“Bastards,” Toby said, pushing his hair back as they swung onto the motorway. “Think we should call someone?”

“’Fraid so, mate, yeah. Who, though? Tamara? Her ma?”

“Jesus, no!” Toby turned white. “Whoever you called about the lunch.”

“Pete. Well, you’d better do it. Get it over.”

“OK. Christ, I’m sweating. Shit, Barney, how did this bloody well happen? Fine best man you’ve turned out to be.”

He thought Toby was joking, and then realised he wasn’t. Not entirely.

Just after three Jack Bryant pulled onto the motorway. He’d been looking forward to today for some time; he was driving up to Scotland for a bit of grouse shooting with some chums, which would be great fun, and moreover, he was able to drive up in the E-Type. She really needed a good run.

The E-Type was his pride and joy: bright red, not a scratch on her-well, not anymore there wasn’t-soft top, the works. She went like the bloody wind too, hundred and twenty easy, not that you could do that often these days.

He’d bought her after his last divorce: three years ago. He’d always wanted one, and after the handout he’d had to give his ex-wife, he felt he deserved something for himself.

Hard to believe he and the car were roughly the same age-well, he was a good bit older, truth to tell.

Jack had fallen on slightly hard times; he’d made a fair bit of money out of the first property boom, but not sufficient to keep him for the rest of his life, or support his ambition to lead the life of a country gentleman. He wasn’t a country gentleman, of course-he was a grammar-school boy made good-but he had a lot of friends who were, and though he now lived rather modestly in Fulham, he was to be found most weekends in the country; he was useful, as a single, socially acceptable man always is, and besides, it was impossible not to like him-he was so good-natured, so energetic, such a fund of good stories.

He had been in Bristol for a couple of days staying with friends; hence his presence on the M4 that afternoon. And while there, had had the E-Type overhauled by a very good mechanic he knew, and then had given her the final once-over himself. Well, you couldn’t be too careful with these old ladies, and it was a long way.

Mary was feeling a bit sleepy. It was the heat, of course; and the fact that she’d been awake most of the night. With excitement. She might have a little nap-it couldn’t do any harm, and it would make the journey seem shorter. The driver would tell her when they were nearly there, so that she could comb her hair and so on-not that there wouldn’t be lots of time when they arrived. The plane wasn’t due till six, and the taxi company had advised allowing an extra hour just in case. Mary had allowed an extra two.

“So, how are we doing?” she said.

“Fine, love.” Her driver, who had told her to call him Colin, was very nice, she thought. And middle-aged, so almost certainly a better driver. It would have been awful if he’d been one of those tough young ones, with a shaven head. “An hour and a half at the most from here. Even if the traffic snarls up a bit nearer London.”

“Is that likely?” said Mary anxiously.

“If I knew that, my love, I’d be a rich man. That’s what every motorist wants: to know how the traffic is going to be, whether there’ll be an accident, that sort of thing.”

“An accident! Oh, dear, I hadn’t thought of that…”

“Look, Mrs. Bristow, we’re in the inside lane, as you requested, doing a nice steady sixty-five. Not much chance of an accident happening to us. And even if there was an accident, the speed I’m going and us being right next to the hard shoulder, there’d be no way it would affect us.”

“Do you think so?”

“I know so, my love. Look, why don’t you have a little sleep. We’ll be there then before you know it.”

Mary settled herself peacefully in the corner. It had got very dark suddenly. Maybe it was going to rain; it was close enough for thunder. He was right, her nice driver: they would indeed be there before she knew it. And then she’d see Russell and… and…

Mary drifted into sleep smiling.

Thank Christ for that, Colin Sharp thought, put his foot down hard, and pulled over into the middle lane.

“Maybe we’d better have that chat now?” said Abi as they swung onto the M4.

They were in his new car: a Saab. He had had it only a week, and was still not entirely comfortable with it. The car itself was fine, but the sound system was slightly faulty, and the hands-free phone didn’t work at all.

Abi had turned on Radio I: very loudly. He turned it down; she turned it up again.

“Abi, I can’t think against that sort of noise. Let alone talk.”

“You’re showing your age, Jonathan.”

But she turned it off and picked up his phone from the dashboard, started fiddling with it.

“Abi, put that back.”

“Why? I was going to take a photograph of you. You look so sweet. All stern and distant. So different from an hour ago. There. That’s great. Now I want to check if you got that text I sent you-”

“What text?”

“While you were in the shower. Yes, here it is; you can look at it later. It’s a very nice text.”

“Abi, put that back, please. Now.”

“OK.” She shrugged.

“He took a deep breath. “Abi, I think it’s time we… we stopped this.”

“Stopped what?”

“Our… this… this relationship.”

“Why?” The question sounded very aggressive.

“Well, I think it’s run its course. I’ve been feeling increasingly… unhappy about it. It’s great-you’ve been great-but I think we should say good-bye before… well, before we regret it-”

“I’m not regretting it, Jonathan.”

“Abi, I… Look, you don’t understand.”

“I think I do,” she said, and her eyes were very hard. “You’ve had your fun and now you’re getting windy. The excitement isn’t quite enough anymore, so I’m supposed to let you just walk away into the sunset, am I? Just because you’re feeling a bit flaky”

“Well, you can’t have imagined there was any kind of future in it.”

“I might have done,” she said. “You came on pretty strong to me. As I recall.”

“You didn’t exactly hold back yourself either. As I recall.”

Her voice was very tense, very angry. “You’ve got a fucking nerve, Jonathan Gilliatt. For weeks I’ve been providing sex on demand-”

“I seem to remember you doing quite a lot of the demanding.”

She ignored this. “Now I’m just to fuck off, leave you to go back to perfect little wifey pretend I was never there. Well, I just might not do that, Jonathan. Sorry, but none of this strikes me as quite… fair.”

She was right: given how zealously he had pursued her, it wasn’t fair.

“Well, I’m sorry. But, Abi, you must see it can’t go on forever. It’s not… not realistic.”

“I don’t see, no. And what if I’d prefer it to continue? Had you thought of that?”

He felt a stab of absolute panic.

“I… well, I-”

“You hadn’t, had you. You thought because I was easy meat, what I felt or thought didn’t matter; you thought that I’d just go quietly, say, ‘Yes, Jonathan, no Jonathan, three bags full, Jonathan, good-bye and amen.’ Well, I’m not going to. I don’t see why I should. Actually.”

He glanced at her; she was white, her features taut with rage.

“Look-are you saying you want money or something? Because if you do-”

“No, I don’t want any fucking money. That’s a filthy thing to say. What do you think I am, Jonathan? You’re scared, aren’t you now? That I’m going to turn into some kind of bunny boiler?”

“No,” he said, realising this was exactly what he was afraid of, “of course not.” And then, looking at the clock on the dashboard: “This traffic’s horribly heavy. I’m going to be late. We need some fuel too. I’ll have to call; we’ll go to the next service station.”