Penny Vincenzi - The Best Of Times

“My relationship with… But I don’t… That is, why should they ask you that?”

“No idea. Well, first they asked what happened to your car, why it wasn’t still on the motorway, and I said you’d been with the doctor in his. And then they asked me if I knew anything about your relationship with him. I said absolutely nothing, except that it was a professional one, that you’d been at a conference together.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Oh, and I said he seemed pretty tense, was shouting at you at one point.”

“Well, he was. Quite true.”

Did it matter, their knowing that? Not really. And William had said all the right things: that her relationship with Jonathan was only professional. But… why were they interested? It was a bit worrying.

“Anyway, that was about it, really. Ah, here’s the bill. No, no, I insist”-as she fumbled for her cards-“don’t be silly. Look, can I drop you anywhere?”

God, he was such a fucking gentleman; most men, after buying you three cocktails and dinner, would expect to be well into your knickers.

“No, it’s OK; I’ll get a cab.”

“Oh, now, that’s ridiculous. I’ll just drive you home.”

Maybe he did want to. It seemed crazy not to find out.

They went out to the street, and as they walked to his car, she put her arm through his, and he looked down at her and smiled in that… God, that sort of… sort of charming way, and then he said, “Come in, hop in.”

Abi hopped.

It was a ten-minute drive; as they parked outside the block on her bleak, narrow street, she said, hoping she sounded like the nice girl he seemed to imagine she was, “Would you like to come in for a coffee?”

“I’d love to, but I really mustn’t. My ghastly brother’s coming down tomorrow-”

“What, the accountant?”

“That’s the one. God, I must be boring. Banging on about my family.”

“William,” said Abi, reaching up to kiss his cheek, “you couldn’t ever be boring. I could listen to you all”-she had been going to say “all night” but amended it hastily to-“all day. Even talking about your cows. Your girls, as you call them.”

He did; she had found that unbelievably sweet.

“Really?” She was sure if it had been light, she would have seen him blushing. He did blush; became discomfited quite easily. He wasn’t exactly shy, but he was quite… bashful. The other thing he did was giggle. He had a wonderful laugh, a booming, roaring laugh, but he also, when suddenly amused, giggled uncontrollably and infectiously.

“So why is he coming? Your brother? Family party?”

“No, no. It’s business. Potentially difficult, actually. Which is why I want to have a clear head.”

“Why? In what way?”

“Oh, Abi, I’ve bored you enough.”

“No, you haven’t. Come on in and tell me about it.”

She knew Sylvie was out-for the night. They’d be quite… undisturbed.

He said nothing, just got out of the car, came round, and opened the door for her. This was just… ridiculous She felt she was in a fifties movie or something. She got out, smiling, trying to be graceful and ladylike, and promptly tripped on a jutting paving stone and fell forwards.

His arms went out to catch her and, having caught her, somehow went round her; and she stood there, held by him, looking up at him, and he was looking down at her, and then slowly, rather tentatively, he bent his head and started to kiss her. And having started, continued, and it was the most fantastic kiss, hard and probing and quite slow at the same time; and she felt herself responding in the most unladylike way, meeting his tongue with hers, feeling the kiss working, moving downwards, the sensation warm and invasive, rippling out in a series of ever bigger sensations, and she pushed her hips against him, felt him responding; and then suddenly he drew back, stopped kissing her, just looked down at her, half smiling, half-embarrassed, and she said, “Why?”

And he said, “Abi, I’m sorry, I-”

“Sorry?” she said, and then, “Fuck sorry, William; just do it again, or come in, or-”

But, “No,” he said, “I mustn’t. Honestly, Abi, I’d love to, I really would, but we hardly know each other.”

And that made her laugh, rather weakly, leaning against him and pulling his head down and kissing him, quite differently now, on the cheek, on his nose.

“You really are special,” she said, “so, so special. Promise me one thing: let’s do it again, very soon.”

“What, drinks, dinner-”

“Yes, if you want. Drinks, dinner, kiss, and then see what happens next. OK?”

He was silent, looking down at her very seriously, and… God , she thought, I’ve gone too far, acted like a tart; and then he smiled, almost embarrassed, and said, “Yeah, well, that’d be great. Absolutely great. I’ll ring you, OK?”

“You’d better,” she said, releasing herself from him, grinning at him, walking towards the front door of her block. “And if you don’t, I’ll ring you. I haven’t been very well brought up, you see. That’s what I do, ring blokes I fancy. Night, William-thanks for a great evening.”

“No,” he said, “no, thank you. It’s been terrific. You’re very special too, Abi. I hope you know that.”

And he drove off slowly, and she stood there looking after him, and then went inside and got into bed, and lay there wide-awake, still excited, still hardly touching reality, wondering how soon she might see him again and whether that time she would be able to persuade him into bed with her. Even though… what was it he’d said? Oh, yes, even though they hardly knew each other. Incredible that people still thought like that. Absolutely incredible…

And William drove home rather slowly, playing his favourite Bruce Springsteen CD, and wondering if it was even remotely possible that a girl as sexy and funny and fun as Abi could possibly enjoy being with him, and whether she’d meant it when she’d said she’d like to go out with him again.

Laura wanted to believe Jonathan more than anything on earth. About Abi Scott. Her whole life and happiness hung on it. Because if it wasn’t true, if he’d been having an affair with her-with anyone-then there was no way she could stay with him. She had always felt that trust was absolutely synonymous with love. However wonderful Jonathan was, however good their marriage was, however perfect their life, if he’d betrayed her, she couldn’t possibly go on with it. How could you go to sleep beside a man, wake up with him, live in his house, bring up his children, if he had lied to you, if all those “I love you”s, all those “I couldn’t live without you”s, had been said to someone else?

If he had made love to someone else, known her body intimately, caressed her, entered her, made her come, then how could you possibly stay with him, accept those lies, forgive them-and him? How would you ever believe him again if he said he was working late, on a business trip, dining with colleagues? Suspicion would poison every smile, every kiss, every caress; would distort pleasure, wreck contentment, ruin memory. That was the worst thing, perhaps: that you would remember all the most precious times-the commitment to stay together forever, the arrival of the babies, the sweetly charged intimacies of marriage-and know it had all been a sham, see it as distorted, ugly cruelly changed.

She was trying-so hard-to get it back, the happiness and the trust. But until she knew for sure, she was failing. And becoming obsessed with the need to know…

“Now, this is interesting,” said Freeman. They were examining CCTV footage. “Here we have our best man standing in the queue for the tyre gauge.”