Penny Vincenzi - The Best Of Times

Emma looked at her, her respect growing by the minute.

“Are you Abi? Security sent me over.” It was a girl dressed totally unsuitably in high-heeled red sandals and white trousers. “Tessa Stan-dish, Wiltshire Radio.”

“Oh… God. Yes. Cool. They said you might be coming. Let’s go over to the arena. Have you got any other shoes?”

“No. So stupid, but I wasn’t expecting to come this morning.”

“Tell you what,” said Abi. “We pass the welly stall. You can be our first paying customer. Here, look. Rainbow-coloured, madam? Spotted? Or even a pair of Hunters?”

Georgia was driving down the M 4 just before one when she heard Tessa Standish: “Coming to you from In Good Company, the music festival based at Paget’s Farm, just off the M 4 near Bridbourne. And I can tell you, if you’re thinking of coming you’re in for a treat. It looks fantastic, incredible array of stalls, wonderful bands on the programme, lots of them local, great camping area, stuff for the kids to do, and the most amazing setting. It could have been purpose-built for the occasion, a sort of natural amphitheatre… and don’t be put off by the weather, because the rain’s stopping here now, and there’s even a bit of sun fighting its way through. Now the headline band is BroadBand, playing at eight, but there are loads of others, starting with a folk band called-what are they called?-oh, yes, Slow-mo. They’re on at three. And it’s all for charity, in aid of the victims of the M 4 crash last August and St. Marks Hospital, Swindon, so you’ll be doing some majorly good work if you come.”

It was awful to be so late; she’d wanted to be down first thing, really make herself useful, but the second on the new film had suddenly called her and said they needed rain to film a scene, and here it was, most obligingly; could she get over right away? So she’d had to get over.

Georgia had had a pretty amazing three months since Moving Away had gone on to the nation’s television screens. She had had rave notices-been proclaimed by various critics as “an incredible new talent,” and giving a “near perfect performance” and “exquisitely touching” and “a superbly intuitive actress.”

“I don’t understand it,” she’d said to Linda. “I know I wasn’t that good; I just know it. I’m not daft.”

“Maybe, but the thing is, darling, the camera loves you. It isn’t just models you hear that of; there are certain actors it’s true of too. It found more in your performance than you know was there, maybe than actually was there. Frankly, Georgia-and I’ve always been one of your biggest fans-I didn’t see you getting notices like this. You’re a one-in-a-million screen actress, and you should thank God fasting for it. And don’t come running to me after a bit saying you want to play Juliet at Stratford, you don’t feel fulfilled…”

“Of course I won’t,” said Georgia.

“Darling, you’d be surprised how many do. Just enjoy this. It’s great.”

Georgia’s face was everywhere; apart from the arts pages, Vogue had used her for a fashion shoot, she’d appeared in the style section of the Sunday Times, and in the Guardian as their close-up spread in the Monday fashion slot. She’d been interviewed just about everywhere-and wonderfully had been able to plug the festival several times-and most important, had a part in a new BBC series, filming in the autumn, and after that in a main feature film, a screen adaptation of a new novel set against the background of what the publicity called “Thatcher’s Britain.” Georgia couldn’t actually see that it was that different from present-day Britain, although her mother inevitably could, but it was going to be a great movie, and she had a great part.

She had moved out of her room in Jazz’s house and bought a minute flat in Clapham; she had bought a ton of clothes from Top-shop and TK Maxx and a couple of dresses from Stella McCartney, for special occasions, and one of the new Minis, and she and Merlin were going on holiday to Thailand for a week when the BBC film was finished. Life had changed a bit, as she said to Abi, but she felt exactly the same. “Just as worried about everything, just as insecure, just as-”

“Nuts?” Abi said with a grin.

And yes, Georgia said, she supposed that was right.

“I’d so love to be cool like you, Abi, cool and sorted. I can’t see it ever happening. Maybe I need a husband.”

Abi said she thought a husband was the last thing Georgia needed. “Who could cope with you anyway, all famous like you are; you’d have to find another luvvie, and anyway, how about Merlin; what’s wrong with him?”

Whereupon Georgia sighed and said nothing.

“Yes, there is, I can tell,” said Abi. “What’s the matter, trouble in paradise?”

“Paradise?”

“Yes. Merlin told me being with you was total paradise. I thought it was sweet.”

“Well, it isn’t,” Georgia said. “I can’t bear it when he says things like that.”

“I wouldn’t mind. The best William could manage was that life’s got a lot better since we got married, but he’s not so sure about this week.”

“Yes, but he means it. Merlin doesn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Oh… it’s all so corny. I swear he practises it in front of a mirror. And he’s sooo vain. I don’t know, Abi; I’d much rather have someone all lovely and steady like William. I’d love to be a farmer’s wife.”

“Georgia,” said Abi, “you couldn’t possibly marry a farmer; you’d be crying all the time-think about the lambs going off to market, or the poor little bull calves…”

“Why, what happens to them?”

“I’m not even going to tell you,” said Abi; but Georgia was intrigued and asked William, and then, as Abi had predicted, sat with tears rolling down her face at the plight of the poor things, off to market to be turned into veal.

Anyway, the festival looked like it was going to be great; a cautiously optimistic call from Abi at midday had reported a “huge queue” at the gates. “I just drove along the road, saw them from there, a great line of them, straggling between the cornfields, you know, the ones leading across to the end of the farm. Just get here, Linley you’ve got work to do. And where’s your friend?”

“She should be there,” said Georgia. “I spoke to them about an hour ago; they were at Swindon or thereabouts. I hope nothing’s happened to them.”

“No, not them, they’re here and absolutely great. We managed to get them a plug on the radio. And a couple of blokes with beards and prehistoric sandals said they couldn’t believe they were going to hear Sim Foster’s wife and daughter. They were well pleased. No, I mean the CD guy. No sign of him.”

“Oh, Jazz. He’s coming down with Merlin; they’re only about twenty minutes behind me.”

Anna and Lila were doing a half-hour set at six: Lila on saxophone, Anna on piano. They’d turned out to be a big draw with both what Abi called the Boden lot as well as the fanatics.

“It adds a bit of class, such a lovely story for the publicity, tying in with you and the TV series and everything. He was huge in his day, her husband; I Googled him, wonderful for us to talk about. And Lila is just totally gorgeous, isn’t she?”

Georgia arrived just as the sun came out in earnest; she parked at the top of the hill and looked down, smiling. The sky was a rather uncertain blue, but the clouds had gone, and the tents were going up now, hundreds of them, filling the first field-they’d obviously need the second; Abi had been wrong-all different colours, small igloos for the couples, and bigger frame jobs for the families. She could hear the sound of thousands of pegs being hammered into the ground, of children laughing and shrieking as they ran about, of people calling to one another, the hurdy-gurdy music of the little roundabouts; it was all so lovely, their dream almost unbelievably coming true. A few people had already lit barbecues, and she could smell the smoke drifting into the moist air; and across on the other side of the valley, the seemingly endless line of people, queuing in the sunshine.