Penny Vincenzi - The Best Of Times

She dialled his number. It was on voice mail. His smooth, actory tones told her that he couldn’t answer her call just at the moment, but that if she left a message he would get back to her as soon as possible.

Abi shut him off; she wasn’t going to leave a message-she was sick of leaving messages that he didn’t respond to. But the clinic-in bloody Harley Street, where he had all those bloody pampered princesses worshipping the ground he walked on-now, she might do a little mischief there. He might even be there; she knew he was often on call on Saturdays…

She dialled the number, asked to be put through to him.

“I’m so sorry; Mr. Gilliatt has left for the day. Can one of the other doctors help you?”

Resisting a temptation to say, only if they were up to Mr. Gilliatt’s standard on text sex, she asked if they knew where he was…

“I’m afraid not. He’s not in tomorrow. Perhaps you could ring on Monday?”

As the day wore on, William thought increasingly about Abi. And with increasing remorse. She was right-in a way. His mother had behaved quite… well, quite inconsiderately. Unkindly even. She couldn’t actually have thought they were burglars or intruders… Burglars and intruders didn’t normally light candles.

And having discovered it was him, him and a girl, the tactful thing would have been to say something noncommittal and withdraw. He wasn’t sixteen; he was thirty-four. Did she really think he was going to get married before he had any kind of a relationship?

Yes, perhaps he should have warned her-and his father, of course-that he was using the cottage occasionally; maybe he should have gone further, asked their permission. Except that they would have wanted to know why, and how could he have told them?

Not for the first time, William became aware of the absurdity of his domestic situation; not for the first time did he wonder what on earth he could do about it. And then it came to him that perhaps he could move into cottage number one, or number two or number three. Make his home there. So that he could claim some independence, privacy, grow up at last. It seemed not unreasonable. He worked on the farm for a very modest income; he could surely claim the cottage as being some kind of a perk. He would ask them that evening; the thought quite cheered him up.

She decided to ring first. She didn’t want to waste a long journey. He didn’t know she had the landline number, would probably change it if he did.

The phone didn’t ring for long; then: “Hello?” It was a little girl’s voice: one of his flowers. God, that always made her want to throw up.

“Is that Daisy? Or Lily?”

“It’s Daisy.”

“Hello, Daisy. Is your daddy there?”

“No, he’s gone out. But he will be back soon.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yes. Quite sure. It’s his birthday. We’re doing a surprise party for him. Mummy’s bringing him back here at about eight o’clock.”

“Oh, really? How lovely. Wish I’d been invited. Well… never mind. Bye, Daisy.”

“Good-bye.”

Such a beautifully expensive, posh little voice. Well, lucky Daisy. She’d been born with a silver spoon in her mouth, all right; and it had stayed there. Like Lily and the beloved Charlie. Jonathan was so proud of Charlie. He never seemed to think she might not want to hear about him. Or about the girls. So sensitive, aren’t you, Jonathan?

The more she thought about him-being given this party by his family, a lavish affair, no doubt, no expense spared-the more she wanted to throw up. Or kill him. Or both. There he’d be, smiling that awful smooth smile of his, receiving gifts and kisses and compliments, everyone wishing him well, and no one, no one at all, certainly not Laura, knowing what a complete shit he was. He’d managed to lie his way out of everything: how did he do it, the bastard?

Well, not tonight, he wouldn’t.

“Sorry, Jonathan,” she said quite cheerfully as she dressed for the occasion, in some new leather jeans and a very low-cut black top-well, it was a party, after all-“but you’d better make the most of the next two hours. Because after that… bingo!”

Not since Sleeping Beauty’s christening was a guest going to wreak so much havoc at a family gathering.

It didn’t go terribly well. His parents said they would of course consider his request, but the cottages were a valuable source of income, and they couldn’t quite see how he imagined making the money up.

Abi was right: it suddenly seemed to him they were arrogant, his parents, in their attitude towards him; it was appalling that he should have nowhere he could call his own, other than a bedroom in their house. The fact that it had never occurred to him to demand such a thing was irrelevant.

He began to feel he owed Abi an apology: on his mother’s behalf as well as his own. Her initial amusement had been… actually… rather generous. And typical of her. She was generous. And warm and funny and… well, really very kind.

He should tell her so. He went out immediately after supper, drove to the pub, and sat in the car park, calling her. He hadn’t expected her to be sitting at home, waiting for him, but he did leave a message saying he was sorry that she had been embarrassed, sorry that he hadn’t been more considerate, and asking her to call him. He added that he missed her and really wanted to see her. And went into the pub to get drunk and hope for her call.

Christ, what a nightmare. What a complete bloody nightmare. When he’d been hanging on to his sanity-just-getting through it day by agonising day, longing only for peace and quiet, and here he was, confronted by what seemed like a hundred people, all laughing and joking and slapping him on the back, telling him what a great guy he was, and Laura hanging on his arm, kissing him and everyone else, saying wasn’t it great everyone had come, wasn’t he wonderful, who would have thought he was so old…

The conversation with Abi had upset him badly, and made him nervous. And somewhere, in some deep, well-buried place, he felt a stab of something close to remorse. It was true what she’d said: he had instigated their affair, had walked out of the Garden of Eden for no other reason than that he had felt in need of some new, exotically flavoured fruit. And was Abi really so rotten? Not really. She’d had a raw deal from life; he’d taken advantage of that, used it, enjoyed flattering her, flashing his money around, taking her to expensive hotels, buying her expensive jewellery. And in return she had given him the excitement, the sense of sexual self-esteem that Laura had failed to do. Christ, what a mess . And here he was, trapped in this farce of an evening. Which somehow encapsulated his whole life. The fantasy that was marriage to Laura, and the reality that Abi had confronted him with.

No call yet. Well, what could he expect? She would be out somewhere. She was probably still very hurt and upset. It surprised him sometimes how sensitive she actually was; she wasn’t really the toughie she seemed.

He’d never forgotten how she’d gone off to the hospital with Shaun that day, for instance. And she was absolutely ridiculous about animals, fussing over a kitten in the street she’d thought had been abandoned, and getting quite worked up when he’d told her he’d just sent a couple of bull calves to the abattoir. He didn’t want to lose her. He really didn’t.

He texted her, to tell her that she should listen to her messages, in case she hadn’t realised there was one; and then in a sudden rash rush of courage, composed another saying, “I love you.” He sat looking at it for a while before he sent it, slightly surprised that he could be telling her that, making sure he meant it, and wasn’t just trying to make her feel better. But he did mean it; he did love her, and he desperately didn’t want to lose her; he pressed “send” and then decided to go home before he was too drunk to drive even the half mile to the farm gates.