The Best of Times (11 page)

Mary woke up feeling uncomfortable. It was her bladder, not strong at the best of times, and when she was under stress, distinctly weak. She would never get to Heathrow without going to the toilet; she’d have to ask Colin to stop at the next service station and hope he wouldn’t mind. Donald had got irritated when she was constantly asking him to stop on journeys.

But she was paying Colin, she told herself; he’d have no business being irritated. She was sure Russell would have said that. She had a quick worry about whether Russell would get irritated with her constant need for the toilet, and then, after about another few minutes, took a deep breath and said, “Colin, I wonder if you’d mind very much pulling in at the next service station? I need to go to the ladies’.”

Colin said he wouldn’t mind at all, and in fact he could do with a break himself; he’d got through his bottle of water already and they were only about halfway there.

“It’s this heat. All right if we just go to the fuel section? Takes so long if you have to park up in services.”

“Of course. And I’ll get you the water, Colin. Unless you want to … to get out yourself, that is.”

“No, no, Mary, that’s fine. Bladder of steel I’ve got. Yes, if you would, couple of bottles and maybe some chewing gum? I like to chew when I’m driving; helps my concentration.”

Mary hoped that didn’t mean his concentration was flagging. She’d seen some very alarming driving since she’d woken up: cars speeding, motorbikes weaving in and out of the traffic, lorries sitting horribly close behind cars—all with foreign number plates, she noticed—and just now, a white van sitting on their tail, flashing furiously into Colin’s mirror before suddenly accelerating into a very small space alongside them and then shooting into the outside lane against a background of furious hooting.

“What very unpleasant behaviour,” she said. “My husband always said that bad driving was really little more than bad manners. Would you agree with that, Colin?”

“I certainly would. Right, here we are, Mary. Doesn’t look too busy, considering; shouldn’t hold us up much.”

“I do hope not,” said Mary.

• • •

“So—what do these things do for you then?” asked Georgia, helping herself to a handful of jelly babies.

“Wreck my teeth. Make me feel sick. Keep me awake, mostly …”

“How? I’d have thought coffee would be better.”

“I’m practically immune to coffee, Georgia. These are the thing, pure sugar. Don’t you eat them all, now.”

“I won’t.”

“In fact, I’m surprised to see you eating sweets at all. You’re so skinny.”

“I’m incredibly lucky. I just don’t seem to put on weight. Other girls are really jealous of me. They have to work at it so hard, hardly eat at all, some of them, exist on cigarettes and lettuce. I would say at least half the girls in the business have an eating disorder. It comes from casting directors and agents and so on going on and on at you—‘You must keep the weight down, you’ve put on some weight.’ So you see how lucky I am.”

“I do indeed.”

She was silent for a while, munching the sweets; then she said, “You can see a lot from up here, can’t you? It’s amazing, almost like flying.”

“It is indeed. And you can see a lot of what’s going on in the other vehicles as well as you pass them. I find that the greatest temptation, to peer into people’s cars and their lives.”

“Well, why don’t you?”

“Because I’m busy keeping my eye on the road, that’s why.”

“Well, I’ll do it for you for now. Oh, now, here comes a coach driver up beside us. He looks well bored, all those old grannies sleeping.
S’pose they’ve been on some tour or other—oh, God, that looks like a real nightmare. Poor bloke.”

“Who’s that then?” said Patrick.

“A bridegroom. All done up in his monkey suit, top hat on the backseat, and another beside him, best man, I s’pose. They look well stressed. Late, I s’pose. Too much last night, probably. They’re coming up
so
fast … God, how awful. Late for your own wedding … Hope the cops don’t stop them. How are we doing?”

“Pretty well. Reckon you might make it yet.”

• • •

“Mate, I need the toilet; can you do the petrol?”

“Sure. How’re you feeling?”

“Not great. But I’ll make out. Could do without this gut rot, though.”

Barney resisted the temptation to point out that it was stress rotting Toby’s guts, not some malign fate. He still felt very shocked and confused by Toby’s revelations. Toby, on the other hand, seemed much better, more normal; it was as if, having dealt with the situation as best he could, he could set it all aside and return to his role as model bridegroom. He didn’t seem the Toby Barney knew anymore; it was almost scary.

Barney filled up the car, and then thought that he might take a look at the tyres. He’d felt the car pulling a bit. The way they were driving, they needed twenty/twenty wheels.

“For God’s sake, what are you doing now?”

Toby had reappeared.

“I want to check the tyres,” said Barney. “The front offside’s a tad soft. Look, you go and pay, and get some more water, will you? Time you’ve done that I’ll be through.”

“OK.”

Toby went back into the building. He grabbed two bottles of water, and found himself behind an old lady in the queue. There were three people in front of her—Jesus, this was taking forever. He looked at his watch. It was OK. It was fine. Hours yet. Well, an hour …

As he stood there, trying to keep calm, his phone rang.

“Toby Weston.”

“Where are you, you little shit?”

It was Tamara’s father. Who doted on her to an absurd degree, who clearly considered Toby to be a most unworthy contender for her hand …

“I’m … we’re just on the motorway now, George. Should be with you quite soon.”

“And what the fuck are you doing on the motorway?”

“Well, I—Sorry, I did phone Pete; you obviously didn’t get the message. Be there in no time. Just filled up, want to check the tyre pressures—”

“The tyre pressures. What the fuck are you doing checking tyre pressures? An hour before your wedding, for Christ’s sake.”

“Yes, George, I know, but one’s a bit down—”

“Look, you just forget the fucking tyres. You get over here right now. This is the biggest day of my daughter’s life and I’m not having it wrecked for her. Now, you listen to me: I don’t care if the tyre’s right down on its rim; you just fucking well get here, you understand?”

The phone went dead.

Toby looked at the queue of people in front of him—now down to two, one nice-looking girl and the old lady—and said, easing his way forward, “Look, can I go first, do you mind? Emergency, must get away—”

The girl stood aside at once; the old lady gave him the sort of look that he could remember his grandmother giving him when he was naughty and said, “I do mind, yes, as a matter of fact. We’re all trying to get somewhere important, and I have a plane to meet. You must wait your turn, like everyone else. I’m sorry.”

And then she spent an inordinate amount of time counting out the exact money for her purchases.

The other queues were all longer; Toby just had to wait.

• • •

Mary felt mildly remorseful, watching him haring towards a car parked up by the air line. And more so when she realised he was wearing the striped trousers and braces of a wedding guest. That hadn’t actually been very kind of her, and neither was it in character. But he had been rather arrogant. If he’d asked nicely she might have felt differently. Although … she knew why she’d reacted like that, really. It was because she was on edge herself …

• • •

“Barney, come on, come on, we have to get the fuck out of here. Just get in, for God’s sake. I’ll drive …”

Toby threw himself into the driver’s seat, slammed the door.

“But—”

“I said get in. Look, I’m off. You can stay here if you want to.”

Barney got in, telling himself you could only die once. And sending up the closest thing he knew to a prayer that it wouldn’t be today …

• • •

Laura frowned when she heard Jonathan’s message. It was all very well, him telling her not to call in that rather high-handed way, but she needed to know when he would be back. He did obsess over the mobile business; he could surely take a quick call—it would be over in a second. She’d just give him maybe another fifteen minutes and then …

• • •

“Give me some more of those jelly babies, would you?”

Georgia looked at Patrick; his eyes were fixed on the road, oddly
unblinking. Was he sleepy? She felt sleepy herself, thundering along, the road shimmering in the heat haze. And was it her imagination—was it getting darker; were they losing the sun—

“We’re running into a storm,” Patrick said, wide-awake suddenly. “Dear God, will you look at that—”

And, in an odd yellow blackness, great sheets of rain came beating down on the road, turning it to glass and then seeming to wrap around them, crash after crash of thunder; and then the rain turned to hail, the stones hitting the windscreen, vying with the thunder for noise, whiting out the road markings.

She looked anxiously at Patrick, and his face was tense, his hands on the steering wheel white knuckled; all she could see of the approaching cars were their headlights, some on full beam, an endless procession, and in front of them nothing but spray—thick, impenetrable spray, only half pierced by the long red of the brake lights.

And then it was over as fast as it had begun; they ran out of it into brilliant sunshine, the thunder gone too, and the sky a sweet, clear blue.

“Wow,” she said, “that was kind of … scary.”

• • •

“So …” said Abi. They had driven through the darkness of the thunder and the hail; the sun was shining again. “So … what do you want me to do?”

Relief flooded him. She was going to be all right after all; she’d just been making a point.

“Well … nothing, I suppose. Just … just—”

“Go quietly. Is that it?”

“I … suppose so. Yes. If you put it like that.”

“I can’t think of any other way to put it, Jonathan. You want out. If I don’t, that’s my problem. You have a marriage to look after. And I only have me. Poor little old me.” She sighed.

He felt a pang of remorse and irritation in equal proportions. He hadn’t behaved entirely well. He could see that. But … she was hardly
in a vulnerable position. She was financially self-sufficient; she had a flat; she had a good job, a car; she was young, sexy, tough—she didn’t exactly need him. As Laura did …

“Abi, I’m sorry. I shall miss you. But … I don’t really have any alternative. Our relationship can’t go anywhere. And it’s very wrong. You must see that.”

“Well, why start it then?” Her voice was ugly, harsh.

“I …” He felt very tired suddenly, unable to deal with her arguments. The late night, the drive down from Birmingham, the lack of sleep, the stress of the journey, the shock of the storm: it all combined to confuse him. He slowed the car down.

“What are you doing?”

“Moving into the slow lane.”

He moved behind a red E-Type—lovely old car, he thought, surprised that he could notice it even, given his turmoil—then eased himself into a large space in the slow lane in front of an old Skoda.

“You know it’s bloody unfair,” she said, lighting a cigarette.

“Abi, I said not in the car.”

“Yes, I know you did. It’s all totally unfair, Jonathan. What do you think I am, some kind of automaton? Didn’t you ever think that I might have taken what you were doing just a little bit seriously? When you sent me flowers and bought me expensive dinners and the odd bit of costly stuff? Did you see doing all that as a substitute for just paying for me, the price of the sex?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You know perfectly well I’m very … very”—
careful, Jonathan, don’t start claiming affection, could be very dangerous
—“very concerned for you.”

“Oh, really? Well, I don’t think I do know that, actually. I think that because you’re rich and successful and you’ve got a wife who believes every filthy fucking lie you tell her, you can spend nights away in pricey hotels, get your sexual pleasure that way, rather than a quick screw with a tart. Well, it sucks, Jonathan. It’s filthy and I think your wife ought to know what a filthy slob she’s married to; I think you
should have to deal with that and her. And I think maybe I should tell her.”

“Abi, don’t be absurd. What good would that do?”

“Quite a lot—in the long run. Not to you, or to me, but to her and any other poor bitch whom you might fancy fucking in the future.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Of course I’d dare. What have I got to lose? Nothing at all.”

“But … but …” He found he was pleading with her. “But, Abi, you couldn’t do that; you’d hurt her so much.”

“No, Jonathan, it’s you who’s hurt her. Not me. So—”

Jonathan’s mobile rang sharply; he shouldn’t—he was driving—but he was in the slow lane, going very slowly … He picked it up, looked at it. It was Laura. Without thinking, wanting only to reassure her, and to somehow be safe with her, he pressed the button.

“Hello, darling—”

“Darling!” Abi was shouting, her face ugly with rage. “How can you do that, you rotten bastard? How can you talk like that? Give me that phone …”

“Hello! Hello, Jonathan, is that you?” Laura’s voice was faint, crackly “Jonathan, what’s—”

• • •

The traffic was very thick; a huge lorry was alongside them, travelling at the same speed, the red car in front pulling ahead now—nice, that old Jag; he’d love something like that—the one behind too close on their tail, really, all of them part of a great orderly mass of power, riding the highway in the dazzling sun: he took it in with some strange detachment, trying to think, absurdly, what to say … And then …

• • •

“Jonathan, be careful, look out, the lorry, what’s happening to it—”

• • •

“Patrick, look out, look out, what’s happening, what is it, be careful, look out—oh God—”

• • •

“Shit! Fuck! Jesus Christ.”

“Toby, stop, hold it, for Christ’s sake, hold it.”