David Nobbs - It Had to Be You

He had been glad to get the officer out of the room. Now he was glad to see him back. His dreary normality was comforting.

‘Glass of water, sir,’ said the officer, not without a glimmer of satisfaction at his success in carrying out this simple task.

The water tasted quite wonderful. It really was the most magnificent drink. He couldn’t think why he ever drank gin or Noilly Prat or whisky or vodka or port or wine or beer or sherry or Madeira or Ricard or Campari or Manhattans or dry Martinis or Negronis or Harvey Wallbangers or Deborah’s damson gin. Deborah? He was never going to see her again, never feel the warmth of her smile. Never. He was free to marry the woman he loved, but never to see Deborah again, that really was a heavy price to pay.

‘What exactly happened, officer?’

The officer consulted his notes, frowning with concentration. Reading didn’t come naturally to him.

‘It was on a road just outside Diss, sir.’

‘Diss?’

‘It’s a town in Norfolk, sir.’

‘I know it’s a town in Norfolk, but what was she doing there?’

‘I have no idea, sir.’

‘No, of course you don’t. Silly of me. Sorry. Carry on.’

‘She hit a Porsche head on, sir. Both cars are write-offs. Both drivers dead.’

‘I suppose I’ll have to go and identify her.’

‘I … um … I’m afraid that probably won’t be possible, sir. There’s … um …’

The young officer began to break out into a sweat. What had he been on the verge of saying? There’s not enough of her left, sir?

‘It’s my understanding that it will be done with dental records, sir. Shouldn’t be too long.’

‘So the car might have been stolen? It might not be her.’

‘I suppose it’s possible, sir, but there was the remains of a handbag on the back seat, sir, with two credit cards of Mrs DJ Hollinghurst, and … um … on the floor at the back, a pair of high-heeled red Prada shoes, sir.’

‘I see. Thank you.’

Cry, damn you.

‘It seems, sir, that the accident was entirely the fault of the other driver. He was overtaking. A witness said that there just wasn’t room. There was nothing that your wife … if it was your wife … could have done.’

‘It was my wife, officer. Nobody else would have had those red shoes in the car.’

It was the shoes that puzzled him. Why should she have been taking them? She had God knows how many other pairs she could have taken. Why had she taken her very favourite pair, and to Diss?

The policeman had gone half an hour ago, and he had done nothing, except think about having another wonderful glass of water, and then pour more Noilly Prat into his drink instead. He shouldn’t have poured himself any more. He had a lot of phone calls to make, and he didn’t want to end the evening slurring his words. He wanted to be dignified. He would need to have his wits about him. But he had persuaded himself that in pouring more Noilly Prat he was weakening the overall alcoholic content of his drink, since Noilly Prat was less alcoholic than gin, so that was all right.

He’d wished that he hadn’t hidden the drink behind his wedding photograph. It had been difficult to recover it without looking at the photograph, and he could hardly bear to do that. Those smiles. That radiance. Those hopes. He waited for the tears to come. He waited in vain.

So many phone calls. Oh, the burden of those calls. He felt so alone, so desperately alone. That was ridiculous. He had two devoted brothers, many friends he could rely on for support. And Helen. There was no need to be alone. He could ask Helen to come round. No, Helen here? How insensitive would that be?

He could go round to be with her, though. He needed her. He must phone her first. But what could he say? Bad news, Helen. No. Wonderful news, Helen.’ No!

Hello, darling. We’ve often talked about what we’d do if we were free, you’ve urged me to divorce Deborah, and I’ve said I just couldn’t, I couldn’t bear to hurt her that much, well, fate has taken a hand, she’s been killed, instantly, outright, thank goodness for that. We’re free, my darling, to spend the rest of our life together. Isn’t that wonderful?

Couldn’t do it. Not yet anyway. Certainly couldn’t do it in this room, in front of that photograph.

Probably he’d need another drink before he rang her, and that thought struck him as very odd.

No. It wasn’t odd. It was … seemly. He had loved Deborah for, oh, almost twenty-five years. Only in the last few years had he … after he’d met Helen … and even then he and Deborah had had good loving times. He didn’t think that she had suspected anything. She had continued to look after him most splendidly. He owed her a seemly death, a respected death. He … he loved her. In his way. Yes, he did. Despite … although … oh, God.

No, he must ring Max first. Except he couldn’t. Max didn’t like being phoned at work. His bosses frowned upon personal calls. We were six hours ahead of Canada. Max usually finished work at about five-thirty. He’d try him on his mobile at twenty to six Canadian time.

That meant that he’d have to stay at least reasonably sober until twenty to twelve British time. Oh, Lord.

It had to be Charlotte. Oh, God.

He forced himself to dial the dreaded number. He hoped he’d get straight through to her, so that in an instant the whole problem of speaking to each other after all those years would have been solved.

‘Yep?’

‘Oh, hello, Chuck. When I rang you earlier it was because I’d had a message that the police wanted to see me.’

‘You thought Charlie’d screwed up again.’

‘Yes. I have to say I wondered. But it wasn’t that. No, it was … there’s been a car crash. Charlotte’s mum’s been killed, Chuck.’

‘Oh, my God.’

‘Yes. Can I speak to her, please?’

‘Trouble is, Mr Hollinghurst …’

‘Yes?’

‘Trouble is … oh, and I’m sorry. Real sorry. That’s a cunt of a thing to happen. Sorry. Bad language.’

‘Hardly matters under the circumstances.’

‘No. Quite. Trouble is, Mr Hollinghurst, I’ll have to tell her what’s happened or she won’t come to the phone. She’ll be so, Tell him to go fuck himself. Oh, sorry.’

‘No. I have a pretty good idea how she talks about me, Chuck. OK, Chuck. Tell her.’

‘Shit, man, I’m not looking forward to this.’

‘Take your time. I’ll wait.’

While he waited, James hurried over to his gin and Noilly Prat and took it back to the phone. He sat on the purple chaise longue and waited. The silence went on and on. It was awful to be so close to her and yet so far away. He longed to hear her voice. She was a woman now. How much would her voice have changed in five years? How much suffering would there be in it? How much evidence of … abuse, frailty, self-harm? He couldn’t face up to the word ‘drugs’ even in his thoughts. But nothing could be worse than her silence. Oh, Charlotte, my darling, speak to me, please.

‘Hi.’

He nodded sadly at the invisible Chuck.

‘Hi.’

‘No go, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh, shit, Chuck.’

‘I know. I know.’

‘How’s she … taken it?’

‘Floods of tears. Floods of tears, Mr Hollinghurst.’

James envied her.

‘Didn’t she say anything?’

‘She said to tell you she’s sorry.’

James felt absurdly pleased, and embarrassed at feeling so pleased. It seemed inexcusably self-centred at this moment. Even to be aware that he was being self-centred seemed self-centred. But he was always hard on himself.

Besides, what she had said, it was nothing.

But it was also everything.

He put the phone down very slowly. He decided that it would do him no harm to have just one more drink. Just Noilly Prat, though. No gin. He picked up the Noilly Prat bottle, looked at it with unseeing eyes and put it down again. Just gin would make more sense, because gin could be diluted with tonic.