The Best of Times (74 page)

“Great. Any reactions to the name?”

“Nope. Well, only from my mum. She thinks it’s great. She had an LP called
In Good Company
in the seventies.”

“Great. Exactly the image we’re after. Mum’s favourites. Oh, dear. Maybe we should change it.”

“We shouldn’t,” said Merlin firmly. “It’s a great name.”

“Yeah, well, you would say that,” said Georgia. “You thought of it.”

“Shut up. Any other objections?”

There weren’t.

“OK. Well, I’ve got everything booked site-wise,” said Abi.

“Arena, electrics, sound systems, water. What does everyone think about campfires?”

“We think no campfires,” said William firmly.

“Barbecues?”

“Not happy.”

“William! People love them. Specially families.”

“I’ll … think about it.”

“Bless. We’ve got the alcohol licence; the police are on-side. Got St. John’s for the first-aid tent as well.”

“You’ve done so well,” said Georgia, beaming at her. “Security?”

“I’ve talked to a couple of firms. Both very expensive.”

“You have to have security,” said Merlin. “And they have to check for drugs.”

“Yes, all right. I know that. I just said they were expensive. Now, what are we going to do with our thousand pounds from wonderful Mrs. Mackenzie? Blow the lot on publicity, say, or split it, put it into the various pots?”

“I think split it,” said William, “in case we don’t get any more.”

“William, you are such a ray of sunshine,” said Georgia irritably.

• • •

She was very jumpy now;
Moving Away
was going on air in three weeks, and the publicity machine was cranking up. Davina and Bryn Merrick had been the most in demand. Davina’s lovely, laughing face had been everywhere, but Georgia had done two interviews already, one for the
Daily News
arts roundup and one for
You
magazine, both of them talking her up as one of the new faces of the summer. She was surprised about it, hadn’t thought anyone would take any notice of her. The one in
You
had been a big profile, very personal, had asked her about being adopted—and by white parents, had that been difficult, how had she coped—and had mentioned, inevitably, the crash. She’d hated it, but Linda told her it was fantastic she was getting so much coverage, and she should just be grateful.

“You’re getting talked about; most people at your stage would give their eyeteeth for any publicity.”

The DVDs of the show hadn’t gone out to the critics yet; she was dreading that, everyone seeing how bad she’d been. Although the girl from
You
magazine, who had managed to wangle one out of the press office, said she’d been “stunningly good.” Well, what did she know?

• • •

The meeting was over; the others left. Abi looked at William and smiled. “Love you.”

“Love you too. You … busy now?”

“Not terribly. You?”

“I’ve got an hour or so.”

“Cool.”

“Where’s Sylvie?”

“Out for the night. With Mr. Perv.”

“Right then. Shall we …”

“Yeah. I want to show you something first, though.”

“That’ll be nice.”

“No, no,” said Abi. “It’s what I’m going to wear on Friday.”

“Couldn’t it be afterwards?”

“No. You might find it exciting; you never know. Although, actually, I hope not. Give me five minutes.”

“OK. No more, though.”

“No, promise.”

She was back in ten.

“How do I look?”

“Blimey,” said William.

“Is that it? Don’t you like it?”

“Quite … you don’t look quite yourself.”

“That was the idea.”

“Abi, you are yourself. That’s why I love you.”

“I know, but …”

She walked out into the hall and looked at herself in the long mirror there. It was true: she didn’t look quite herself. She looked good, though, she thought. She was wearing grey trousers and a pink wraparound sweater. And low-heeled shoes. Her makeup was … well, it was rather nice, she thought. Grey eyeshadow, grey eyeliner, not much mascara, pink lip gloss. Her hair was tied back.

She went back to William.

“I think I look great.”

“Well … you do. But … not yourself. Like I said. And why?”

“I thought it would be more suitable this way. More the sort of girl they’d like. Approve of.”

“I’m afraid it’s a bit late for that.”

“It’s never too late. That’s my motto.”

“Abi, my mother’s already seen you starkers. Twice.”

“Not starkers. I’ve always worn shoes, at least. Oh, you’re so disappointing, William. Here I am trying to be a lady and you tell me there’s no point.”

“I don’t want a lady. I want you.”

“This isn’t for you. Anyway, this is what I’m wearing on Friday.”

“OK. But … get it off now. Please.”

They were going to have dinner with the Graingers on Friday at the farm. It was not a keenly anticipated evening. Except just possibly by Mr. Grainger.

CHAPTER 55

“So … tonight’s the night, is it?”

“Yup. I am shit scared.”

“Oh, don’t be so ridiculous. When were you frightened of anything?”

“I’m frightened of Mrs. Grainger. Or rather, upsetting Mrs. Grainger.”

“I’d have thought you’d done that plenty already, Abi.”

“Well, OK. But I do want tonight to go well. She’s being very good, he said …”

“That’s big of her.”

“Georgia, you’re not being very helpful. She’s said, apparently, that she’s considering letting us have cottage number one, to live in.”

“Even bigger …”

“No, well, it is a source of income for them.”

“So is William.”

“I s’pose. Anyway, it would be cool. It’s really sweet, or could be. Needs tarting up a bit. But it’s got three bedrooms …”

“One for you, one for the children, one for her.”

“Oh, stop it. No, I could use one as an office. When I start my company. I mean, it doesn’t matter these days where you work, does it? I can go and see clients; they don’t have to come to me. I’m really excited about it.”

“Won’t you be living on her doorstep? Literally?”

“Well … sort of. But it’s about quarter of a mile from the farmhouse. Right at the bottom of a track thing. I don’t think we’d have to see much of her. Anyway, listen, what I’ve really rung to say is, have you seen the
Mail?”

“No. Why? I’ve had two missed calls from Linda; could that be a clue? I was just going to call her.”

“Could be. It’s got a really nice piece in it about
Moving Away
. Saying how great it is.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. And then it says something about some promising newcomer, Georgia Linley”

“What, like she’s crap, lets the whole thing down?”

“Well, obviously But then it says your performance is … let’s see, oh, yes, extraordinary. And that you’re … yes, here it is, ‘that rare
thing, a completely fresh, individual talent. One minute funny, the next heartbreaking, she looks set to steal the show.’”

“Oh. My. God. Oh,
my God.”

“Yeah, I know. So cool. Georgia, you’re not crying, are you? How extremely unusual.”

• • •

Friday. Her lucky day. Always used to be. And she’d met Barney on a Friday … if you could call it lucky. And Luke, actually, come to that. And got her finals results. And passed her grade-five ballet with distinction.

So … this would be the day to do it. She really would. She’d … well, that was a good idea: she’d text him; that would be so much less embarrassing for both of them; why hadn’t she thought of that before? He could ignore a text, or send her something noncommittal back, like … well, like, “Nice to hear from you.” He wouldn’t have to struggle to find the right words, or to sound pleased to hear from her. And she wouldn’t have to act either—at sounding all casual and as if she’d just suddenly thought she might call him, just for old times’ sake. Yes, that’s what she’d do. When she was on her way out for the evening, not a Billy-no-mates, sitting in her room at the hospital. Mark and some of the others had asked her for a curry. Or even when she’d had a couple of drinks. Nothing like a bit of drink dialling …

• • •

Abi had gone to have her hair blow-dried. It was the only way to get it all silky smooth, like those posh girls had. Then she’d go home, change, and set off in enough time to arrive really cool and collected. She’d even bought a much lighter perfume, not her usual heavy stuff.

She had a manicure as well, no colour on her nails, just left them all natural and shiny. She was going to do William really proud …

He’d told her to arrive at about seven thirty: “Then we can have a drink; Mother likes to feed everybody at eight sharp.”

She resisted the temptation to say, What if everybody didn’t want to be fed at eight sharp? Tonight, the world was going to see a new Abi. Or rather, the Graingers were. And actually, who knew? She might even stay that way.

She’d read a
Telegraph
that was lying around the office, so she could converse intelligently, if required, on politics or whatever. Not the foreign stuff; that completely baffled her. And listened to
PM
on Radio
4
as she drove back from the hairdresser. God, it was boring: how could people like that stuff?

She left Bristol at six; that would give her so much time.

• • •

“Barney, hi. Lovely to see you. Come along in. You’ll know nearly everyone, I’m sure … Micky, darling, have you met Barney Fraser? He’s at BKM, on the commodities desk.”

“Not sure. Hi, Barney.”

Burne Proctor gave Barney an ice-cold smile. What a cliché, Barney thought: the Etonian drawl, the slicked-back blond hair, the blue eyes, the striped pink-and-white shirt, worn tieless under the excruciatingly well-cut dark suit … and worth how many millions? Well, it was usually billions now, on that list. A good few anyway. He reputedly took home over a million every year in salary and bonuses alone.
Well done, Tamara
.

“Hi,” said Barney. “Congratulations.”

“Yeah, great, thanks.”

“Off to Barbados, I hear.”

“Yah, well, not quite Barbados—one of the little islands off that coast I’ve bought. Should be fun. And Tam needs a break; she’s had a tough time.”

“Indeed,” said Barney.

“Well, nice to have met you. Hope we’ll be seeing you when we’re settled.”

Yeah, right
. He was about as likely to receive an invitation from the Burne Proctors as from the Queen. Probably rather less.

He looked around the bar. It was huge, very, very long, one of the old-fashioned brass-and-glass jobs. With the usual impossible din going on. He must be getting old to notice that. Tamara was right: he did know nearly everyone. Well, they did work for the same firm, so it was hardly surprising. Loads of pretty girls, which was nice. They all looked the same, these girls, with their long hair and their long legs and their dark suits and their high heels. One of the things about Emma was that she didn’t look like that. Well, she had long hair and long legs, but she was quirkily pretty, not one of your preppy monotones; her voice was quick and light; she never drawled, and when she smiled … God, when she smiled. She’d light up the city of London unaided with that smile. And her nose, and the way it wrinkled up when she giggled. He loved her nose …

Shit, Barney, stop thinking about the girl and call her. Go on. Just do it. Lay the ghost if nothing else. Go and … Damn
. He’d left his phone on his desk. He never did that, ever. Better go and get it. He—

“Barney! Hi! Lovely to see you. You know Sasha, don’t you? Yes, I thought you did. Sasha’s got the most incredible new job, out in Dubai. How are you, you old bastard? Come and tell us what you’ve been up to.”

The phone would have to wait.

• • •

She’d written the text; she just hadn’t sent it. She’d do that bit later. When she’d got her courage up.

She’d written it on the bus:
Hi, Barney. How are you? I was thinking about you and wondering if we could meet sometime. Just for a chat. Call me if you have a minute. Emma
.

She’d added two kisses and then taken them off again about six times. At the moment they were there.