The Best of Times (60 page)

“Anywhere you like, Sparrow. Italy, maybe—I’ve always longed to go there, would find all those works of art so wonderful. Or maybe the Seychelles, or even Vietnam …”

“Russell, I don’t think I want to do anything quite as … as adventurous as that,” said Mary.

“Well, why on earth not?” he said, looking genuinely puzzled. “We should do these things while we can, Mary, before we get old and stuck in our ways.”

“Oh, Russell,” she said, reaching up to kiss him, “I love you for so many reasons, but perhaps most because you don’t see us as old.”

“Well, of course I don’t. We’re not old. We’re certainly quite young enough to enjoy ourselves.”

“Yes, of course. But … well I would still rather have a quiet honeymoon.
I’ve never been to the lake district. Wonderful scenery, good driving … and walking. Would you consider that? Just for now.”

“If that’s what you want, Sparrow. As long as we can go to Italy in the spring.”

“I promise you,” she said, “we’ll go to Italy in the spring.”

• • •

It had gone … not badly, but not really very well, Linda thought. They had been polite, but wary, undemonstrative. And Alex had been pretty similar; obviously nervous of appearing in any way foolish, romantically inclined, uncool. He hadn’t even touched her, except to kiss her hello and good-bye. And she felt under inspection by him all over again, seeing herself through their eyes.

It had been her idea to take them to a preview. A formal meal would be a minefield: where would they go? Somewhere easy and informal, obviously, but … high-profile like Carluccio’s or the Bluebird, or really local and undemanding. And then the former might seem like trying too hard, the latter like selling them short and not bothering much. And then it would be a minefield as well of silences and studied manners. If it had just been Amy, then maybe they could have gone shopping; although what self-respecting fifteen-year-old would want to go shopping with someone of … well, knocking on forty, and where on earth could she take her? And would she buy her lots of stuff, which would look like trying too hard, or not anything at all, which would look mean?

Not shopping, then. Anyway, they were all coming together, the three of them.

And then the tickets arrived for a new comedy smash hit, and that seemed too good to be true. She was sent two, asked for two more. The show was for early Friday evening, which was ideal, really; they could just go for a pizza afterwards, the ice broken by laughing—hopefully—and if it was going really badly, just a coffee at Starbucks and then Alex could take them home.

She chose what to wear with as much anguish as if she was going to meet the Queen or Brad Pitt. Both of whom would actually have been easier, she thought. In the end she settled on a short black skirt and polo shirt, and a leather jacket. Any hint of cleavage seemed a bad idea; the skirt was shortish, but that was all right. She initially put on pumps, but they looked wrong and frumpy, so she slightly anxiously changed into some Christian Louboutin high heels. She removed her red nail varnish, and wore much less eye makeup than usual.

Alex brought them to her office, because that seemed safer territory than her flat and a bit more welcoming than the cinema lobby, an acknowledgement that she was a bit more than a casual acquaintance, a bit less than a permanent fixture.

They walked in, smiled, shook her hand, said how do you do; she was pleasantly surprised by that, and by their slightly formal clothes. She had half expected grunting hoods. They were good-looking children, both of them, Amy an incipient beauty, with Alex’s dark colouring, all pushed-back hair and posh, languid voice, Adam blond, overtall and thin and horribly self-conscious, with spots, braces on his teeth, and a voice perilously close to breaking. Amy wandered round the office, looking at photographs, expressing polite interest when she recognised someone; Adam sat on the sofa, trying not to look at anyone as he sipped his Coke.

• • •

The taxi ride was silent; they arrived at the preview cinema in Wardour Street half an hour early. Not good. Linda met a couple of people, introduced them, and then withdrew into the safety of showbiz gossip. Amy looked bored, Adam embarrassed, Alex glowering and Heathcliff-like.

The film was a success: very funny, very glossy, quite cool. Linda sat next to Amy, then Adam, then Alex. They both laughed a lot, and afterwards Amy turned to her and said, “That was really cool, thank you so much.” Adam shuffled out, muttering, “Great, cool, yeah.”

“So … pizza, anyone? Or shall we just go to Starbucks or somewhere for a coffee? You guys choose.”

Guys? Should she have said that? More pathetic groping for street cred.

“Pizza?” said Amy.

“Don’t mind,” said Adam.

They went to Pizza Express in the end, the kids talking and giggling between themselves; what were they saying? Linda thought. Were they agreeing that she was gross, or pathetic, or even—just possibly—nice? There was no clue from the subsequent exchanges.

They ordered pizzas, preceded by garlic bread; conversation was strained and mostly about the film and other films they had seen. She longed to ask them what they wanted to do when they grew up, but knew that this above all was what people their age hated. She asked them their plans for the weekend, and they both said they didn’t know.

She asked them if their father had told them much about South Africa, and Amy said yes, and it had sounded really cool. Adam said yes, it had sounded great.

She had ordered one small glass of wine, but it was gone in her nervousness before they had even finished the garlic bread; she ordered another—“a large one this time, please”—and then worried they might put her down as an alcoholic.

A very large silence now settled; she almost let it go on, and then, thinking things could hardly be worse, asked them if they had heard about the music festival that Georgia, one of her clients, was putting on “for the victims of the M
4
crash last summer; I’m sure your father will have told you about it.”

“He tells us about so many awful things,” said Amy, smiling suddenly at her father, then at her, “we wouldn’t remember.”

“Oh. Right. Well, Georgia—Georgia Linley she’s called—is going to be in a big new thriller series in March. She was involved in the crash and wanted to raise some money for the people who were
hurt, who can’t work and so on. But now it’s more for your dad’s hospital.”

“Cool,” said Amy. “Was that her, the black girl in the photograph with you?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“So … when’s the festival?”

“Oh … July.”

“Where?”

“On someone’s farm. Nice young guy called William Grainger; his farm borders the M
4
, and the air ambulance landed on his field.”

“Oh, OK.”

“Would you like to go?” asked Alex. It was virtually the first time he’d spoken since they got to the restaurant.

“Yeah, maybe. What’s it called?”

“I don’t think it’s got a name yet,” said Linda. “They can’t seem to get it quite right, the last thing I heard. Got any ideas? All suggestions welcomed.”

“God, no,” said Amy.

Adam shrugged.

• • •

Shortly after that they left; Alex was driving them home to their mother. He still hadn’t found anywhere decent to live.

“You’ve been a great help,” hissed Linda, as they stood at the edge of the pavement, hailing taxis for her rather fruitlessly.

“Sorry. I thought it was better to let you make the running.”

“Hmm. Oh, shit, look, there’s one miles down the road, hasn’t seen us …” She put two fingers in her mouth and whistled loudly. Amy and Adam looked startled, then grinned at her. Or were they laughing at her? How loud, how brash, not the sort of thing a nice, seemly stepmother should be doing.

“Bye, then,” she said, holding out her hand, taking theirs one by one. “It’s been really fun. I’m glad you liked the film.”

“Bye,” said Amy. “And thanks.”

“Bye,” said Adam. “Yeah, thanks.”

“Bye, Linda,” said Alex.

The last she saw of them was the two children, heads together, laughing … at her, no doubt, pathetic, would-be-cool woman, and Alex, looking ferocious.

What a disaster. What a bloody disaster. He’d never want to marry her now.

She was half-asleep when the phone rang.

“Hi.” It was Alex.

“Oh, hi. You OK?”

“Yes, thanks. I’m fine.”

“Sorry, Alex.”

“What on earth for? Right … now, as the kids would say, were you a hit, or were you a hit?”

“What?”

“You, my darling beloved, are just soooo cool. That’s Amy’s verdict. You are pretty nice. That’s Adam’s. You have great legs. That was also Adam. You are so not embarrassing. Amy again. She wants to come and see you on her own, maybe—go shopping; your shoes were just uh-may-zing. And ohmigod, the way you whistled for the cab. Oh, Linda. I love you.”

“I love you too,” she said.

• • •

It felt like any other evening. Not good, not bad, Barney thought, just … an evening. For going home, eating dinner—dutifully; smiling—a lot; talking—carefully; listening—even more carefully. Trying not to think too much, not to remember … and most of all, not to look forward. Forward into God knew what. More of this? This odd, calm sadness, this pleasant unease, this lie of a life? Lived with someone who loved him so much. Whom he—still—loved too. In a way. In a concerned, tender, guilty way.

It was a horrible night, wet, cold, windy. He was carrying a brown paper bag with a couple of bottles of wine in it, and it was getting dangerously soggy. He’d also got her some flowers. Those Kenyan two-tone roses that she liked so much. It was Wednesday and he always bought her flowers on Wednesday; it was half joke, half tradition. She said if he ever forgot, she’d know there was something terribly wrong. Well, he hadn’t forgotten yet.

When he got home, she wasn’t there. Which wasn’t particularly unusual; she was terminally sociable, always having quick drinks or even supper with girlfriends after work. Although he couldn’t remember her saying anything about this evening.

He went in, put the wine in the fridge, the roses in water—without cutting the stems, which would have induced a ticking off if she’d known; she was very strict about such things: “Barney—darling—it doesn’t take a minute, and they live so much longer; you’re just lazy …”

He wondered if Emma fussed over rose stems. He decided it was very unlikely …
Don’t start thinking about Emma, Fraser, just don’t. Doesn’t help
.

He wondered if he should do something about supper. He looked in the fridge; there didn’t seem to be a lot there. Well, if she was much later, they could go out. Only if she’d eaten—he’d call her. See what she was doing. She’d be amused, not cross, if he’d forgotten some arrangement, would tell him he was hopeless, that she’d be home soon.

Her mobile was switched off.

He sat down, turned on the TV, was watching the end of the seven-o’clock news when he heard her footsteps in the street, heard her key in the lock. She’d be soaked, miserable; he should make her a cup of tea.

He went into the kitchen and was filling the kettle when she came in. He turned to smile at her, and then saw her face. It wasn’t quite … quite right somehow, her face. It wasn’t wearing its usual smile; her
eyes weren’t warm; in fact, they were staring at him as if she had never seen him before. Barney put the kettle down.

She was taking her coat off, her wet coat; he reached for it, to hang it up.

“It’s all right,” she said, “I can do it.”

He followed her as she walked out of the kitchen, throwing the coat down on a chair—unthinkable, that—went into the sitting room, and sat down. Barney sat opposite her. It seemed the only thing to do.

A silence, then:

“Barney, why didn’t you tell me?”

His stomach lurched hideously.

“Tell you what?”

“You know perfectly well what. I saw Tamara today, and she told me all about it.”

The cow. The bitch
. How dared she? How
dared
she? She’d promised, as he had; that was what came of making a pact with the devil.

“Yes,” he said, “yes, I see. Well, she had no right to do that. To tell you. It’s nothing to do with her.”

“Well, it is a bit, I think. She is my best friend.”

“Yes, I know, but …”

How had they ever got to be best friends, these two? One so good, so transparently sweet and kind, the other so bad, so devious and cruel.

“Well, she has. Do you want to talk about it?”

“If you do.”

“Well, of course I do; it affects us both, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, Amanda, it does.”

“Well … go on.”

“I think I … might”—he pushed his hair back—“think I might have a beer. You?”

“Not a beer. Maybe a glass of wine.”

He poured her her favourite, chardonnay—not very smart, as she
often said, but it was so lovely who cared about smart? And poured himself a Beck’s.

“Come on, Barney, please. I do need to know.”

Oh, God. God, how do I get through this?
He looked at her. Her pretty, peaches-and-cream face was very calm, her blue eyes fixed on him intently.

“Well …” he said. “Well, it … it all happened because of the crash. And while Toby was in hospital.”

“Yes, that’s what Tamara said. Well, sort of.”

“Let’s forget about what Tamara might have said. I want you to have the story as it really happened. I … never meant it to happen, Amanda. I loved you so much. I do love you so much. It … just … well, it sort of took me over.”

She was silent; he didn’t dare look at her. Then she said, “I don’t quite see what that’s got to do with it.”

“Amanda, of course it has.”

“Well … go on.”

“Yes, well, I think it was partly the emotion about Toby, you know. And I was full of guilt about the crash. She … well, she helped me over that.”

“Who, Tamara?”

“No, of course not Tamara. Her. Emma.”

“Emma? Just a minute, Barney, I’m losing it a bit here …”

Afterwards, he thought, if he’d looked at her then … but he didn’t.

“Yes, she’s a doctor there. Oh, Amanda, I’m so, so sorry. Anyway, she was just fantastic the day Toby had his operation. I couldn’t have got through it without her. Of course, if you’d been there … but you weren’t.”