Penny Vincenzi - The Best Of Times

“Might you not be there?”

She shouldn’t have said that. It sounded soppy.

“Possibly not. We’re out looking at houses with the set designer. For filming in. We’ve got a short list of three.”

“Did you actually find them?” There seemed no end to his talents. And importance.

“No, course not,” he said, sounding amused, “the location manager does that sort of thing.”

She put the phone down feeling terrible. Not just because she’d been so pathetic with Merlin, but because it was actually going to start happening now. She’d got to face them, start working with them, and they’d all know she was the awful, cowardly, pathetic girl who’d run away from the crash. They’d probably all been discussing it, calling one another, saying, “Did you see those stories in the paper? She seemed such a nice girl, and all the time…” Oh, God.

She’d been to see Patrick twice more and felt she was doing something for him now, at least. The second time she’d gone, a very nice old lady had arrived; she was called Mary and seemed to know both Patrick and Maeve quite well.

“I was in the crash as well, you see,” she said, “and I was brought here for a few days. I met Maeve and we became good friends.”

Patrick had gone to sleep, and she’d suggested to Mary that they go and have a coffee together. Mary had seemed incredibly pleased by this, and they’d had a really good chat; she told Georgia that Maeve had told her all about her, and how kind she was being visiting Patrick, “And how brave you were, coming forward…”

“Hardly brave,” Georgia had said. “I waited a fortnight.” But Mary said nonsense, it was coming forward at all that mattered, and that moreover, it was very nice to see a young person giving up her time to visit someone in the hospital.

Georgia had really liked her; she was so pretty, in an old-lady sort of way, and very sparkly and seemed really interested in Georgia’s acting, which Maeve had also told her about: wanted to know all about the series and how it was going. She obviously had a lot of money; she’d had a huge car and a driver waiting for her, and she’d insisted on dropping Georgia off at the station.

“It’s been lovely talking to you,” she said, kissing Georgia goodbye. “I do so enjoy young people. Thank you for your time, my dear.”

She obviously saw shared time as a rare and precious gift; and how sad was that? Georgia thought.

It had happened-inevitably. Mrs. Grainger had arrived at cottage number one just as Abi had removed every stitch of clothing, apart from her high heels, and was dancing in front of William. Who was sitting on the sofa, wearing a shirt but nothing else-they had actually been playing Abi’s version of Strip Jack Naked-and grinning at her happily.

Abi always said later that Mrs. Grainger must have known she was going to find her son inside, doing something unsuitable; if she had actually feared intruders or squatters, as she said, she would have brought Mr. Grainger, complete with shotgun, with her.

In the event, she simply opened the front door, put all the downstairs lights on, and walked into the sitting room; seeing her face (as Abi also said) was almost worth all that followed: the complex mingling of embarrassment, shock, and grim disapproval.

“Ah, William,” was all she said; and the worst thing for Abi was his immediate reaction. He went very white, reached for his trousers, and started pulling them frantically on; Abi stood staring at him for a moment before sitting down on the sofa and pulling her dress around her shoulders, at least covering her breasts, on which Mrs. Grainger’s attention seemed to be focused.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” said William. (What for, for God’s sake? Abi wondered. For having, at the age of thirty-four, a sex life?)

“Yes,” Mrs. Grainger said, turning her gaze on him now. “Yes, well, it was rather alarming, realising there was someone in here. I didn’t know what to think. You should have told us you intended to use it.”

Abi giggled; she just couldn’t help it. What was he meant to tell them? “Please, Mother, I intend to use cottage number one this evening for some sexual activity. I hope that’s all right.” Mrs. Grainger gave her a very cold look, William a desperate one.

“Sorry,” she said hastily.

“Right. Well, please lock up carefully when you leave.”

And she stalked out.

“Oh, Lord,” said William.

“William,” said Abi. “William, I know it’s embarrassing, but you haven’t committed a crime. You’re having fun. And at least with a girl. Think if I’d been a boy. Or a cow.”

“Abi, please!” said William. “It isn’t funny.”

“Yes, it is. It’s terribly funny.” And then she realised how genuinely anguished he was and sat down, took his hand. “Come on. What’s so bad? The worst is that she’s seen me for what she clearly feared I am: no end of a hussy, leading her little boy astray. She’ll get over it.”

He shook her hand off.

“No, Abi. You don’t understand. She won’t. It wasn’t very… kind to her.”

“What on earth does that mean? What was unkind? You weren’t laughing at her.”

“You were,” he said, very quietly.

She stared at him. “William, I can’t believe you said that.”

“Sorry. But… but it’s true. She would have been very… very upset by that.”

“Well, she shouldn’t have been. What planet is she living on, for God’s sake?”

“Abi, please. Don’t be so… so harsh.”

“Oh, for God’s sake. This is absurd.” She stood up, started dressing. “I’m not listening to any more of this rubbish. If anyone’s harsh, it’s her. And arrogant. Where’s her sense of humour; where are her good manners, for God’s sake?”

“Good manners?”

“Yes. What she should have done was apologised for embarrassing us, me. Not made us both feel like we were in some kind of a porn show.”

“We were, as far as she was concerned,” said William. “You don’t understand.”

“No, I clearly don’t. And if this is how your lot behave, I’m glad I’m not one of them.”

“What do you mean, my lot?”

“You posh lot. What about thinking of me, William, how I felt-what about defending me? I’m not surprised you’re still on your own; that’s all I can say.” She picked up her bag. “I’m off. Cheers. Hope you don’t get your bottom smacked. Or maybe that’s how she gets her kicks. And you.” She was crying now, aware that she was beginning to show William the real Abi, not in that moment caring.

“Abi! Don’t talk like that, please!”

“I’ll talk how I like. You should try doing the same; you might find your life got a bit better.”

And she walked out of the cottage, slamming the door behind her.

Laura had bought Jonathan a really nice birthday present: he collected antique medical instruments, and she had found an old otoscope in a beautiful leather case, lined with blue silk. She gave it to him the night before his birthday, and he was terribly touched and pleased.

“I’m just thankful you haven’t got anything elaborate planned for tomorrow, darling,” he said when he had thanked her, and she had said (while crossing her fingers and touching the headboard at the same time), no, just dinner with the Edwardses, as she’d told him.

“Pity we can’t be with the kids, really,” he said. “I do like them to share in our birthdays.” And she said yes, but they were having the big family party next day, with her parents, Jonathan’s mother, and various cousins, and the children would be very much part of that.

“Not sure I feel quite up to that either,” he said with a grin, and then, kissing her very gently, “I do love you, Laura. You’re far too good for me. I couldn’t bear any of this without you.”