Penny Vincenzi - The Best Of Times

He snapped off his mobile, pulled over into the middle lane, and moved up to the fifty-six miles an hour that was his top speed.

He was dead tired. But he should be home by seven at this rate. If only it wasn’t quite so hot…

Georgia looked at her watch again. Twelve fifteen now; it was hopeless, completely hopeless. She gave up praying, gave up smiling at every car that came along, gave up hope, sank onto the grass verge by the lay-by, buried her head in her arms, and started to cry.

Rick Thompson was in a foul mood.

He was supposed to be getting home early; he’d got up at bloody dawn to finish a job in Stroud-some silly cow had decided at the beginning of the week she wanted the fence he’d put up for her painted white instead of stained brown, and it had meant an extra day and a half’s work. He wouldn’t have minded so much-it was all work, after all, all money-but she liked to chat, and it was, well, boring, mostly about her husband who was away “on business, in Japan actually,” and his views on life in general and how he liked her garden to look in particular. When she was through with that, she moved on to her children, who were all very musical, especially her eldest…

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 A46 in the direction of the M4, 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 M4.”

“The M4! God in heaven, whereabouts on the M4?”

“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.