The Best of Times (49 page)

• • •

Anything might happen now, Emma thought: it was all horribly dangerous. Tamara might tell Amanda … although Barney had told her that he didn’t think she would.

“I told her, if she did, I would personally wring her neck. I think she believed me, and I think she’ll keep her mouth shut. God, she’s a cow. God, I dislike her.”

Tamara did sound like a cow, but Emma actually thought that if Toby was really the wonderful person Barney said, then he wouldn’t be about to marry someone who was absolutely the reverse.

Emma felt very bad about Amanda herself; but the great fear that was consuming her now was that with Barney being so necessarily close to Amanda, supporting her, comforting her, helping her through the awful days and their awful demands—her mother was in bits, he said—he might find himself drawn back irrevocably into their relationship.
Grief was a powerful weapon; Amanda would not only be expecting Barney’s presence one hundred per cent in her life; she had an absolute right to it …

CHAPTER 40

“Woodentops.”

The voice was perky. It sounded more suited to the children’s TV programme than a firm of carpenters.

“Good morning. This is the Collision Investigation Unit of the Avon Valley Police.”

“Oh, yes?” Slightly less perky.

“We’re looking to contact the driver of one of your vans …”

“We have several; I’d need more details, please? Driver’s name, number of car …”

“I don’t have either, I’m afraid. But one of your vans was seen driving up the M
4
on the afternoon of August twenty-second. Towards London. Is that any help to you?”

“Let me see …”

There was a silence; Freeman could hear computer keys clicking in the background. Then: “That would probably be Mr. Thompson. I’m not sure; you’d need to speak to him; as I said, we do have several vans and—”

“Is Mr. Thompson there?”

“No, but I can contact him for you.”

“Perhaps you’d ask him to give me a call. Just a routine enquiry, tell him. The number is …”

• • •

“Rick, you been speeding again? Had the police on about you. You’d better not lose your licence; you’ll be out of a job if you do. Now, it was you, wasn’t it, on the M
4
afternoon of August twenty-second? Yes, I thought so …”

• • •

Shit
. How had they traced him? Not that it mattered; he hadn’t done anything wrong. He’d been miles ahead of that accident, anyway. Probably thought he could just provide some information. Bloody police, always harassing the poor bloody motorist …

By the time he phoned them, Rick had worked himself up into a state of extremely righteous indignation.

• • •

“Is that the Emma?”

God
. She’d forgotten how lovely it was just to hear his voice.

“Hi, Barney. The Barney. Yes, it is. How … how are things?”

“Bit tough. Yes. How are you?”

“I’m fine. Yes, really fine. Missing you, but …”

“Missing you too. So much. It was the funeral today. That was grim. Amanda was incredibly upset.”

“Of course.”

“But being terribly brave, wonderful with her mum.”

She wasn’t sure she wanted to hear all this.

“We’re staying down here tonight”—she didn’t like that
we;
it conjured up images she could hardly bear—“and then I’m going back in the morning.”

“Right.”

“Amanda’s probably coming up in a day or two. She’s had a lot of time off work already.”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Emma … I don’t … that is, I can’t … not until …”

“Barney, it’s OK. You don’t even have to say it. Just take your time. I understand.”

“I love you, Emma.”

“I …” But she couldn’t even finish. She choked on the words. And rang off without saying good-bye.

• • •

The second day of rehearsals Georgia arrived early—early enough for coffee alone with Merlin—and she began to feel more comfortable with everyone. Davina told her she was doing great, and Anna was there, rehearsing a scene with Georgia and the grandmother. Anna was wonderful to work with, easy, encouraging … and managed to give her character a humour that lifted her scenes beautifully, and which Georgia found herself responding to. Best of all, at the end of the day, Merlin said, “We could have a drink this evening, if you’ve got time.” Georgia was able to find the time.

They went to a pub down the street. Even walking into it with him was amazing; she felt everyone must be looking at them, and thinking how good-looking he was, and what a cool couple they made.

“So … things better today? You were very tense yesterday.”

“Much better, thank you.”

“Anna is great, isn’t she? She has a fascinating history. Ask her to tell you sometime.”

“Oh … OK. So”—this seemed a good opening—“so what about you, Merlin, have you worked on loads of productions?”

“Not that many. Incredibly lucky to be in this one. Bryn is the greatest; you learn such a lot from someone like him.”

“And … did you go to drama school?”

“Yeah, LAMDA, did their two-year stage management course. Haven’t been working that long—I’m still only twenty-six—and the money’s rubbish, of course, but who cares? I have to live at home still. But I’m pretty well self-contained, and they don’t bother me much.”

“So … where is home?” said Georgia, encouraged that at least he didn’t seem to have a live-in girlfriend.

“Oh … Hampstead. Up by the Heath. Pretty nice. Sometimes,
early in the morning, you can believe it’s actually the country. Birds carrying on and all that sort of thing. Mummy swims in the ponds every day …”

“Really?” said Georgia, hoping she sounded as if she knew what the ponds were.

“Yes. She’s cool. We get on pretty well.”

“And your dad? Does he swim too?”

“Oh … not Pa, no. He’s a bit of a wimp. Although he does cycle into the college in the summer. If it’s not raining, that is.”

“The college?”

“Yeah. He’s a lecturer at London University. In political history.”

“Goodness. He must be very clever.”

• • •

“He is. God, Georgia, it’s been such fun, but I must go. Got to get up to Kensington. I’m going on the tube; how about you?”

“Oh … yes, me too. To Baker Street.”

“Let’s go together then.”

He must like her a bit, to want to travel on the tube with her. Just a bit.

He wasn’t in the next day, but she got chatting to Mo and, by careful casual questioning, found out a bit more about Merlin.

“He’s a sweetheart,” Mo said, “and looking like that … God. He ought to be a real brat, but he isn’t. Well, not much of one.”

“It sounds as if his parents are quite … rich,” said Georgia.

“Well … quite. But they’re incredibly socialist as well. Both fully paid up members of the Labour Party. Mama runs this secondhand bookshop in Hampstead, and sells loads of political books and does fund-raising and stuff.”

“But … Merlin sounds very … well, very posh. I thought he must have gone to Eton or somewhere.”

“God, no. Holland Park Comp. Where he was bullied terribly, actually beaten up several times, because a group of really rough kids decided he was gay, but the parents didn’t care. Their principles were
much more important. Poor old Merlin. Anyway, he’s all right now. Everyone loves him.”

“He’s not, though … is he?” said Georgia, trying not to sound anxious.

“Not what? Oh, gay, No, of course not. Very red-blooded indeed, our Merlin.”

“He’s been so, so nice to me,” Georgia said.

“Yes, well, he is really … nice. But …” Mo looked at her, and she thought she was about to say something, but then Bryn Merrick arrived, looking petulant, and demanded freshly ground coffee. And then Davina wanted to run through a scene with Georgia, and whatever it was, was never said.

CHAPTER 41

William was walking out of a pub in Bristol, quite early in the evening, when he saw Abi. He’d avoided the place as much as he could recently, but an old friend from Cirencester days had asked him to be best man at his wedding and had invited him and his ushers to discuss the demands and requirements of their roles.

He tried very hard to get into the spirit of the thing, downed a couple of beers and laughed at some pretty unfunny jokes about the role of the best man and agreed that the Hunt Ball of the previous week had been terrific, although actually he’d reached a peak of misery there. Gyrating to the pounding rhythms of the Whippersnappers, he’d looked round at all the other gyrators, some young, some older, but with the identical DNA of the foxhunting classes, cheerful, foolhardy, blinkered folk, clinging to their beleaguered lifestyle, and wondered how he was going to live among them for the rest of his life.

Abi was walking along, laden with bags; Christmas shopping, he supposed. She was wearing black as always: black leather coat, knee-length black boots, black furry hat. And dark glasses. In the dark. Why did she do that? She saw him, briefly pretended she hadn’t, then half smiled and said, “Hello.”

“Hello, Abi. How are you?”

“I’m fine. You?”

“Oh … yes. Fine, thanks.”

He felt awful, wondering if he was going to throw up or pass out.

“Been Christmas shopping?”