Penny Vincenzi - The Best Of Times

“Oh… she’s fine, yes. Off to pastures new when she can organise it.”

“Really? What, you mean to… to Milan?”

“What? Oh, no, no, that’s history, I think. No, she’s applying for new jobs. She’s very excited about something up in Scotland; not sure how that’s going.”

“Great. I mean, well, I hope she gets it. Give her… that is, remember me to her, please.”

“I will, Barney. Look… I’d better go. Dr. Pritchard’s waiting. Nice to see you, anyway.”

“Yes, sure. And… do give my regards to Emma.”

“I will. Cheers.”

And he was gone.

So… what had that meant? About Milan being history? That the boyfriend was history? Or just… no longer in Milan? Maybe he should call her. But… supposing she was with Luke again? It would be painful for her. Well… he’d made it pretty clear he hadn’t… forgotten her. Forgotten her. If only. If only you could do that to order, just neatly get rid of something, remove it, throw it away.

Throw away something that had become an intrinsic part of you, grown into you; entwined itself into your memories, tangled into your feelings, changed forever the way you were.

If only.

He got into his car and headed for the M4. The M4, where so much of his life had been changed forever. He would never hear the words again without a sense of absolute despair.

“Good day, dear?” Susan Andrews had been making marmalade; the house was warm and tangy and welcoming. Michael Andrews felt as he so often did after a day spent hearing sad stories of cutoff lives: that he was inordinately blessed.

“Yes. Yes, pretty good, I think.”

“Difficult?”

“No, not really difficult. It’s perfectly clear what happened. But… surprising in some ways. Extraordinary things, human beings. I’m always saying that, aren’t I?”

“Yes, dear, you are.”

“Brave and cowardly, foolish and wise, reckless and careful. All at one and the same time. Unbelievable, really.”

Susan Andrews looked at her husband. He was looking very drawn, in spite of his positive words.

“Come into the kitchen and have a cup of tea,” she said, “and tell me about it.”

Emma had been trying not to think about the inquest all day; but first Alex and then Mark had come in to tell her about it. About the various people they’d been involved with who were there, most notably Patrick Connell and, of course, Toby. “Funny chap, that,” Mark had said. “Some confusion over his evidence; he got very aerated. Oh, and your boyfriend was there, of course.”

“My… boyfriend? What do you mean?” she said.

“You know, the good-looking one, best man, you brought him up to the theatre that day when I operated on Weston’s leg.”

“Oh,” she’d said, “him. Yes, well, I supposed he would have been.”

“Nice chap,” said Mark, and then proceeded to tell her that not only was Toby’s wedding off, but so was Barney’s engagement. Adding that Barney had asked to be remembered to her. That had hurt her so much she could hardly bear it; she’d had to say she was in the middle of something and run to the loo, where she cried for a long time.

Barney had finished with Amanda, but he hadn’t got in touch with her. As rejections went, that was pretty final. How could it have happened? Where had it gone, that lovely, singing happiness they had found together, that instant closeness, that absolute certainty that they were right for each other? OK, their relationship hadn’t lasted long; it hadn’t needed to. It had been like a fireworks show: starting from nowhere and suddenly everywhere, explosive, amazing, impossible to ignore. And now… what? A poor, damp squib had landed, leaving nothing behind it, a bleak, sorry memento of the blazing display.

She knew now, absolutely certainly, that he didn’t want her. If he had, he would have called her; there was no reason on earth left not to. Probably, after all, it had just been a fling for him, fun, good indeed, but no more. The commitment had been fake, the love phony; he was probably even now pursuing some other well-bred, preppy creature more suited to his background, less of a discord in his life.

She would have been outraged had she not been so totally miserable; and maybe that would come. She hoped so. Meanwhile she felt like one of the girls she most despised: feebly clinging to what might have been, unable to break totally away. He’s gone, Emma; get over it.

But she hadn’t; and she couldn’t…

Abi drove into the farmyard just after six. The lights were on, and she could see Mrs. Grainger in the kitchen, bending over the kitchen table, making some no doubt wonderful dish or other. William often described what they’d had for lunch or supper; he was very keen on his food. She was clearly the most wonderful cook. Well, fine. William was never going to have to live with her cooking, her spag bol (usually burnt), her lamb chops (always burnt), her pasta salad (not burnt, but pretty tasteless, really). After today, he wasn’t going to have to have anything to do with her; he’d probably pull out of the festival, even; they’d have to find a new venue; Georgia would go mental; they’d-

“Yes?”

“Oh. Hello, Mrs. Grainger.”

She’d been so absorbed in her thoughts of William, she’d hardly realised she’d got out of the car and banged on the farmhouse door.

“Miss Scott!”

“Yes. It’s me. Sorry.”

“That’s perfectly all right. But if you want to see William I’m afraid you’re out of luck. He’s out on the farm.”

“Oh, right. What, in the dark?”

“Well… he’s in one of the buildings. He went off with his father.”

“Yes, I see. What, the milking parlour? Or the grain store, somewhere like that?”

“I imagine so.”

“But you don’t know which?”

“No, I couldn’t possibly say.”

“How long might they be?”

“I have no idea. As even you must realise”-God, she was an offensive woman-“farming is not a nine-to-five occupation. I think the best thing you can do is go home, and I’ll tell William you called. Then he can contact you in his own good time.”

“Mrs. Grainger, I really want to see him.”

“Well, no doubt you will.”

She began to close the door; Abi put her foot in the doorway.

“Please tell me where he is. I really won’t keep him long.”

“Miss Scott, I don’t know where he is…”

At this point, the old farm truck swung into the yard; Mr. Grainger got out of it.

Abi knew it was Mr. Grainger, not because she had ever been introduced to him, but because he looked exactly like William, or rather exactly as William might look in thirty-odd years. He looked at her rather uncertainly as she walked towards him.

“Hi. Mr. Grainger?”

“Good evening.”

“I’m looking for William. I’m a friend of his. Abi Scott. William might have mentioned me.”

“Ah, yes. The young lady involved in the concert. How’s it coming along?”

“Oh… pretty well. We’re so, so pleased to be able to have it here. Um… I wonder if you could tell me where William is?”

“Yes. Well, he was in the lambing shed. I left him there, working on the accounts. Would you like me to call him, to find out if he’s still there?”

“Um… no. No, it’s OK, thank you. I know where it is. I’ll just go and find him, if that’s all right.”

“Well… I suppose so, yes. You’ll drive down there, will you? Won’t do that smart car of yours much good.” He smiled at her. He seemed rather nice. What on earth was he doing with the old bat?

“Oh, it’s fine. Really. Yes. Thank you. Thank you, Mr. Grainger. And Mrs. Grainger, for your help,” she called towards the lighted doorway. Mrs. Grainger turned and went inside, followed by her husband.