The Best of Times (9 page)

The terror of it all made his adrenaline run high; the comedown was fearsome. She had become his personal, addictive drug; he needed her more and more.

But the fear had perversely given him courage; he was resolved that this had been the last time—had begun to try to tell her so as they ate breakfast in bed this final morning. It had all been wonderful, he said, really wonderful, but perhaps the time had come to—

“To what?” she said, looking at him sideways, picking up a croissant, dipping it in her coffee.

“Well, to … to draw a line.”

“What sort of a line? I’m afraid we used all mine last night.”

“Abi, please don’t be … don’t be … difficult. I think you know what I mean. We have to finish this.”

“What on earth for, when we’re having such a great time? Or did
I miss something last night? Were you trying to get away from me, escape into another room or—”

“Of course I wasn’t trying to get away from you. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Well, then, Jonathan, I don’t get it. Now come on, let’s get rid of this tray and have one last glorious fuck. Then I’ll leave you in peace. For now. Oh, no, not quite—I forgot I want a lift to London. Presume that’s OK?”

“Of course it’s not OK. I can’t possibly drive you into London. Someone might see me—us; you know the rules.”

“Oh, yes, the rules. It’s all right, Jonathan. Don’t look so frightened; I’m not proposing a visit to your very lovely home in Chiswick. I want to do some shopping, meet up with a girlfriend, maybe go to a movie.”

“Oh—right,” he said, “but still—maybe I could drop you at the station; you could get the train—”

“I don’t like trains. And I don’t really think it’s very likely that out of the millions of people in London this afternoon we’re going to be spotted by one of your chums. No, I’d prefer you to drop me … well, Harley Street would be fine; how’d that be?”

“Abi, I am not taking you to Harley Street.”

“Why not? I like it there. I’ve been there before, remember?”

He did remember—remembered her coming to his rooms, claiming she was a patient, pulling him into her on the examination bed; he still felt sick just thinking about it. Sick and … amazing.

“Well, you can’t come today. Someone might recognize you. Abi …” He took a deep breath. “I really do want to talk.”

“We can talk in the car. Waste of time talking. Now come on, what can I do to interest you …”

She turned him on his back, began toying with his cock with her tongue. He struggled briefly, then gave himself up to the pleasure of her. It could be the last time … He would take her to London and they would talk in the car. He would retreat from the madness and rebuild his life. It would be tough, and he would miss what she did for
him, but a few weeks from now it would seem like a dream. A disturbing, dangerous dream. And it would be over, with no great harm done—to him or Laura or the children or his marriage …

The possibility of his harming Abi never occurred to him. And if it had he would have dismissed it utterly. She really was not his concern.

CHAPTER 7

Linda had made the phone call. She told the casting director that Georgia had been up all night with food poisoning, but that she was struggling to get to London just the same; however, there was no way she’d be there by three. It would be more like five.

The casting director said that since Georgia would hardly be at her best and they were seeing three more girls the next day, then she could come along in the morning.

“At—let’s see—ten thirty?”

Linda thanked her not too effusively—she didn’t want to appear grovelling—and tried to ring Georgia back on the number she had given her. It was on message; Linda said could Georgia ring her immediately and get to her office in London as fast as she could. That way she could keep her literally under lock and key until she delivered her personally to the audition in the morning …

• • •

“So is it films you’re looking to get into?”

She was a nice kid, Patrick thought, very appreciative, sitting up there beside him, doling out his sandwiches and his jelly babies, his chosen sweets on the road, so sweet your blood sugar level—and thus your concentration—went up just looking at them.

“It’s what everyone wants, actually,” said Georgia. “Actors might
say they just want to play Hamlet at the National, but really and truly they all want to be big names in films and TV.”

“I’ll look forward to your first premiere,” said Patrick, grinning at her.

“Well, I’ll certainly invite you. I’d never have made it, if it wasn’t for you.”

“I’ve enjoyed the company.” He added, “And that’s the truth. But we’re not there yet. Mind if I put the radio on?”

• • •

It was eleven thirty; Toby had still not returned.

What the fuck was he doing? Barney wondered, pacing the house desperately.

They’d all had breakfast together—Toby had said it was important to appear normal, and anyway, no point getting to the bank before it opened at nine thirty. After which he set off, telling his parents some cock-and-bull story—or so it seemed to Barney—about having to collect some currency from the bank.

“But, Toby, no one gets currency from the bank anymore; that’s what plastic’s for,” his father said.

“Not in the Maldives; no cash machines where we’re going, and I can fill the car up at the same time. I meant to do it yesterday, but I forgot.”

Toby had always got himself—and very often both of them—out of scrapes at school by lying; Barney had always been awed by how accomplished at it he was. It was very rare for him not to get away with things: in no small part because he was a successful boy very good at games and bright, and the staff therefore liked him and were inclined to believe him anyway.

The Westons left at about ten thirty; they had a couple of things to pick up on the way, they said, before meeting their friends.

It was after twelve before Toby got back.

“Barney, I’m so sorry. She wasn’t there—no one was; she made me go to her office—”

“Couldn’t you have left it at the house?”

“No, she said she wanted it in her hands. Even then, I had to wait there for about ten minutes as well.”

“Yeah, all right, all right. Go and get changed, for Christ’s sake. We’re supposed to be having lunch with the ushers at one.”

“Well … we’ll have to cut it. Barney, the wedding’s not till four thirty. We’ll be fine …”

“OK,” said Barney reluctantly, “I’ll call them. Now, please. Hurry up.”

• • •

Toby, clearly shaken, was a long time in the shower; then he couldn’t find the Paul Smith socks he had bought, the only ones fine enough to make his new, stiff bridegroom shoes comfortable.

“Tobes, mate, we’ve got to go. And I’d better drive; you look bloody awful.”

“Yes, OK, OK. Oh—shit. I still haven’t filled the car up.”

“Toby! For Christ’s sake. Well, come on. Let’s go. Back way?”

“No, let’s nip along the M
4
. It’s only one junction, and we can fill up at the service station.”

“Toby, it’s Friday. Motorway’s not entirely the best idea—do we really have to get fuel?”

“We really have to. It’s bloody nearly empty. Anyway, we’ll be heading towards London, not out of it. It’ll be fine. Much quicker anyway than all those country lanes. We could just as easily get stuck behind a tractor—”

Barney was about to say that you could always get round a tractor if it was absolutely necessary, but Toby suddenly said he needed the lavatory. He disappeared for almost five minutes, came out looking very shaken.

“Sorry, Barney. Just been sick. Nerves, I suppose. Still don’t feel great. In fact—” he disappeared again.

Well, at least there’d be plenty of lavatories at the service station …

• • •

Georgia had discovered a message from Linda on Patrick’s phone. She looked at him, smiling radiantly.

“She doesn’t exactly say it’s all right, but she still wants me to get to London, so I think it must be, don’t you?”

“So tell me about yourself,” he said. And she did.

How she had wanted to be an actor all her life; how she had been the star of all the school productions, especially as Juliet. “Some of those bitches there said, ‘Oh, you can’t have a black Juliet,’ but our drama teacher was a complete legend, and she said of course you could; it was no stranger than all those white actors playing Othello.” And how she had then won a place at NAD, as she called her drama school, the National Academy of Drama, and how she had been spotted by Linda at the end-of-term performance.

“I’d like to be able to say the rest is history,” she said, biting into an apple, “but I can’t. If I get this thing today, well, it’s my big chance; it really is.”

She told him she’d been adopted when she had been a baby. “My birth mother was only fourteen and she couldn’t keep me—well, didn’t want to, more like it—so Mum and Dad took me on. They gave me a really happy childhood; I felt really safe and loved, had lots of nice things, went to a good school, you know? I think I was a bit of a disappointment to them, though. My mum dreamed of me being a teacher. God. I couldn’t do that. No patience. Not with little kids, anyway.”

Patrick agreed that you did indeed need a lot of patience with little kids. “I have three boys all under eight; life isn’t exactly peaceful.”

“I bet it’s not. Your wife must get quite … tired. What’s her name?”

“Maeve.”

“Maeve, that’s pretty. Does she work at all?”

“What, with three kids? She does not, although nothing makes
her more annoyed than when people ask her that. ‘What do you think I do all day?’ she says. ‘My nails?’”

“Oh, sorry. Stupid of me. I should know; I get all that sort of shit as well.”

“What sort of shit would that be?” said Patrick, amused.

“Oh, people saying things like, ‘How lovely for you to live in Roath Park.’ That’s the really middle-class bit of Cardiff where our house is. Or, ‘Wasn’t it lucky for you that Jack and Bea adopted you?’ What they mean is, ‘How lovely for you to have been adopted by white, middle-class people, instead of dragged down by your black birth mother.’ Well, it is in a way, but it’s bloody hard as well.”

“And why should that be?”

“Well, if you’re black, you’re black,” said Georgia slowly, “and it feels odd to be all the time with white people. You have no idea what it was like, as I got to four or five, to go to a kids’ party and be the only black face there. You feel … I don’t know … terribly on your own. And a bit bewildered … as if you shouldn’t be there, not really. Can you imagine that?”

“I … think I can, yes.”

“Thing is, you’re only there because your own mum and your real family have failed you and someone’s conscience meant you got rescued. And you feel you ought to be grateful all the time, and you really resent that. It got better as I grew up, because Cardiff’s a pretty mixed community and there were lots of black and Asian kids in my school. But then I thought, Well, what does that say for my relationship with my mum and dad, if I don’t feel good with the people they know and like?”

“Did you ever go and find your birth mother?”

“Yes,” said Georgia flatly, “but it didn’t work.”

“And did that upset you?”

“Yes, of course. Well, at first. Then I just sort of … pushed her back where she’d been all my life. Nowhere.” She looked at Patrick and smiled. “I never usually talk about all this stuff till I’ve known
someone for ages, and not always then. You must have some kind of magic, makes people talk.”

“I’m just naturally nosy, I suppose. We’re doing well, you know, Georgia. You’ll be there by five, the rate we’re going. Here, your phone’s charged. Best take it; don’t want you leaving it behind. Oh, Jesus, these people …”

A van had cut them off, overtaking from the inside; Patrick had to brake quite sharply.

“That was hideous,” said Georgia, adding, “White van driver, are they really all bad?”

“Most …”

Something had fallen on the floor. Georgia bent down to pick it up; it was a small box.

“What’s this?”

“Oh, now take a look; I’d be glad of a woman’s opinion. It’s a present for my mother-in-law, for her birthday. Her fiftieth. We’re having a bit of a celebration tonight; it’s one of the reasons I have to press on.”