ill and you didn’t leave in time, there was clearly some other very good reason. What was it, Toby; I really have to know.”

  Toby looked at her, took a large sip of the wine he was drinking, and sat up very straight in his chair.

  “Well, I suppose I’d better tell you. I’ve been hoping it wouldn’t have to come out…”

  “What wouldn’t have to come out?”

  “It was… well, it was Barney, Tamara, I’m afraid. He… well, he got terribly drunk the night before the wedding. I tried to stop him, but he kept saying it was my last night of freedom and we should enjoy it. He must have drunk the best part of two bottles of wine and at least half a bottle of whisky. Honestly, he could hardly walk. I got him to bed somehow. And then in the morning… well, you can imagine the state he was in. Kept throwing up, completely unfit to drive, of course… I just had to sit it out. And… adding insult to injury, if you like, he’d forgotten to fill the car up with petrol. Which actually was why we came on the motorway, nearest petrol station. I could have killed him… if he hadn’t been my best friend. So… there you have it. I’m sorry, darling, really I am. But… non mea culpa.”

  “And why the fuck didn’t you tell me before? Instead of fobbing me off with this stomach bug nonsense?”

  “Oh, Tamara, how could I? He’s my best buddy. I couldn’t rat on him, could I?”

  “Quite easily, I’d have thought. To make me feel better about the whole thing. Who’s more important to you, Toby, Barney or me? Seems like it’s Barney.”

  “Darling, of course it’s not. I mean, what good would it have done, splitting on him? And don’t, please don’t tell him I told you. He’d be so… so horrified. He feels quite bad enough as it is. Let’s just put it behind us, eh? Next May, you’ll be Mrs. Toby Weston and this whole thing’ll be like a bad dream…”

  ***

  “Now, Maeve, please don’t laugh, but I would be very honoured if you would be my bridesmaid.”

  Mary’s face was rather pink as she looked at Maeve across the table in the café: the same café that had provided so fateful a meeting place two months earlier. She had come in to see Patrick, alerted of the wonderful news of his recovery by Maeve.

  “It’s like a miracle, Mary, every day a little more sensation. He can feel almost the whole of one foot now, and the toes of the other. I can’t believe it, and he is so happy. And… oh, Mary, I’d love to be your bridesmaid; it would be the greatest honour, but what about your daughter-isn’t that her place?”

  “I’m afraid Christine will want to play a very minor role,” she said, “if she comes at all. I just keep hoping she’ll come round. There’s nothing I can say that will make things better, but my son seems delighted… They’re all coming over from Canada, for the wedding, and my son-in-law, Gerry, he’s very happy about it, and my grandson too. Timothy wants to give me away; I was very touched by that.”

  “Well, that’s wonderful. Very well, but if Christine changes her mind, you must tell me at once, and I’ll resign the offer. Now, what are you going to wear, will it be white?”

  “Well… it will. Do you think that’s terribly foolish?”

  “Of course it’s not foolish; it’s delightful. You’ll look beautiful, Mary.”

  “It’s a two-piece, quite a straight skirt and a beaded jacket, very pretty. And I’m going to carry just a very small bunch of flowers… I thought white roses; what do you think?”

  “I’d say pink would be better,” said Maeve thoughtfully. “White will hardly show up against your dress. And… what in your hair?”

  “Oh, a long veil, of course,” said Mary, and they both started to laugh: two women, joyfully engrossed as they went about the centuries-old female business of planning a wedding, and it was of no consequence whatsoever that the
bride was three times the age of her bridesmaid and her bridegroom four times the age of the man who was to give her away.

  ***

  Anything might happen now, Emma thought: it was all horribly dangerous. Tamara might tell Amanda… although Barney had told her that he didn’t think she would.

  “I told her, if she did, I would personally wring her neck. I think she believed me, and I think she’ll keep her mouth shut. God, she’s a cow. God, I dislike her.”

  Tamara did sound like a cow, but Emma actually thought that if Toby was really the wonderful person Barney said, then he wouldn’t be about to marry someone who was absolutely the reverse.

  Emma felt very bad about Amanda herself; but the great fear that was consuming her now was that with Barney being so necessarily close to Amanda, supporting her, comforting her, helping her through the awful days and their awful demands-her mother was in bits, he said-he might find himself drawn back irrevocably into their relationship. Grief was a powerful weapon; Amanda would not only be expecting Barney’s presence one hundred per cent in her life; she had an absolute right to it…

  CHAPTER 40

  “Woodentops.”

  The voice was perky. It sounded more suited to the children’s TV programme than a firm of carpenters.

  “Good morning. This is the Collision Investigation Unit of the Avon Valley Police.”

  “Oh, yes?” Slightly less perky.

  “We’re looking to contact the driver of one of your vans…”

  “We have several; I’d need more details, please? Driver’s name, number of car…”

  “I don’t have either, I’m afraid. But one of your vans was seen driving up the M4 on the afternoon of August twenty-second. Towards London. Is that any help to you?”

  “Let me see…”

  There was a silence; Freeman could hear computer keys clicking in the background. Then: “That would probably be Mr. Thompson. I’m not sure; you’d need to speak to him; as I said, we do have several vans and-”