Penny Vincenzi - The Best Of Times

Abi said she wasn’t too keen on new men; they always seemed a bit suspect to her.

“All that wanting to breast-feed their own babies. Yuck!”

“Sherry, Abi?”

She was doing it on purpose, Abi thought. She must know that nobody young drank sherry. She’d hardly ever tasted it; she seemed to remember it was absolutely filthy.

Mrs. Grainger had done a double take when Abi had walked in; her disguise as well-bred, well-brought-up girl had certainly worked.

“How nice to see you,” she said. “William, take Miss Scott’s coat.”

“Please call me Abi,” she said, thinking how bizarre it was to be addressed as Miss Scott by a woman who had seen her pubes. Twice.

And, “Very well… Abi,” Mrs. Grainger had said. Mr. Grainger had pumped her hand vigorously and told her it was jolly good to see her; he was a bit of a sweetheart, she’d decided, definitely where William got his charm from.

“Now, I do hope you don’t mind,” said Mrs. Grainger, “if we eat in the kitchen. It’s just scruffy supper, as I’m sure William will have told you.” What was scruffy supper, for God’s sake? “Do forgive me, but I’ve been so busy this week. But let’s go through to the drawing room and have a drink.”

The drawing room was the room where Abi had sat that first day after the crash, waiting for William. It looked rather better, as William had lit a fire in the huge fireplace, but struggle as it did, the fire wasn’t making much of a job of heating the room. She made for the chair nearest to it, then drew back, fearing that was not what posh people did. They were used to the cold; for some reason central heating seemed to be regarded-by the older generation, at any rate-as a bit common. Well, cottage number one was going to be dead common; she’d make sure of that.

“Well, congratulations to you both,” said Mr. Grainger. “Jolly well done.” He smiled, and she could have sworn winked at her; she presumed he’d heard about the encounters between her and Mrs. Grainger.

“Yes, it’s very… nice,” said Mrs. Grainger. Nice was clearly the best she could do, but she was definitely trying.

“Any idea when you’ll be actually tying the knot?” said Mr. Grainger. “William’s been a bit vague about it.”

“Oh… we’re both pretty vague, I think,” said Abi. “Probably when William’s not too busy.”

“I’m afraid there’s no such time,” said Mrs. Grainger. “Farming is a nonstop process, as you will discover.”

“Um… yes.” She looked at William for help. He smiled at her rather foolishly.

“We don’t want to leave it too long, actually,” he said. “I can’t wait to have Abi here instead of miles down the road.”

“Ah, yes,” said Mrs. Grainger. “Now, I don’t know if William has told you, Abi, but we are proposing you have one of the cottages to live in.”

“Yes. Yes, he did; it sounds coo-wonderful. Thank you.”

“I hope you’ll be comfortable there. Of course, we’ve had to take it out of the brochures. We have families who come back year after year. They’ll be quite distressed, I imagine, to find that their holiday home is no longer available.”

Quite distressed. What an extraordinary thing to say. God, she was a strange woman. Was it really going to be worth it? Living next-door to her?

Then she looked at William, grinning at her, lounging back in his chair, dressed up for the occasion in clean jeans and a pair of suspiciously new-looking boots, and knew it was.

“You must tell us about your job,” said Mr. Grainger. “I don’t really understand it, I’m afraid. I think William said you were involved in photography…”

“Well… sort of. But I’m hoping to set up my own company.”

“Taking photographs?”

“No, no, organising events. You know, like for companies. Conferences and so on.”

“Will it be worth it, starting something now?” said Mrs. Grainger. She was looking very determinedly puzzled. “I mean, surely once you’re married, you’ll be needed by William up here.”

“Well… I’m not sure…” She looked at William helplessly.

“Well, of course you will. You marry a farmer, you marry the farm.”

“She could organise some shoots for us,” said Mr. Grainger, and this time she knew he winked.

“I… don’t know anything about shooting. Yet. I’m sure William can teach me.”

“You won’t be going out with the guns,” said Mrs. Grainger. “Wives don’t, for the most part. Unless you do some picking up.”

Picking up? Picking up what? The farmers? Well, there were a few she could fancy…

“It’s the lunches, coffees, all that sort of thing. I… well, I…” She appeared to be struggling to get some words out; finally she managed it: “I shall certainly appreciate some help with it all. It’s very hard work, and I’m beginning to find it very tiring.” She actually managed a smile. Abi smiled determinedly back.

“I’m not much of a cook,” she said carefully, “but of course I’d like to help. You can guide me, I’m sure.”

“Indeed. Melanie did wonderful lunches, didn’t she, William? I remember once I was ill and she produced lunch for twenty-eight without turning a hair. Melanie was one of William’s former girlfriends,” she added.

OK, you old witch. So it’s to be war. In spite of the low heels. She might as well have saved the money. But: “Still, as I say, I’m sure we’ll get along very well.”

That was a concession. A big one. She was at least trying.

“More sherry, Abi?” said Mr. Grainger.

“That would be lovely. And then I’m so looking forward to my scruffy supper…”

She couldn’t do it. She just couldn’t. She’d look so pathetic; he’d be so embarrassed; it was ridiculous. Totally, totally a bad idea. She deleted the text, switched her phone off, and walked into the restaurant.

God, he needed to get out of here. He’d drunk far too much. And stayed far too long. He’d reckoned on half an hour. It was… God, nearly nine.

He’d just retrieve his phone and-

“Barney! Oh, Barney, I’m going to miss you!”

Tamara’s arms were round his neck, her lips on his cheek, her thick scent everywhere.

“Well… I’ll miss you too. But Darwood’s isn’t exactly in another country. I’m sure we’ll see each other around.”

“Yeah, of course. Isn’t Micky sweet? Aren’t I lucky?”

“You are, yes,” said Barney, adding dutifully, “And he’s lucky too.”

He suddenly saw himself as he must seem to her: rather pathetic, a none-too-successful relic of their old life. While she… she’d got everything perfectly sorted: looked at that life, rejected it, and ordered a new one rather more to her satisfaction. Sleek, sassy, winner-takes-all Tamara.

“Sweet of you to say so. It does all seem terribly meant. Just think, if there hadn’t been that crash, Toby and I would have been an old married couple by now.”

“Indeed.”

“And so might you and Amanda.”

“Possibly.”

“And… Emma? You with her?”

“Oh… no, no.”

“No! Why not? I thought that was why-”

“You thought wrong,” said Barney briskly.

“Barney! So what happened? Come on, you can tell me.”

“I…” How could he possibly tell her-Tamara, of all people-about his broken heart? That most definitely wasn’t a cliché, he thought; his heart did indeed feel as if it was snapped in two. Or, no, more like dead and crumbling to dust. But then…

“It was all a terrible mistake,” he said finally. “We’d… I’d got it wrong.”

“In what way?” She looked round, took his hand. “Come on, Barney, let’s go outside; I can’t hear you in this.”