Penny Vincenzi - The Best Of Times

Abi had gone to have her hair blow-dried. It was the only way to get it all silky smooth, like those posh girls had. Then she’d go home, change, and set off in enough time to arrive really cool and collected. She’d even bought a much lighter perfume, not her usual heavy stuff.

She had a manicure as well, no colour on her nails, just left them all natural and shiny. She was going to do William really proud…

He’d told her to arrive at about seven thirty: “Then we can have a drink; Mother likes to feed everybody at eight sharp.”

She resisted the temptation to say, What if everybody didn’t want to be fed at eight sharp? Tonight, the world was going to see a new Abi. Or rather, the Graingers were. And actually, who knew? She might even stay that way.

She’d read a Telegraph that was lying around the office, so she could converse intelligently, if required, on politics or whatever. Not the foreign stuff; that completely baffled her. And listened to PM on Radio 4 as she drove back from the hairdresser. God, it was boring: how could people like that stuff?

She left Bristol at six; that would give her so much time.

“Barney, hi. Lovely to see you. Come along in. You’ll know nearly everyone, I’m sure… Micky, darling, have you met Barney Fraser? He’s at BKM, on the commodities desk.”

“Not sure. Hi, Barney.”

Burne Proctor gave Barney an ice-cold smile. What a cliché, Barney thought: the Etonian drawl, the slicked-back blond hair, the blue eyes, the striped pink-and-white shirt, worn tieless under the excruciatingly well-cut dark suit… and worth how many millions? Well, it was usually billions now, on that list. A good few anyway. He reputedly took home over a million every year in salary and bonuses alone. Well done, Tamara.

“Hi,” said Barney. “Congratulations.”

“Yeah, great, thanks.”

“Off to Barbados, I hear.”

“Yah, well, not quite Barbados -one of the little islands off that coast I’ve bought. Should be fun. And Tam needs a break; she’s had a tough time.”

“Indeed,” said Barney.

“Well, nice to have met you. Hope we’ll be seeing you when we’re settled.”

Yeah, right. He was about as likely to receive an invitation from the Burne Proctors as from the Queen. Probably rather less.

He looked around the bar. It was huge, very, very long, one of the old-fashioned brass-and-glass jobs. With the usual impossible din going on. He must be getting old to notice that. Tamara was right: he did know nearly everyone. Well, they did work for the same firm, so it was hardly surprising. Loads of pretty girls, which was nice. They all looked the same, these girls, with their long hair and their long legs and their dark suits and their high heels. One of the things about Emma was that she didn’t look like that. Well, she had long hair and long legs, but she was quirkily pretty, not one of your preppy monotones; her voice was quick and light; she never drawled, and when she smiled… God, when she smiled. She’d light up the city of London unaided with that smile. And her nose, and the way it wrinkled up when she giggled. He loved her nose…

Shit, Barney, stop thinking about the girl and call her. Go on. Just do it. Lay the ghost if nothing else. Go and… Damn. He’d left his phone on his desk. He never did that, ever. Better go and get it. He-

“Barney! Hi! Lovely to see you. You know Sasha, don’t you? Yes, I thought you did. Sasha’s got the most incredible new job, out in Dubai. How are you, you old bastard? Come and tell us what you’ve been up to.”

The phone would have to wait.

She’d written the text; she just hadn’t sent it. She’d do that bit later. When she’d got her courage up.

She’d written it on the bus: Hi, Barney. How are you? I was thinking about you and wondering if we could meet sometime. Just for a chat. Call me if you have a minute. Emma.

She’d added two kisses and then taken them off again about six times. At the moment they were there.

Her phone rang sharply; she jumped. Had she sent it already, by mistake; was he ringing her…? Don’t be ridiculous, Emma; you’re getting Alzheimer’s.

“Emma? It’s Mark… Listen, we’re in a different place, not the Indian; it’s a Thai, just by the big shopping arcade; that OK? Got a pen…?

Emma scribbled down the address and went back to looking at her text. And deleting and reinstating the kisses.

This was good. She was in really good time. She’d even been able to put her car through the car wash. That would amuse William; he didn’t believe in cleaning cars. He treated his cars like shit. Not like his tractors. He tended them as carefully as if they were his animals. One of his cows. One of his girls.

It was a funny thing, their relationship. Everyone was baffled by it; she could see that. Even Sylvie, who was always going on about how fit William was.

“You can’t marry him, Abi,” she’d said. “You don’t have anything in common. What are you going to do in the evenings, talk to the sheep or something?”

As long as it was in the lambing shed, Abi thought, that’d be fine. She really couldn’t see the problem with having nothing in common with William. It made life more interesting. Anyway, they did. They found the same things funny; they liked the same people… She even liked his farming friends, and they certainly seemed to like her, and he loved people like Georgia… And actually she did find the farming genuinely interesting. The pattern of it intrigued her, the progress through the year, the hatching and dispatching of animals, as William called it, the way it all worked: stuff was planted and grew and was harvested and then you started all over again, and it was all rather… neat. Neat and satisfying.

She was not particularly fastidious; she didn’t mind the mess and the smells-except perhaps the silage; that was quite gross-and she genuinely liked the animals. Especially the cows. They were so sweet, with their big, curious faces and kindly eyes, their swinging walk. She had seen a calf born a couple of weeks earlier, and she had found it wonderful; this little thing slithering out, wet and curly and a bit bewildered, and the mother’s great tongue licking it, and the hot, sweet, strong smell. William said it wasn’t always like that; they often didn’t slither out; they had to be hauled, brutally; she’d been lucky. He’d promised her a night in the lambing shed when the lambs were born: “You’ll like that; it’s such chaos, and so noisy. They come out one after the other; it’s like a sort of conveyor belt; you’ve hardly delivered one, or rather a set, when there’s another one on the go. And they just come out, stagger up on their little legs, make for the milk, and-Don’t look at me like that; there’ll be no time for us to do anything. Together, that is. You’ll have too much to do. You won’t be able to just watch.”

She was impressed by the rams’ performances: “One ram to fifty ewes, thereabouts.”

“Not even you could manage that, William, could you?” she said.

And, “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “Over a few days, you’d be surprised.”

They had discussed the matter of children; they both liked children, wanted several.

“But not yet. I want to get my company up and running first.”

“That’s fine. I can wait. Although not too long; you’re marrying an old man, don’t forget.”

She did forget how old he was: ten years more than her. It was quite a lot.

He was completely relaxed about her working; he said it was what made her interesting; he didn’t want her hanging about, bored.

“You can carry on working when we have kids, if you like. It’s fine by me. Just don’t expect any help, all right? Farmers are not new men.”