The Best of Times (46 page)

“So … where would you like to get married, then? Where shall we have our wedding? I imagine you’ll want it somewhere in England. The bride’s prerogative, choosing the venue.”

“Well … yes. I suppose so. I mean, yes, of course.”

“In a church?”

“Oh, of course.”

“And then perhaps the reception could be at the house.”

“Oh, Russell, that’s a lovely idea.”

The house—the beautiful house that Russell was buying for them—was actually called Tadwick House; Mary said that sounded much too grand for her, and he had promptly rechristened it Sparrow’s Nest.

“But only for our private use; local people don’t like the names of houses being changed.”

“Nor does the post office,” said Mary, smiling. Thinking of how Donald had insisted on renaming their last house, and what a lot of trouble it had caused with the post office. It was in a cul-de-sac called Horseshoe Bend, and right in the middle of the curve. “I want to call it the End House,” he had said, “for it is, in one way, the end, the farthest point of the street. And this is our last house, where we shall live to the end of our days. So … what could be better?”

Mary had thought that rather gloomy and said so; and Donald had said why, had she never heard of happy endings, “which is what the story of Mary and Donald certainly has.”

She recounted this to Russell now; he smiled.

“I like that. You know, I can see Donald was a remarkable person. I know I would have liked him very much.”

“You would,” said Mary, and it was true. It was one of the things that made her happiest about marrying Russell; he would have liked Donald, and Donald would have liked him. Donald would have
recognised him as a good man, into whose care he could entrust his beloved Mary. Which made it all the more sad that Christine had set herself so firmly against him.

The rest of the family were much easier; Timothy her grandson, said it was really cool and he’d be dancing at her wedding all night; when could he meet Russell and would Russell like to be an investor in the IT company he was planning to set up?

“Only joking, Gran. But I would like to meet him … I really would. He sounds great.”

Gerry too had expressed—rather awkwardly—a desire to meet Russell, and had said again how sorry he was Christine was being difficult. And Douglas, Donald’s pride and joy, the son he had longed for, born eight long years—and several miscarriages—after Christine, had written from Toronto to say how very happy he was to hear about Russell and that he would be over at Christmas, if not before, and couldn’t wait to meet him then.

“The kids think it’s really cool too,” he had written. “Don’t worry about Chris”—for Mary had felt bound to warn him about Christine’s reaction—“she’ll come round.”

• • •

They agreed on a December wedding: “so we can spend Christmas together legally,” Russell said.

She had received two very sweet letters from his daughters, Coral and Pearl, saying how delighted they were that their father had found her again, what a romantic story it was, and how they longed to meet her. Of course, Mary thought, it must be easier for them; they had learnt to accept and live with Russell’s second wife from comparatively early ages. His son had written a slightly stiffer note, but there was no doubt of its friendliness.

“But I want to show you Connecticut,” Russell said, “where I think we should have our American house.”

When Mary asked him if he was going to sell the apartment, he had looked at her in astonishment.

“No, no, of course not; we’ll need a New York base, and I think you’ll be happy with it. If you’re not then we’ll find another. So … I’ll book a flight around the beginning of November. That way you can experience Thanksgiving, and both girls have expressed a wish to have you there.”

Mary said she wouldn’t have much time to organise a wedding if they were going to be in America until the beginning of December; Russell said nonsense, they could do most of it before they went.

Three homes. A new family. A wedding. It was all rather hard to take in.

• • •

William had been desperately hurt and shocked by Abi’s confession: almost unendurably At first, he had been slightly numbed; then, as the days passed and the truth clarified, the pain worsened until it hurt so much he could hardly stand it. It wasn’t just that she’d lied to him so relentlessly about Jonathan, and that she’d been sleeping with Jonathan, and God only knew how many other men before him.

It was that he’d allowed himself to think she’d enjoyed being with him as much as he enjoyed being with her; and she hadn’t. Of course she hadn’t.

She’d just been spending time with him until someone more suitable came along. Abi clearly wanted excitement; she wanted some flashy bloke with plenty of money who could show her a good time, take her to expensive hotels and restaurants and on expensive holidays, not some dull farmer who smelled of cow shit.

And he didn’t want someone like her, either, did he? He wanted someone he could trust, who would treat him and his life carefully, someone straightforward whom he understood, not a baffling enigma straight out of a bad TV series, who slept around, and took her sexual pleasures like a cat.

He felt sick, listless, and, perhaps worst of all, foolish. How Abi must have seen him coming; probably imagined he was rich, that he
would make a good meal ticket for a while. He couldn’t see that he would ever feel any better …

• • •

Jack Bryant was exactly the sort of person Sergeant Freeman most disliked. Loud, over-the-top posh accent, old-school tie—not that he recognized that one, and he knew most of them, it was a little hobby of his—signet ring, slicked-back hair, highly polished brogues: he was a caricature.

It had not actually been very hard to find him. The motoring division confirmed the wheel nut came from an E-Type; there were several reports of a red E-Type on the road that afternoon—immediately in front of the lorry, according to Georgia; and she had been quite sure it had been a personalized number plate. They had checked with various E-Type associations and clubs, and after that it was a simple matter of trawling through the personalized registrations—the DVLA were always very helpful—and making phone calls. The whole thing had been one day’s work.

However, Freeman was disappointed to discover he couldn’t fault him. Bryant was very articulate, had excellent recall, and was eager to help: yes, he had indeed lost a wheel nut, hadn’t actually discovered it until a week later, when he was checking his car prior to leaving his friends in Scotland. He’d had no idea when it had come off. “But I did check the whole car over very, very carefully, Sergeant, two days before; my mechanic will confirm that. And I gave it a personal check that morning—tyres, oil, all that sort of thing—and I did actually check the wheel nuts myself. Gave them a final go with the old spanner, just to be on the safe side.”

“The irony of it is,” said Paul Johns from Forensics, “you can overtighten those things. The thread goes. What a bloody tragedy. But if it’s true what he says, absolutely not his fault.”

• • •

Barney and Emma had had a lovely evening at the Stafford Hotel. They always did. There were guilt and anxiety folded into it, into all of it, but time together was still astonishingly sweet.

“We have to tell them. Don’t we?”

He hadn’t said that before—confronted their situation, what it actually meant. She’d been waiting—not too impatiently, for it was he who must act, his life that must so totally change, he who must be surer than sure about the two of them.

“I love you, Emma. I …” His voice shook slightly. “I don’t love Amanda. I thought I did, of course, but it was an illusion. I am fond of her beyond anything; I hate to make her unhappy, but I can’t marry her. And when she knows, she won’t want it either. So … I will tell her very soon. I hate these lies, hate living them day after day. It’s awful.”

“Do you think she knows? Suspects … anything?”

“I don’t know. Would you?”

“I would, I think. Yes.”

“Ah. Well, then. Within the next few days.”

“Oh, Barney.”

“Oh, Emma. What about you?”

“He really, really won’t mind that much. He’ll think he does, but he won’t. He’s quite … quite thick-skinned.” And then added, anxious not to blacken Luke, who had seemed so recently everything she wanted, “But so lovely in so many ways.”

He nodded, looking at her rather solemnly.

“Like you.”

“What, thick?”

“No. Lovely in so many ways. I love you, Emma. So much.”

“I love you, Barney. So much.”

• • •

They left the Stafford soon after ten: Emma to go back to Swindon, Barney to go home to Amanda.

They walked out of the restaurant hand in hand; they had kissed hello, and during the course of the evening had kissed again from time to time, albeit in a very seemly manner, usually because one of them had said something that particularly delighted the other.

No one could have possibly complained about their behaviour; it had been modest, well mannered, and really rather charming.

No one, that is, who was unaware of a relationship either of them might have been conducting with another party altogether.

But as they walked out through the foyer, smiling at each other, Barney failed to recognise that among a rather noisy party of eight, arriving for a posttheatre supper, were Gerard and Jess Richmond. Tamara’s parents. And following them, out of a second taxi, together with a couple of other friends, Tamara herself.

CHAPTER 37

“Barney hi. This is Tamara. I thought we might have a little drink this evening. My treat. No, just the two of us. What? Oh, no, Barney, I think you could spare half an hour. It really is quite important. Great. How about One Aldwych? Well, I know it’s a bit of a trek, but maybe better than right on our own doorstep. You know what they say …? Only joking …”

• • •

Patrick woke early on Thursday morning. Early for him, that was, which meant before six. He had slept badly, which he usually did now they were weaning him off the sleeping pills. They were the worst hours, those early ones, when the depression that he could hold off—just—during the day hung around him like a shroud, when the fears
that he would never progress beyond the stage he was at now, bedridden and helpless, never going home, never being together with Maeve and the boys again, never making love to Maeve again—that was one of the worst—those fears were at their strongest, their most dangerous. He had moved himself away—with his own willpower, and the help of the hospital priest—from thoughts of suicide; but the alternative, this death-in-life, seemed little better.

He looked out of the window at the blackness. Where had God been when he’d needed Him so badly? Looking the other way, it seemed. Well, that would have been Maeve’s explanation …

He sighed; he was thirsty and hot. Maybe he could get the dear little night nurse, the one who had found him that night and of whom he had grown rather fond, to make him a cup of tea. He rang the bell.

• • •

Sue Brown made him a cup of tea, and promised to be back soon, but she had to sort out a couple more patients; it was after seven when she got back to Patrick.

“Right, Patrick, let’s get this job done, shall we? Then you can have your breakfast. I’ll start with your catheter and then give you a nice wash. Let’s see … right …”

Sue Brown was intent on her task; she didn’t hear the slight intake of breath from the patient as she pulled on the catheter, but as she started to insert a fresh one, there was another. Followed by, “What are you doing there, Sue, putting a bit of barbed wire in?”

She looked at him; then, afraid even to ask the question, she said, “Patrick, am I hurting you?”

“Not hurting, no. But it’s not exactly comfortable …”

Sue Brown closed her eyes, briefly. This was—well, it might be—acutely important.

She withdrew the catheter again, laid it gently on the tray, and said, “Patrick, I seem to have forgotten something. I’ll be back in one minute, all right?”

• • •

Jo Wales was drinking a very bitter cup of coffee, thinking that really a hospital that had cost over a billion to build might have spent an extra five hundred on a decent coffee machine, when Sue Brown walked in. Or, to be more accurate, seemed to explode into the space in front of her.