“Is Mr. Thompson there?”
“No, but I can contact him for you.”
“Perhaps you’d ask him to give me a call. Just a routine enquiry, tell him. The number is…”
***
“Rick, you been speeding again? Had the police on about you. You’d better not lose your licence; you’ll be out of a job if you do. Now, it was you, wasn’t it, on the M4 afternoon of August twenty-second? Yes, I thought so…”
***
Shit. How had they traced him? Not that it mattered; he hadn’t done anything wrong. He’d been miles ahead of that accident, anyway. Probably thought he could just provide some information. Bloody police, always harassing the poor bloody motorist…
By the time he phoned them, Rick had worked himself up into a state of extremely righteous indignation.
***
“Is that the Emma?”
God. She’d forgotten how lovely it was just to hear his voice.
“Hi, Barney. The Barney. Yes, it is. How… how are things?”
“Bit tough. Yes. How are you?”
“I’m fine. Yes, really fine. Missing you, but…”
“Missing you too. So much. It was the funeral today. That was grim. Amanda was incredibly upset.”
“Of course.”
“But being terribly brave, wonderful with her mum.”
She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear all this.
“We’re staying down here tonight”-she didn’t like that we; it conjured up images she could hardly bear-“and then I’m going back in the morning.”
“Right.”
“Amanda’s probably coming up in a day or two. She’s had a lot of time off work already.”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“Emma… I don’t… that is, I can’t… not until…”
“Barney, it’s OK. You don’t even have to say it. Just take your time. I understand.”
“I love you, Emma.”
“I…” But she couldn’t even finish. She choked on the words. And rang off without saying good-bye.
***
The second day of rehearsals Georgia arrived early-early enough for coffee alone with Merlin-and she began to feel more comfortable with everyone. Davina told her she was doing great, and Anna was there, rehearsing a scene with Georgia and the grandmother. Anna was wonderful to work with, easy, encouraging… and managed to give her character a humour that lifted her scenes beautifully, and which Georgia found herself responding to. Best of all, at the end of the day, Merlin said, “We could have a drink this evening, if you’ve got time.” Georgia was able to find the time.
They went to a pub down the street. Even walking into it with him was amazing; she felt everyone must be looking at them, and thinking how good-looking he was, and what a cool couple they made.
“So… things better today? You were very tense yesterday.”
“Much better, thank you.”
“Anna is great, isn’t she? She has a fascinating history. Ask her to tell you sometime.”
“Oh… OK. So”-this seemed a good opening-“so what about you, Merlin, have you worked on loads of productions?”
“Not that many. Incredibly lucky to be in this one. Bryn is the greatest; you learn such a lot from someone like him.”
“And… did you go to drama school?”
“Yeah, LAMDA, did their two-year stage management course. Haven’t been working that long-I’m still only twenty-six-and the money’s rubbish, of course, but who cares? I have to live at home still. But I’m pretty well self-contained, and they don’t bother me much.”
“So… where is home?” said Georgia, encouraged that at least he didn’t seem to have a live-in girlfriend.
“Oh… Hampstead. Up by the Heath. Pretty nice. Sometimes, early in the morning, you can believe it’s actually the country. Birds carrying on and all that sort of thing. Mummy swims in the ponds every day…”
“Really?” said Georgia, hoping she sounded as if she knew what the ponds were.
“Yes. She’s cool. We get on pretty well.”
“And your dad? Does he swim too?”
“Oh… not Pa, no. He’s a bit of a wimp. Although he does cycle into the college in the summer. If it’s not raining, that is.”
“The college?”
“Yeah. He’s a lecturer at London University. In political history.”
“Goodness. He must be very clever.”
***
“He is. God, Georgia, it’s been such fun, but I must go. Got to get up to Kensington. I’m going on the tube; how about you?”
“Oh… yes, me too. To Baker Street.”
“Let’s go together then.”
He must like her a bit, to want to travel on the tube with her. Just a bit.
He wasn’t in the next day, but she got chatting to Mo and, by careful casual questioning, found out a bit more about Merlin.
“He’s a sweetheart,” Mo said, “and looking like that… God. He ought to be a real brat, but he isn’t. Well, not much of one.”
“It sounds as if his parents are quite… rich,” said Georgia.
“Well… quite. But they’re incredibly socialist as well. Both fully paid up members of the Labour Party. Mama runs this secondhand bookshop in Hampstead, and sells loads of political books and does fund-raising and stuff.”
“But… Merlin sounds very… well, very posh. I thought he must have gone to Eton or somewhere.”
“God, no. Holland Park Comp. Where he was bullied terribly, actually beaten up several times, because a group of really rough kids decided he was gay, but the parents didn’t care. Their principles were much more important. Poor old Merlin. Anyway, he’s all right now. Everyone loves him.”
“He’s not, though… is he?” said Georgia, trying not to sound anxious.
“Not what? Oh, gay, No, of course not. Very red-blooded indeed, our Merlin.”
“He’s been so, so nice to me,” Georgia said.
“Yes, well, he is really… nice. But…” Mo looked at her, and she thought she was about to say something, but then Bryn Merrick arrived, looking petulant, and demanded freshly ground coffee. And then Davina wanted to run through a scene with Georgia, and whatever it was, was never said.
Part Five. Next
CHAPTER 41
William was walking out of a pub in Bristol, quite early in the evening, when he saw Abi. He’d avoided the place as much as he could recently, but an old friend from Cirencester days had asked him to be best man at his wedding and had invited him and his ushers to discuss the demands and requirements of their roles.
He tried very hard to get into the spirit of the thing, downed a couple of beers and laughed at some pretty unfunny jokes about the role of the best man and agreed that the Hunt Ball of the previous week had been terrific, although actually he’d reached a peak of misery there. Gyrating to the pounding rhythms of the Whippersnappers, he’d looked round at all the other gyrators, some young, some older, but with the identical DNA of the foxhunting classes, cheerful, foolhardy, blinkered folk, clinging to their beleaguered lifestyle, and wondered how he was going to live among them for the rest of his life.
Abi was walking along, laden with bags; Christmas shopping, he supposed. She was wearing black as always: black leather coat, knee-length black boots, black furry hat. And dark glasses. In the dark. Why did she do that? She saw him, briefly pretended she hadn’t, then half smiled and said, “Hello.”
“Hello, Abi. How are you?”
“I’m fine. You?”
“Oh… yes. Fine, thanks.”
He felt awful, wondering if he was going to throw up or pass out.
“Been Christmas shopping?”
“Yeah. God, it’s awful out there. Pandemonium.”
“Where’s your car?”
“Oh… just along there. In the car park. What are you doing here?”
“Mate of mine’s getting married; he’s asked me to be best man. We were just getting together with the ushers.”
“Really? When’s the wedding?”
“In April.”
“Lambing time.”
“No, not for us. We do early lambing.”
“Oh, of course you do. In the lambing shed…” She looked at him and smiled. “See how much I’ve remembered? Well I guess I wouldn’t have forgotten that.”
Oh, God, God, she shouldn’t have said that. It had been all right till then; he’d been fine, totally fine, about to move on, say cheers. But the lambing shed…
“My car’s down there, too,” he said. “Let me help you with your bags.”
“Oh… OK. Thanks.”
There was no tension, no uneasy silence as they walked; she asked him how he was, what he’d been doing, what was the main activity on the farm in the winter. He’d forgotten how interested she was in everything, and how much he enjoyed the interest. It was extraordinary-extraordinary and extraordinarily pleasing.
Her car was on the ground floor; he realised that he’d been hoping it would be a longer trip, that they’d have to go up in the lift, that the encounter might continue as long as possible.
She opened the boot. “Thanks, William. That’s really kind of you.”
He put the bags in; she shut the boot, turned to look at him. He caught the strong, heady scent he remembered; he felt a bit dizzy.
“It was so nice to see you,” she said. “I’ve often thought how nice it would be. Just to… well… say good-bye more happily. But it didn’t seem very likely. I mean, those sorts of things only happen in films, don’t they? And books? What are the chances of William Grainger, farmer, and Abi Scott, photographer’s assistant, actually bumping into each other, on the off chance? One in millions. Billions, probably.” She leaned up, gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Bye, William. Once again, I’m so sorry.”
“What for?” he said, and in that moment he genuinely couldn’t think why she should be apologising.
“Me being me. Right, then…” She turned, walked to the door, opened it. “Take care. Oh, and happy Christmas.”
She got in, slammed the door, started the engine. William stood there, mute, helpless, unable to do or say anything. She was there, not in his memory, not in his imagination, but for real. Funny and fun and sexy and interested. Interesting and absolutely on his side. And now she was going… again. Leaving him to his new-or rather old-life, blank, monotone, nothing to look forward to as he spread slurry in the cold, did the hated paperwork.
She put the car into gear, wound down the window, blew him another kiss. “Bye,” she said again.
She moved forward; he jumped out of the way, managed to smile. The car moved slowly off. She was going, leaving him again, and that had to be right, had to be the only thing. He should just be glad-as she had said-that they could say good-bye more happily. There was absolutely no alternative. None whatsoever.
***
Barney couldn’t believe how much it would hurt: losing Toby. Sometimes he thought it was even worse than losing Emma. At least he could have gone and talked about Emma to Toby, the one person in the world-he had thought-he could trust, talk to about anything. You couldn’t admit to being that foolish to many people.
It was like discovering the Rolex Oyster you’d been given for your twenty-first by your parents was a cheap fake. Toby, his best friend, whom he’d have trusted with his life, had turned out to be a cheap fake himself. He still couldn’t quite believe it. Or, worse, that he’d been so stupid and that Toby had pulled the wool over his eyes for so long. That hurt too. He also felt incredibly angry quite a lot of the time: angry with Toby, angry with himself, angry with Tamara.
He knew he’d never forget as long as he lived that night she came round and ranted and railed at him; he’d thought that she’d finally had a nervous breakdown because of her cancelled wedding.
But then as she calmed down and he managed to get her to tell him just what it exactly was he was supposed to have done, and as the hideous realisation dawned, he felt so terrible he thought he was actually going to be sick.
“Well,” she said, “what have you got to say, Barney, did you really think you could get away with it, all that crap?”
There had seemed no point at that moment in telling her it was Toby who was giving her the crap, Toby who was lying; it was Toby who must be confronted. He simply said he was very sorry she was so upset, that there was obviously a terrible misunderstanding and he would do his very best to sort it out. She had left, after hurling a few more insults at him; she was so clearly genuinely upset that Barney had actually felt quite sorry for her.
Toby had lied, of course; Barney had arrived at the house the following evening, had told the Westons he was going to take him out for a drink, and then parked a mile down the road and confronted him.
“Mate, she’s crazy. She must have misunderstood what I said to her.”
“No,” said Barney, “she didn’t misunderstand. She was very, very clear about what you told her. In fact, she repeated it almost word for word. I’d repeat it back to you, if you like, only I don’t think I could face hearing any more lies. I don’t know why you did it, Toby. I’m baffled.”
“I don’t understand myself,” said Toby, and his voice was rather quiet suddenly. “I’ve just had so much to cope with, with the accident and the leg and so on, and it was just… easier to tell her that. I’m sorry… I still feel pretty rotten, Barney, in pain a lot of the time, can’t sleep…”
“Oh, my heart bleeds for you,” said Barney. “I can cope with your not telling Tamara the truth… obviously. I wouldn’t either. But not lying to her about me. It’s hideous, Toby. Any other little fibs I need to know about, just so I don’t get any more nasty surprises? If not I’ll be off.”
“I…” Toby seemed about to say something, then stopped. “No, no, Barney, of course not.”
“Good. Don’t see what’s ‘of course’ about it. Actually.”
“Barney, I’m… well, I’m sorry. Very sorry.”
“Yeah, OK. I’ll drop you back. You’ll have to think of some story to give your mother. Why do I think you’ll be able to manage that?”
He had been so upset he’d actually cried after he dropped Toby outside his house, parked his car at the end of the road and sobbed like a small boy. Then he’d driven very slowly and carefully back to London.
He got home at midnight, sat down, and got very drunk on whisky, grateful only that Amanda wasn’t there; he felt betrayed not just by Toby but by life itself. It just wasn’t fucking fair.
When Emma phoned two weeks later to tell him that she’d been doing a lot of thinking and she really couldn’t see how they could possibly have a future together, or not one based on making Amanda, whom he obviously still loved so much, deeply unhappy, and not to argue and not to try to see her, he found he was hardly even surprised.
Wretched, wounded, shocked, but not surprised.
***
“Right,” said Freeman. He tapped the pile of papers on his desk. “Ready to go, I think. Dozens of interviews, hundreds of hours. But none of it warrants going to the CPS, in my opinion. No real charge against anyone here…”
“Not even our friend Mr. Thompson?”
“No chance. Nasty bit of work, and undoubtedly he contributed to the blowout, but you could never charge him.”
“Well, maybe he’ll be a bit more careful in future.”
“Maybe. For a bit. Then it’ll be two fingers to us all and he’ll be off again. I’d like to see him fined, at least. But… I’d say we simply have an inquest situation here.”
Constable Rowe felt quite sorry for him; he looked as if he was about to burst into tears.
***
Interviewed at a police station, Rick had been defiant, truculent; yes, he’d had a load of wood on board; that was his job. No, he hadn’t been driving dangerously.
“And… this wood, Mr. Thompson. Was it properly stowed in your van?”
“Yes, course it was.”
“And it was new wood, wa
s it?”
“Yeah.”
“It had no nails in it, for instance?”
“Course not.”
“Right. Well, perhaps you could explain why several witnesses saw the back doors of your van tied together with some rope?”
“I might have tied some rope round the handles. Nothing wrong with that, is there? Doesn’t mean it wasn’t properly fastened.”
“So you’re quite sure that some pieces of wood, with nails in them, could not have fallen out of the van onto the road?”
“Yeah, quite sure. I told you, it was new wood.”
***
The man from the wood yard near Stroud had remembered Rick very clearly.
Particularly his request that he should dispose of the old timber for him, and that he had refused. And that Thompson had then asked for a length of rope to tie the doors together, which had been insufficient to do the job properly.
Rick was told he would be called as a witness at any trial or inquest on the crash.
“Oh, what! I wasn’t anywhere near the bloody crash.”
“People have died, Mr. Thompson,” Freeman said. “Proper explanations for that have to be found. You could certainly be judged to have played a part in the collision that caused it. You’ll be hearing from us in the fullness of time.”
***
“I think I should move out for a bit,” said Jonathan. “This isn’t getting us anywhere.”
He had walked into Laura’s studio, where she was struggling to work; it was late; the children were all in bed and asleep.
“What isn’t getting us anywhere?”
“Well… drifting along like this. With you obviously unable to bear the sight of me.”
“Are you surprised by that?”
“No, Laura. But we can’t go on like this for the next forty years or whatever.”
The Best Of Times Page 36