“He tells us about so many awful things,” said Amy, smiling suddenly at her father, then at her, “we wouldn’t remember.”
“Oh. Right. Well, Georgia-Georgia Linley she’s called-is going to be in a big new thriller series in March. She was involved in the crash and wanted to raise some money for the people who were hurt, who can’t work and so on. But now it’s more for your dad’s hospital.”
“Cool,” said Amy. “Was that her, the black girl in the photograph with you?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“So… when’s the festival?”
“Oh… July.”
“Where?”
“On someone’s farm. Nice young guy called William Grainger; his farm borders the M4, and the air ambulance landed on his field.”
“Oh, OK.”
“Would you like to go?” asked Alex. It was virtually the first time he’d spoken since they got to the restaurant.
“Yeah, maybe. What’s it called?”
“I don’t think it’s got a name yet,” said Linda. “They can’t seem to get it quite right, the last thing I heard. Got any ideas? All suggestions welcomed.”
“God, no,” said Amy.
Adam shrugged.
Shortly after that they left; Alex was driving them home to their mother. He still hadn’t found anywhere decent to live.
“You’ve been a great help,” hissed Linda, as they stood at the edge of the pavement, hailing taxis for her rather fruitlessly.
“Sorry. I thought it was better to let you make the running.”
“Hmm. Oh, shit, look, there’s one miles down the road, hasn’t seen us…” She put two fingers in her mouth and whistled loudly. Amy and Adam looked startled, then grinned at her. Or were they laughing at her? How loud, how brash, not the sort of thing a nice, seemly stepmother should be doing.
“Bye, then,” she said, holding out her hand, taking theirs one by one. “It’s been really fun. I’m glad you liked the film.”
“Bye,” said Amy. “And thanks.”
“Bye,” said Adam. “Yeah, thanks.”
“Bye, Linda,” said Alex.
The last she saw of them was the two children, heads together, laughing… at her, no doubt, pathetic, would-be-cool woman, and Alex, looking ferocious.
What a disaster. What a bloody disaster. He’d never want to marry her now.
She was half-asleep when the phone rang.
“Hi.” It was Alex.
“Oh, hi. You OK?”
“Yes, thanks. I’m fine.”
“Sorry, Alex.”
“What on earth for? Right… now, as the kids would say, were you a hit, or were you a hit?”
“What?”
“You, my darling beloved, are just soooo cool. That’s Amy’s verdict. You are pretty nice. That’s Adam’s. You have great legs. That was also Adam. You are so not embarrassing. Amy again. She wants to come and see you on her own, maybe-go shopping; your shoes were just uh-may-zing. And ohmigod, the way you whistled for the cab. Oh, Linda. I love you.”
“I love you too,” she said.
It felt like any other evening. Not good, not bad, Barney thought, just… an evening. For going home, eating dinner-dutifully; smiling-a lot; talking-carefully; listening-even more carefully. Trying not to think too much, not to remember… and most of all, not to look forward. Forward into God knew what. More of this? This odd, calm sadness, this pleasant unease, this lie of a life? Lived with someone who loved him so much. Whom he-still-loved too. In a way. In a concerned, tender, guilty way.
It was a horrible night, wet, cold, windy. He was carrying a brown paper bag with a couple of bottles of wine in it, and it was getting dangerously soggy. He’d also got her some flowers. Those Kenyan two-tone roses that she liked so much. It was Wednesday and he always bought her flowers on Wednesday; it was half joke, half tradition. She said if he ever forgot, she’d know there was something terribly wrong. Well, he hadn’t forgotten yet.
When he got home, she wasn’t there. Which wasn’t particularly unusual; she was terminally sociable, always having quick drinks or even supper with girlfriends after work. Although he couldn’t remember her saying anything about this evening.
He went in, put the wine in the fridge, the roses in water-without cutting the stems, which would have induced a ticking off if she’d known; she was very strict about such things: “Barney-darling-it doesn’t take a minute, and they live so much longer; you’re just lazy…”
He wondered if Emma fussed over rose stems. He decided it was very unlikely… Don’t start thinking about Emma, Fraser, just don’t. Doesn’t help.
He wondered if he should do something about supper. He looked in the fridge; there didn’t seem to be a lot there. Well, if she was much later, they could go out. Only if she’d eaten-he’d call her. See what she was doing. She’d be amused, not cross, if he’d forgotten some arrangement, would tell him he was hopeless, that she’d be home soon.
Her mobile was switched off.
He sat down, turned on the TV, was watching the end of the seven-o’clock news when he heard her footsteps in the street, heard her key in the lock. She’d be soaked, miserable; he should make her a cup of tea.
He went into the kitchen and was filling the kettle when she came in. He turned to smile at her, and then saw her face. It wasn’t quite… quite right somehow, her face. It wasn’t wearing its usual smile; her eyes weren’t warm; in fact, they were staring at him as if she had never seen him before. Barney put the kettle down.
She was taking her coat off, her wet coat; he reached for it, to hang it up.
“It’s all right,” she said, “I can do it.”
He followed her as she walked out of the kitchen, throwing the coat down on a chair-unthinkable, that-went into the sitting room, and sat down. Barney sat opposite her. It seemed the only thing to do.
A silence, then:
“Barney, why didn’t you tell me?”
His stomach lurched hideously.
“Tell you what?”
“You know perfectly well what. I saw Tamara today, and she told me all about it.”
The cow. The bitch. How dared she? How dared she? She’d promised, as he had; that was what came of making a pact with the devil.
“Yes,” he said, “yes, I see. Well, she had no right to do that. To tell you. It’s nothing to do with her.”
“Well, it is a bit, I think. She is my best friend.”
“Yes, I know, but…”
How had they ever got to be best friends, these two? One so good, so transparently sweet and kind, the other so bad, so devious and cruel.
“Well, she has. Do you want to talk about it?”
“If you do.”
“Well, of course I do; it affects us both, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, Amanda, it does.”
“Well… go on.”
“I think I… might”-he pushed his hair back-“think I might have a beer. You?”
“Not a beer. Maybe a glass of wine.”
He poured her her favourite, chardonnay-not very smart, as she often said, but it was so lovely who cared about smart? And poured himself a Beck’s.
“Come on, Barney, please. I do need to know.”
Oh, God. God, how do I get through this? He looked at her. Her pretty, peaches-and-cream face was very calm, her blue eyes fixed on him intently.
“Well…” he said. “Well, it… it all happened because of the crash. And while Toby was in hospital.”
“Yes, that’s what Tamara said. Well, sort of.”
“Let’s forget about what Tamara might have said. I want you to have the story as it really happened. I… never meant it to happen, Amanda. I loved you so much. I do love you so much. It… just… well, it sort of took me over.”
She was silent; he didn’t dare look at her. Then she said, “I don’t quite see what that’s got to do with it.”
“Amanda, of course it has.”