The Best Of Times

by Penny Vincenzi

  “I love it,” she said, smiling, leaning over to kiss him. “I really love it; thank you so much, Luke. Here, help me put it on…”

  “Good. I thought you’d like it. Now you have to wear that all the time, Emma, OK, so you think of me all the time. Even when I’m away.”

  “Of course I will,” she said, and she was crying now. “I promise, Luke, I really do. I couldn’t bear to take it off anyway, not ever… Oh, dear, I must go to the loo again; my makeup’ll be all smudgy and…”

  It wasn’t until she had repaired her makeup, put on some more perfume, combed her hair, and admired the necklace that she realised she hadn’t told Luke that she loved him too. Well, plenty of time for that later. Maybe when they were in bed…

  CHAPTER 18

  Mary had begun to despair by Saturday evening of ever hearing from Russell again, as the hours went by with no word, no message of any sort… She found it extremely painful that he had apparently made no effort to find her; it seemed to display a lack of true devotion. The crash had been in all the papers, and you had only to turn on the news on that first morning to see graphic pictures of the pileup, the lorry straddling the motorway, the ambulances and police cars and the helicopter. How could Russell have missed all that?

  And then the nurse had come over to her bed, with the message, at six o’clock.

  “From a gentleman, Mary; he sounded like an American. He said to give you his… his special love. He was called Mr. Mackenzie. That mean anything to you?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Mary, “oh, my goodness, it does.”

  “And he’s coming to see you in the morning.”

  And Mary had flown up into some unreachable, untouchable place of happiness and felt she would never, ever come down again.

  And then on Sunday morning the flowers arrived: a vast bouquet of red roses.

  “My word,” the nurse said, “St. Valentine’s Day’s come late this year. I don’t know what I’m going to put them in, Mary; I haven’t got a vase big enough for half of them.”

  “You don’t have to,” said Mary. “Look, they’re in water already. Can I… can I have the card, please?”

  “For my beloved Little Sparrow,” it said. “Get very well, very soon. Russell.”

  Mary burst into tears.

  ***

  And then there he was, walking across the ward, smiling, his brilliant blue eyes fixed on her, and he really didn’t look so very different, still so handsome and so slim and tall, and the years rolled away, and they were young again, standing together in Parliament Square, and she had known she was falling in love; and it was all she could do not to leap out of bed and run into his arms.

  Only it wasn’t necessary, for he half ran to her instead, and when he reached her he took her hand and kissed it, and she simply felt warm and safe and absolutely happy. This was love, then, as they had known it all those years ago; and they had much to do, in whatever time was left to them, to see to it and nurture it and allow it to come into its own.

  ***

  The police, or rather the CIU, called Jonathan on Sunday to discuss when they might talk to him.

  “Just a quick call, Mr. Gilliatt, to arrange a time; the sooner the better, while it’s all still fresh in your mind.”

  “Yes, of course. Although I should tell you a lot of it is rather a blur.”

  “That’s all right, sir. Just tell us what you can and we’ll worry about the rest.”

  They’d settled finally on Tuesday evening, at six thirty.

  He’d slept horribly badly again, and he was sitting in the conservatory just before supper, trying to read the Sunday papers, when Laura walked in with a bottle of white wine and a bowl of olives.

  Her voice was at its sweetest; the coolness of the past twenty-four hours or so seemed to have passed.

  “I thought we’d earned this,” she said, smiling at him. “Well, I certainly have. Bit of a day, with the children and so on.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry, darling; been no use to you at all. I’m feeling much better now; I’ll be back on course tomorrow.”

  “Good.”

  “Um…” This was it; he had to do it-had to broach the subject of the police interview… “Just one thing, darling. The police are coming here on Tuesday evening. To talk to me about the accident. About six thirty. Will you be around?”

  “Of course. In fact, I’d like to sit in on it, if you don’t mind.”

  A thud of fear hit him.

  “Well, darling, I don’t mind, of course. But they might feel differently. Protocol and all that.”

  “I can’t see why. Anyway, if they don’t want me there, they can tell me and I’ll go away. When you say talk to you, what exactly does that mean?”

  “Well, I presume they’re gathering evidence about how it happened exactly, what I saw-”

  “Yes, I see. And how do you think it happened?”

  The coolness had returned.

  “Well… it’s so hard to say. Everyone was driving in a very orderly way; no one was speeding. And then suddenly, out of the blue, this lorry swerved and I suppose skidded, and went through the barrier. It had just rained, of course, and-”

  “I see. So where were you in all this? In front of him, at his side?”

  “Laura, what is this, a rehearsal for Tuesday?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous; I could have lost you! Of course I want to know everything.”

  “Sorry, yes, of course you do. Well, I was more or less beside the lorry. On the inside lane. There was an old car immediately in front of me, which presumably just drove on, and in front of the lorry a sports car of some kind, an E-Type, I think, that disappeared too. There really was no apparent reason for the lorry to do what it did. I thought he might have had a blowout, but I looked and his tyres were all intact. Anyway, I found myself-and that was what it was like, finding myself; I certainly don’t remember getting there-stopped at an angle on the hard shoulder. About a hundred yards ahead of him, I suppose. It was all bloody scary.”

  “Of course. Terrifying. And then you involved yourself, helping all those people. That was so good of you, Jonathan; they were lucky you were there.”

  “Well, one does one’s bit. I think I helped, yes. Hope so. Er… Laura… there is one thing I hadn’t told you before-silly, really, so unimportant, but it might come out in this interview thing.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Well, I… wasn’t alone in the car.”

  He was sweating.

  “Had you given someone a lift?”

  “Well, sort of. Someone I met at the conference. A woman. Very nice, needed a lift to Reading, had a problem with her car…” He must remember to tell Abi that; God, it was getting so complicated.

  “Well, that was kind of you. Maybe another reason to cut down to the M4. If she had to get to Reading…”

  “No, no, I mentioned it, that I’d decided to go that way, at the end of the morning session, and she asked me if I could give her a lift.”

  “I see. She was a doctor, was she?”

  “No, no, she worked for the PR company. Who were covering the conference. She… worked with a photographer, got everyone’s names and details, that sort of thing. Anyway, it’s just that she was in the car, and of course when the police were taking names and addresses, they took hers, so… yes, she’s bound to be mentioned. I just thought I should tell you, so you wouldn’t be… be… well… surprised, that’s all. Especially if you’re going to be sitting in on the interview. Which I would love, actually. Not the nicest thing to have to recall in great detail.”

  “No. Well, that’s very considerate of you, darling. Thank you for telling me.” She leaned back in her chair, took a sip of wine, smiled at him very sweetly. He allowed himself to relax just slightly.

  “Tell me, Jonathan. Would that have been… Abi? By any chance? Was that this woman’s name?”

  ***

  It would have helped, of course, if he hadn’t spilt his wine. He was very aware of Laura
watching him while he mopped rather ineffectually at the tray with his handkerchief and the paper napkins she had brought out, and that she had that new, cool, slightly distant expression on her face. Finally he sat back in his chair and managed to smile at her.

  “Sorry, darling. What a mess.”

  “You could say that,” she said, and there was an edge to her voice that was unmissable.

  “Anyway… yes, Abi, that was her name. Abi Scott. How… how did you know that?”

  “A very nice young man rang up, said he’d been there on Friday, and that this… Abi… had given him her phone to look after. I’m not sure why. She went off without it, and yours was one of the names on it, so he rang. He said none of the other names meant anything to him, but he did recognise yours because she’d been with you, had mentioned you. He was very charming, and very diffident about bothering me and so on.”

  “Yes, I see. Well, that was nice of him. Er… when did he call?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. While you were asleep.”

  “You should have told me.”

  “Oh, darling, I didn’t want to wake you up. And then I forgot. Till now.”

  She smiled again, the smile sickly sweet now.

  “So… the only thing I wondered was, Jonathan, why was your name in her phone? Since you’d only just met her.”

  “Oh” he said, thinking fast, “oh, I was moving around from car to car, she was doing other things, we didn’t want to lose contact with each other, so I put my number in her phone. I did the same for several people, a girl who’d gone into premature labour-that reminds me, I must call the hospital, see if the baby’s all right-and a nice young chap, best man to the bridegroom, the one whose leg was crushed…”

  “I see,” she said, and then with a half sigh, “Oh, Jonathan! This had better be true. Otherwise, I can’t quite think what I might do. Except that I’d want to be sure you wouldn’t like it.”

  And she got up and stalked out of the conservatory; when he followed her a few minutes later she was nowhere to be seen.

  CHAPTER 19

  Linda’s initial reaction was to say no; she didn’t want to risk her reputation again, and Georgia simply didn’t deserve it.

  But after two double espressos, she decided that Georgia was still her client and that she owed it to her-professionally-to put the proposal to her. She called Georgia ’s mobile; it was switched off. Not even taking messages. She tried the landline. Bea Linley answered.

  “Oh-Linda. Hello. Nice to hear from you. Georgia ’s… well, she’s gone out.”

  “OK.” Linda could hear the controlled exasperation in her own voice. “Ask her to call me, would you, Bea? As soon as she gets in. It’s important.”

  “Yes, of course. Is it about that part? Are they reconsidering her?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Oh, Linda, that’s wonderful. She’s been so upset ever since she got back. Won’t eat, keeps crying. I’ll get her to call you the minute she gets in. Thank you, Linda. She’s a very lucky girl.”

  “She certainly is,” said Linda, “very lucky indeed. Bye, Bea.”

  ***

  “Mum! I can’t! I told you to say I was out.”

  “I did,” said Bea, “and I really don’t think she believed me for a moment. Anyway, you’re to ring her immediately.”

  “I’m not going to.”

  Bea didn’t easily lose her temper, but she lost it now.

  “ Georgia, I think it’s time you took a hard look at yourself. You’re not a child; you’re twenty-two years old. Your father and I have been very patient; we’ve supported you in every sense of the word all your life, never put any sort of time limit on it. You’ve taken that completely for granted-our faith in you as well as the practical help. And now, with what sounds like a real chance of actually getting a part, you just turn your back on it without a word of explanation to me, or to Linda. It’s absolutely dreadful and I feel quite ashamed of you. Now, I’m going out to work-it’s clearly escaped your notice that most of us have to do that-and when I get back, I either want to know you’ve arranged to go for this audition, or you can forget the whole wretched acting nonsense and go and find yourself a proper job. Your time’s up, Georgia. It’s your decision.”

  Barney was sitting at his desk, trying to pretend it was any old Monday, when the police phoned. They would like to interview him about the crash; when would he be available?

  “Oh-whenever it suits you,” Barney said, fighting down the fear that seemed quite literally to slither up from his stomach and take possession of his head several times each day. “Yes, course.”

  “We could call round to your home, sir. If that suited you. More pleasant perhaps than a police station, but it’s up to you…”

  “No, home sounds good. Around seven? Er… can you give me an idea of the sort of things you’ll be asking? So that I can be prepared, brush up on my memory a bit.”

  “Oh-we’re just looking to get all the information we can, sir. Everything you can remember of the crash. You are, of course, a prime witness. Now, there will be two of us-I’m Sergeant Freeman and I shall be accompanied by Constable Rowe.”

  “Very good, Sergeant. Thank you.”

  ***

  Barney was feeling very odd altogether. He was terribly worried about Toby, of course, but he hadn’t yet got over the shock of his behaviour: that he had been capable of such a thing with that girl. And then there was the business of the tyre: OK, they hadn’t caused the accident, but they had had a blowout. And driven into the car in front and caused the girl to go into labour. It seemed very possible to Barney that the soft tyre could have contributed-or even caused that. He should have insisted on checking it, made Toby wait somehow… And was he supposed to mention the tyre to the police? He really needed to discuss it with Toby-who was in no state to discuss anything with anybody.

  He was having trouble sleeping, having feverish dreams, and waking, sweating, several times each night, with a terrible sense of fear.

  God, he felt a mess…

  ***

  She had no idea how she was going to get through it. But anything was better than being alone in her room just… thinking about it. Being alone with the memory. And the terror. She must stop hiding, running away. And nobody knew what she had done, after all. She hadn’t thought of that in her initial blind panic. Except Patrick, of course. Patrick, who had been so kind to her.

  And it looked like he was getting better, according to the papers.

  Just take it a day at a time, Georgia. One day and then the next. And then, one day, possibly quite soon even, she would go and see Patrick in the hospital. She would. She really would. But… not today. It was going to be quite hard enough just getting up to London and doing the audition. After that she’d see. One day at a time. That was what she had to do. One day at a time.

  Mary suddenly felt very restless; she had been stuck in this ward for too long. She longed to go for a little walk, just round the hospital, and wondered if they’d let her. Probably not. Best not to ask, perhaps, just slip out while no one was looking.

  Feeling rather as if she’d escaped from prison, Mary made for the lift. She had no idea where she was going; just to be out of the ward was pleasure enough.

  The lift was full of people. They all seemed to be going to the ground floor; Mary thought she might as well go there too. She wandered round the foyer for a bit, looking at all the fortunate people who could go out into the street at will without getting permission or signing forms, and then saw a Costa café outlet; it looked rather cheerful and normal, and she was tempted to go in, but there really wasn’t anything she wanted. She decided to go back to the lift, and on her way, she passed a sign to ICU; she knew what that meant: intensive care. Presumably that was where the lorry driver lay, poor man. As she stood there, looking down the corridor, a young woman, clearly absolutely exhausted, walked towards her, her eyes blank and unseeing, and then passed on and into the café, where she sat down at one
of the tables, slumped over her handbag.

  Without stopping to think, Mary followed her and sat down opposite her.

  “Hello,” she said, and smiled at her encouragingly. “You can tell me to go away if you want, but you look to me as if you could do with some company.”

  The woman stared at her, then shook her head.

  “Can I get you a cup of tea then?”

  “No… that is… well, yes. Thank you. Good and strong. With sugar.”

  She was obviously far too exhausted and distressed to wonder why a strange old lady in a dressing gown might be bothering with her; Mary went over to the counter, paid for the cup of water and tea bag, and carried it over to the table, together with several minicartons of milk and packs of sugar.

  “There you are. I should leave the bag in for a bit longer.”

  “Thank you for that. I will.” She looked at Mary, then managed a very faint smile. “Are you a patient here, then?”

  “I am indeed. Only until the end of the week, thank God. Then I’m going home.”

  “Well, you’re a lucky woman.” She had an Irish accent and was young and rather pretty, Mary thought, in spite of the exhaustion… She dunked the tea bag up and down in the cup, then fished it out and added the milk. “That’s great. Thank you.”

  “That’s all right. You look terribly tired.”

  “I am. I feel I’ve been here forever. My… my husband’s in intensive care.”

  “Oh, how terribly worrying for you. Has he had surgery?”

  “He has indeed. A great deal. But that’s only the beginning.” And she started to cry then looked back at Mary and said, “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Mary, rummaging in her dressing gown pocket for a tissue. “Do you want to tell me about it?”