The Best of Times (41 page)

Incredibly pushy, what that woman had done: calling the hospital, asking for his secretary, leaving a message, and then calling again before he’d even begun to think what to do about it. And then just … asking him out. No excuses, no, “I wanted to hear more about the Connells,” or, “I wondered if Georgia had helped as much as we hoped.” Simply, “This is Linda Di-Marcello here.”

He’d been completely taken aback just hearing from her.

“It was very nice meeting you on Sunday. I’ve been hearing so much about you from Georgia. Well, from Maeve Connell, really. And I wondered if you’d like to go to a show one night. I get tickets for pretty well everything, and I don’t know what sort of thing you like, but there’s a new musical previewing, based on
The Canterbury Tales
, supposed to be good, or there’s yet another
Macbeth;
take your pick. Oh, and what sounds huge fun at Sadler’s Wells if you like dance, sort of flamenco crossed with tap.”

“Well, I … That’s very kind. I’m not … well, I don’t like dance. Not too keen on Shakespeare …”

“Fine.
Canterbury Tales
then. The tickets are for Saturday week. Any good? And then we could have a meal afterwards.”

“I’m not … sure. I’ll have to check my rota. Can I … can I get back to you?”

“Of course.” She gave him her office number. He rang off sweating.

• • •

It was Francis who’d dared her to do it. She’d been telling him how the day had gone, how difficult Georgia had found it, how sweetly grateful Maeve had been, how much she thought they’d helped. And then threw in a little anecdote about Alex and how they’d had a spat over the phone and then made up in the car park.

“He turned out to be quite … quite sweet. Apparently he’s going through a hideous divorce, Georgia informed me. She got all the goss from Maeve Connell.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Well, I’d be on the wife’s side, I think. He’s clearly very arrogant. Sexy, though. Nice smile. Which, of course, isn’t enough to keep a marriage together. I should know.”

“Sexy, eh? Your type?”

“No, of course not. Well … maybe. Dark and brooding.”

“Maybe you should ask him out.”

“Oh, don’t be so ridiculous, Francis.”

“Why is it so ridiculous? Or is this not the woman who sat and moaned through an entire evening that she was lonely and longed for a man?”

“Not very seriously.”

“I’d say pretty seriously. Actually.” There was a pause; then he said, “I dare you, Linda. To ask him out. What have you got to lose?”

“My dignity.”

“What’s so great about dignity? Doesn’t warm the other side of the bed. Go on. You ask him out; I’ll pay for everything when we go to Bilbao.”

“Really? First-class, five-star?”

“Yup. Promise.”

She was silent, considering this; then she said, “All right. You’re on. I’ll ask him. Is that all I have to do?”

“Well … and take him out if he says yes.”

“He won’t say yes.”

• • •

It was Amy who’d made him accept. Dared him to accept. He got home that night and found her watching
Sex and the City
instead of doing her homework, and switched the TV off. She glared at him.

“First Mum, now you.”

“Where is Mum?”

“She’s gone out with Larry.” She avoided his eyes. Both she and Adam adored both their parents, patently found the breakup painful. “He looked so ridiculous; he’s such a medallion man. They were going to some concert or other. Duran Duran. I mean, please. Good thing you don’t go out on dates, Dad.”

“And how do you know I don’t?”

“Well … you’re too old. For a start. I mean, much older than Mum.”

He was stung. “Not that much. Thanks, Amy. And actually, and just for your information, I was asked on a date today.”

“What? An actual date? Not some medical lecture?”

“An actual date.”

“By?”

“By some woman I met.”

“How long have you known her?”

“I don’t, really. We only met a few days ago.”

“Dad! Dad, that is … what’s her name? What’s she do?”

“Her name is Linda Martello. Something like that. And she’s a theatrical agent.”

“God! No kidding. Is she as old as you?”

“No. Not quite.”

“Good-looking?”

“Yes, I would say so.”

“And she’s asked you out?”

“Yes. To some play and then to dinner.”

“That is so cool. Are you going?”

“No, of course not.”

“Why not?”

“Well … because … because I don’t particularly like her. I’d have nothing to say to her.”

Amy sat studying him; then she said, “I dare you. I dare you to go out with her. She sounds really cool. And she could be a big help in my career on the stage. And it might be fun. Your life is so not fun. I really think you should.”

“Amy …”

“If you don’t, I’ll tell Miss Jackson. And she’ll tell the whole hospital.”

“You wouldn’t!”

She laughed. “No, probably I wouldn’t, but I do think you should go. I’d like you to. Go on, Dad; live dangerously.”

• • •

They met outside the theatre: arrived at exactly the same time, exactly fifteen minutes before curtain-up. Not a lot of time to talk, to run out of talk, the awkwardness kept at bay by the various rituals: drink, programmes, settling into seats.

Very good seats. Maybe it was going to be all right.

• • •

The musical was terrible; Linda said, as the curtain came down on the first act, that there was no reason they should stay.

“Honestly. I don’t mind. I’m not enjoying it, and if you’re not either, where’s the point?”

He agreed there was none and they went to the restaurant. She had booked it: Joe Allen, in Covent Garden. Alex, while appalled by the noise, did manage to absorb the fact that it offered the opposite of a romantic atmosphere, so at least she had spared him that. Their table wasn’t ready, as they were so early, so they sat at the bar. And tried to talk. It was difficult; they had very little in common, no knowledge of each other’s worlds. She told him one of her best friends was married to a surgeon; he told her his daughter wanted to be an actress. There
was a silence. She apologised for the play; he said he hoped the management or whoever had given her the tickets wouldn’t notice their empty seats. There was another silence.

“So … how many actors and actresses do you have on your books, then?” he said.

“Actors. No such thing as actresses anymore. I mean, you don’t have doctoresses, do you?”

“No, indeed. So … how many actors?” He stressed the second syllable, sounding slightly derisive.

“About two hundred.”

“That sounds like quite a lot.”

“It is quite a lot.”

Another silence, a very long one. Then she suddenly said, “Look … this was probably a bad idea. This evening. I’m sorry.”

“No, no, not at all. Very nice idea.”

“Same as the play really. If you’d rather go, I won’t mind. I mean, there doesn’t seem a lot of point.”

• • •

He looked at her; she really was … what? Not pretty. Features too strong. Beautiful? No, not really. But … arresting. The amazing auburn hair, and the dark eyes. She had a wonderful figure: tall, slim, good bosom, fantastic legs. And very nice clothes. She was wearing a black dress, quite low-cut but not embarrassingly so, and a bright emerald green shawl. And emerald green shoes, with very high heels. It was a shame, really, that she was so … well, a bit harsh. Very direct, very opinionated. And he hadn’t liked being corrected over the actor business. Not charming.

• • •

She looked at him; he really was … what? Not handsome. Features too irregular. But … attractive. Sexy. The wild dark hair, the probing dark eyes. Surprisingly nice clothes: that dark navy jacket … really well cut, and the blue-on-white stripes of the shirt really suited him.

“Well … look,” he said, “it’s been very nice. Really, I’ve enjoyed meeting you. I appreciate your asking me out. But … well, I’m on call tomorrow. So maybe not dinner. If it’s all the same to you.”

“Absolutely,” she said.

She smiled at him, totally in control. She was a very cool customer. Much too cool for him. And hadn’t he sworn never to get involved again with someone who didn’t understand the medical profession? Not that he was going to get involved.

“Well … we’ve ordered this.” She gestured at the bottle of wine. “May as well finish it.”

“Good idea.”

She looked at him as he picked up his glass. What a disaster. Well. She’d done it. Never would again, though. Bloody Francis. What a thing to make her do.
So
not her.

Suddenly she wanted to tell him. It really wouldn’t matter. They would never meet again. And she didn’t want him to think she was what she wasn’t.

“I want to tell you something,” she said. “I only asked you out because I was dared to. It’s not the sort of thing I usually do. Honestly. I couldn’t have you going away thinking I was some kind of hard-as-nails ball breaker.”

“You were dared?”

“Yes. ’Fraid so.”

“That’s really very funny,” he said, and started to laugh. “Because I was dared to accept. It’s not the sort of thing I usually do either.”

“Oh, God!” She was laughing now. “Who dared you?”

“My daughter. She told me I should get a life. Who dared you?”

“My business partner. He told me more or less the same thing. And I thought … what have I got to lose?”

“I thought the same. And …”

“Miss Di-Marcello, your table is ready.”

“Oh. Oh, well … we don’t really—”

“Oh, come on,” he said, “let’s eat. I dare you!”

CHAPTER 32

She’d hoped, very much, that things were about to be better. The TV programme had definitely had an effect on Christine; it had made her realise what a lucky escape her mother had had. Seeing the size of the crash—again—realising how easily Mary could have been just a few cars farther forward, or even hit by one of the freezers, had sobered her. She was quiet during supper, and when Mary had said good night to her, later, she had kissed her and said, “Night, Mum. Thank goodness you were where you were—on the road, I mean.”

Mary felt more cheerful than she had for a week as she got herself ready for bed.

She had switched on the radio and turned the light out; she was too tired to read, and she liked being lulled to sleep by the well-bred voices of the World Service announcers. But it wasn’t quite time for the World Service, and there was a programme on Radio Two about popular music over the past sixty years. Starting inevitably with the war. And equally inevitably with Vera Lynn, singing “White Cliffs of Dover.”

The hours she’d spent listening to that song. On her gramophone. The gramophone Russell had bought her, as a parting present. She’d been worried her mother would want to know where it had come from and had invented a woman at work who didn’t want it anymore.

“But they’re expensive things, Mary. I’m surprised she didn’t want to sell it.”

“Oh, she’s got a lot of money, Mum.”

“Even so. Well, you’d better look after it.”

As if she wouldn’t: the very last present Russell ever gave her, before going off to Normandy. He’d given her other more personal things, the brooch—that had been easier to explain: she’d said she’d spotted it in the Red Cross jumble sale, and her mother would never know that his eye was a real diamond—and of course all the usual
things that the GIs had been able to afford that the British troops couldn’t—like nylons and perfume. And the gramophone record (together with the sheet music) of Vera Lynn singing what she always thought of as the bluebird song.

She’d played it over and over and over again, until it had become too scratched to hear it any longer, and of course it was always on the wireless too, the song that had seen so many romances started—and had kept them alive through the long years of separation. Whenever it was played, when she was with Donald again, married to Donald, but most of all when she was coping with her unhappiness at saying goodbye to Russell, it was him she thought of, whom she could almost feel beside her again, dashing, handsome Russell, with his perfect manners, dancing with her. He’d been a wonderful dancer, not born with two left feet like poor Donald—they had fox-trotted and waltzed, him holding her very close and telling her how lovely she was. They had even jitterbugged together in dance halls like the Lyceum and places like the Café Royal and, most wonderfully of all, Mary had thought, at the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden. It had been closed for ballet and opera performances but, rather surprisingly, was the scene every afternoon for tea dances. They had only gone there once, for Mary was working, but she had been given the afternoon off and met Russell in the Strand, at Lyons Corner House and they had walked together through Covent Garden Market and gone in the wonderful great doors of the Opera House; she had felt like a queen herself.