Penny Vincenzi - The Best Of Times

Kept women, Abi regarded them as: lacking in courage, personal ambition, and self-worth. She had no wish to join their ranks; she would not consider moving into a large house, wearing expensive clothes, and driving a flashy car if it wasn’t due at least in some large part to her own efforts. She wanted her own stake in life, not one bought by simpering at dinner parties and providing sex on demand.

Just the same, she felt that they did deserve better than being cheated on. She despised Jonathan for what he was doing to Laura: he was the real wrongdoer, in her eyes, the villain of the piece, playing with Laura’s happiness and love, and that of his children. It was he, and not Laura, who deserved to be punished.

But to punish Jonathan would be to punish Laura too, and not to be contemplated in the normal run of things. This run, however, was not normal…

“How’re you feeling, mate?” Barney smiled determinedly at Toby.

Toby opened his eyes with an obvious effort, said, “Cheers, Barney,” and managed a rather feeble smile. He closed his eyes again, grimaced, tried to shift his position. “Christ, this leg hurts.”

“The nurse said you were on morphine; thought that’d fix it.”

“I am. I certainly know when it’s wearing off, but it still doesn’t kill it. I’ve got a sort of pump thing; I can give it to myself, but it knows when you’ve had enough, so you can’t OD, unfortunately.” He tried to smile again.

“I hear you’ve had lots of visitors.”

“Yeah, Mum and Dad. And Tamara, of course. She’s been such a brick, so good about cancelling the wedding. Didn’t complain at all.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. She wanted to set another date, but I just wasn’t up to it. She seemed a bit disappointed about that, but… maybe tomorrow.”

“Well, no rush, eh?”

“No, s’pose not. But it would make her feel better, she said.”

The thought of Tamara pestering Toby in his hospital bed about another date for the wedding made Barney feel slightly sick.

“How’s the food?” he said after a pause.

“Don’t know. I’m just getting stuff through these things.” He indicated the various drips and lines.

“Amanda sent some grapes. Here. But if you can’t eat them-”

“Thanks. How is Amanda?”

“She’s fine,” said Barney. “She says she’ll come in with me tomorrow if you like, if you don’t have too many visitors.”

“Yeah, course. Well, let’s see. Give her my love.”

He was clearly exhausted and certainly in no condition to talk about the things Barney was worrying about. More than worrying. He was haunted by them.

He patted Toby on the hand, told him he’d be back later, and went down to the main entrance, where Amanda was waiting for him.

“How is he?”

“Not good. In a lot of pain. Poor old Tobes.”

“Oh, dear,” said Amanda, “it’s just so, so sad. And so unfair.”

Her blue eyes filled with tears; Barney put his arm round her.

“He’ll be all right,” he said. “Promise. Come on, let’s start driving back, maybe have something to eat on the way?”

As they started going down the steps, Emma came running up them; she smiled.

“Hi. Nice to see you. How’s the patient today? I haven’t been up there yet, but I was planning to check.”

“Oh-not too good. Seems in a lot of pain.”

“Try not to worry,” she said. “It’s almost the worst day, this. Lot of trauma: medical trauma, I mean, swelling, bruising coming out.” She smiled at Amanda, held out her hand. “I’m Emma King. One of the A and E doctors. I met your… Mr. Fraser… on Friday night, when he was leaving your friend’s ward.”

“I heard you’d all been wonderful,” said Amanda, taking the hand. “Thank you so much. I’m Amanda, Barney’s fiancée.”

“Well… you know. We do our best.”

And they stood there in the sunlight shaking hands: two pretty girls with blond hair and blue eyes, worlds apart in education, class, lifestyle, and aspiration, slightly wary of each other without having the faintest idea why.

There was a silence; then Emma said, “Well, I mustn’t hold you up. And I will go and see… Toby, was it? As soon as I can. Try not to worry. Bye now.”

“Bye,” said Amanda. “Come on, Barney, we must go too.”

So he did have a girlfriend, Emma thought, looking after them as they walked towards the cars; and what a suitable one. And she had a boyfriend, didn’t she? So… why was she even concerned about Barney? She wasn’t. She so wasn’t. And she was so late. She must go…

Mary sat in her bed in the cardiac ward, feeling physically better, but increasingly agitated about Russell, begging to be allowed to go home.

They kept saying no, that she had to stay another forty-eight hours, that Dr. Phillips was very pleased with her, but he wanted to keep an eye on her.

She’d had what they told her was a cardiac catheterisation the night before. “It measures the pressure actually inside your heart’s chambers,” Dr. Phillips had said. “Nothing to worry about; we just want to make quite sure everything’s OK.”

It had sounded rather alarming, but they had gone into her heart through an artery in her leg, and although she was a bit sore, she felt fine. And it had been established that her heart was still doing a pretty good job.

“So why can’t I go home?” she said, and they said, well, she was in her eighties, it had all been a considerable trauma for her, and she needed to be kept under observation. And indeed to rest.

The last thing Mary felt she could do was rest. She supposed that once Russell had got the message, he would simply wait until she got in touch with him. Just the same, she needed to know that he had got it; and she could do that only by telephoning his hotel. But she didn’t have the number; that was also in her address book in her suitcase. Well, she could find out the number from directory enquiries.

“Can I get up, go down the corridor?” she asked the nurse. “Use the telephone?” But she was told perhaps tomorrow, not today. “But we can bring the phone to you, Mary; that’s no problem.”

“Oh, that’s very kind. Thank you so much.”

And all might yet have been well had not Mary’s daughter, Christine, and her husband, Gerry, arrived at that moment.

“There, now,” the nurse said, “they’ll make your phone call for you, Mary.”

“What phone call is that, Mum?” asked Christine, setting down the cyclamen plant she had brought.

“Oh, to a friend of mine. It’s not important. Don’t worry; I can do it when you’ve gone.”

She still couldn’t face telling Christine about Russell, not if everything was going to go wrong now. She’d look even more foolish.

And she submitted to an inquisition about the crash that was so long and detailed that she became exhausted; and one of the nurses noticed and said that she thought Christine and Gerry should leave her to rest. After which she was finally able to make her phone call; and was told that Mr. Mackenzie had checked out of the Dorchester a couple of hours earlier.

Jonathan had got extremely drunk at the barbecue. He was surprised by how drunk he was; he hadn’t actually consumed that much-a couple of beers, two or three glasses of wine-but by the time everyone was on the tiramisu, he could hardly stand.

It was Charlie who noticed, Charlie who put his arm round his shoulders, asked him if he was OK, Charlie who brought him the bottle of mineral water that he forced into himself before knowing the absolute humiliation of throwing up on the path as he ran desperately for the lavatory.