“Hello, Linda.”

“Hello, Georgia. How are you?”

“OK. Why shouldn’t I be?”

“Well… I could be forgiven for wondering. Don’t you think? First I have to change the time of your audition; then I wait for hours for you to arrive, and you don’t return any of my calls. Then I hear that you’re back at home and you’ve told your mother you didn’t get the part. What’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on.”

“Well… why didn’t you come to the audition?”

A silence: then: “I lost my nerve. I was scared, OK? Really scared. I’m sorry, Linda. Very sorry. I got stage fright.”

“They’re very disappointed. They really thought you’d be ideal.”

“Yeah? Well, they’ll have to get over it.”

“That is an extraordinarily stupid attitude, Georgia. Not the way to get on.”

“Maybe I don’t want to get on.”

“Well, in that case, you won’t be needing me any longer.” Linda struggled to keep her temper. “This kind of thing does me no good at all. I mean that, Georgia. If you’re not worried about your future, I’m certainly worried about mine.”

“Yes.” The voice had changed, become more subdued. “Yes, I know. I’m sorry, Linda.”

“Well, look. When you feel ready to talk about it some more, call me.”

“Yes, OK.”

Another silence. It was tempting to just put the phone down, but Linda was fond enough of Georgia and worried enough about her not to.

“There were several articles in the papers today about the crash on the M4,” she said.

Silence: then: “Oh, really?”

“Yes. It certainly sounded very bad. Very bad indeed. Several people killed, and some poor lorry driver in intensive care.”

“Oh. Yes, I see.” Another silence. “But… is he all right? Did it say?” Her voice shook slightly.

“He’s alive. But not very well. Obviously.”

“Did it… did it give his name?”

“No, they never do until they’re sure the close relatives have been informed. Why?”

“Oh… no reason,” Georgia said uncertainly. “Did it… did it say what caused it?”

“No. The police are investigating it apparently. So… you didn’t see anything of it at all, then?”

“No. No, of course I didn’t. Why are you asking me all this? Just leave me alone, Linda, will you? Please!”

It hadn’t been easy to find William’s farm; she was hopeless at reading maps. In the end, Abi found herself driving through the scene of the accident and then turning back on herself, via the next junction. That had been hideous. The crash barrier was still broken, the central median ploughed up; there were areas taped off on both sides of the road, a lane closed, police cars parked on the hard shoulder, and several men, two in uniform, studying photographs. A sense of déjà vu flooded Abi; she went back there, in that moment, to the noise and the chaos, the broken cars, the crumpled minibus, people shouting and groaning, children crying…

When she reached the turnoff, she pulled onto the grass verge at the top of it and sat there, her arms resting on her steering wheel, her head buried in them, wondering how she was going to live with that memory for the rest of her life.

She drove on, missed the turn William had instructed her to take-“It’s got a cattle sign about a hundred yards down it”-found herself in a village, and stopped an old chap who was wandering down the street looking at the paper.

Who was able to direct her, with amazing ease, to the Graingers’ farm-“Just after the church take a left, looks like a track, and go up to the end and there it’ll be straight in front of you.”

And there indeed it was, settled just slightly down from the track, quite a big squarish house, with a yard to the left of it and several cars parked on it, including a totally dilapidated pickup truck, one newish-looking Land Rover, and a couple of tractors. After hesitating for a while, she parked her car next to the Land Rover and knocked on the door.

William was in the milking parlour, his mother said, adding graciously that Abi could wait if she liked, or go up there.

As Abi hadn’t the faintest idea where the milking parlour was, or indeed what it was-it sounded rather like something in a cartoon, with all the cows lounging around on sofas-she decided on the waiting.

She’d dressed quite carefully for the occasion in jeans and a T-shirt and some new red Converse trainers; she didn’t want William to think she was some townie airhead, tottering through his farmyard in three-inch heels. She smiled at Mrs. Grainger, who managed what might have passed for a smile in return; she was not in the least what Abi would have expected William’s mother to be like, not a cosy lady in a cotton pinny, making bread, but a rather smart, upper-crust woman with well-cut hair, wearing dated but clearly expensive trousers, a checked shirt, and a pair of brown leather loafers.

“Come through to the drawing room.” She led Abi through the hall and into a rather dark room lined with books and paintings and gestured towards a sofa. “Do sit down. Can I offer you something, a sherry perhaps…?”

Abi shook her head. “No, I’m fine, thanks. I’ll just wait.”

Abi sat down and folded her hands in her lap in what she hoped was a ladylike manner and smiled apologetically at Mrs. Grainger.

“I’m so sorry if I’m being a nuisance,” she said.

“You’re not, of course. But you must excuse me. We’ve been away and there’s rather a lot to do.”

“Of course.”

When she had gone, Abi stood up and wandered round the room; the walls were covered in extremely faded brocade paper, the carpet was a sort of very large rug, set down on flagstones, and threadbare in places. What looked like the remnants of about a hundred fires, a vast heap of ash and burnt-out logs, lay in the grate, and there were no curtains at the tall windows, just wooden shutters.

The furniture was all clearly very old and rather mismatched: a round polished table in quite a light colour, and then a chest so dark it was almost black. There were two deeply comfortable-looking armchairs, but the sofa was stiff and button backed. Several portraits hung on the walls, mostly of men, clearly going back a century or two, although there were two of women, both rather pretty, one in a low-waisted, narrow ankle-length dress, and one in what looked like a rather elaborate nightie. She wondered if they were William’s ancestors. Somehow the sweet-faced, untidy bloke she had met yesterday didn’t seem to fit in here. But clearly she was wrong.

She looked out of the window now; as far as she could see were fields, fields and hills and trees. She wondered if it all belonged to the Graingers and decided, if it did, they must be very rich.

After about twenty minutes, she got bored and, purely by way of a diversion, decided to go in search of a loo.

As she crossed the hall, looking tentatively at the doors, Mrs. Grainger appeared.

“Can I help you?”

“I was wondering if I could use your toilet?” said Abi apologetically.

A slightly pained expression settled on Mrs. Grainger’s face.

“Of course. Follow me.”

She led the way upstairs and across a landing; then, “The lavatory is there,” she said, pointing down a corridor and emphasizing the word rather pointedly. Silly cow, Abi thought.

As she made her way back downstairs, William appeared. He was filthy, his face grimy and sweat-studded, his hair awry with shoots of grass in it, and, as an extra accessory, an enormous cobweb slung from one of his ears to his shoulder. Abi smiled and then, as she studied him, giggled slightly.

“Hello,” he said. “Sorry, I didn’t realise you’d arrived.” And then, as she continued to smile at him, added, “What’s so funny?”

“Oh-nothing. Sorry. You’ve got… Here, let me…” She stepped forward, reached up, and pulled the cobweb from his ear.