The Best of Times (23 page)

She left the room, closed the door behind her. Jonathan suddenly felt very frightened indeed. He absolutely must speak to Abi—and as soon as possible.

• • •

“Jonathan? Jonathan, we need to talk—”

“It’s good to hear from you. But I’m a bit tied up at the moment. I’ll call you back later. Everything OK with you?”

Obviously she was there—there or near.

“Yes, fine,” she said. “But—”

“Fine. I’ll speak to you first thing in the morning, or later this evening, maybe? We can discuss the prognosis then. Well, thanks for ringing. Bye, now …”

It was clearly not the occasion to tell him that William had spoken to Laura. Pity. For all sorts of reasons. Not least that she really was rather looking forward to it.

• • •

“Mrs. Connell, hello. Your husband is doing very well, you know. Very well indeed, holding his own magnificently.” It was Dr. Pritchard again. Maeve managed somehow to smile at him. “Now, the staff nurse says she thinks you should go home for twenty-four hours, and I agree with her; you look completely exhausted. He’s in very good hands, you know.”

“Yes, of course,” said Maeve. “I do know that. But—”

“Got a car here?”

“Well, no. My friend brought me in yesterday, and she’s gone home now, obviously. My mother’s coming tomorrow, so I could maybe go home with her.”

“How about the train?”

“Well …” She hesitated, and then started to cry. She hadn’t cried before, not once, but somehow these minor problems of getting home, not being able to afford the train, seemed to be defeating her. “The thing is, I haven’t got … got much money—on me, that is …”

He looked at her in silence for a moment, and then said, “Mrs. Connell—Maeve; do you mind if I call you Maeve?”

She shook her head helplessly.

“Maeve, I’ve got to pop out for half an hour, go into town. I’ll take you to the station if you like. And if you’re short on cash, I can lend you twenty quid, if that would help—”

“I couldn’t possibly—”

“Now, why ever not? You can pay me back whenever you next see me. Come on, now, dry your eyes, and I’ll be back for you in about ten minutes. Don’t argue; I insist. And don’t worry about your husband; he’s not very well, of course, but he’s more or less off the danger list; he’s a walking miracle …”

• • •

Jack Bryant settled into a wonderfully comfortable, battered old chair in what Hugh Mackintosh called his study, but which would have contained most of his Fulham flat. It was a glorious evening; the view
of the moors was ravishing, the colours just turning autumnal. He was clearly in for a very good few days.

“Another gin, Jack?” Mackintosh picked up the bottle, waved it at him.

He was one of Jacks oldest friends; they’d had a hell of a time together in the sixties: Annabel’s and a different dolly bird every night, and he’d taught Jack to shoot as well. Good chap.

Jack grinned, held out his glass. “Yes, thanks.”

“You must be tired. Hell of a drive. Even in that car of yours.”

“It was fine. Enjoyed it. Lovely to give the old girl a bit of a run. And, of course, I stopped in York last night.”

“You didn’t get caught up in that crash yesterday then, on the M
4
? We thought it might have delayed you.”

“No, bloody lucky. Must have missed it by inches. I read it was at four p.m. I can’t have been clear of that spot by more than five minutes. If that.”

“Christ. You must have a guardian angel of some sort.”

“Doubt it. Anything angelic gave up on me years ago, as you know, but it sounds ghastly.”

“Well, I’ll leave you to get settled in. Expect you’d like a bath before dinner. No rush, down here for drinks at seven thirty. Moira’s dying to see you.”

• • •

Luke grinned at Emma.

“You look great, babe. I really like the dress.”

She’d known he would; it was black, low-cut, very short. What she thought of as a bloke’s dress.

They were in a cab now, on their way to the restaurant. Her sleep had done Emma good; she felt relaxed and happy. And … pretty sexy, actually.

A uniformed doorman was standing outside the Dorchester; he whisked open the taxi door, stood respectfully aside while they got out.

Now, this was what posh places should be like, Emma thought.

Those cool bars were all very well, but if you were going to spend loads of money, you surely wanted a bit of service. She smiled happily at Luke, allowed the doorman to usher them through the revolving door, stood looking round the lobby. It was wonderfully luxurious, huge urns of flowers, deep sofas, smiling staff everywhere.

“The restaurant, please,” Luke was saying. “Alain Ducasse.”

“Certainly, sir. This way, please.”

“Luke,” hissed Emma, “I just want to go to the loo. You go on. I’ll follow in a minute.”

“Oh … OK. Yes. Good idea.”

The ladies’ was extremely luxurious. A woman was waiting by the basin when she came out, holding a towel. She stood patiently while Emma washed her hands, then handed it to her, and then took it and threw it into a basket. Emma half expected her to come and help her comb her hair and put her lip gloss on for her.

She walked back into the lobby, looked around for someone to tell her where the restaurant was, and then heard the words, “St. Marks Hospital, Swindon,” spoken in an American accent. “Yes. On … let me see, yes, Agatha Ward. Can you confirm they’ll arrive first thing in the morning? I’ll wait.”

He stood there, tapping his fingers on the concierge’s desk: a tall, white-haired man, with Paul Newman blue eyes and a neat white moustache, quite elderly, but standing ramrod straight, wearing a suit that looked as if it had only just left the tailor’s.

The girl at the desk looked up at him from her phone.

“Yes, that’s all fine, Mr. Mackenzie.”

“Good, good. And I’ll want a car to take me there, to visit my friend, first thing. I’d like to be there by … let me see, nine …”

This was too much for Emma; she walked over to the desk.

“Do forgive me for interfering,” she said, “but I’m a doctor at St. Marks. I’m really sorry, but you won’t be allowed in at nine. Ten thirty is the earliest.”

The man looked at her; at first she thought he was going to be cross. Then he smiled, a slow, sweet smile.

“That is so extremely good of you,” he said, “and I will indeed forgive you for interfering. Thank you so much. Make that an hour and a half later then,” he said to the desk, and then, turning away, taking Emma’s arm, he said, “I wonder if you’d be kind enough to give me news of a patient there. A Mrs. Bristow, Mrs. Mary Bristow. She was involved in the crash on the freeway yesterday …”

Clearly he moved in a world where hospitals were small and exclusive, Emma thought, and where any doctor would recognise any patient’s name.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but there are around fifteen hundred patients there at any given time. I was on duty in A and E yesterday when people were arriving. I’m afraid I don’t remember a Mrs. Bristow. Was she … was she an elderly lady?”

“A little elderly,” he said with another sweet smile. “May I say, incidentally, you don’t look old enough to be a doctor.”

Emma smiled back. “Well, trust me, I am. Anyway, I assume, since you’re going to see her tomorrow, that Mrs. Bristow isn’t too seriously ill.”

“Well, you know, I don’t believe so. They didn’t tell me much when I phoned. Except that she was comfortable …”

“And that you could go and see her?”

“Oh, yes. And her daughter—I spoke to her—she said she didn’t seem too bad. But … I don’t suppose you could get any more details for me? Now, I mean, I really am most concerned.”

“Well, I … I’ll see what I can do. Only … well, I’m supposed to be having dinner with my boyfriend.”

“Oh, my dear young lady, the last thing I would want to do is stand in the path of true love … Forget it; I’m sure she’s absolutely fine.”

“No, no, it’s perfectly all right. I’ll just go and tell him, and then I’ll call them, OK? Could you possibly show me the way to the restaurant?” she said to the girl behind the desk. “Oh—no, it’s all right; here’s my boyfriend now.”

Luke was irritable, and more so when she said she’d be five more minutes. Even when she explained.

“I didn’t realise you were on call,” he said.

“Luke—”

The old gentleman stepped forward, held out his hand to Luke.

“Russell Mackenzie. I am so very sorry to intrude on your evening. But I am extremely worried about a friend in the hospital, and this enchanting young lady of yours has offered to help.”

“Oh, fine,” said Luke, slightly grudgingly. “I’ll be at the table, Emma.”

“Oh, dear,” said Russell Mackenzie, “I’m afraid he’s a little annoyed.”

“He’ll get over it,” said Emma. “He’s very good natured. Now, then, let’s see what we can do—I can’t promise anything, but …”

Five minutes later she smiled at Russell.

“She’s much, much better. She has angina, apparently, and had an attack at the scene of the crash, and they did an exploratory investigation under anaesthetic. They thought she’d probably had a minor heart attack. But she’s doing well. And yes, you can see her tomorrow.”

“I cannot thank you enough,” said Russell, “and now you’d better get along to that young man of yours. That fortunate young man.”

• • •

“OK,” said Jonathan, “this is what we say. Our relationship is purely professional; you’re a colleague—”

“A colleague? How could I be a colleague? I’m not a doctor.”

“Of course you’re not a doctor. You take photographs at conferences. Or rather, your boss does. So you were there at the conference in Birmingham. You came up by train from Bristol that morning.”

“Jonathan, they can check that.”

“Why the fuck should they want to check it? There’s no reason for them not to believe us; it’s got nothing to do with the accident. All
they’ll want to know is what we saw, and not why we were there together. It’s irrelevant. I was giving you a lift to London, or maybe not London, possibly Reading, what do you think?”

“Whatever,” said Abi. She felt close to tears, without being sure why.

“OK, Reading then. Don’t forget.”

“What was I going to Reading for?”

“To visit friends. For the weekend.”

“Jonathan, this is getting so complicated. You don’t think it might be better to tell the truth?”

“Abi, no. For Christ’s sake. Do you want to—” He stopped.

“Do I want to what, Jonathan? Oh, I get it. This is about your marriage, isn’t it? About being caught with your pants down—literally.”

“I … To a degree, yes. Of course. I don’t want Laura hurt—”

“Maybe you should have thought of that earlier.”

“Oh, Christ.” She could almost hear him struggling to keep calm. “Abi, please—look, we’re far more likely to get into trouble over this if there is any indication that we were having an affair.”

“I don’t see why we should get into trouble at all. We weren’t doing anything wrong. Oh—except that you were on the phone, of course.” She couldn’t resist that.

“Yes, well, hopefully that won’t come to light.” His voice was very cold. “I would say there’s no need to actually mention it. Unless they ask, of course. Is that … I mean, would you agree with me?”

“Why should I lie to the police on your behalf?”

“I’m not asking you to lie, simply not to mention it.”

She didn’t answer. She could almost hear him sweating. It was very, very pleasant.

“Abi?” he said. “Can I have your agreement to that?”

“Well … let’s see what happens, shall we?”

“No, Abi, I need to know that you agree.”

“I don’t see why. If they ask, they ask. Look, you were in no way responsible for that crash, Jonathan. The lorry went into a skid; it
couldn’t stop, went through the barrier … We just happened to be there. We didn’t hit anything. Or cause anyone to hit anything. And then you did your Dr. Wonderful act. What’s for them to be suspicious about?”

“Nothing. Of course. It’s just that … well, it is a bit of a blur, and I can’t help feeling anxious about it. I’m not sure why. I’m glad you don’t.”

“No,” she said, aware that she was not being strictly truthful, “I don’t. And I really, really don’t like the idea of lying to the police.”

There was a very long silence; then he said, “I need you to do this, Abi.”

“So you said. I, on the other hand, don’t need to do it. Funny, that.”

Another shorter silence. She’d got him now, got him shitting himself.

Then: “Abi, I think you do need to do it. Actually.”

“Oh, why?”

“Because I don’t think you’d want the police to know about your little habit, do you?”

She felt the floor literally heave under her. He couldn’t have said that; he couldn’t. She had a friend who’d got caught with drugs in her flat; she’d got a suspended sentence and a big fine. She’d lose her job, she might even go to prison …

“I can’t believe you’re saying this,” she said, amazed that her voice sounded so steady, “or thinking it. Anyway, I seem to remember you enjoying the odd snort.”

“You might have trouble proving that. You provided it. Rather visibly, I seem to remember, on one or two occasions. And who do you think they’d believe, you or me?”

She threw her head back, stared at the ceiling, tears stinging her eyes, as much from shock as fear. This was a man who’d told her he cared about her, who’d sought her out, told her she was one of the best things in his life …

“Don’t worry, Abi. Of course I won’t say anything to the police.

Or to your boss. As long as you do what I ask. All right? Just stick to the story; it won’t be difficult. Clever girl like you.”

“Screw you, Jonathan Gilliatt. Screw you to hell!”

“So … does that mean I have your agreement?”

Even if the police didn’t believe him, they would check her out, her friends, work, Sylvie, everyone.

“Yes, you do,” she said. “Fuck you.”

“Right. Good. Well, that’s that. I think. The less we communicate the better. at the moment. Don’t ring me.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t.”

“Good. And don’t forget: keep it simple.”

She cut him off.

Bastard. Absolute bastard
. How could she have been taken in by him?