“Who are you going to call, your wife?”

“No, my rooms in Harley Street. I’ve got a clinic at four.”

He pulled in at the service station; while he filled the car, he called St. Anne’s. His secretary sounded brisk. “You have quite a big clinic, Mr. Gilliatt; do you want me to ask people to wait, or shall I just reschedule?”

“Get them to wait if they will. I should be there by four thirty, five at the latest. I’m so sorry.”

“Oh, and Mr. Gilliatt, your wife called. Asked if I’d heard from you; apparently she’s called you a couple of times. Shall I call her, explain or-”

“Yes, that’d be great, Jane. Hard for me to talk; my car phone isn’t working properly. Thanks.”

He felt odd, confused; the conversations with Abi had scared him, and at the same time had thrown all his emotions into sharp focus: the longing to finish it, to be safe again-and, absurdly, the misery of losing her.

She got out of the car as he approached it.

“Where are you going?”

“To the toilet. That OK? Or do I have to get permission?”

“Abi, I’m in a desperate hurry.”

“Well, so am I. To get to the toilet.”

He felt like hitting her.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. Well, get a move on.”

He sat fuming, half tempted to drive off and leave her. But he was scared of what she might do. He was scared of what she might do anyway.

Might be an idea to call Laura, in case she called him. He dialled the house; it went straight to the answering machine. The same happened with her mobile.

“Laura, darling, it’s me. Just to let you know I’m on my way, bit late. Don’t call me, will you; the hands-free’s not working properly. I’ll call you when I can.”

He saw Abi coming back, her face stormy, obviously gearing up for a fight…

CHAPTER 8

Mary woke up feeling uncomfortable. It was her bladder, not strong at the best of times, and when she was under stress, distinctly weak. She would never get to Heathrow without going to the toilet; she’d have to ask Colin to stop at the next service station and hope he wouldn’t mind. Donald had got irritated when she was constantly asking him to stop on journeys.

But she was paying Colin, she told herself; he’d have no business being irritated. She was sure Russell would have said that. She had a quick worry about whether Russell would get irritated with her constant need for the toilet, and then, after about another few minutes, took a deep breath and said, “Colin, I wonder if you’d mind very much pulling in at the next service station? I need to go to the ladies’.”

Colin said he wouldn’t mind at all, and in fact he could do with a break himself; he’d got through his bottle of water already and they were only about halfway there.

“It’s this heat. All right if we just go to the fuel section? Takes so long if you have to park up in services.”

“Of course. And I’ll get you the water, Colin. Unless you want to… to get out yourself, that is.”

“No, no, Mary, that’s fine. Bladder of steel I’ve got. Yes, if you would, couple of bottles and maybe some chewing gum? I like to chew when I’m driving; helps my concentration.”

Mary hoped that didn’t mean his concentration was flagging. She’d seen some very alarming driving since she’d woken up: cars speeding, motorbikes weaving in and out of the traffic, lorries sitting horribly close behind cars-all with foreign number plates, she noticed-and just now, a white van sitting on their tail, flashing furiously into Colin’s mirror before suddenly accelerating into a very small space alongside them and then shooting into the outside lane against a background of furious hooting.

“What very unpleasant behaviour,” she said. “My husband always said that bad driving was really little more than bad manners. Would you agree with that, Colin?”

“I certainly would. Right, here we are, Mary. Doesn’t look too busy, considering; shouldn’t hold us up much.”

“I do hope not,” said Mary.

“So-what do these things do for you then?” asked Georgia, helping herself to a handful of jelly babies.

“Wreck my teeth. Make me feel sick. Keep me awake, mostly…”

“How? I’d have thought coffee would be better.”

“I’m practically immune to coffee, Georgia. These are the thing, pure sugar. Don’t you eat them all, now.”

“I won’t.”

“In fact, I’m surprised to see you eating sweets at all. You’re so skinny.”

“I’m incredibly lucky. I just don’t seem to put on weight. Other girls are really jealous of me. They have to work at it so hard, hardly eat at all, some of them, exist on cigarettes and lettuce. I would say at least half the girls in the business have an eating disorder. It comes from casting directors and agents and so on going on and on at you-‘You must keep the weight down, you’ve put on some weight.’ So you see how lucky I am.”

“I do indeed.”

She was silent for a while, munching the sweets; then she said, “You can see a lot from up here, can’t you? It’s amazing, almost like flying.”

“It is indeed. And you can see a lot of what’s going on in the other vehicles as well as you pass them. I find that the greatest temptation, to peer into people’s cars and their lives.”

“Well, why don’t you?”

“Because I’m busy keeping my eye on the road, that’s why.”

“Well, I’ll do it for you for now. Oh, now, here comes a coach driver up beside us. He looks well bored, all those old grannies sleeping. S’pose they’ve been on some tour or other-oh, God, that looks like a real nightmare. Poor bloke.”

“Who’s that then?” said Patrick.

“A bridegroom. All done up in his monkey suit, top hat on the backseat, and another beside him, best man, I s’pose. They look well stressed. Late, I s’pose. Too much last night, probably. They’re coming up so fast… God, how awful. Late for your own wedding… Hope the cops don’t stop them. How are we doing?”

“Pretty well. Reckon you might make it yet.”

“Mate, I need the toilet; can you do the petrol?”

“Sure. How’re you feeling?”

“Not great. But I’ll make out. Could do without this gut rot, though.”

Barney resisted the temptation to point out that it was stress rotting Toby’s guts, not some malign fate. He still felt very shocked and confused by Toby’s revelations. Toby, on the other hand, seemed much better, more normal; it was as if, having dealt with the situation as best he could, he could set it all aside and return to his role as model bridegroom. He didn’t seem the Toby Barney knew anymore; it was almost scary.

Barney filled up the car, and then thought that he might take a look at the tyres. He’d felt the car pulling a bit. The way they were driving, they needed twenty/twenty wheels.

“For God’s sake, what are you doing now?”

Toby had reappeared.

“I want to check the tyres,” said Barney. “The front offside’s a tad soft. Look, you go and pay, and get some more water, will you? Time you’ve done that I’ll be through.”

“OK.”

Toby went back into the building. He grabbed two bottles of water, and found himself behind an old lady in the queue. There were three people in front of her-Jesus, this was taking forever. He looked at his watch. It was OK. It was fine. Hours yet. Well, an hour…

As he stood there, trying to keep calm, his phone rang.

“Toby Weston.”

“Where are you, you little shit?”

It was Tamara’s father. Who doted on her to an absurd degree, who clearly considered Toby to be a most unworthy contender for her hand…

“I’m… we’re just on the motorway now, George. Should be with you quite soon.”

“And what the fuck are you doing on the motorway?”

“Well, I-Sorry, I did phone Pete; you obviously didn’t get the message. Be there in no time. Just filled up, want to check the tyre pressures-”