Penny Vincenzi - The Best Of Times

“Oh… God. Oh, God, Linda, that is so… so cool!”

God, thought Linda, that word. That inadequate, all-purpose word.

“I know. It’s lovely. Many, many congratulations. I’m totally thrilled. What are you doing now?”

“I’m in Topshop. Oxford Circus. With a friend. I’m staying with her.”

“Well, want to come over, have a glass of bubbly? You can bring the friend.”

“Can I? Linda, we’d really love that; thanks so much. Can we come over right now? We’ll be about thirty minutes.”

“Great. I’ll get the glasses out.”

“Cool!”

“So… how was it?” William said.

He had driven to Bristol to meet Abi in a state of considerable emotional turmoil; he felt anxious and excited in just about equal measure, alternately wishing he had obeyed his innate instinct that he shouldn’t see her again and wondering why on earth he hadn’t invited her out sooner. She was so bloody sexy, and seemed really nice too, much nicer than you’d have thought a girl like her would be, and seemed (only seemed, he was sure) to like him too.

Of course, a relationship between them was a pretty futile idea; she obviously lived life very much in the fast lane (an unfortunate choice of words, he thought, smiling to himself), and his was… well, from her point of view, anyway, pretty much in the very slow one.

And as for what his mother would have to say… the whole thing was pointless, and this must be a one-off evening, dedicated-as he had said when he called her-to discussing their respective interviews with the police.

But then… he’d walked into the bar she’d suggested, and she had waved at him, walked over to meet him, kissed him hello-her perfume was incredibly powerful, musky and sweet-taken his hand, and led him back to her table. He had said he mustn’t drink, that he had to drive; three beers later, his head was swimming a bit and he was wondering rather anxiously how he was going to get home. Maybe if they had a meal-a large meal-and he drank only water he’d sober up sufficiently.

He would not have drunk so much had he not found himself so relaxed; he might have expected to find someone like her hard to talk to, but she was easily chatty and funny, and she had a talent for listening too, asking him endless questions about the farm, about his life, about his parents, even, and displaying what seemed a genuine interest in the answers.

And he had slowly become aware that one of her long legs was pressing against his, that she was leaning closer to him, that she was studying his mouth as he talked; the combination of all these things, together with the three beers and the heady cloud of her perfume, was making him feel physically dizzy… surely, surely she couldn’t fancy him…?

“Oh, it was OK. I think,” she said now. “I’m glad it’s over. But they were very nice. You?”

“Oh, I think it was OK. Wonder if we had the same ones? I had Sergeant Freeman and Constable Rowe, his sidekick.”

“Yes, the same.”

God, he was so… so gorgeous. She would never have believed she would find herself fancying someone like him: so public-school, so straight-down-the-line, so old-style polite. He actually came round to push in her chair, for God’s sake, stood up when she went to the toilet and again when she came back.

She felt like… well, she felt like someone completely different. The sort of person who’d grown up used to that sort of thing herself. It was like being stroked, or eating chocolates, or lying in the sun; it was soothing, warming, totally pleasing.

And he was so incredibly good-looking. He could have been a model, if he’d wanted. OK, his haircut was a bit dated, but it suited him. It was great hair. That wonderful rich, conker brown and then sort of blond streaks.

He had no idea how attractive he was. He was a bit like a child, completely unself-conscious; she looked at him now, sitting in the bar, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his shirtsleeves pushed up to the elbows, showing his brown arms-so brown, they were, covered in thick blond hair-grinning at her, talking about the farm, about how much he loved it in spite of everything, loved being out-of-doors all the time, about the satisfaction of it, of harvesting the wheat, of rearing healthy animals.

“My brother’s an accountant, one of those city types. Now, that’s an awful existence, pushing money around, helping rich people stay as rich as they can. It’s a mean, selfish little life.”

She was surprised by how articulate he was; somehow she’d always imagined farmers would be the strong, silent type. When he moved on to the supermarkets and how they screwed the farmers into the ground, ruined the small ones, she began to care about them too, enjoying listening to his deep, rich voice-and yes, it was a bit posh, and she didn’t usually like posh, but it was his. So she liked it.

“Sorry, Abi; you mustn’t let me bore you. You probably want to talk about our respective interviews with the police.”

“You’re not boring me,” she said, “and I don’t want to. Plenty of time for that.”

“Fine. Look, I’ve had far too much to drink. Can we find somewhere to eat and let me buy you dinner? I need to consume about five thousand calories even to start to mop it all up. We could talk about the interviews then. Or… maybe you’ve got other plans?”

Abi said no-no, she hadn’t, and dinner would be great.

He suggested Browns; he would know Browns, she thought; it was made for people like him. She didn’t often go there; it was… well, full of people like him. Which tonight seemed pretty good.

“So, come on,” he said when they had ordered-a large steak for him, a crab salad for her. “What about you? Tell me about your job, tell me about your family, tell me what you like doing.”

She had an almost irresistible urge to tell him what she really liked doing and how much she’d like to do it with him, but suppressed it and gave him as sanitised a version as she could of her life, her friends, her job. She cut out the lingerie modelling, the drugs, and-obviously-most of her boyfriends. Especially the last one.

“So… no one serious at the moment?”

“No.”

“I can’t think why not.”

He looked so genuinely baffled she wanted to kiss him. She did kiss him. Only on the cheek, but…

“What was that for?” he said, grinning at her.

“For wondering why I hadn’t got a serious boyfriend. I wish…”

“But why not? I really can’t imagine.”

“Because they’re mostly rubbish, that’s why. The men I meet. Spoilt. Up on themselves. Waste of space.”

“Well, that’s pretty damning,” he said, laughing. “You must have met a particularly bad lot. I feel I should make an apology for my sex. No, seriously. You’ve obviously been very hurt by… by someone.”

“Yes, lots,” she said, and then the person who had hurt her the most and the most recently swam before her eyes, and the magic was gone, albeit briefly, and she felt suddenly and dreadfully sad.

“Well, I’m sorry,” he said. He was clearly much too much of a gentleman to ask her about it; and she could hardly tell him. So they sat in silence for a moment or two, and then he said, “Look, I should be getting back quite soon and we’ve still not talked about our interviews. So… how was yours? Really? Was it as awful as you expected?”

“No. No, it was fine. They were very nice. Much less scary than I expected. Yours?”

“Also very nice. Very thorough. They went into absolutely everything. Who I talked to, all that sort of thing. They even asked about you.”

“Me! What did they ask about me, for heaven’s sake?”

“Oh, well, I told them how great you were, helping the little boys. How you went to the hospital with one of them. And then they asked me if I knew anything about your relationship with the doctor bloke.”