Penny Vincenzi - The Best Of Times

“Very unlikely,” said Freeman, “very unlikely indeed.”

“Hi, William. It’s Abi.”

“Abi! Oh, my God. Yes. Hello.”

“Hello, William. What kind of a reception is that?”

“I… Oh, sorry. Yes. It’s wonderful to hear from you.”

“Hope so.” She laughed. That laugh. That-almost-dirty laugh. “I did warn you I’d ring if you didn’t. Anyway… I thought it might be good if we went out tomorrow night. What do you think?”

“Well… well… yes. Of course. It’d be great. Fantastic. Yeah. Er… tonight’d be better. Well, sooner.”

She laughed again. “I’ve got to go out with some mates tonight, William. A friend’s going to Australia for a year. I’d ask you along, but I don’t think you’d enjoy it too much.”

“OK, then. Tomorrow it is.”

“Good. I thought I’d come over to you, save you the trek. We could meet in the pub you took me to.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, of course I’m sure. Eightish?”

“Eightish,” he said. “Yes. Great. Well… thanks for calling.”

He rang off and punched the air.

Patrick felt very tired; it had been a long, wakeful night without his sleeping pills, and a painful one too. The temptation at one point to raid his horde, to take at least one of them, was intense; then he thought he would simply be prolonging the agony-literally. He had calculated that by tonight he would have enough; he would take them after he had been settled for the night. And then-oblivion. No more remorse, no more pain, no more of being a burden on everyone. He was actually looking forward to it; he knew it was a mortal sin, knew he should have absolution, was afraid in his very darkest moments of going to hell. He had thought of asking for the priest, but it seemed dangerous; he might be tempted to confess, or even to talk of his absolute wretchedness, his sense of being abandoned by God, as well as everyone else, and the hospital priest was a clever, sensitive soul; he might well become aware of Patrick’s despair and the danger of it. So he must do it alone, must say his own prayers, ask for God’s forgiveness himself, and then… leave. He could manage; he was afraid, but not as afraid as he was of continuing to live with this awful, terrifying misery and guilt.

Georgia hadn’t realised at first that there was anything in the papers about her. It was only when she and Linda were having lunch that Linda passed her the Mail , looking rather grim.

“Sorry, darling. But you ought to see this.”

It was only a small item, on an inside page, mostly conjecture: illustrated by yet another picture of the crash and headed, “Mystery Girl of the M4.” But it was enough to upset her considerably: to see her behaviour described for the millions of people who bought the Daily Mail to read about. And no doubt there would be millions of other people reading it in other papers.

“Try not to worry too much. It’s not that interesting.”

“I can think of lots of people who would think so. If they knew it was me. Like everyone in the new series, for a start. What on earth will they make of me, Linda? They’ll be so shocked to find I’m not the nice little girl they thought, just a rotten, cowardly wimp. And they’ll realise it was all lies about the audition as well, that I wasn’t ill at all, oh, God…”

She started to cry again. And Linda, looking at her, felt very much afraid that she might be right.

As for what the press might make of it, if they knew the mystery girl was an about-to-be-high-profile young actress… well, Linda was rather familiar with the press; she felt this was a story that might run and run.

“ Georgia, darling, don’t cry. You’ve been so brave today.”

“Yeah, and so cowardly for all those other days. Linda, I’ve been wondering-do you think I ought to go and see Patrick? Or at least get in touch with his wife? I mean, she might have seen the programme. She must be so worried; she must be wondering who or where the… the girl-well, me-where she is.”

“Well… it would be the right thing to do.”

A silence, then: “Maybe I will. I’m absolutely shit scared, and he’d be within his rights to spit in my face, but I feel he ought to know what I’ve told the police. He might be feeling terrible, with all these stories in the papers about him going to sleep, don’t you think?”

“Pretty terrible, yes. Well, it would be very brave.”

She really thought so; in a way that would take more courage even than going to the police.

“Maybe… maybe tomorrow. I’ll go to the hospital. Linda-would you come with me?”

“Of course I will…”

“You all right, then, Patrick?” Jo Wales smiled at him. She was just going off duty.

“Yes, I’m fine.” His voice was flat.

“I heard the family came to see you today.”

“They did, yes.”

“And were they pleased to see you?”

She knew he hadn’t seen them, but she felt a chat might help.

“No. No, I sent them away.”

“Patrick, why did you do that? Your wife said they were so excited.”

“Yes, well, I didn’t feel up to it.”

“Oh, I see. Yes, well, maybe tomorrow.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

She looked at him thoughtfully. His face was oddly expressionless, his eyes blank.

“Are you feeling OK, Patrick?”

“I’m feeling how you’d think I might be feeling,” he said. It was an aggressive statement, delivered in an aggressive tone. It was unlike him.

“Well… I’m sorry. Is the pain very bad?”

“It’s not great.”

“Next week’s surgery should help quite a lot. With your tummy. Is that the worst?”

“It hurts everywhere. Except my legs, and what wouldn’t I give to have some pain there as well.”

Jo smiled at him gently, put her hand on his shoulder.

“You will. You must have faith.”

“Faith I’ve lost, along with everything else.”

“Well, let’s see. In time, I promise you, things will be better.”

He shrugged.

“Is… is there anything you’d like to watch on TV tonight? There’s quite a lot on, a good film-”

“No, I don’t want to watch anything,” he said. “I’m very tired. I just want to be quiet, be left alone.”

“All right. Well, I hope you have a good night, Patrick, at least.”

She walked out of his room, stood in the corridor for a moment, then went to find Sister Green, on duty that night on the ward. An extra sleeping pill would probably not be a bad idea. Just for tonight.

Alex really didn’t want to go home. That made him feel miserable. And angry. Not only had Sam ended their marriage; she had virtually rendered him homeless. Well, deprived him of a place he wanted to be, where he was welcome.

Their bedroom had long since ceased to be in any way his, and the small spare room was unwelcoming. Sam and the children occupied the kitchen and the family room in the evening, and if he walked into it, even the children looked awkward, forced to confront his discomfort. He still had his study, of course, but it was very much a study, occupied by his desk and computer and files and books, not somewhere he could sit back and relax.

Anyway, he had no stomach for staking any claims over personal space tonight; he would rather stay at the hospital. He’d brought in his pyjamas and wash things. He had a room there, with a bed; he could get some food at the café and then go to bed, read himself into a stupor and hope no major accidents or traumas might disturb him. He wasn’t on call; if they did want him, he could tell them to get stuffed. In fact, that was precisely what he would do. He could even drink a glass of wine. He would drink a glass of wine. Or two. Or even three…