She had had a rather emotional reunion with Linda, where Georgia cried a lot and Linda cried a bit, and Linda told her how proud of her she was and that Bryn Merrick had called her personally to say how well Georgia was working out and how he knew it must be difficult for her. And Linda was clearly impressed by all that she had done.
She even apologised for her behaviour the night she had lost her temper.
“I’m sorry, Georgia; it was wrong of me.”
“That’s OK,” said Georgia, giving her a hug. “I’d probably still be here if you hadn’t.” None of it would have happened, of course, without Merlin; Georgia felt she owed him everything. And said so, and even offered to cook him supper on her gas ring to show him her gratitude.
Merlin refused; she was disappointed, but not really surprised. He moved in such exalted circles, was always mentioning famous writers and artists and even the odd Labour politician who’d been to dinner with his parents. How could he be expected to enjoy chilli (her only culinary accomplishment) cooked in a bed-sit? But he continued to be really friendly, to ask her to go for drinks after work, to pass on any compliments.
The weather had been a big factor in the shooting; because it was winter, there were many days when they had to move inside and change scenes at a moment’s notice. This necessitated wardrobe changes as well as everything else and was a nightmare for continuity.
But in the end they ran out of indoor scenes, and one very cold November morning Georgia had to run down the street wearing a vest and shorts, buy an ice cream, and stand licking it while she chatted to a woman on a flower stall about her granny; the sun was brilliant, but not exactly warm, and kept going in, and she had to do it five times because, in spite of Merlin’s best efforts, cars kept coming across the shot. It was the sort of day guaranteed to produce one of Bryn’s hissy fits… although as she said to Merlin in the pub, he’d had “a thick coat on and a scarf and gloves, for God’s sake.”
She remained puzzled by Merlin’s attitude to her. He was so sweet, so attentive, and he really didn’t seem to have a regular girlfriend, so she couldn’t help being hopeful…
CHAPTER 42
“Alex, are you going to this wedding on Saturday?”
“I am indeed. I’m told by Maeve that if I don’t, she’ll never forgive me. I feel a bit of a fraud; I’ve never done anything for Mrs. Bristow, except chatted to her once or twice, but she said the hospital had been so fantastic to her, looked after her so well, and she wanted to have some representatives there. Plus the Connells are going to be there in force, apparently, Patrick’s first outing, and she said she knew what a lot I’d done for him.”
“I’ve been asked too.”
“Really? How very nice.”
“Yes. I had a sweet note from Mr. Mackenzie saying it was a small token of his gratitude for helping him to find Mary that day.”
“I didn’t know you did.”
“Well… I didn’t really. Bit of a long story. You don’t want to hear it.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Well, you’re not going to.” Emma sighed. “Anyway, maybe we could go together?”
“That would be delightful. I think the whole thing will be delightful. We can feel fraudulent together. You’re… you’re all right, are you, Emma?”
“Yes, thank you, I’m fine.”
“Good. You look a bit tired, that’s all; I wondered if-”
“Alex, I’m fine.”
“Good.”
But she wasn’t fine; she felt absolutely terrible. She hurt all over-physically, somehow, as well as emotionally. It was extraordinary. Her skin felt tender and her eyes were permanently sore, and she felt utterly weary, as if her bones were somehow twice their proper weight. When she allowed herself actually to think about Barney, she wanted to cry; and even when she managed not to think about him, the awful sadness was still there, oppressing her. She couldn’t imagine ever feeling properly happy again.
She had written to Luke, telling him she was very sorry, but she felt it was wrong of her to let him go on thinking she cared about him as she had. She had enclosed the necklace. He had called her, clearly very upset, had asked her to take time to think, to reconsider; he said he could not imagine life without her, that he needed her. “It’s not easy, this job, Emma, tougher than I’d thought; I’ve been really banking on coming home and seeing you at the weekends. Or like I said, getting you out here. It’s a really cool city; we could have a great time.”
But she stood firm, told him she was sorry, but she couldn’t see how it could possibly work out between them, and she liked him and admired him far too much to let him think she loved him when she didn’t.
She had been all right in the beginning, when Barney had told her about Amanda and that they must wait awhile. It had seemed the kind-indeed the only right-thing to do. But as time went by, she became increasingly anxious; she was in love with a man who, however much he said he loved her in return, was clearly deeply and tenderly concerned for someone else. Someone whom, until he had met Emma, he had wanted to spend the rest of his life with. And someone who, for whatever reason, had become his first priority once more. And the more she thought of herself dislodging that person, the more impossible it seemed; how could a brief affair, a flash of desire, replace that long, long time of being together?
It was a daydream, an acutely tempting fantasy: not for her-she had no doubt of the reality of her love for Barney-but for him. She should leave him to be with his Amanda, not be singing her siren song to him, luring him onto the rocks of a cancelled marriage.
For a few days, the very rightness of what she had done buoyed her up; she felt stronger, braver, a better person altogether. And then the misery set in, and she knew she had been right. For Barney had not argued, had not fought for her; he had been quiet, gentle, very sad, while seeming to accept absolutely what she said.
It was over; and it was horrible. And… while knowing such a thought was foolish and she should disabuse herself of it, she really could not imagine ever feeling properly happy again.
“Barney…”
He was working late; it was quiet on the floor. She was standing by his desk, seeming to have appeared out of nowhere. He hadn’t seen her since their last confrontation-surprising in a way, he supposed, since they were in the same building… but then, the building contained at least five thousand of them.
He looked at her warily. She was looking rather unfamiliar, slightly nervous, her face pale, her lips unglossed, her hair hanging straight onto her shoulders. Tamara undone. This must be serious.
“Hello, Tamara.”
“Barney, this is… well, it’s hard for me to say… Barney, I’m sorry.”
If she had disappeared into a pall of smoke, leaving only her shoes and bag on the floor, like the Wicked Witch in The Wizard of Oz, he could not have been more astonished. He hadn’t thought sorry was a word in Tamara’s lexicon.
“I… I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Done what, Tamara?”
“Shouted at you. Accused you of… well, of what I did. The thing is, I know now Toby was lying to me. It wasn’t you who made him late. I went to see him last night. We had a long conversation. Basically, it’s over, Barney. We’re not… not having a wedding. It’s him who’s the shit. Not you. I know that now.”
“I see…” said Barney.
“Yes. I began to think and I thought… well, I realised that you were driving when you were stopped by the police. And they’d have Breathalyzed you.”
“They did.”
“And if you’d been as drunk as Toby said, you would still probably have been over the limit. So I said that to Toby and started really asking questions. And he… well, he suddenly gave in.”