"The Best Of Times" - читать интересную книгу автора (Vincenzi Penny)

CHAPTER 5

This was even worse, Patrick thought, than the week before. He had left London on Wednesday morning and now it was Thursday afternoon, and the night drive he had planned to get him home for Friday morning had been scuppered by a five-hour queue at the warehouse for loading up and a stroppy manager, with the words they all dreaded: “We’re closing, mate.”

Useless to argue, although Patrick tried to point out that it was only four thirty, with half an hour to closing; the man was unmoved. “I can’t get all that on board in half an hour; come back in the morning.”

Well, nothing else for it; he’d just have to bite the bullet and call Maeve; and then get some food and start looking for somewhere to spend the night.

And-wouldn’t you just know it-the weather was getting hotter and hotter.

This time tomorrow, Mary thought, she would be with Russell. She felt alternately terribly excited and terribly nervous. But now, actually, the excitement was winning. Her greatest fear-that they would be complete strangers, with nothing to say to each other-seemed suddenly unlikely. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t been in contact all these years. And how odd that was, she thought, their two lives and lifestyles being so utterly different. But then they always had been; there had been nothing actually in common-unless you counted the war. Which had, of course, bound people very tightly together by its shared ideals and hopes, dangers and fears. Russell and she, growing up thousands of miles apart, in totally different cultures, had found each other through that war, found each other and loved each other; at no other time and in no other way could such a meeting and consequent relationship have taken place. And it was one of the things that had convinced Mary that their lives together could not be shared, that when the war was gone, much of the structure of their relationship would be gone too, the differences between them increased a thousandfold.

But now… well, now they had their past to bind them: the wonderful bridge between any two people, however different, who had raised children; seen grandchildren born and partners die; lost the strength and physical beauty of their youth; faced old age and loneliness; and shared, inevitably, the broader ideals of love, of loyalty and family, and wished to pass the importance of those things on to the generations that followed them, their own small piece of immortality.

All these things Mary thought that night as she lay in bed, unable to sleep and looking forward only just slightly anxiously to tomorrow.

What was she doing here? Georgia wondered. What? She must be totally, utterly, absolutely mad. Out clubbing in Bath with Esme and Esme’s up-himself boyfriend, drinking cocktails that she couldn’t afford, when she should be at home in bed in Cardiff, her alarm set for seven, giving her plenty of time to get to the coach station and take the ten-o’clock to London. Shit, shit, shit. It had seemed such a good idea at the time: an evening with Esme in her parents’ house; she’d even thought she might run through some of her scenes with Esme-it would help with the awful nerves-and then she could get the coach in the morning from Bath. Her mother hadn’t tried to stop her, just told her to be sensible and not miss the coach-as if she would; and then Georgia’d arrived and Esme was all stressed out because of the boyfriend, who she thought was about to dump her, so that when he called and asked Esme to meet him in town at some bar or other, Esme had acted like it was God himself, and insisted Georgia go too-“Honestly, Georgia, it’ll only be an hour or so; then we can come back and you can get to bed. I can’t go alone; I just can’t.” So she had gone, and how stupid had that been? Because now it was almost two, and no prospect of leaving, and she had no money for a cab, and the boyfriend kept saying he’d get them home.

What would Linda say, if she knew? The chance of Georgia’s life and she was risking throwing it all away… Well, she’d just have to get up early somehow, get some money out of the hole in the wall, and then sleep on the coach. She’d drink loads of water now-and anyway, none of them had any money left for cocktails, thank goodness-and just demand they leave. Only-God, where was Esme now? She’d been on the dance floor a minute ago, with thingy’s tongue down her throat, and now she’d vanished, must have gone outside-oh, God, oh God, what was she doing here, why had she come…?

“God, it’s hot.” Toby pushed his damp hair back off his forehead. “Might take a dip. Fancy one, Barney?”

“Sounds good.”

They were in the garden of Toby ’s parents’ house; Toby had asked Barney to stay there with him the night before the wedding. “Stop me running away,” he said with a grin. But there had been something in his voice, a slight catch. He’d been a bit odd altogether, actually, all evening: quiet, edgy, jumping whenever the phone rang. He’d left twice to take calls on his mobile. “Tamara,” he’d said both times when he came back.

Carol Weston had served a delicious dinner for the four of them-poached salmon followed by raspberries and cream-which they had eaten outside, burning copious candles to keep the insects at bay; Ray Weston had served some very nice chilled Muscadet, and proposed the toast to “the perfect couple. That’s you and Toby, Barney,” he said, smiling, and they had sat there, chatting easily until it was dark, reminiscing. But then Toby became increasingly silent, almost morose, and Carol and Ray went in to bed, with strict instructions to them both from Carol not to be late.

“We don’t want any hitches tomorrow, any hungover grooms.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Toby said, and then swiftly, apologetically, “Sorry, Mum. But do give me a bit of credit. We’ll just have a couple of quiet ones and then bed, Barney, eh?”

“Absolutely.”

They climbed out of the pool and sat, briefly cool, on the terrace at the back of the house.

“Quiet one then?” Toby said and, “Yes, great,” said Barney. He’d expected Toby to fetch more wine; was a little alarmed when he saw him come out of the house with a bottle of whisky and some tumblers.

“Tobes! You heard what your mum said.”

“Oh, don’t you start. There’s no nightcap like scotch. Neat scotch. Want some?”

Barney nodded.

“That’s better,” Toby said, taking a large gulp, then leaning back in his chair, studying his glass.

“Better? You’re not nervous, are you?”

“Well-a bit. Inevitable, really. Lesser men than me have run away.”

“Tobes. You wouldn’t.”

“Of course not. What, from a girl like Tamara? God, I’m lucky. So lucky.”

A second whisky followed the first; a silence; then Toby said, quite suddenly: “I’ve… well, I’ve got a bit of a problem, Barney. Actually. Been a bit of an idiot.”

“How? In what way?”

“I… Oh, shit, I should have told you ages ago. Well, weeks ago, anyway.”

He was staring into the darkness, his hands twisting.

“Toby, what is it; what have you done?”

“I’ve… well, I’ve made a complete fool of myself. With some girl.”

Barney stared at him in total silence for a moment, then said, “Fuck!”

“Well, exactly that. Yes. I… well, I got incredibly drunk one night with some friends round here. Anyway, we went to a club near Cirencester, and this girl was there. On a hen night. She lives in the next village, actually. Dead sexy, works for some local builder, you know the sort of thing.”

“Think so,” said Barney. He was feeling rather sick.

“Anyway I… well, I screwed her. I… gave her a lift home, in a cab. Well, it seemed a good idea at the time. When we got back to her place, she said why didn’t I come in for a nightcap, her parents were away for the night, and-well, one thing led to another.”

“Toby, you lunatic!”

“I know, I know. Anyway, I felt pretty bad in the morning, obviously, hoped she’d see it my way, just a bit of fooling around-she didn’t.”

“Oh, Tobes-”

“She knew where I lived, or rather where my parents lived, became a complete pest, always calling me, at work as well, on my mobile, actually turned up here once or twice. I… well, I tried to get rid of her, but it didn’t work. She got quite unpleasant, started accusing me of treating her like a tart-”

“Well-”

“I know, I know. God, what wouldn’t I give to have that time over again. Anyway, next thing is, last week she calls, says she’s pregnant.”

“Shit!”

“I tried to call her bluff, but… well, unfortunately, I… well, I left all that sort of thing to her; she said she was on the pill-”

“You idiot,” said Barney, “you total idiot.”

“I know. I know. I can’t explain it. I’ve never done anyting like that. Ever. Well, you’d know if I had. No secrets from you, Barney. I s’pose… I suppose it was a combination of last-fling time, nerves about… well, about being married-”

“You mean to Tamara?” said Barney quietly.

“Yes. At rock bottom. I do love her-but she’s quite high-maintenance. Bit of a daunting prospect. Anyway-that’s not an excuse. I… well, it was an appalling thing to do. I know that.”

“So-what’s happened?” It seemed best to stick to practicalities.

“I told her to have a test, all that sort of thing. Anyway, she’d gone all quiet. I thought it was OK, but… well, anyway, she called me tonight. That was what those calls were. She wants some money. So she can have a termination. She wants to have it done properly, as she puts it. At a private hospital.”

“Well, tell her she can’t.”

“Barney, I’m in no position to talk to her like that. Even if none of it’s true, I daren’t risk it. You know what Tamara’s like-”

“Well-yes. I do. But-”

“Anyway she wants a couple of grand.”

“Blimey.”

“Moreover she wants it tomorrow morning. In cash.”

Barney felt sick, oddly scared himself.

“You can’t give in to that sort of thing,” he said finally.

“Barney, I have to. Otherwise, she’s threatened to come to the church. It wouldn’t look good if she turned up at my smart society wedding, as she called it, would it?”

“No,” said Barney, after a pause, “no, it wouldn’t be great.”

“So-I’ve got to give her a grand in the morning. In cash. Which I don’t happen to have about me. Do you?”

“Nope. Got about a hundred, but-”

“I’ll have to go to a bank, get it out. The most I can get on my card is four hundred quid.”

“I can get that too. But-”

“No, no, Barney, it’s my problem. And then I’ll have to take it to her. To her parents’ house, fifteen, twenty minutes away. So-”

“Toby, you do realise it may not stop at this, don’t you? That’s the whole thing about blackmail.”

“Yeah, but whatever she does next, I’ll be married, the wedding’ll be safely over, Tamara won’t have to be confronted by it-literally. I’ll deal with it somehow. Anyway, I’ve got a feeling she’ll back off. Meanwhile-busy morning.”

“Yeah. Well, look, surely I can deal with that. I can get the money; I can take it to her-”

“No, that’s just too complicated. I’ll do it. I should be back here by ten thirty, eleven, latest. Then I’ll just change and we can go. We might be a bit late for the ushers’ lunch, but that won’t matter.”

“We need to leave by eleven, really, for that, mate.”

“Well, maybe we’ll have to drive faster. Oh, God. What a total fucking idiot I’ve been. Let’s have another of those, Barney. Then we’d better turn in. Busy day tomorrow.”

He nodded at the whisky bottle; Barney poured the drinks out, his hand shaking slightly, wondering how he could possibly have got Toby so wrong. He’d have trusted him with his life, always regarded himself as the slightly wild card. And now…

Laura was just drifting off to sleep when the phone rang.

“Darling?”

“Oh, Jonathan, hello. How did it go?”

“Oh-pretty well, I think. Yes. Jack seemed pretty pleased.”

“I bet he was. I bet you were wonderful.”

“Hardly. Anyway, you’re all right, are you?”

“I’m absolutely fine, darling. Just a bit hot. But we got all the uniforms, then I took them out to supper-”

“Let me guess. T.G.I.’s.”

“Correct.”

“God, I don’t know how you can face those places.”

“Well, the children love them. And I love the children.”

“So do I. But… well, you’re a saint. They’re lucky to have you. I’m lucky to have you.”

“And I’m lucky to have you.”

“Well-as long as everything’s OK. Night, darling. I’ll be home tomorrow, around six, going straight up to St. Anne’s from here.”

“Fine. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

That was done then: very unlikely now that she would call him again.

Jonathan walked into the foyer of the Bristol Meridien, so nicely anonymous, so filled with pleasurable associations.

He checked in and went up to his room, had scarcely pushed the door open when she walked out to greet him, stark naked, holding out a glass of champagne.

“You’re very late,” she said. “What kept you?”