The Best of Times (29 page)

Maeve had been sitting with Patrick for some time, and was beginning to think rather longingly of the coffee shop for what had become her supper, a latte and a cookie, and thinking also that on her way back she’d pop up and see her new friend Mary.

She was absolutely dreading Mary’s going home. She was so wonderfully comforting and cheering, and filled with common sense. Maeve had told her about the dreadful possibility of Patrick’s being paralysed: “It will be so unbearable for him; he’s so active, so strong; he loves haring about; he can carry two of the boys and run at the same time. How will he cope with sitting in a chair for the rest of his life?”

“He will because he’ll have to,” Mary said. “You love him so much, and he loves you so much, and you know, Maeve, it’s a wonderful thing, love. They say faith can move mountains, but to my mind so can love. But you don’t know; he may recover completely—they can do such wonderful things these days …”

Maeve had thought Patrick was getting more with it, as she put it, day by day. It might be a long time before he came home, and the very least he had to face was major abdominal surgery, but he was still alive, which a week ago had seemed far too much to hope for. She was saying all this to Patrick when he reached out for her hand and squeezed it very tightly, and said, “Maeve—I’m beginning to remember.”

“Remember … what?” she said, and there was a band round her chest as tight as his hand round hers.

“The accident. What happened. How it happened. It was hot. Terribly hot. The sun was so bright. And I was so tired, Maeve. So tired …”

“Oh, Patrick …” She’d been terrified of this ever since she’d heard about it, certainly since she’d known he was going to live. She wanted to stop him, to shut him up, to keep him—and her—safe from the memories. But …

“I was eating jelly babies, you know, and they weren’t working. I can remember eating them, lots of them, handfuls, I could feel my head going, you know? The fuzzing, I’ve told you about the fuzzing.”

“Yes, Patrick, you have.”

He had: the feeling his brain was getting confused, not working for him.

“I went to the doctor about it, you know, but he couldn’t help. That’s all I can remember. The fuzzing—and then blankness.”

“Yes, but Patrick, darling, that was when you blacked out. Lost consciousness. Not went to sleep. Went unconscious. Of course you can’t remember.”

“I think … well, I think I can. And Maeve … I think there was someone else in the cab.”

“Someone else? What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. I just seem to remember … remember … there was someone else there.”

“But, Patrick, how could there have been? There was no one with you when they found you, and where could they have gone …”

“I know. But I still think … Oh, I’m so afraid, Maeve. So afraid I must have … must have … gone … gone to …”

And then he stopped talking and tears squeezed slowly and painfully from his eyes, rolled down his cheeks, large, childlike tears. And Maeve, still clutching his hand, stroking it, trying to comfort him, thought that if he had gone to sleep, if he had caused that awful, dreadful crash, for which he had been punished, and was still being punished so horribly, then she was to blame as well: for hassling him, hurrying him home, when perhaps another hour or two of rest would have made all the difference. All the difference in the world—and for some people, indeed, the difference between life and death.

• • •

“Dr. King? Emma?”

Emma turned to see who had called her and saw Barney Fraser, Toby Weston’s friend.

“I thought it was you. How are you?”

He was looking different. She couldn’t think why, then realised he was in his city togs: sharp suit (although the jacket was slung over his shoulder), formal shirt (pink check,
really
suited him), tie even (although hanging loose round his neck).

“Good.”

“I’m on my way to the café, get a shot of caffeine before I go back to town. You?”

“I’m in search of caffeine, too.”

“OK … we could go together.”

He smiled at her. God, he had a wonderful smile. God, he was so gorgeous …
Stop it, Emma. He’s taken. And so are you … now
.

“OK. Mustn’t be long, though.”

They went into the café; she grabbed a Diet Coke, and then joined him at the coffee counter, ordered an Americano.

“Snap. Same as me. I actually wanted a double espresso, but they’re not great at coffee-speak here. Can you sit down for five minutes? Or do you have to rush back?”

“Well, five minutes.”

“Cool.”

“So, have you been visiting Toby?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Driven all the way down from London?”

“No, I came on the train. I’m about to call a cab; there’s a notice about them in the main reception. How’s the service this time of night?”

“Not bad. Not great. How … how is Toby?”

She knew he wasn’t very well; she’d talked to Mark Collins about him the day before. He had been running recurrent fevers from Sunday night, and complaining of feeling generally unwell. Today he even seemed confused.

“It points to infection, I’m afraid,” Mark had said. “We’ve upped the antibiotics and we’re going to take him to the theatre tomorrow and do a washout. And the end of this road—the bad end, anyway—well, you know what it is as well as I do.”

Amputation, Emma thought, wincing: what a terrifying prospect for a bloke of thirty. She hoped Barney didn’t realise that, at least.

“How is he?” she said again. As if she didn’t know.

“Not great. They did some washout thing today.”

“Well,” she said carefully, “that should do some good …”

“And if it doesn’t, he’ll lose the leg, right?”

She was shocked.

“Nobody here told you that, did they?”

“No, no, I rang a mate who’s a medic.”

“Oh. Oh, I see. Well, without knowing Toby’s case—”

“Emma, it’s OK. I’ve taken it on board. It’s hideous, but—”

“But it really would be a last resort. And I’m sure—well, I hope—he’s miles from that. I … I hope you haven’t told his parents this.”

“No, of course I haven’t. I’m not a total retard.”

“Sorry. It’s just … well, we have to be so careful about that sort of thing.”

“I’m sure. No, it’s fine; I haven’t told anyone. Except Amanda, that is.”

Amanda. The preppy, perfect girlfriend. Correction, the preppy, perfect fiancée.

“How did Toby seem in himself?”

“Oh, bit out of it, actually. When … when will they know if it’s worked?”

“Oh, not for several more days. Um … what about his fiancée; has she been down much?”

“I’m not sure. She’s still at home with her parents, getting over her cancelled wedding.”

His voice sounded bitter; Emma looked at him sharply. He interpreted the look, said, “Sorry, shouldn’t have said that.”

“You can say what you like to me, Barney. But … well, it must be pretty awful for her, worrying about Toby, and she wouldn’t be human if she wasn’t upset about the wedding …”

“Of course.”

“What do you all do?” she said with a glance at her watch.

“Oh, Tobes and I are those wicked banker people. You know, earn as much as the budget of a small country. If you believe the press, that is.”

“And Amanda, what does she do?”

“She’s in HR. In the same bank as Tobes. And Tamara, she’s on the French desk at my firm. Yeah, so it’s all a bit incestuous, really. Tamara is seriously cool. You should see their apartment—talk about retro.”

“I probably wouldn’t appreciate it,” said Emma, laughing. “I’m still at the furnished-flat stage myself.”

“Yeah? How long will you be here, do you think? Moving on, up to London or whatever?”

“I have no idea where I’ll be. But I want, eventually, to go into obstetrics. At the moment I’m just a general surgeon. Doing my four months’ stint down here, in A and E, which I do love.”

“You’re a surgeon? You mean you actually … well—”

“Cut people up? Yes, I do.” She laughed. “Don’t look so horrified.”

“Not horrified. Just seriously impressed. I mean, you don’t look old enough—well, hardly—to be a doctor at all, and—”

“Oh, don’t,” she said. “If I had a pound for every time I’m told that … I think I’ll put it on my tombstone: ‘She didn’t look old enough …’ Barney, I really must go. It’s been lovely talking to you, but God knows what’s happening down there.” She nodded in the direction of A&E. “Look, I’ll pop up and see Toby tomorrow. If you think he’d like that.”

“Emma, anyone out of short trousers would like being visited by you. Actually, even if they were in short trousers. Thank you so much. And for your time. Really cheered me up.”

“It was a pleasure. Honestly.”

She held out her hand; he took it, then rather hesitantly bent down and kissed her cheek.

“Pleasure for me too. Honestly. Thank you again. For all your help, not just this evening.”

And then he was gone, hurrying out of the café, pulling on his jacket.

Emma walked rather slowly back to A&E, then sat down at the doctor’s station and said, “Shit.”

And Barney, settling into the corner of a cab, on his way to the station, said, “Fuck.”

For much the same reason.

CHAPTER 22

It had gone pretty well, Abi thought. They’d questioned her closely, but she hadn’t let them rattle her.

She’d been pretty stressed by a panicky phone call from Jonathan very early that morning, telling her more things that she must and must not say. Like the time they left the conference in Birmingham—that she must be vague, say between eleven thirty and twelve, that they’d been held up at the service station, and—change of information—he had now told them Laura had called his mobile at four. “Well, she told them, actually. But she said she only heard me saying hello and then it all went blank. Just say it rang and I answered it and hurled it on the floor when the lorry started to swerve. It might not even come up. Did you switch the phone off, incidentally? I didn’t, and—”

“Yes, I did.”

“Fine. Well, I think that’s everything. Bye, then.”

She didn’t answer. She felt very bleak suddenly, bleak and alone. He hadn’t even said “good luck.”
Bastard
. God, how she hated him.

Anyway, she’d said what he’d told her: about their relationship, about her car not starting so she’d gone by train to the conference, and then all the stuff about the accident—a relief to be able to relax and just speak the truth for a bit—and then she’d told them how marvellous Jonathan had been afterwards. Which had been true as well.

She said they’d hardly spoken since then, just that she’d reassured him that she was safely home …

She was actually quite pleased with herself, felt high with relief. And at least it was over. The very worst was over …

And now she had her evening with William to look forward to …

• • •

“Well, what did you think of that, then?” Freeman closed his notebook, filed Abi’s statement carefully, and turned to Constable Rowe.

“Oh, she seemed rather nice,” said Rowe. “Very, very sexy.”

“Indeed. Any man would be tempted by her. Even a man with a beautiful wife … You didn’t think her story was in any way suspicious?”

“No. It tallied exactly with Dr. Gilliatt’s.”

“Too exactly, I’d say. Almost word for word. Like ‘it was a purely professional relationship.’ Why did they both have to tell us that, do you think? It’s not relevant. And about her car not starting—she just volunteered that; we didn’t ask her. It was all a bit … pat. Something’s starting to smell a bit here; something’s not quite right …”

“Yes, but why should they be lying?”

“Well, in his case, his whole marriage hangs on it. For her … well, maybe she thinks if she goes along with him he’ll carry on with the relationship. She probably gets some pretty good perks out of it; these girls do, you know: expensive little trips abroad, for instance, staying in the best hotels, jewellery—”

“What’s it got to do with the crash? Doesn’t mean they’re guilty of anything else.”

“No, of course not. He might have been—almost certainly was, I’d say—screwing her into the ground. That doesn’t mean he’s guilty of dangerous driving, or of causing that crash. But maybe he was partly to blame. Maybe she was. Maybe he was driving dangerously; maybe she was distracting him. I wouldn’t be totally surprised if he slewed out into the road, in front of the lorry. In the absence of any other explanation for it suddenly swerving—”