The Best of Times (76 page)

Abi poured herself a large glass, smiled at Mrs. Grainger, and
wondered what on earth she could find to say to her; in the end she just sat and ate and learnt a lot about GM crops.

• • •

It was very quiet on the trading floor. He didn’t often see it like this. It looked and sounded dead, the screens blank, the phones silent.

He went over to his desk; his phone was still there. Well, it would have been; it was hardly state-of-the-art anymore. He was getting one of the new generation of iPhones, but it was taking a time to arrive.

He sat looking at it, hearing Tamara’s voice: “It’s crazy what you’re not doing.”

He scrolled down the numbers, found her name, took a deep breath, as if he was about to do something physically difficult, and pressed the button. And listened. Listened for her voice. Her pretty, slightly breathless voice.

It came. “Hi, this is Emma. Sorry I’m not around; just leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”

Shit
. He hadn’t expected that. And why not? Had he really thought she’d just be sitting there, waiting patiently for him to call? Of course not. She was probably out somewhere; or maybe she was working. Yes, that’d be it; she was at the hospital. He called the number, asked for the doctor’s station in A&E. A female, rather bored voice said, “Accident and Emergency.”

“Oh,” said Barney. “Ah. Yes. Er … is … that is, is Dr. King there? Dr. Emma King?”

“No, she’s not on duty tonight.”

“Ah. Well … well, what about tomorrow?”

“Not sure. Do you want me to find out?”

No
, thought Barney,
of course not, that’s why I asked
.

“That’d be great.”

“Just hold on.”

She was a long time; when she came back, she said, “Yes, she’s on duty from six a.m.”

“Right. Fine. OK. Er … thank you. Thank you very much.”

He felt quite differently now. Charged, up and running.

He sat for a moment thinking. If she was on duty from six, she was unlikely to be anywhere but in that flat of hers. That rather dreary flat, where he had spent those few extremely happy hours. OK, he’d go there. He’d drive down right now … No, maybe not, he’d had far too much to drink. Well, never mind. He’d take the train. And then get a cab. Easy. And if … well, if she told him to get lost, he could … well, he didn’t know quite what he’d do then. Best not to think about it. Live for now. As Tamara would have done. Of all the advice from all the people in the world … It was very ironic.

He called Emma again; it was still switched off. He left a message this time.

“Emma, it’s me. I’m coming down to Swindon.”

That was all.

He left the building, hailed a cab.

• • •

“Now, you must tell us about this concert, Abigail.” Mr. Grainger clearly felt he and William had been talking about GM crops long enough. “We’re looking forward to it, aren’t we?” he added to his wife. She gave him one of her pained smiles.

“July, isn’t it? July eighth?”

“And ninth,” said Abi.

“The ninth as well? There are two?”

“No,” said Abi, looking at William in bewilderment, “it’s running over two days. It’s a … well, it’s a … a music festival. People will be staying, camping …”

“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Grainger, “that won’t be possible.”

William looked at her, startled.

“What do you mean, Mother, it won’t be possible?”

“I mean exactly that. I … we can’t have strangers camping on the farm. It’s ridiculous. I had no idea. We shall have people breaking into the house, frightening the animals, letting them out onto the roads, quite possibly. Peter, did you realise this was happening?”

“I … Not exactly,” said Mr. Grainger. He was looking very uncomfortable.

“Dad!” said William. “Come on! I did explain.”

“Perhaps you did. I … don’t remember.”

“Well, whether you remember or not, it’s not going to happen,” said Mrs. Grainger. “It must be cancelled.”

“It can’t be,” said Abi, “not now.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said it can’t be cancelled. Tickets have been sold, bands have been booked, there’s a Web site, people will come anyway.”

“This is appalling,” said Mrs. Grainger, “absolutely appalling. Well, you’ll just have to return the tickets, and say on the Web site that it’s been cancelled. I’ve never heard of anything quite so … so highhanded. Or so rude,” she added.

“Mother!”

“Well, it is.”

“Honestly,” said Abi, endeavouring to ease the atmosphere a little, “there’ll be no trouble with break-ins or letting the cattle out. We’ve got a very good firm handling the security …”

“You’ve got a very good firm handling the security! With whose permission, may I ask? I’m sorry, but I’m finding this completely incomprehensible. I absolutely refuse to agree to any of it. I was opposed even to what I thought was a small concert in the first place; I was afraid it would get out of hand. But a … a campsite. On our land. With bands!” Her tone implied unspeakable connotations. “No doubt there’ll be drugs, knives probably, all sorts of undesirables …”

“They’ll be searched for drugs and knives,” said Abi.

“They won’t. Because none of it will take place. I’m sorry if you’ve been under a misapprehension, but I do assure you, so have I. William, I’m astonished at you.”

William, William
, thought Abi,
stand up to her; fight back
. But he didn’t. He just sat there, flushed, wretched, pushing his hands through his hair.

She stood up, pushed her chair back, enjoying the ugly, harsh sound it made on the flagged floor, and left.

• • •

“I … think I’ll go,” said Emma. The evening was turning into hard work; her head ached, and she wanted to be home. Home alone. Again. “Sorry … Just feeling a bit … tired. Hard week. And I’m on duty at six. In the morning.”

“You party pooper!” said Mark. “OK. We understand. Want me to get you a cab?”

“No, it’s OK.” She stood up. “I’ll get the bus.”

“Emma, you are not getting the bus. Not the nicest place, Swindon, this time of night. I’ll do it. Finish your drink …” He looked up at her. “It’ll be about half an hour, OK?”

“OK.”

She felt the bus might have been quicker, but she was too tired to argue.

• • •

Abi was crying so hard, she could hardly see; she stopped at the end of the road, sat there sobbing for what seemed ages, trying to pull herself together. How could he be so pathetic, so cowardly: how could he? Thank God she’d found out. How awful if she’d gone ahead and married him. Sylvie was right: she’d have married the mother as well. It could never, ever have worked.

God, she was a bitch. But she was allowed to be. That was the worst thing. William and his father just allowed her to get away with everything. They were obviously both terrified of her. All those brave words of William’s, and they hadn’t meant a thing. He was … he was …

She suddenly realised a car had pulled up behind her. It was flashing at her. Someone was getting out. It was William. He was running over to her; she wound down the window and put her head out. She realised it was pouring rain.

“Fuck off. Just fuck off. You’re a wimp and a coward and I never, ever want to see you again. Ever.”

“Abi, I—”

“No, just shut the fuck up. I can’t believe how you behaved in there. How you let her behave. It was pitiful. Pathetic. I’m going home, and I never, ever want to see you again. Mummy’s boy! Thirty-four-year-old mummy’s boy. You make me feel sick.”

“Abi, please. Listen. Just for one second. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. It’s my fault and—”

“It’s not your fault she’s so … so rude and vile and snobbish. I know her sort. She thinks I’m common, so she can treat me exactly how she likes. Well, I may be common—I am actually, very common—but that’s for me to decide, not her. Please get out of my way, William. I want to go home. At least I won’t have to sleep in the guest room.”

“No,” he said, “you won’t.”

“Is that all you have to say?”

“No. You’ll be sleeping in the cottage. With me. OK?”

“I don’t believe you. I’m not sure I want to, anyway.”

“Yes, you do. I told her so. And I told her she’d been incredibly rude to you and she was to apologise. And I said there was no question of cancelling the festival, and if she tried to, then I was leaving. Leaving home, leaving the farm …”

“You can’t do that,” said Abi. “You love the farm.”

“I know. But not as much as I love you. I meant it; I wasn’t just saying it.”

“But … what would you do?”

“I don’t know. Help you with your events company.”

“You’d be terrible at that,” said Abi. “Really terrible.”

“Thanks. OK, well, I’ll go and run someone else’s farm. Abi, I’m so sorry. I … suppose we’re so used to her, we just let her … let her behave how she does for the sake of peace. When we notice, that is. She’s not such a bad old thing underneath. Her bark’s so much worse than her bite. But … well, that was so awful tonight. I was so ashamed. Of her and myself. I have been feeble—I know I have—but
I just kept hoping she wouldn’t find out about the festival until it really was too late.”

“William,” said Abi, “it would never have been too late. She’d have turfed everyone off when the bands were playing, and I’ve got to hand it to her: she’s very formidable. She should have gone into politics. Mrs. Thatcher rides again.”

“Well … maybe. But … please, Abi, please come back. I’m so sorry. I love you so much. I can’t lose you again. Please.”

She hesitated, then looked at him and grinned. A wide, happy, glorious grin.

“OK,” she said, “you win. Fair enough. I don’t suppose it’ll be the last battle we have with her. But that’s OK. Oh, shit, William, I love you too. You’re getting awfully wet.”

“Lock your car up,” he said. “I’ll drive you to the cottage. I’ve got the key.”

“OK.”

Inside the door, he looked at her and grinned.

“You know, I told you those clothes weren’t a good idea. You’d have done much better if you’d worn your usual stuff. I think you should take them off right now. Starting with those very boring trousers …”

And thus it was that when Mrs. Grainger arrived at cottage number one, wearing a most determined smile, her arms full of clean linen, and bearing a flask of hot coffee, she found Abi sitting on the stairs, naked from the waist down, and William tenderly removing her flat shoes, kissing her toes as he did so.

• • •

In the event, the cab was at least forty minutes; they always were, Emma thought. Why did they do that, say they’d be there before it was remotely possible? She had finished her drink long since, and had actually left the table, was waiting in the lobby of the restaurant, amongst the wet coats and umbrellas. She didn’t think she’d ever felt so unhappy. Yes. She had. Lots of times lately. God, she was turning
into a misery. What had happened to her; where had the bouncy, smiling, always happy Emma gone? Maybe it was just as well; she’d probably been a bit annoying …

The taxi seemed to be going a long way round; the fare would be running up into thousands. Well … tens, anyway.

“You know I wanted Rosemary Gardens, don’t you?” she said finally. “By Rosemary Park.”

The driver didn’t seem to hear her. He just carried on speaking into his phone, a headset, in Polish. Or Bulgarian. Or Czech … Probably didn’t understand English anyway, she thought; he was taking her to some completely different place that she didn’t know, and the fare would be so stupendous, she wouldn’t have enough money, and …

“We here. Fifty pounds …”

“Fifty!”

“No. Fifty. One five.”

“Oh … fifteen.”

“That’s what I said. Fifty.”

“OK.”

She counted out sixteen pounds, got out. It was absolutely pouring. There was another car parked on the street. It had its interior light on. The person in the back was reading. Must be waiting for someone.

She got out of the cab, ran towards the house, went inside, slammed the door shut. She thought she’d heard footsteps behind her; she didn’t want to hang about. She put the chain on the door, turned away.

The bell rang. She ignored it. It rang again. She really didn’t want to open it. Not at this time of night. But … maybe she’d locked someone for one of the other flats out.

“Who is it?” she called finally.

There was a silence; then: “It’s Barney.”

This had happened so many times in her imagination, and her dreams, that she more or less assumed he couldn’t be real. She waited,
unable even to move the chain, to open the door a crack, too afraid that if she did, she would wake up, or he would simply not be there.

“Emma! Please open the door. Please.”

It did sound like him. It really did. There was a big mirror in the hall; she looked at herself in it. She looked terrible. She was very pale, and her eye makeup had smudged, and her hair was all lank and wet. She couldn’t open the door to Barney looking like that. If it was him.

She rummaged in her bag, pulled out a comb, dragged it through her hair. Wiped a tissue under her eyes, which promptly seemed to smudge more, licked it and tried again, tried desperately to find her makeup bag …

“Emma, what on earth are you doing?”

“Sorry. Sorry.” She had to do it, had to open the door. Whatever she looked like. She did—very cautiously, leaving it on the chain. She peered through the crack. And …

“It is you. Isn’t it?”

“Of course it’s me. Who else would it be, standing here in the pouring rain, begging you to open the door …”

She fumbled at the chain; it seemed to be jammed; it took ages. Finally she pulled it out. Opened the door. And …

“Hello, Emma.” There was a pause. Then he added—and then she knew it was him—“Hello, the Emma. You all right?” He was staring at her, very intently.

“I’m fine. Yes. Hello, Barney. The Barney. Come … come in. Please.”

He came in. She stood looking at him, trying to take in the enormity of it, that he was really here, actually standing in front of her, looking a little dishevelled, not smiling.

“I can’t believe I’m really here,” he said. And put out his hand to touch her arm. She put hers out. And absurdly took his hand and shook it. And giggled.