The Best of Times (72 page)

“You are so cool,” said Georgia, giving her a kiss.

• • •

Two days later a letter arrived from Mary, enclosing a cheque for a thousand pounds.

“You said you were hoping to find a sponsor for your festival. Of course, I am not in that league, and I’m sure this won’t make a great deal of difference, but it might pay for some posters or something. I know that Russell would have loved to have helped you; he so loved young people—as I do—and even got involved. In fact, he rather fancied himself a song-and-dance man; you might have got more than you bargained for! Please pass this to your committee as a token of my great interest and pleasure in being involved, in a small way.”

“Shit!” said Abi, when Georgia told her. “A thousand fucking quid! Shit!”

Georgia felt that this was not quite the response Mary might have expected, but thought that she would have recognised its sincerity all the same.

• • •

The other person who came to visit, to Mary’s great delight, was Emma. She was very upset to hear that Russell had died … “I shall never forget seeing him in the Dorchester that night,” she wrote, “and thinking how handsome he was. And it was such a privilege to come to your wedding. If you’d like a little visit from me, please let me know; if not don’t give it a moment’s thought.”

Mary wrote back and said that the only thought she had given it was how very nice it would be to see her.

“Come and have lunch with me, when you can. I shall look forward to it so much.”

Emma arrived with a large bunch of daffodils, and was then mortified
to see the drive down from the gate to the house lined with them.

“Talk about coals to Newcastle.”

“No,” said Mary, taking the daffodils, leading her into the kitchen, where Mrs. Salter found them a huge white jug. “I hate picking them, you see; they die so quickly, and it’s wonderful to have yours.”

“Well … I’m glad,” said Emma slightly doubtfully. “Goodness, that is a lovely smell.”

“What, dear, the daffodils? I never can find much of a perfume in them, to be honest.”

“No, no, it’s bread. Baking bread. Isn’t it?” she said to Mrs. Salter.

“It is, my dear, yes.”

“My mum used to make bread when we were all at home,” said Emma. “I’ve never done it, although I sort of know how. It’s hardly worth it for just for me.”

“Time enough when you have a family of your own,” said Mrs. Salter.

Emma nodded and smiled politely, thinking that while it was clearly ridiculous to completely write off the family of her own, and the bread she might make for it, its likelihood in the near future was so small as to be inconsiderable, given that the only person she would wish to have fathered the family clearly cared for her not in the least, and she had neither the energy nor the inclination to even begin looking for another.
Damn Barney. Damn him
. It was as if he’d cast a spell on her, rendered her incapable of normal sexual and emotional thought. She had to get over him; she had to.

• • •

Mary suggested a walk round the garden after lunch.

“I was half thinking you might be at the inquest,” she said, tucking her arm in Emma’s.

“Oh … no. I had nothing to do with it. No point, really.”

“Dr. Pritchard was there. He gave some very good evidence, spoke so well. Such a charming man.”

“Yes, he is a sweetheart. And he’s very happy with Linda, you know? The lady he brought to your … your …” She stopped, clearly afraid of stirring up unhappy emotions.

Mary smiled at her, patted her arm.

“My wedding. Nothing makes me happier than thinking about that day, Emma. Nothing. Wonderful things, good memories.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Emma. She sighed without meaning to, then thought how selfish she was. “Sorry.”

“Is anything the matter, dear? You look tired.”

“No, no, I’m fine. Really. Well … maybe a bit tired. It’s hard work, A and E. I was on nights all last week. Takes time to get over that.”

“I’m sure. Well, if that’s all. Now, I wonder if you heard from Georgia, and those two young men, the bridegroom—Mr. Weston, I think his name was—and his best man, Barnaby someone …”

“Fraser?”

“Yes, that’s right. They were both there, of course. I was able to apologise to them, rather obliquely. I always felt I’d held them up, you know, wouldn’t let Mr. Weston go in front of me in the queue. And then Barnaby paid a tribute to someone I thought might have been you.”

“Me!”

“Yes, dear. Not necessarily, of course, but he said how a doctor at the hospital had helped him so much to get over his … his guilt at escaping from the whole thing without a scratch. I believe there’s some technical phrase for it.”

“Oh … yes. Yes, there is. Survivor guilt.”

“That’s it. Yes, and Georgia said you’d been wonderful with her, very kind and patient.”

“Goodness.” She felt herself blushing. “Um, what … what exactly did he say; can you remember?”

“Let me think. Not much more than that, really. But I thought it was you because he said ‘she.’ ‘She helped me so much,’ he said.”

“Oh. Oh, well, maybe it was me. I don’t … That is … Oh, dear.”

And as the memories swept over her—of those early conversations with Barney, of how she tried to comfort him and to reassure him about Toby, and then the day, the fateful day of Toby’s operation, when it had all begun between them—she suddenly felt her eyes fill with tears.

“Oh, now, you mustn’t cry.” Mary looked at her with great concern. “Or rather, cry as much as you like—so helpful, tears, I’ve always found—but then tell me all about it, what’s upsetting you. Shall we go back inside? Mrs. Salter has made some scones; I do know that …”

“I’d better not come and see you too often, or I’ll be the size of a house,” said Emma, smiling through her tears.

“I hardly think so, dear. And if you mean that, I shall give you a glass of water and a dry biscuit next time. Come along, let’s go in; here, I’ve got a hankie you can borrow; it’s quite clean …”

• • •

“… and it’s just so stupid,” said Emma. “I mean, why can’t I get over him, just forget about him and move on?”

“I expect because it has never been properly resolved,” said Mary gently. “You parted thinking it was only for a few weeks, knowing you loved each other …”

“Thinking we loved each other. He clearly doesn’t love me.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Mary, if he did, then surely he’d have contacted me. He knows I’m not with Luke—that was my boyfriend before, the one at the Dorchester that night—and I know he’s not with Amanda. So … if he wanted to see me, then surely he would have called me. Or something.”

“He might be thinking exactly as you are. Why haven’t you contacted him, when you know it’s over with Amanda …”

“He doesn’t know I know.”

“I thought you said he told your doctor friend.”

“Oh … yes. Yes, that’s right.”

“Well …?”

“Oh, Mary, I’d look such a fool. If there was someone else.”

“Does that matter? So much? There are worse things, after all.”

She considered this.

“Maybe not. It would be a terrible risk.”

“Most worthwhile things are a risk, Emma. It was a risk for me, you know, meeting Russell again after all those years. It could have spoilt everything, spoilt all those wonderful memories; it could have been dreadful. But … I decided it was worth it. You ring your Barnaby The worst that can happen is that you’ll know he doesn’t love you anymore—know for certain. And you’ll feel a little foolish. And then at least you can move on.”

“Yes, but, Mary, it’s been so long now. Months and months since we met. However much he cared for me, if he did, surely he’d have got over it by now. Forgotten me.”

“My darling,” said Mary very gently, “Russell didn’t forget me or get over me, nor I him. We waited more than sixty years for each other. Love survives, you know. Forever, if need be.”

CHAPTER 54

It was all very astonishing. She still couldn’t quite believe it: that she was actually in a relationship with him, seeing him all the time, sleeping with him even. It just didn’t seem possible.

But … it was.

It had all begun the day after the inquest; he’d asked her for a drink—again—and when she’d said she didn’t think so, he’d said,
“Please, Georgia. I want to hear about how yesterday went. I was thinking about you all day.”

She was touched by that—that he should care.

“Well … all right. A quick one,” she said. “Thank you.”

They were rehearsing in downtown Chiswick; he took her to a bar in the High Road, not the pub, insisted on buying her a cocktail. She was surprised, but tried not to read too much into it. Maybe he had more money, now that he was a first assistant.

She’d told him about the inquest, in some detail. She thought he might be bored, but she didn’t care. It was good to talk about it, and she wasn’t into impressing Merlin anymore. There was no point.

“It must have been terrifying,” he said, “reliving it publicly like that. Such a ghastly experience.”

“Yes, it was. Especially having to talk about why I … well, ran away. But, you know, it was actually the best thing. I really feel it’s over now. I never did before.”

“Well … good for you,” he said, and then added, looking as close to embarrassed as Merlin ever could, “I think you’re marvellous, Georgia.”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” she said, mildly irritated even by such excess, “of course I’m not. I’m a wimp. You of all people know that. Weeping and wailing all over the set of
Moving Away
, saying everyone hated me, that I couldn’t do the part. Honestly, Merlin. Not marvellous at all.”

“Well, I’m entitled to my opinion,” he said, smiling at her. “Another one of those?”

“Oh … why not?”

When he came back, she took a deep breath and said, “How’s … Ticky?”

“Oh … she’s fine. Yes. Fine.”

“Good.” She could hear a
but
somewhere; she didn’t even dare think about what it might be.

“Yes. Fine. Doing really well in New York. But”—here it came—“but she … I … Well, we’re not together anymore.”

“You’re not together. Oh, Merlin, I’m sorry. So sorry.”

He looked so wretched, she really was sorry. She didn’t feel remotely glad. Well … not very remotely …

“Yeah, well. You know. It was hard conducting a relationship across two continents. It just wasn’t … wasn’t working anymore.”

And if anyone had stopped it working, Georgia thought, it would have been Ticky Not Merlin. No doubt whatsoever about that.

He sighed. “I miss her, of course. I miss her like hell. But … we were never together anyway. Or hardly. So what’s new?”

“A lot, I guess,” Georgia said. And then said again, “I’m sorry, Merlin.”

“You’re so sweet,” he said, “to be so nice about it. But then you would be. You’re such a nice person, Georgia.” There was a pause; then he said, “I hope you didn’t feel I was … well, playing around with you a bit. On
Moving Away
. I mean, I wasn’t; I really enjoyed your company and I hoped I was helping. But after the party, I thought that maybe …”

“Merlin, of course I didn’t,” she said, her eyes meeting his in absolute astonishment. “Of
course
not. I just was so glad to have you as a friend. You were marvellous. A sort of wonderful big brother. But … heavens, no, it never even crossed my mind.”

If I ever get an Oscar
, she thought,
I won’t have acted any better than that
.

• • •

The next thing that happened was that he became involved in the festival. He thought it was a wonderful idea; he was clearly and genuinely impressed by how much they had achieved. And it turned out that he knew a lot of bands as friends—“mostly unsigned, but …”

“We’re looking for unsigned. Although we’re hoping to find quite a few through these play-offs we’re organising. We’ve had a pretty big response to our flyers …”

“Yeah, that’s a very clever idea.”

“It is, isn’t it? We still need a headliner, though. Do you know anyone remotely famous?”

He thought, then said, “I might. I’ll see what I can do.”

• • •

Three days later, she rang Abi.