Penny Vincenzi - The Best Of Times

“I couldn’t possibly-”

“Now, why ever not? You can pay me back whenever you next see me. Come on, now, dry your eyes, and I’ll be back for you in about ten minutes. Don’t argue; I insist. And don’t worry about your husband; he’s not very well, of course, but he’s more or less off the danger list; he’s a walking miracle…”

Jack Bryant settled into a wonderfully comfortable, battered old chair in what Hugh Mackintosh called his study, but which would have contained most of his Fulham flat. It was a glorious evening; the view of the moors was ravishing, the colours just turning autumnal. He was clearly in for a very good few days.

“Another gin, Jack?” Mackintosh picked up the bottle, waved it at him.

He was one of Jacks oldest friends; they’d had a hell of a time together in the sixties: Annabel’s and a different dolly bird every night, and he’d taught Jack to shoot as well. Good chap.

Jack grinned, held out his glass. “Yes, thanks.”

“You must be tired. Hell of a drive. Even in that car of yours.”

“It was fine. Enjoyed it. Lovely to give the old girl a bit of a run. And, of course, I stopped in York last night.”

“You didn’t get caught up in that crash yesterday then, on the M4? We thought it might have delayed you.”

“No, bloody lucky. Must have missed it by inches. I read it was at four p.m. I can’t have been clear of that spot by more than five minutes. If that.”

“Christ. You must have a guardian angel of some sort.”

“Doubt it. Anything angelic gave up on me years ago, as you know, but it sounds ghastly.”

“Well, I’ll leave you to get settled in. Expect you’d like a bath before dinner. No rush, down here for drinks at seven thirty. Moira’s dying to see you.”

Luke grinned at Emma.

“You look great, babe. I really like the dress.”

She’d known he would; it was black, low-cut, very short. What she thought of as a bloke’s dress.

They were in a cab now, on their way to the restaurant. Her sleep had done Emma good; she felt relaxed and happy. And… pretty sexy, actually.

A uniformed doorman was standing outside the Dorchester; he whisked open the taxi door, stood respectfully aside while they got out.

Now, this was what posh places should be like, Emma thought.

Those cool bars were all very well, but if you were going to spend loads of money, you surely wanted a bit of service. She smiled happily at Luke, allowed the doorman to usher them through the revolving door, stood looking round the lobby. It was wonderfully luxurious, huge urns of flowers, deep sofas, smiling staff everywhere.

“The restaurant, please,” Luke was saying. “Alain Ducasse.”

“Certainly, sir. This way, please.”

“Luke,” hissed Emma, “I just want to go to the loo. You go on. I’ll follow in a minute.”

“Oh… OK. Yes. Good idea.”

The ladies’ was extremely luxurious. A woman was waiting by the basin when she came out, holding a towel. She stood patiently while Emma washed her hands, then handed it to her, and then took it and threw it into a basket. Emma half expected her to come and help her comb her hair and put her lip gloss on for her.

She walked back into the lobby, looked around for someone to tell her where the restaurant was, and then heard the words, “St. Marks Hospital, Swindon,” spoken in an American accent. “Yes. On… let me see, yes, Agatha Ward. Can you confirm they’ll arrive first thing in the morning? I’ll wait.”

He stood there, tapping his fingers on the concierge’s desk: a tall, white-haired man, with Paul Newman blue eyes and a neat white moustache, quite elderly, but standing ramrod straight, wearing a suit that looked as if it had only just left the tailor’s.

The girl at the desk looked up at him from her phone.

“Yes, that’s all fine, Mr. Mackenzie.”

“Good, good. And I’ll want a car to take me there, to visit my friend, first thing. I’d like to be there by… let me see, nine…”

This was too much for Emma; she walked over to the desk.

“Do forgive me for interfering,” she said, “but I’m a doctor at St. Marks. I’m really sorry, but you won’t be allowed in at nine. Ten thirty is the earliest.”

The man looked at her; at first she thought he was going to be cross. Then he smiled, a slow, sweet smile.

“That is so extremely good of you,” he said, “and I will indeed forgive you for interfering. Thank you so much. Make that an hour and a half later then,” he said to the desk, and then, turning away, taking Emma’s arm, he said, “I wonder if you’d be kind enough to give me news of a patient there. A Mrs. Bristow, Mrs. Mary Bristow. She was involved in the crash on the freeway yesterday…”

Clearly he moved in a world where hospitals were small and exclusive, Emma thought, and where any doctor would recognise any patient’s name.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “but there are around fifteen hundred patients there at any given time. I was on duty in A and E yesterday when people were arriving. I’m afraid I don’t remember a Mrs. Bristow. Was she… was she an elderly lady?”

“A little elderly,” he said with another sweet smile. “May I say, incidentally, you don’t look old enough to be a doctor.”

Emma smiled back. “Well, trust me, I am. Anyway, I assume, since you’re going to see her tomorrow, that Mrs. Bristow isn’t too seriously ill.”

“Well, you know, I don’t believe so. They didn’t tell me much when I phoned. Except that she was comfortable…”

“And that you could go and see her?”

“Oh, yes. And her daughter-I spoke to her-she said she didn’t seem too bad. But… I don’t suppose you could get any more details for me? Now, I mean, I really am most concerned.”

“Well, I… I’ll see what I can do. Only… well, I’m supposed to be having dinner with my boyfriend.”

“Oh, my dear young lady, the last thing I would want to do is stand in the path of true love… Forget it; I’m sure she’s absolutely fine.”

“No, no, it’s perfectly all right. I’ll just go and tell him, and then I’ll call them, OK? Could you possibly show me the way to the restaurant?” she said to the girl behind the desk. “Oh-no, it’s all right; here’s my boyfriend now.”

Luke was irritable, and more so when she said she’d be five more minutes. Even when she explained.

“I didn’t realise you were on call,” he said.

“Luke-”

The old gentleman stepped forward, held out his hand to Luke.

“Russell Mackenzie. I am so very sorry to intrude on your evening. But I am extremely worried about a friend in the hospital, and this enchanting young lady of yours has offered to help.”

“Oh, fine,” said Luke, slightly grudgingly. “I’ll be at the table, Emma.”

“Oh, dear,” said Russell Mackenzie, “I’m afraid he’s a little annoyed.”

“He’ll get over it,” said Emma. “He’s very good natured. Now, then, let’s see what we can do-I can’t promise anything, but…”

Five minutes later she smiled at Russell.

“She’s much, much better. She has angina, apparently, and had an attack at the scene of the crash, and they did an exploratory investigation under anaesthetic. They thought she’d probably had a minor heart attack. But she’s doing well. And yes, you can see her tomorrow.”

“I cannot thank you enough,” said Russell, “and now you’d better get along to that young man of yours. That fortunate young man.”

“OK,” said Jonathan, “this is what we say. Our relationship is purely professional; you’re a colleague-”

“A colleague? How could I be a colleague? I’m not a doctor.”