The Best of Times (8 page)

Anyway, he’d finished that morning in record time, mostly because she’d gone to Waitrose in Cirencester—“I know it’s a bit of a trek, and terribly wrong of me, environmentally, but it’s just so much better quality”—and he was waiting for her to get back so he could hand her the invoice, when his boss phoned and said he wanted him to pick up a load of timber from a yard outside Stroud and drop it off with him before the end of the day.

Since the boss lived outside Marlow and Rick lived in Reading,
this was not too great an imposition, but the yard had been closed when he got there, bit of paper pinned on the door saying, “Back by one thirty,” but it was nearer two when the lumber yard guy arrived.

“Sorry, mate, got caught up with something.”

“Yeah, well,” Rick said, his face assuming the expression that sent his wife diving for cover, “some of us like to get home before midnight, specially on a Friday, OK? Let’s have it, PDQ.”

There was still some wood from the last job lying around in the bottom of his van; the man suggested he clear it out before putting his new timber in.

“Yeah, well, I’ll leave it with you, then; you can dispose of it for me.”

“Oh, no,” said the man, looking at the assortment of dusty, split planks, some of them still stuck with rusty nails, “you dispose of your own rubbish, mate. Sign here, please.”

Swearing under his breath, Rick signed, and then found the back doors of the van no longer shut properly.

“This is all I need. Got any rope? I’ll have to tie the fucking doors together.”

“You ought to tie those old planks down, mate. Not have them rattling around like that.”

“Look,” said Rick, “when I need your advice, I’ll ask for it. Right now I don’t, all right?”

And he pulled out of the yard, with Rudi, the black German shepherd dog that was his constant companion, on the passenger seat. He turned along the A
46
in the direction of the M
4
, cursing the heat, his own misfortune in not having a van with air-conditioning, and the fact that his windscreen wash was almost empty.

And that he couldn’t now be in Reading much before four.

• • •

Patrick saw her as he stood in the queue at the tea stall; she was only a few yards away, her face tear streaked, clutching a mug of tea. Gorgeous, she was, black, no more than twenty, wearing a very short
denim skirt and then those funny boots they all seemed to like: sheepskin, not ideal for a hot August day, but then that was fashion for you. She was small and quite thin, but she had very good boobs, nicely emphasized by a pink low-cut T-shirt, and her wild black hair was pulled back into a ponytail on one side.

He picked up his own tea and a couple of bottles of water and went over to her.

“Not a serious problem, I hope?”

“Who said there was a problem at all?” she said. “I’m just waiting for someone.”

Her voice was surprisingly posh; he was surprised. Then he chided himself for being classist or racist or whatever such a reaction might be labelled. Soon, he reflected, you wouldn’t be able to say anything at all without upsetting someone.

“Your friend late, then?”

“I’m—” she said, and then stopped, smiled reluctantly. “I’m not waiting for anyone, really. I’m just hoping to get a lift back to Cardiff. You’re not … not going that way?”

“No, sorry, my love. Going to London.”

“Oh, God,” she said, and her huge eyes filled with tears again, “if only I’d met you just half an hour earlier. I was trying to get there.”

“Any particular reason?”

“Well—yes. Yes, I had an appointment.”

“Important, was it?”

“Terribly,” she said, and started to cry in earnest again.

“Come on,” he said, sitting down on a bench, indicating to her to join him. “Tell me all about it.”

• • •

“Linda, I’ve got Georgia on line three—”

“Georgia,” Linda said, picking it up, “what is it? Are you in London yet?”

“Linda, don’t be angry, please, please don’t. I’ve … well, I’ve had a difficult day so far, and … and, well, I’m on the M
4
.”

“The M
4
! God in heaven, whereabouts on the M
4
?”

“Um—almost in Gloucestershire. The Bath turnoff.”

“Georgia,” said Linda, trying to keep her voice under control, “do you know what you’ve just done? I worked so hard to get you that audition. I lied; I practically bribed. What am I going to tell them? I hope you realise this damages me and my reputation as much as it does yours. Rather more so, actually, since you don’t have one. Now get off this line and out of my life. I—”

“Linda, please. Please listen to me. I’m so, so sorry, I know everything you say is true, and I don’t deserve any more of your help or kindness. But … it really wasn’t my fault. Really. I was staying with a friend in Bath and—”

“I don’t want to hear this.”

“But isn’t there anything you could tell them? That will just make them wait a couple of hours for me? They’re seeing lots of girls; couldn’t you ask if I could be last? I know I can be there by five thirty …”

There was a long silence; then Linda said, “I don’t know, Georgia. I don’t know.”

“But you’ve got to talk to them anyway, tell them I’m not coming. Wouldn’t it be better for both of us if you told them I had a tummy bug or something? Please, please?”

Another silence; then Linda said, “Well, I’ll consider it. Are you on your mobile?”

“Um, no, someone else’s. Mine had—had just died.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. Give me the number. And if you don’t hear from me, don’t be surprised.”

“No, no, all right. Thank you, Linda. Thank you so, so much.”

• • •

Georgia switched off the mobile and handed it back to Patrick rather shakily.

“I think she’s going to try. You were right: it was worth calling her.
So … can we go, please? I mean, will you take me? I’d be grateful for the rest of my life …”

• • •

He had to finish it: absolutely had to. For the sake of a few dizzy days and nights of novelty, the absolute adrenaline rush of danger, he was at serious risk of losing everything he had.

He looked across at her as they drove along, this raw, sexy, not even very beautiful young thing, only twelve years older, dear God, than his son, and saw his life, its perfect edifice, being rocked to its foundations.

It wasn’t even as if there was anything wrong with his marriage. It was perfect; Laura was the perfect wife, caring, loving, beautiful … Everyone told him so, told him how lucky he was, and he was. It was just that … well, it was all a bit predictable. Their conversations, their social lives, their family lives, their sex lives. Especially their sex lives. He supposed that was what had actually led him into this heady, dangerous situation … Laura knew sex was important, she wanted to please him, she claimed he pleased her, she never refused him; but she never initiated it, never suggested anything, never wanted it moved out of the bedroom … He felt every time that she had ticked the experience off, seen yet another duty done. Which had been the charm of Abi, of course; with her demands, her inventiveness, her risk taking. Sex was at the centre of her.

And what kind of bastard set those things before love, before loyalty, before family happiness …?

His sort of bastard, it seemed …

Initially he had tried to excuse himself, to tell himself it was only a one-night stand, or at the very most, the briefest fling, purely sex, that it would revitalise his marriage, make him more aware of the treasure he possessed.

But Abi was more than a fling; he felt increasingly addicted to her. She seemed to be completely amoral: she had lost count, she once told
him, of how many men she had slept with; she drank too much; she did a lot of drugs. She was the sort of woman indeed that he despised and disliked, and what he was doing with her, he had no real idea—except that he was having fantastic sex with her. And finding a huge and dangerous excitement in his life.

He had met her only two months before, when he had been (genuinely) at a medical conference. The conference organiser, one of the big pharmaceutical companies, had wanted some photographs taken of the speakers and people at the dinner; the photographer had been an annoying little chap with a nasal whine, but his assistant, following him round with a notebook to record the names of subjects, and a second camera, had been … well, she had been amazing. She was dark, tall, and very skinny, with incredible legs. Her long hair was pulled back in a half-undone ponytail; her black silky dress was extremely short and, although quite high necked, clung to a braless bosom. Jonathan could see it was braless because her nipples stood out so clearly. She wore very high-heeled black boots with silver heels, very large silver earrings, and quite a lot of makeup, particularly on her eyes, which were huge and dark, and her lips, which were full and sensual.

As she bent down to speak to Jonathan to ask his name, her perfume, rich and raw, surrounded him, confusing him.

“Sorry about this,” she said, “but it’s my job. Do you mind telling me how you spell Gilliatt?”

He spelt it for her, smiling. “Don’t apologise. You make a nice change from all the other obstetricians.”

“Good.” She smiled at him, stood up, and walked away.

He sat and stared after her, suddenly unable to think about anything else. She walked … How did she walk? Rhythmically, leaning back just a little, her hips thrust forward; it was a master class (or mistress class? he wondered rather wildly) in visual temptation.

As dessert was served, he saw her working a table in the far corner of the room. He excused himself from the male midwife beside him (now waxing lyrical about womb music) and headed for the
gents’; on his way back he spotted her working another table, went over to her.

“Hello again.”

“Hello, Mr. Gilliatt.”

She had a very slow smile; it was extraordinarily seductive.

“I … wondered if you had a business card. I … well, I speak at a lot of these conferences and very often they want pictures, for the local press and so on. It’s … always useful to have a name up one’s sleeve.”

“Yes, of course. That’s great; I’m supposed to hand them out, so you’ve just won me some brownie points from my boss. That’s his number and this is mine—Abi’s my name. Abi Scott.”

“Thank you very much, Abi. Nice to have met you. Maybe we’ll meet again.”

“Maybe,” she said. With another slow smile.

He went back to the table and engaged very cheerfully in a heated debate on induction, fingering Abi’s card and telling himself that he would pass it to his secretary at St. Anne’s the next day.

He stayed the night at the hotel; he had strange, feverish dreams, and woke to an appalling headache. He showered and dressed and scooped up Abi Scott’s card, along with his keys and his wallet, which were lying on the bedside table, stared at it for a moment, then sat down again and, before he could think at all, rang her number …

They had an absurd conversation, both of them knowing exactly what it was actually about, while dissembling furiously.

He’d like a copy of a couple of the pictures for his wife (important to get that in—
Why, Gilliatt, why?);
could she perhaps e-mail them to him? She could do better than that: they had prints ready—she could drop them off at the hotel; it was only round the corner from her office. That would be extremely kind. Yes, she could be over in half an hour.

She’d been waiting in the foyer when he came down, leaning on the reception desk, fiddling with a long strand of her dark hair; she was wearing the tightest jeans he’d ever seen—they were like denim
tights, for God’s sake—with the same silver-heeled boots worn over them, and a black leather jacket. Her perfume hit him with a thud as he neared her, held out his hand.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning,” she said. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Gilliatt.”

Her eyes moved over his face, rested briefly on his mouth. She smiled again, and the invitation in the smile was unmistakable.

“Maybe I could buy you a coffee,” he said, the words apparently leaving his mouth entirely unpremeditated, unplanned. “To thank you for bringing the pictures.”

“That’d be … yeah, that’d be great.”

• • •

“So,” he said as they settled at a table, “do you live in Bristol?”

“I do, yes. But I come from Devon. Born in Plymouth.”

“Oh, really? How interesting. I come from Devon, too. I was born in Exeter.” God, he must sound ridiculous to her. Pathetic. “So … what were you doing before you worked for Mr … Mr …”

“Levine. Stripping,” she said briefly.

“Really?” He could hear himself struggling to sound unsurprised, unshocked.

She laughed out loud.

“Not really. Although it wasn’t a hundred miles from that. I was an underwear model. I worked for some cruddy local photographer who specialised in it. Publicity, you know. It meant having representatives from the manufacturers at the sessions. They liked to adjust the bras, that sort of thing. It was gross. What I do now is quite civilised.”

“Yes, I see.”

There was a silence; then he said, “Well, I should be getting along, really. Back to London. Back to the real world.”

“OK,” was all she said.

Right, Gilliatt. It’s still OK. You’re still safe. Go and have a cold shower and get off to London
. But—

“I’ll be down here again in a couple of weeks, another conference, in Bath. Staying here, though. Maybe we could have a drink.”

“Yeah,” she said with the slow, watchful smile, “yeah, that’d be great.”

And that had been that really.

• • •

That had been two months ago; since then he had thought about her obsessively, all the time. He longed to be with her, and not just for sex. He found her intriguing, almost frightening, so unlike anyone he had ever known. She excited him, she shocked him, and while he did not imagine himself remotely in love with her, he was certainly in her thrall.

She made him run appalling risks; she would stop suddenly as they walked through a dark street, force him into a doorway, pull him into her; she brought cocaine to the hotel rooms where they met, and made a great play of laying out the lines while the room service meals or drink were wheeled in; she called him on his mobile when she knew he was at home, claiming to be a patient, refusing to get off the line until he had made some arrangement to see her.