Penny Vincenzi - The Best Of Times

“But-”

“No, I insist. It sounds important.”

Outside, in the cold, she listened as he gave her a brief résumé, her dark eyes fixed on his face… Then she said, “Barney, you absolutely have to call her.”

“Tamara, why? She finished it.”

“Only because she thought you were still with Amanda.”

“No!”

“Yes!”

“Well…” He digested this for a moment; then he said, “Well, she knows I’m not anymore. So she could have rung me.”

“Oh, Barney, please! Girls do not make those sorts of phone calls. That’s a bloke’s prerogative. Is she with anyone else?”

“Don’t think so. No. No she’s not. At least-”

“Then, for God’s sake, what are you doing? Look, you don’t have anything to lose. Do you? It’s crazy, what you’re not doing. Just get out your phone and give her a call. It is so, so obvious. I can’t believe it. Anyway, I’d better get back; Micky will think I’ve run away with you.”

“I don’t think so,” said Barney, “loser like me.”

“Barney, you are so not a loser. You’re just great. Never tell anyone, but I really, really fancied you for ages. If you’d asked me first, I’d have married you, not Toby. Anyway, just as well; I’d have made your life a complete misery. Bye, darling. And just make that call. Otherwise I will.”

“You don’t have her number,” said Barney. He was smiling now, thinking how wrong he’d been about her. Or partly wrong, anyway.

“I can ring the hospital. I mean it. Promise me.”

“I promise,” said Barney. He leaned forward, gave her a kiss. “Thanks, Tamara. And thanks for the party. And have a great wedding.”

“I will.”

She would. She got everything she wanted. But… she knew how to get it.

No possible doubt about that.

The food was great. She had to admit that. A wonderful chicken pie, and before that, tiny salmon parcels. Followed by a gooseberry mousse. And thick, thick cream. If this was scruffy supper, what would the full-blown dinner party be like? And if this was the sort of food William was used to, he was going to be popping home from cottage number one pretty often.

The wine was very nice too, and Mr. Grainger had made a great thing of letting her taste it, to make sure she liked it, but… God! One bottle between the four of them. She finished her two small glasses, made a great thing of lifting it and looking in it, and then at William, but he was studiously ignoring her. In more ways than one; he and his father had started talking about GM crops and whether they might consider a trial.

Finally, as she sipped at her empty glass for about the tenth time, Mrs. Grainger said, “Would you like a soft drink, Abi? I thought, as you were driving…”

“Oh, but…” She looked at William. “William, I thought… well, I thought I was staying here tonight.”

“Really? I wish you’d said something to me, William,” said Mrs. Grainger. “I would have made up the spare room bed.”

Abi waited for William to say something that would indicate she wouldn’t be needing the spare room, but he smiled rather awkwardly at her, passed her the bottle of red he was sharing with his father, and returned to the discussion.

Abi poured herself a large glass, smiled at Mrs. Grainger, and wondered what on earth she could find to say to her; in the end she just sat and ate and learnt a lot about GM crops.

It was very quiet on the trading floor. He didn’t often see it like this. It looked and sounded dead, the screens blank, the phones silent.

He went over to his desk; his phone was still there. Well, it would have been; it was hardly state-of-the-art anymore. He was getting one of the new generation of iPhones, but it was taking a time to arrive.

He sat looking at it, hearing Tamara’s voice: “It’s crazy what you’re not doing.”

He scrolled down the numbers, found her name, took a deep breath, as if he was about to do something physically difficult, and pressed the button. And listened. Listened for her voice. Her pretty, slightly breathless voice.

It came. “Hi, this is Emma. Sorry I’m not around; just leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”

Shit. He hadn’t expected that. And why not? Had he really thought she’d just be sitting there, waiting patiently for him to call? Of course not. She was probably out somewhere; or maybe she was working. Yes, that’d be it; she was at the hospital. He called the number, asked for the doctor’s station in A &E. A female, rather bored voice said, “Accident and Emergency.”

“Oh,” said Barney. “Ah. Yes. Er… is… that is, is Dr. King there? Dr. Emma King?”

“No, she’s not on duty tonight.”

“Ah. Well… well, what about tomorrow?”

“Not sure. Do you want me to find out?”

No, thought Barney, of course not, that’s why I asked.

“That’d be great.”

“Just hold on.”

She was a long time; when she came back, she said, “Yes, she’s on duty from six a.m.”

“Right. Fine. OK. Er… thank you. Thank you very much.”

He felt quite differently now. Charged, up and running.

He sat for a moment thinking. If she was on duty from six, she was unlikely to be anywhere but in that flat of hers. That rather dreary flat, where he had spent those few extremely happy hours. OK, he’d go there. He’d drive down right now… No, maybe not, he’d had far too much to drink. Well, never mind. He’d take the train. And then get a cab. Easy. And if… well, if she told him to get lost, he could… well, he didn’t know quite what he’d do then. Best not to think about it. Live for now. As Tamara would have done. Of all the advice from all the people in the world… It was very ironic.

He called Emma again; it was still switched off. He left a message this time.

“Emma, it’s me. I’m coming down to Swindon.”

That was all.

He left the building, hailed a cab.

“Now, you must tell us about this concert, Abigail.” Mr. Grainger clearly felt he and William had been talking about GM crops long enough. “We’re looking forward to it, aren’t we?” he added to his wife. She gave him one of her pained smiles.

“July, isn’t it? July eighth?”

“And ninth,” said Abi.

“The ninth as well? There are two?”

“No,” said Abi, looking at William in bewilderment, “it’s running over two days. It’s a… well, it’s a… a music festival. People will be staying, camping…”

“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Grainger, “that won’t be possible.”

William looked at her, startled.

“What do you mean, Mother, it won’t be possible?”

“I mean exactly that. I… we can’t have strangers camping on the farm. It’s ridiculous. I had no idea. We shall have people breaking into the house, frightening the animals, letting them out onto the roads, quite possibly. Peter, did you realise this was happening?”

“I… Not exactly,” said Mr. Grainger. He was looking very uncomfortable.

“Dad!” said William. “Come on! I did explain.”

“Perhaps you did. I… don’t remember.”

“Well, whether you remember or not, it’s not going to happen,” said Mrs. Grainger. “It must be cancelled.”

“It can’t be,” said Abi, “not now.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said it can’t be cancelled. Tickets have been sold, bands have been booked, there’s a Web site, people will come anyway.”

“This is appalling,” said Mrs. Grainger, “absolutely appalling. Well, you’ll just have to return the tickets, and say on the Web site that it’s been cancelled. I’ve never heard of anything quite so… so highhanded. Or so rude,” she added.