The Best Of Times

by Penny Vincenzi

  And she was going to miss him… horribly. Because although she wasn’t sure if she actually loved him, she loved being with him. And now she’d blown it. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  ***

  Jonathan found himself working on the morning of his birthday, at St. Anne’s; he was only on call, but at ten o’clock one of his mothers went into premature labour and he had to go in.

  “Ladies shouldn’t have babies on your birthday, Daddy,” Daisy said indignantly.

  “I know, sweetheart, but as you’ll find out for yourself one day, babies don’t always arrive very conveniently. I’ll try not to be long.”

  They were all excited. Once Jonathan and Laura had left for supper with the Edwardses, the children-and Helga-were to move into action: admit the caterers and the florist, explain where everything had to go… and then receive the guests as they arrived, show them where to hide (in the darkened conservatory). Helga was to telephone the Edwards house at eight, and ask Jonathan and Laura to come home, to say that there had been a power cut and she didn’t know what to do (thus explaining the unlit house when they arrived).

  It was hard to see what might go wrong.

  ***

  Abi was driving back from Bristol when her phone rang. At last! William! She pulled into a side road, took the call. Dear William. How sweet he was.

  “Abi? This is Jonathan.”

  It was made much worse by his not being William, by being thrown back into a different, uglier life; it really hurt her, shocked her even.

  “Yes?”

  “I just wanted to make sure you’d heard about the lorry driver. That his windscreen had been shattered. That’s why he veered across the road. So there won’t be any charges of any kind.”

  “Yes. Yes, the police did tell me.”

  “Good. So that draws the line very neatly, I think. It’s over. The whole ghastly nightmare.”

  “I don’t suppose the lorry driver thinks that. Or the man whose wife was killed. That is such a typical thing for you to say. ‘I’m all right, so everything’s all right.’ Pure bloody Jonathan Gilliatt.”

  There was a pause; then he said, “That was an extraordinarily unpleasant remark.”

  “Oh, really? Maybe you don’t inspire pleasant conversation, Jonathan. How’s Laura?”

  “Laura is fine.”

  “Did you ever… ever have to confess about me?”

  “That’s nothing to do with you.”

  “I think it might be, actually,” she said, rage and pain rising up to hit her. Here he was, doing it again, putting her in the box marked, “Rubbish,” set well apart from his real life, as no doubt he saw it, with his perfect wife and perfect family.

  “What on earth do you mean by that?”

  He sounded wary. Well, good.

  “I mean that of course it’s to do with me. I’d quite like to know, actually, if she knows about us. Or if you’ve managed to sweep me under the carpet, pretend I never existed. I’m not sure why, actually, but it matters to me, where I stand in Laura’s life now.”

  “And what’s it to you one way or the other?”

  “If you can’t see that, Jonathan, then you really are even more stupid than I thought,” she said, wondering why he could still hurt her so much. “Because she ought to know there’s something rotten in her marriage, that it’s not quite the perfect thing she imagines, that she’s got it, and you, horribly, horribly wrong, poor cow.”

  “Abi,” he said, and the venom in his voice quite frightened her, “you have no right to talk about Laura and my marriage.”

  “Well, I think I do, actually. You dragged me into it. You had everything-perfect bloody life, with a wife and children-and still you chose to fuck around with me. Not my idea, Jonathan. Yours. And then… then you have the fucking nerve to tell me your marriage is nothing to do with me.”

  “It isn’t,” he said. “My marriage is mine, mine and Laura’s…”

  “And pretty unsatisfactory, I’d say, judging by your behaviour.”

  “How dare you say that to me?”

  “I dare because it’s true.”

  “It is not true.”

  “Well, I think Laura might see it rather differently.”

  “Abi,” he said, “you even think about coming near me and my family, and you’ll regret it horribly.”

  “Of course I’m not coming near you and your family. Why should I?”

  “Because you’re rotten enough. Disturbed enough even, I’d say. You have considerable problems, Abi. Personality problems. Maybe you should take a look at yourself, rather than throwing accusations at other people. Anyway, I have to go. I had intended to have a perfectly pleasant conversation, reassuring you that you had nothing more to worry about. You’ve made it very unpleasant, predictably enough. Pity.”

  And the phone went dead.

  ***

  Abi sat there for quite a long time, staring at her phone; she no longer felt angry, just rather tired and drained. And then the pain began. It was awful, the worst she could ever remember. She had never liked herself; in that moment, she loathed herself. She kept hearing Jonathan’s voice telling her she had personality problems, that she was rotten, possibly even disturbed, and she found herself agreeing with him. She was indeed absolutely rotten; she was amoral, promiscuous, dishonest. And all right, he had pursued her, but she had at no time refused him; she had encouraged him, enjoyed him, despised his wife, dismissed his family. She was a completely worthless person; she had no right to expect decent treatment from anybody.

  She had been conducting a relationship with a man who was quite simply good, transparently nice and kind and honest; how could she have possibly thought that could work? That he could want to be with her if he knew even a little about what she was really like?

  She deserved never to see him again. She never would see him again. She didn’t deserve him. She deserved rotten people, rotten like her. Rotten like Jonathan.

  He’d strung her along very nicely. But… God, she had let him. That was one of the most humiliating things. Allowed herself to believe him when he told her she was special, hugely intelligent, that he enjoyed her company quite apart from the sex.

  She’d been hurt by a great many men, but Jonathan had won the game easily. He had demanded a great deal of her-and not only since the crash-and had given her no support, shown her no concern, offered her not a shred of kindness, merely bullied and threatened her. And had abandoned her totally, without pity or thought. She hated him beyond anything…

  ***

  William had spent a wretched day. He had shot into the kitchen at breakfast time, grabbed some bacon and a slice of bread and made himself a sandwich, filled a thermos with coffee, and headed out for the farthest point he could: East Wood, a six-acre spinney. He was felling some of the younger trees; it was exhausting and noisy, and made thought fairly impossible. He didn’t want to think. It hurt too much.

  ***

  Abi made her decision almost without realising it. She felt more positive suddenly, and that she needed to see this thing finished. Properly, formally, unarguably finished.

  She dialled his number. It was on voice mail. His smooth, actory tones told her that he couldn’t answer her call just at the moment, but that if she left a message he would get back to her as soon as possible.

  Abi shut him off; she wasn’t going to leave a message-she was sick of leaving messages that he didn’t respond to. But the clinic-in bloody Harley Street, where he had all those bloody pampered princesses worshipping the ground he walked on-now, she might do a little mischief there. He might even be there; she knew he was often on call on Saturdays…

  She dialled the number, asked to be put through to him.

  “I’m so sorry; Mr. Gilliatt has left for the day. Can one of the other doctors help you?”

  Resisting a temptation to say, only if they were up to Mr. Gilliatt’s standard on text sex, she asked if they knew where he was…

  “I’m afraid not. He’s not in tomor
row. Perhaps you could ring on Monday?”

  ***

  As the day wore on, William thought increasingly about Abi. And with increasing remorse. She was right-in a way. His mother had behaved quite… well, quite inconsiderately. Unkindly even. She couldn’t actually have thought they were burglars or intruders… Burglars and intruders didn’t normally light candles.

  And having discovered it was him, him and a girl, the tactful thing would have been to say something noncommittal and withdraw. He wasn’t sixteen; he was thirty-four. Did she really think he was going to get married before he had any kind of a relationship?

  Yes, perhaps he should have warned her-and his father, of course-that he was using the cottage occasionally; maybe he should have gone further, asked their permission. Except that they would have wanted to know why, and how could he have told them?

  Not for the first time, William became aware of the absurdity of his domestic situation; not for the first time did he wonder what on earth he could do about it. And then it came to him that perhaps he could move into cottage number one, or number two or number three. Make his home there. So that he could claim some independence, privacy, grow up at last. It seemed not unreasonable. He worked on the farm for a very modest income; he could surely claim the cottage as being some kind of a perk. He would ask them that evening; the thought quite cheered him up.

  She decided to ring first. She didn’t want to waste a long journey. He didn’t know she had the landline number, would probably change it if he did.

  The phone didn’t ring for long; then: “Hello?” It was a little girl’s voice: one of his flowers. God, that always made her want to throw up.

  “Is that Daisy? Or Lily?”

  “It’s Daisy.”

  “Hello, Daisy. Is your daddy there?”

  “No, he’s gone out. But he will be back soon.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Yes. Quite sure. It’s his birthday. We’re doing a surprise party for him. Mummy’s bringing him back here at about eight o’clock.”

  “Oh, really? How lovely. Wish I’d been invited. Well… never mind. Bye, Daisy.”

  “Good-bye.”

  Such a beautifully expensive, posh little voice. Well, lucky Daisy. She’d been born with a silver spoon in her mouth, all right; and it had stayed there. Like Lily and the beloved Charlie. Jonathan was so proud of Charlie. He never seemed to think she might not want to hear about him. Or about the girls. So sensitive, aren’t you, Jonathan?

  The more she thought about him-being given this party by his family, a lavish affair, no doubt, no expense spared-the more she wanted to throw up. Or kill him. Or both. There he’d be, smiling that awful smooth smile of his, receiving gifts and kisses and compliments, everyone wishing him well, and no one, no one at all, certainly not Laura, knowing what a complete shit he was. He’d managed to lie his way out of everything: how did he do it, the bastard?

  Well, not tonight, he wouldn’t.

  “Sorry, Jonathan,” she said quite cheerfully as she dressed for the occasion, in some new leather jeans and a very low-cut black top-well, it was a party, after all-“but you’d better make the most of the next two hours. Because after that… bingo!”

  Not since Sleeping Beauty’s christening was a guest going to wreak so much havoc at a family gathering.

  ***

  It didn’t go terribly well. His parents said they would of course consider his request, but the cottages were a valuable source of income, and they couldn’t quite see how he imagined making the money up.

  Abi was right: it suddenly seemed to him they were arrogant, his parents, in their attitude towards him; it was appalling that he should have nowhere he could call his own, other than a bedroom in their house. The fact that it had never occurred to him to demand such a thing was irrelevant.

  He began to feel he owed Abi an apology: on his mother’s behalf as well as his own. Her initial amusement had been… actually… rather generous. And typical of her. She was generous. And warm and funny and… well, really very kind.

  He should tell her so. He went out immediately after supper, drove to the pub, and sat in the car park, calling her. He hadn’t expected her to be sitting at home, waiting for him, but he did leave a message saying he was sorry that she had been embarrassed, sorry that he hadn’t been more considerate, and asking her to call him. He added that he missed her and really wanted to see her. And went into the pub to get drunk and hope for her call.

  ***

  Christ, what a nightmare. What a complete bloody nightmare. When he’d been hanging on to his sanity-just-getting through it day by agonising day, longing only for peace and quiet, and here he was, confronted by what seemed like a hundred people, all laughing and joking and slapping him on the back, telling him what a great guy he was, and Laura hanging on his arm, kissing him and everyone else, saying wasn’t it great everyone had come, wasn’t he wonderful, who would have thought he was so old…

  The conversation with Abi had upset him badly, and made him nervous. And somewhere, in some deep, well-buried place, he felt a stab of something close to remorse. It was true what she’d said: he had instigated their affair, had walked out of the Garden of Eden for no other reason than that he had felt in need of some new, exotically flavoured fruit. And was Abi really so rotten? Not really. She’d had a raw deal from life; he’d taken advantage of that, used it, enjoyed flattering her, flashing his money around, taking her to expensive hotels, buying her expensive jewellery. And in return she had given him the excitement, the sense of sexual self-esteem that Laura had failed to do. Christ, what a mess. And here he was, trapped in this farce of an evening. Which somehow encapsulated his whole life. The fantasy that was marriage to Laura, and the reality that Abi had confronted him with.

  ***

  No call yet. Well, what could he expect? She would be out somewhere. She was probably still very hurt and upset. It surprised him sometimes how sensitive she actually was; she wasn’t really the toughie she seemed.

  He’d never forgotten how she’d gone off to the hospital with Shaun that day, for instance. And she was absolutely ridiculous about animals, fussing over a kitten in the street she’d thought had been abandoned, and getting quite worked up when he’d told her he’d just sent a couple of bull calves to the abattoir. He didn’t want to lose her. He really didn’t.

  He texted her, to tell her that she should listen to her messages, in case she hadn’t realised there was one; and then in a sudden rash rush of courage, composed another saying, “I love you.” He sat looking at it for a while before he sent it, slightly surprised that he could be telling her that, making sure he meant it, and wasn’t just trying to make her feel better. But he did mean it; he did love her, and he desperately didn’t want to lose her; he pressed “send” and then decided to go home before he was too drunk to drive even the half mile to the farm gates.

  ***

  She had wondered how she would get in, whether someone would demand an invitation or something, but the front door was not locked; it pushed open easily. She stood in the hall; it was empty, but she could hear music and people laughing. A large gilt mirror hung on the wall; she went over to it, replenished her lip gloss and her perfume, combed her hair. She wanted to look as good as possible for her entrance…

  As she stood there, a little girl appeared behind her: an absurdly beautiful little girl, about nine years old, with long blond curly hair, wearing a white lace-trimmed dress and silver shoes. “Hello,” she said, “I’m Lily. Have you come to the party? You’re late.”

  “I know,” Abi said, smiling at her. “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s all right. They’re just serving the food now. Do come in,” she added graciously.

  Abi took a glass of champagne from a tray and stood in the doorway, looking into a huge room, golden, it seemed, lit with dozens of candles, and filled with great urns of white flowers. People stood in groups, smiling, beautifully dressed people, holding glasses of champagne, an
d by the fireplace stood Jonathan, and next to him, leaning against him, smiling up at him, was… well, she supposed Laura. Lovely, she was, quite small, with a fall of blond hair and dressed in something truly amazing, layers of pale, pale cream chiffon and lace. On the other side of Jonathan were two almost identical little girls and a boy-Charlie, of course, very handsome, with smooth brown hair, dressed in jeans and a blue shirt, already nearly as tall as his mother. It was all unbearably perfect-the light, the music, the display of family togetherness-and Abi really couldn’t bear it.

  She started to move across the room. Jonathan still hadn’t seen her, was holding up his hand; Laura was tapping on her glass; Jonathan was saying, “This is not a speech, promise, promise,” and everyone laughed and called out, “Good thing too,” and, “Why not?” and, “Better not be…”

  ***

  He saw her standing there, an entirely dark presence in her black clothes, her eyes glittering, infinitely dangerous; and he was so terrified, he literally could neither move nor speak. He saw Laura look at him more sharply, puzzled at his sudden silence, and then follow his gaze towards Abi; felt her stiffen, heard her intake of breath. In his worst, his wildest nightmares, he could not have imagined this invasion of his family and his home, and in front of all their friends, this confrontation with the awful, ugly truth of her and what he had done. What might she do, or say, how could he stop her…?

  She stepped forward, right up to him, and said, “Hello, Jonathan. What a very lovely occasion. I thought I’d add my good wishes to everyone else’s. That’s what you deserve. Happy birthday,” she added, and leaned up and kissed him on the lips. “You must be Laura,” she said, turning to her, and she could hear a distinct graciousness in her own voice. “I’m Abi… I’m not sure if Jonathan’s told you about me. I’m so sorry I can’t stop.”