The Best of Times (25 page)

“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?”

• • •

“Mr. Fraser? Sergeant Freeman, CIU. And this is Constable Rowe.”

“How do you do?” said Barney. “Come into the sitting room. This is my fiancée, Amanda Baring.”

“How do you do, Sergeant,” said Amanda. “I was wondering … is there any reason why I shouldn’t sit in on the interview? I wasn’t there, of course. But I thought it would be nicer for Barney if I was with him while you talk to him. I promise not to interrupt or anything, but …”

She smiled at Sergeant Freeman, who smiled slightly foolishly back.

“That’s perfectly all right,” he said, “if that’s what you want.”

“It is. Thank you. Now, can I get you a cup of tea?”

“That would be very welcome,” said Sergeant Freeman.

“Certainly would,” said Constable Rowe.

They were an odd pair, Barney thought; Freeman was thin, almost gaunt, while Rowe was plump and rosy, and looked like an Enid Bly-ton policeman. They settled side by side on the sofa, and Freeman took out a large pad of paper and a pencil. Barney half expected him to lick it …

“Before we start, sir, how is Mr. Weston?” Freeman asked.

“Not very well, I’m afraid. A bit better in himself today, but his leg was very badly mashed up.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that, sir. Now, I realise he was driving, but it’s your recollection, interpretation of events that’s important …”

They began with the basics: name, address, profession, when and why he had been on the M
4
that afternoon.

“The wedding was at four thirty, which would mean that by leaving when you did, you were cutting things a bit fine.”

“Yes, it was rather … late,” said Barney.

“Any particular reason?”

“Er … yes. Mr. Weston was … was unwell. He had a stomach upset.”

“Would that be a euphemism for a hangover, sir? Forgive the assumption, but—”

“No,” said Barney firmly. “He did have a few drinks the night before, but I do assure you, as we didn’t leave until around lunchtime the following day, he would have been absolutely fine. No, he was extremely sick several times during the morning.”

“And could you tell us exactly how much he drank, sir? Very important, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate.”

Barney fought down his irritation; he really hadn’t expected this. “I suppose … maybe half a bottle of wine with dinner, certainly no more—and a couple of glasses of whisky afterwards.”

“Were you also drinking, sir?”

“Well, yes.”

“So what else did you do in the evening? After dinner?”

“Oh … we swam in the pool. Talked. Played some music.”

“Now, let’s get on to the journey. Why did you choose the M
4
route?”

“The other way involves endless back roads and narrow lanes, and we needed to get some petrol. We thought it would be easier to go to the service station, fill up there. The tank was practically dry.”

“Forgive me for saying so, sir, but I’d have thought that would be part of the best man’s duties to get that sort of thing done in good time.”

“Well, I assumed Toby would have done it. He’d been at the house all the day before,” said Barney. He felt edgy suddenly and under
threat. “But I should have checked; you’re right. Er … is that really relevant?”

“Probably not, sir, no. Now … his parents, as I understand it, were at the house? When did they leave?”

“Oh … about ten thirty. They were having lunch with friends in Marlborough.”

“Weren’t they worried about their son’s condition?”

“We … managed to keep it from them. They would have been very worried.”