The Best of Times (45 page)

The children were upset, the girls baffled, Lily in tears of disappointment, Charlie clearly troubled and with at least half an idea of what Abi’s visit had all been about … and she took them up to the playroom, told them not to worry, everything was fine, and that she’d be up in a minute to help them get to bed. And then went back downstairs.

She realised now—of course—that she had never believed any of Jonathan’s explanations about Abi. She felt ashamed of allowing herself to pretend. She had let herself down. Been weak, cowardly, feebly female. She should have faced him down on that very first explanation, told him not to insult her, instead of playing the sweet, simple, loyal little wife. Well, not anymore she wasn’t. Rage—and outrage—were growing in her, making her strong.

Jonathan was sitting in a chair now, his eyes fixed on her, watching like a terrified child as she moved around—blowing out candles, collecting the remaining glasses. When finally she was done, and faced him across the room, he said, “Darling, I’m so sorry, so, so sorry she did that.”

“She!” Laura said. “Jonathan, she didn’t do that. You did.”

“But, Laura—”

“Jonathan, just stop it, please. I don’t want to hear anything from you. You can do what you like; I really don’t care.”

“How … how are the children?” he said.

“The girls simply didn’t understand at all, just thought she was another guest, but they’re disappointed that the party never really happened. Charlie’s clearly got a better idea. He asked who … who she was. Of course. Well, they all did.”

“Oh, Christ,” he said, “dear sweet Christ. What … what did you tell them?”

“I said she was a lady from work whom I’d never met—getting rather close to your story, isn’t it, Jonathan—and that she had another party to go to, and that was why she couldn’t stay. The girls seemed to accept that; Charlie, I’m not so sure. He’s old enough to see that she wasn’t too much like all our other friends.”

He was silent. Then: “I’m sorry, Laura,” he said again.

“For what? Doing it, having the relationship at all? Lying to me? Getting caught? Bad luck, wasn’t it, being involved in the crash that day? I wonder if it would still be going on if you hadn’t. Well, she’s very … sexy. I can see that. Which I do realise I’m not. And probably rather good fun. Wives tend to be dull.”

“Please—”

“And young, of course. I suppose she wasn’t the first. Not that it makes much difference.”

“She was the first. I swear. And the last.”

“Yes, well, she’s definitely that.”

“Of course.” There was a slight—very slight—look of hope in his eyes.

Laura crushed it swiftly.

“Yes. Because that’s it, Jonathan. Absolutely it. Our marriage is over. As of now.”

“Darling, you can’t—”

“Don’t ‘darling’ me. And I can. I’ve always said there were two things I wouldn’t be able to bear. One was anything bad—really bad—happening to one of the children. The other was you being unfaithful to me.”

“But, Laura—”

“I just can’t cope with it, Jonathan. It’s not the humiliation, although that’s quite … hard. It’s not the pain … not exactly. It’s the death of trust. I’d never be able to believe you again, and I could never, ever again let you near me. I’d always be wondering if you’d been …
been making love to someone else. I mean … how …” Her voice broke; she hesitated, then went on: “How long has it been going on? Months? Years?”

“A couple of months. That’s all. And I was about to finish it; I swear to you. That’s the awful irony of the whole thing. I’d told her in the car that day that it had to end, that I didn’t want to go on with it anymore. I’d been regretting it so much, Laura, hating myself for it …”

“Oh, really? And what’s that supposed to make me feel? Grateful? Reassured? I keep thinking back, you know,” she said, “to all the times you must have been with her. Going to hotels … I presume. Or does she have a little pad somewhere? No, don’t answer that. I don’t want to know. Ringing me last thing, like you always do, making sure I’m safely settled. Telling me you … you … Oh, God, you are disgusting, Jonathan. I wish I need never see you again. And all that stuff, lying to the police, in front of me …”

“But, Laura, you can’t, you really can’t throw away thirteen years of happiness and a good marriage because of one … one indiscretion.”

“It wasn’t a good marriage,” she said. “I know that now. And the happiness wasn’t very soundly based. So I can quite easily throw it away, as you call it. I’m going to bed. Good night.”

• • •

Abi just could not stop crying. She had started as she drove out onto the Chiswick roundabout, and she had finally pulled into a motel somewhere near Reading, blinded by her tears, fearing that she would crash the car. She had had enough of car crashes …

She flung herself down on the bed and cried for quite a lot longer. How could she have done that? Of all the wicked, awful things in her past, that had undoubtedly been the worst. The cruellest and the worst. Jonathan deserved cruelty, but Laura didn’t. It wasn’t her fault that he was such a one hundred per cent, A
i
shit; she didn’t deserve to have her beautiful straight little nose rubbed in it; she should have been left to her illusions.

And Charlie too, that handsome boy … The little girls had been simply baffled, but he had been upset, his face crumpling into confusion as he stared up at his father and then back at her, some instinct clearly wondering, half comprehending even, who she was … what she was.

She had destroyed them that evening, wrecked their happiness, surely and mercilessly; she should be destroyed herself, put down painfully, punished most horribly for her crime: and it was a crime—there could be no doubt of it—worse, far worse, than anything Jonathan had done to her.

She was a totally bad person; there was nothing to redeem her.

She lay there fully clothed, staring up at the ceiling, smoking cigarette after cigarette; somewhere towards dawn, she fell into an aching, troubled sleep.

• • •

At about the same time, William awoke, his head raging. He reached for his phone; looked at it hopefully. There was no message, no text. Where was she; what was she doing? Was she ill? Had she hurt herself? Surely nobody, however angry or upset they were, could ignore the kind of messages he had been sending. He would just try, once more, sending a text; he couldn’t ring her at this sort of time. If he didn’t hear then, he might even go down and see her. He had to make her realise how he felt somehow.

He wrote, rather sadly now, “Abi, please get in touch. I’m sorry and I love you,” and sent it, and, because he knew he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep, got dressed and walked out to the top of the field where he had first seen the crash that day, and stood looking down and thinking about it, and how it had totally changed his life, and willing his phone to ring.

• • •

Abi called at seven, sounding exhausted and ill.

She thanked William for his messages and said it had been lovely
to get them, and then said she was very sorry, but she really didn’t want to see him anymore, that it had to be over.

William said was it about his mother, and she said no, it was nothing to do with his mother; it was all to do with her, that she really couldn’t have any more to do with him, and she wished him well.

“I’m just not your sort of person, William. That’s all. I’m so sorry. Good-bye.”

• • •

It was a long time since William had cried. The last time had been when his grandfather, whom he had really loved, had died. He had felt then as if a very large and important part of him had gone too. He had the same feeling now, and he stood there, staring down at the place where he had first seen Abi, thinking about her, and how much he did, without doubt, love her, and he began to cry very quietly and bitterly.

CHAPTER 35

Georgia sat on the train back to Cardiff, thinking how she really must find somewhere to live in London. Shooting was starting in a matter of weeks; she could hardly commute. But somehow, she still felt so unsure of herself that the prospect of looking at a load of grotty bedsits or flat-shares seemed impossible.

And the day had been totally shit, trailing round with the costume girl, Sasha. Georgia had started by giving her opinion on the clothes, which ones she thought were cool and would suit her, but had then shut up as she realised they weren’t going to agree about any of them, and in fact the worse she thought she looked in something, the more
Sasha liked it, saying withering things like, “You have to look at yourself in character, you know, Georgia; it’s Rose we’re dressing, not you.”

And then they’d got back to the offices and Merlin had been there, and although he’d been really friendly for about five seconds, he then went into a huddle with Sasha in the corner about locations and how the first assistant really didn’t seem to have the right idea at all, and Merlin could see Bryn wasn’t going to like any of the five short-listed houses; and then Sasha had said she’d had a shitty day too, and why didn’t they go and have a drink. Leaving Georgia alone with Mo, the third assistant director, who was plump and rosy and smiling and looked more as if she should be working at a nursery school than an ego-ridden industry like television, and who was very sweet but clearly wasn’t going to risk sympathising with her too much when her own job was dependent on pleasing everyone; and then worst of all, Bryn Merrick arrived and was very short with her, just nodded and said, “Hi,” and asked Mo where the fuck Merlin was, and when Mo said she didn’t know, he’d glared at Georgia as if it was her fault.

“I seem to be working with a group of total layabouts,” he said, and stalked out again.

Georgia had left then and called Linda, hoping for a bit of encouragement and reassurance, and possible suggestions of whom she might share a flat with, but Linda had left early to go to one of the drama school productions.

She decided to cut her losses and go home, feeling like Cinderella limping her way bewilderedly back from the ball.

• • •

Abi saw William’s car the moment she turned into her street. Her first instinct was to drive away again; indeed, she’d slowed down and was looking for somewhere to turn round when he waved out of the window and then, as she sat there, transfixed with horror, opened the door and got out, stood waiting for her. This was unbearable; this was unendurable; telling him she didn’t want to see him anymore over the
phone was one thing; being confronted by him, in all his great and terrible niceness, that was something else altogether. She pulled in behind him, got out of her car, walked up to him, tried to smile.

“Hello, William. William, I did say—”

“I know. But I wanted to be sure you were sure. That’s all.”

“I am sure.”

“But … why? I don’t understand. I really don’t. Is it my mother?”

“Of course not. I could perfectly well deal with your mother.”

“I wish you would,” he said, and couldn’t help smiling. She smiled back.

“Please, Abi. I need to know why you … well, why you didn’t want to … to see me anymore. I meant it … what I said in my text,” he added, and it was so awful, seeing the honesty and the hurt and the hope mingled in equal parts in his brown eyes, that she had to look away.

“I … I know, William. And it was great to … to know that. Really great.”

“But … you don’t … love me? Is that it?”

“William, I don’t think I’m capable of loving anyone. I’m awful. Totally awful.”

“Abi, you’re not, of course you’re not.”

“No, it’s true. If you knew what I did on Saturday alone … well, you wouldn’t be here.”

“What was that, then? What did you do that was so bad?”

“Oh … just killed off a little family. A happy little family.”

“Killed it?”

“Oh, not literally. I just … just totally destroyed it.”

She wasn’t sure how much she’d been going to tell him. Suddenly she knew. Everything. And she told him, in all its ugly detail, why he could not possibly continue to love her …

CHAPTER 36