Well, at least there’d be plenty of lavatories at the service station…

Georgia had discovered a message from Linda on Patrick’s phone. She looked at him, smiling radiantly.

“She doesn’t exactly say it’s all right, but she still wants me to get to London, so I think it must be, don’t you?”

“So tell me about yourself,” he said. And she did.

How she had wanted to be an actor all her life; how she had been the star of all the school productions, especially as Juliet. “Some of those bitches there said, ‘Oh, you can’t have a black Juliet,’ but our drama teacher was a complete legend, and she said of course you could; it was no stranger than all those white actors playing Othello.” And how she had then won a place at NAD, as she called her drama school, the National Academy of Drama, and how she had been spotted by Linda at the end-of-term performance.

“I’d like to be able to say the rest is history,” she said, biting into an apple, “but I can’t. If I get this thing today, well, it’s my big chance; it really is.”

She told him she’d been adopted when she had been a baby. “My birth mother was only fourteen and she couldn’t keep me-well, didn’t want to, more like it-so Mum and Dad took me on. They gave me a really happy childhood; I felt really safe and loved, had lots of nice things, went to a good school, you know? I think I was a bit of a disappointment to them, though. My mum dreamed of me being a teacher. God. I couldn’t do that. No patience. Not with little kids, anyway.”

Patrick agreed that you did indeed need a lot of patience with little kids. “I have three boys all under eight; life isn’t exactly peaceful.”

“I bet it’s not. Your wife must get quite… tired. What’s her name?”

“Maeve.”

“Maeve, that’s pretty. Does she work at all?”

“What, with three kids? She does not, although nothing makes her more annoyed than when people ask her that. ‘What do you think I do all day?’ she says. ‘My nails?’”

“Oh, sorry. Stupid of me. I should know; I get all that sort of shit as well.”

“What sort of shit would that be?” said Patrick, amused.

“Oh, people saying things like, ‘How lovely for you to live in Roath Park.’ That’s the really middle-class bit of Cardiff where our house is. Or, ‘Wasn’t it lucky for you that Jack and Bea adopted you?’ What they mean is, ‘How lovely for you to have been adopted by white, middle-class people, instead of dragged down by your black birth mother.’ Well, it is in a way, but it’s bloody hard as well.”

“And why should that be?”

“Well, if you’re black, you’re black,” said Georgia slowly, “and it feels odd to be all the time with white people. You have no idea what it was like, as I got to four or five, to go to a kids’ party and be the only black face there. You feel… I don’t know… terribly on your own. And a bit bewildered… as if you shouldn’t be there, not really. Can you imagine that?”

“I… think I can, yes.”

“Thing is, you’re only there because your own mum and your real family have failed you and someone’s conscience meant you got rescued. And you feel you ought to be grateful all the time, and you really resent that. It got better as I grew up, because Cardiff ’s a pretty mixed community and there were lots of black and Asian kids in my school. But then I thought, Well, what does that say for my relationship with my mum and dad, if I don’t feel good with the people they know and like?”

“Did you ever go and find your birth mother?”

“Yes,” said Georgia flatly, “but it didn’t work.”

“And did that upset you?”

“Yes, of course. Well, at first. Then I just sort of… pushed her back where she’d been all my life. Nowhere.” She looked at Patrick and smiled. “I never usually talk about all this stuff till I’ve known someone for ages, and not always then. You must have some kind of magic, makes people talk.”

“I’m just naturally nosy, I suppose. We’re doing well, you know, Georgia. You’ll be there by five, the rate we’re going. Here, your phone’s charged. Best take it; don’t want you leaving it behind. Oh, Jesus, these people…”

A van had cut them off, overtaking from the inside; Patrick had to brake quite sharply.

“That was hideous,” said Georgia, adding, “White van driver, are they really all bad?”

“Most…”

Something had fallen on the floor. Georgia bent down to pick it up; it was a small box.

“What’s this?”

“Oh, now take a look; I’d be glad of a woman’s opinion. It’s a present for my mother-in-law, for her birthday. Her fiftieth. We’re having a bit of a celebration tonight; it’s one of the reasons I have to press on.”

Georgia opened the box; it was a very pretty watch on a silver bracelet.

“It’s lovely, Patrick. I do like watches. My last boyfriend had bought me a beautiful one the very night I decided to dump him. I had to make him take it back; it nearly killed me.”

“So, why did you dump him? Or is that just one nosy question too many?”

“No. He was just… boring.”

“Well,” said Patrick firmly, “you did the right thing. Even if you did have to give up the watch. Maeve and I, now, we drive each other mad sometimes, but we’re never bored. Now just keep hold of that watch, would you? I should have stowed it away a bit better than that.”

“I’ll put it into my bag-it’ll be safe there-and give it to you when I get out.”

“Fine. Don’t go running off with it, will you?”

“Don’t be silly; of course I won’t.”

“Oh, Jesus. Oh, dear sweet Christ, it’s the fucking police. Right behind us. Jesus, that’s all we need.”

Barney pulled over, guided by the relentless blue light onto the hard shoulder, wound down the window.

“Afternoon, sir.”

“Good afternoon, Officer.”

“Perhaps you’d be kind enough to get out of the car, sir. Do you have any idea the speed you were doing then?”

“Er-not quite. No.”

“Ninety-eight, sir. Little above the speed limit.”

“Yes, yes, I’m sorry, Officer. I… well, I was in rather a hurry.”

“I could see that.” A half smile crossed his face. It wasn’t a very kind smile. “Going to a wedding, are you?”

“Er, yes. Yes, I am. I’m the best man. My friend here is the bridegroom.”

Surely, surely they’d get some points for sympathy.

“Could I see your licence, sir?”

“Yes. Yes, of course. Toby, could you give it to me, please? It’s in my wallet. I put it in the glove compartment.”

He passed it over; the cop looked at it carefully.

“So you are Barnaby John Fraser? This is your licence? And it’s your own car?”

“No, it belongs to Toby here. Mr. Weston.”

“But clearly you are insured to drive it, sir. I’ll just take down the details, sir. I see you live in London.”

“Yes, that’s correct. But we were staying with Mr. Weston’s parents in Elcombe.”

“And the wedding is?”

“In Marlborough. Well, just outside.”

“So why did you come up to the motorway, sir, I wonder… seeing Elcombe is on the south side as well.”

“Well… we thought… roads all windy and narrow, we thought the motorway would be a better bet.”

He knew why the policeman was keeping him talking: so he could smell his breath, see if he’d been drinking.

“Well, you could have made a mistake there, sir. Now I’m afraid I shall have to Breathalyze you.”

“But I haven’t had anything to drink.”

“Regulations, sir. We have to do it. Won’t take long.” And then, as Barney handed him back the tube, “What time is the wedding, sir?”

“Four thirty.”

“In Marlborough? That’s cutting it a little bit fine. Right, well, there’s no alcohol registered in this. You’d better be on your way, then. Good luck. You will be hearing from us, of course.”

They’d be watching them, Barney thought. Even though they were going ahead, he couldn’t risk overtaking them. Buggers. Total buggers. God, the petrol was low. Well, they were nearly at the service station. And it was still only just after three. OK, ten past. Should still be all right…