The Best Of Times

by Penny Vincenzi

  And the thought of sleeping with him was abhorrent; she could not imagine it ever again. There would be a third person in their bed forevermore now, and no longer a shadowy presence, a vague threat, but one she had seen, heard, smelt-she would never forget that rich, cloying perfume-and watched as she sashayed across the room and kissed her husband’s mouth.

  Jonathan had not suggested that he join her in their bed; he continued to sleep in the spare room without comment, and indeed as if he assumed it was the proper place for him; but one night, quite late, after they had been reading in the drawing room and she said she was tired and thought she would go to bed, he had looked at her and smiled and said, “Do, darling. You look tired. Shall I make you a nightcap?”

  He had always done that in the old days, when she was particularly exhausted, brought her a hot toddy; she hardly ever drank spirits, but she loved that; the effect of the whisky in the hot milk never failed to make her sleep. But for some reason tonight, she found the thought of it unbearable, that he was trying to deny the present, to work back into the past, when he had been a source of comfort, not pain, of reassurance, not fear, and she stood up and said, “No, thank you, I can do that for myself,” and she could hear the coldness, the rejection in her own voice.

  His eyes as he looked at her then were surprised, hurt even. “All right, darling,” he said, “but the offer’s there.”

  And suddenly, it happened; she could hold it back no longer, the force of her rage. “Jonathan, don’t call me darling, please,” was all she said, but her tone was ugly, almost savage, and he could not but react.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and his voice in its turn was ice-cold, heavy with anger. “I didn’t realise you still felt so strongly against me.”

  “Is that so?” she said. “You didn’t realise? What did you think, then? That I had forgotten about… about what you did, your lies, how you betrayed me, betrayed us all?”

  “No,” he said, “of course not. But I thought… perhaps… we had moved on. That you could at least start to… to accept it, if not forgive.”

  “Jonathan, how could you even begin to think that? Accept it, you say! Accept the fact that you preferred her to me…”

  “I did not prefer her,” he said wearily. “No comparison came into it. She was… well, she was what she was. Nothing to do with you. I love you…”

  “Oh, please! You love me! So much that you fucked someone else. Not just once-I could endure that-but many times. And not just fucked her-slept with her, really slept with her, lay with her all night, woke up with her beside you. Lied and lied to me so that you could. How could you do that, Jonathan; how could you want to do that?”

  “I… don’t know,” he said, “I really don’t know. It was some kind of… madness. I know, all erring husbands say that, but it’s true; it was as if I became someone else. I didn’t stop loving you, Laura; I didn’t love you any less. It was greed, a grab at something else that I knew I shouldn’t have. I can’t expect you to understand, but-”

  “No,” she said, “I don’t understand. Of course I don’t. Well, I can see that you would want her, but the fact is, you couldn’t want her without rejecting me. That’s how I see it, a rejection of me, of what I could do for you, what I could offer. It makes me feel so… so lacking.”

  “Lacking in what?” he said, and he looked so bewildered she almost smiled.

  “In myself, Jonathan. I know…” She faltered, took a breath, started again. “I know I’m not particularly… sexy. I know that very well. I mean, I like sex, of course…”

  “And why do you say ‘of course’?” he said. “It’s not compulsory, you know, liking it.”

  “What do you mean?” she said, staring at him in astonishment. “Of course it is; it’s part of a marriage, part of loving someone.”

  “And did you really see it as part of loving me?”

  “Of course I did”-and she was shouting now-“of course I saw it as that. It was so precious to me; it was ours, and no one else’s, what we shared, only between us. Now it’s not anymore; it’s hers; she’s taken it, or rather you’ve given it; it’s gone; it’s gone forever and no one can bring it back.”

  He was absolutely silent, looking at her with a dreadful sadness in his eyes; then he said, “Well, it seems we are done for, then. We can’t be as we were again, can we?”

  “No,” she said, “no, we can’t. Never. Never.”

  “Well… in that case, maybe I should go again. But I want to say a few things first. That really need saying. I did love you. So very, very much. I do love you very, very much. You are the centre of my life and the centre of our family. I can’t contemplate life without you, Laura. Oh, that’s not some idle suicidal threat; it’s true. Of course I’d go on living, but I’d be changed. I’d be lost. I’d be pathetic, useless, dysfunctional.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You’d be just fine. Still the successful, attractive, wonderful Jonathan Gilliatt.”

  “Laura, I wouldn’t. I’m only those things because I have you. I’d be anxious; I’d lose confidence, judgment. God in heaven, that happened even when I was living away for those few weeks. I dithered, I took second opinions, I did what others said instead of what I knew was right, I didn’t even know what was right anymore. I made one appalling mistake-I didn’t tell you about it, and you wouldn’t have cared, I should think, given the circumstances-but I missed a cord presentation… You know what that is?”

  “The baby’s head pressing on the cord?”

  “Exactly. How often I must have bored you with these technical details. Anyway, the baby nearly died; could so well have been brain damaged. And I missed it, because I was so wretched, so… so lost. And deservedly so, no doubt you would say. But… well, that is how dependent on you I am. I’m nothing without you, Laura, nothing at all.”

  She was silent.

  “I’m talking professionally, of course, but it extends to everything. The charming, attractive Jonathan Gilliatt, as you call him, is a pathetically different chap on his own…”

  “Jonathan, this is all very touching, but if I’m so important to you, why risk losing me? Why start an affair with someone else? It doesn’t quite add up. Sorry.”

  “I know that. Of course I do. It was insanity. It was dangerous insanity. And I had never done anything like it before, and I never would again. And I know you don’t believe me when I tell you it was over, that I’d finished with her that day, but it’s true. But… haven’t you ever, in your perfectly controlled, beautifully behaved life, Laura, done anything remotely wrong? Or dangerous? Haven’t you ever been tempted to kick over the traces? Oh, not to have an affair, but… I don’t know, spend too much and lie to me about it, or take a day off from cooking and buy a ready meal for the children, or go back to bed or spend the day with your girlfriends and not do any work, or not help with the homework, or…”

  “No,” she said, after a few moments’ thought, “no, I haven’t.”

  “Well, then,” he said, and he almost smiled, “there you have it, perhaps.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, it’s quite… tough being married to you.”

  “Jonathan, I devote my entire life to you. To doing what you want, going where you want me to be. It’s me it’s tough for, I’d say. Not you.”

  “No,” he said. “Well, it may be. But that’s why-I think-I had this affair with Abi Scott. I’m trying to be honest now. Because she was bad quite a lot of the time. She wasn’t perfect. She was certainly less perfect than me. She’s greedy and amoral and she tells lies, all the time; I didn’t have to live up to her. And I have to say, I treated her very badly.”

  “Oh, my heart bleeds for her. I’m so sorry.”

  “I am sorry… actually. I should have shown her some consideration, after the crash. It was a trauma for her, as well, a dreadful one. And what did I do? I was so shit scared of you finding out about her that I threatened her…”

  “You what?” She was shocked by th
at.

  “I threatened her. I told her if the didn’t go along with my story that she was a work colleague, I’d tell the police about her drug habit. Not nice behaviour.”

  “No. Not really. But…”

  “But it was for you. I was so terrified of you finding out-not because you’d be angry, which you’d have every right to be, but because you’d be desperately hurt-that I bullied her. Harassed her ruthlessly. The irony is that if I’d been a bit nicer to her, she probably wouldn’t have turned up here that night. At my party. I was a complete shit. I am a complete shit. Oh, God…”

  He looked at her, and she could see tears in his eyes. He brushed them away.

  “But, Jonathan,” she said, “I can’t be what I’m not. I’m me. I can’t start being lazy or extravagant, or neglecting the children. Just so that you don’t have to live up to me, as you put it. It’s crazy; you’re talking rubbish. Self-indulgent rubbish.”

  “It may be self-indulgent,” he said, “but it isn’t rubbish. Everyone’s so fucking envious of me. Or was. ‘Lucky chap,’ they used to say, ‘being married to Laura; wish my wife was more like Laura.’ God, Mark never stopped going on about it, and how Serena never let him get away with anything, how wonderful you were… You remember that song, that music hall song, ‘She’s Only a Bird in a Gilded Cage’? I felt like a bird in a gilded cage, and I flew out of it… just once, once for the hell of it. Or so I thought. Fate trapped me, shut the door behind me, and I’ll never be back in it now, and it serves me right.”

  She said nothing, trying to make sense of what he was saying.

  He stood up now, in front of her, staring down into her eyes. “I guess that’s it by way of explanation. I have never regretted anything more. I would give everything I have-everything except you and the children-to alter it. But I can’t. As I said to Charlie in the hospital, you have to live with what you’ve done. There’s no alternative. It’s hardly a justification, I know, but-”

  “No,” she said, “it isn’t.”

  “Well, that’s my swan song. I’ll go, Laura. Don’t worry. Or if you’d prefer it, I’ll stay here, for the sake of the children, carry on pretending. I’m not sure they could face losing me again. That’s not meant to be emotional blackmail; it’s a fact. But I won’t ask anything of you, anything at all. And when they’re older, maybe we can get divorced. It’s up to you. Whatever you want. It’s the least I can do for you. To make amends. I only ask one thing: that you try to believe how much I love you.”

  “I’ll try,” she said after a very long time. “I really will try. And… don’t go, Jonathan. You’re right. The children couldn’t bear it.”

  She wasn’t sure she would be able to bear it herself. But she really wasn’t ready to say that.

  CHAPTER 51

  Michael Andrews always said the most important quality a coroner should possess was courtesy. And indeed, he had never come across one who didn’t. It was important for all concerned: for the relatives of the deceased, of course, still grieving, often disappointed that there was to be no criminal trial, so that they might find retribution for the death of their loved ones, and at least anxious to establish the truth; for the police who had worked so hard to establish that truth and whose evidence, often rather ponderous, must be heard in full, that the hard work might be justified; for the witnesses, often distressed themselves, always nervous; and of course for the coroner’s office staff, so at pains to be courteous themselves, to put people at ease, to ensure that proceedings ran smoothly and as swiftly as possible.

  The inquest he was to conduct the following week, on the people who had died in the M4 crash the previous August, would be long, possibly running over two days. There were three deceased, and many witnesses; the crash had been complex and high-profile. It would test his skills considerably, and he would need to prepare for it with great care.

  Since it was to be so large, and with so many attendees, it was to be held in the council chambers at the county court, rather than in one of the committee rooms; in a way people preferred that; they felt the deaths of the loved ones was being considered a matter of some importance, accorded proper dignity. The other thing about inquests, of course, was that they differed from criminal enquiries in that all the witnesses heard all the evidence. It gave a sense of greater openness and fairness, and it meant those involved could more easily see any concerns laid properly to rest.

  There would be lawyers present, of course, because of insurance issues, and several doctors. One of the doctors, Dr. Jonathan Gilliatt, would be giving evidence on two counts: his own involvement in the crash, and his professional observations of the injured and deceased.

  It would be wrong, Michael Andrews supposed, to say he was looking forward to the inquest-it would be both gruelling and sad-but it did promise to be what he privately called a yardstick, one by which he would judge and compare others.

  His wife, Susan, was prepared for a somewhat solitary weekend.

  ***

  “All rise.”

  Michael Andrews liked this moment, as he walked into the court: not from any delusions of grandeur, but because it was an acknowledgement of his authority and through him the court’s.

  He sat in the council chamber on a high dais, flanked by his clerk and coroner’s officer. The public sat before him, the seats ranged amphitheatre style, and banking up towards the back of the chamber; the witness table-also slightly raised and complete with microphone and Bible-was to his left.

  He began as he always did: by welcoming everyone, by explaining the purpose of the inquest. “We are here to answer four questions: who the deceased were, and when, where, and how they came to their deaths. It is not to establish any blame, and no charges will be brought as a result.” He paused. “Three of the four answers are straightforward. The fourth, establishing by what means death arose, is the main purpose of this inquest. The families, if they wish, may ask relevant questions.”

  The families, sitting together in their prescribed area, all looked at one another and then nervously about them. He knew from experience that it was likely at least one of them would ask questions, probably of the pathologist. He also knew what the first question, at least, was likely to be: would the victim have suffered at all?

  He named the deceased and described them briefly: their ages, their status, where they lived-the young girl, Sarah Tomkins, the minibus driver, Edward Barnes, the young mother, Jennifer Marks.

  He called the pathologist, Dr. Paul Jackson from St. Marks Hospital, who had carried out the postmortems on the deceased and asked him to take the oath. People were very respectful of the oath; they spoke it clearly and audibly, even if they became less so as they gave their evidence. And it reassured the relatives further, he knew: that no one was going to lie, to prevaricate; they were going to hear, finally, exactly what had happened to cause the deaths of those they loved.

  Dr. Jackson gave his evidence: the awful bald facts, the exact cause in each case of the deaths. The mother of the young girl began to cry; the husband blew his nose hard and repeatedly. Andrews asked if there were any questions: the wife of the minibus driver, a middle-aged woman, her face pale and etched with strain, said, “I would like to ask a question. In your opinion, Doctor,” she said, speaking to the pathologist, “would my husband have suffered at all?”

  “I think I can state quite categorically,” Dr. Jackson said, “that he would not. It is my professional opinion that all three would have died instantly.”

  “Thank you,” said the woman. The others looked at her and half smiled; Sarah’s mother said, her voice shaky with nerves and emotion, “I was going to ask the same thing. But I wondered if whoever found my daughter-I believe it was another doctor-would have agreed.”

  “We shall come to that evidence a little later,” said Andrews, “and you will be free to speak to the gentleman in question-who was indeed a doctor-then.”

  The police evidence describing the background of the victims, how they had come to be on
the road that afternoon, followed: the always tragic accounts of lives ended too soon. They were rich in clichés: “a devoted and selfless mother,”

  “a lively, popular, and clever daughter,” “a loving and generous grandfather.” He hated the clichés, but they seemed de rigueur; they were what people told the police and, in any case, undoubtedly comforted the families.

  He called Dr. Alexander Pritchard, the A &E consultant at St. Marks, to describe what medical procedures, if any, were carried out on the victims. Pritchard, who, like the pathologist, had clearly given evidence at many inquests before this one, spoke straightforwardly and with equal and careful tact: no procedures were carried out, the victims were all dead on arrival, and neither basic nor intensive life-support techniques were indicated. He added that in his opinion also, the deaths would all have been instantaneous.

  Nice man, Andrews thought: an old-fashioned doctor of the best kind.

  The inquest machinery ground on.

  ***

  A large sheaf of photographs of the crash, taken from every angle, with relevant vehicles and trajectories painstakingly marked, were handed out to everyone. A description of the crash was given by Inspector Greg Dixon; he said people were for the most part very calm and helpful and that he would like to pay tribute to the courage of a doctor on the scene, “Mr. Jonathan Gilliatt, who worked tirelessly among the injured for many hours, and cared for a woman who had gone into premature labour, reassuring her and monitoring her condition until the ambulance arrived. He also most courageously climbed up into the lorry to turn the ignition off.”