“I… that is, was it you in the lift an hour or so ago? Going up to ICU?”

“Might have been. I mean, I have been up there, yes.”

God. She hoped he wasn’t trying to chat her up. She looked at him. No, he was probably worried about someone.

“Do you have a relative up there?” she said.

“No, no. Not up there. You?”

“Oh… no. Just a friend.”

“Not Mr. Connell?”

“How do you know about Mr. Connell?”

“Oh… most people do. In the hospital.”

“Really? Well I… I don’t.”

“Is that right? I thought I saw you with Mrs. Connell.”

“You must have imagined it. Look… who are you? Are you something to do with the hospital? Or…”

“I suppose I’d better come clean,” he said. “I’m a reporter. Daily Sketch.” He held out his hand. “And you are…?”

Georgia stood up. She wasn’t prepared at all for what she did next; it was as if she was watching someone else.

“You can just fuck off,” she said, and her voice was very loud. “Fuck right off, away from me, away from the hospital, away from Patrick Connell. You are totally disgusting, writing lies about people, implying things you don’t know are even remotely true.”

She half ran out of the café.

All the other customers sat transfixed, staring first after her and then at Osborne, who stood up, trying to look as if he was in control of the situation, and then hurried out after her and into the car park, where both his car and his laptop were waiting.

Part Four. Moving On

CHAPTER 30

All she’d done was sigh. And it had been a very small, quiet sigh… she’d thought. That nobody could possibly have heard. But that’s what had done it. Had launched her into this dangerously stupid, totally wrong, and wonderfully right-feeling thing where every day, every minute was amazing and shiny, where everyone, however dull or unpleasant, seemed charming and amusing, where every task, however disagreeable or onerous, seemed engaging and fascinating. Where she felt calm and cool one moment, and dizzy and sparkly the next; where she looked in the mirror and smiled at herself; where she relived every conversation, every memory, every confidence, every sweet, small discovery, and yet still they seemed fresh and important and worthy of further examination still. Where she was, in a word… or rather two… in love. Absolutely, unquestioningly and for the time being, at least, most joyfully in love. And able to see that what she had felt for Luke had not been love at all; it had been finite, reasonable, entirely suitable in every way. How she felt about Barney was infinite, unreasonable, and entirely unsuitable; and it was the most important and defining thing that had ever happened to her.

He’d said he ought to go that afternoon, once he had seen Toby and knew he was all right. And he’d told Emma that he really should get back to London; there was some really important client coming in the next day, demanding to see the whole team, and Barney had work to do before then. Emma nodded and said yes, of course, and that she’d keep an eye on Toby but she was sure he’d be fine and would probably go home in a few more days.

From which viewpoint-one from which she and Barney would never see each other again-everything looked suddenly rather bleak. Which was ridiculous, because he had Amanda and she had Luke and…

“Yes, I see,” said Barney. “Well, that’s excellent news. Good. Thank you again, Emma. Couldn’t have got through the day without you.”

“Of course you could,” she said, smiling.

And, “No,” he said, “no, I couldn’t. Not any of it, actually.” And he bent and kissed her lightly on the cheek and said, “Bye, then,” and turned away; and that was when she’d sighed and he’d heard it and turned back to her and there was a brief silence, and then he said, “Emma, could I… that is, well, could I buy you a drink? Just to say thank-you for all your help and support today. And all the other days. I’d like to, very much. But if you’re working, of course, or you’ve got something else on…”

“No,” she said, “no, no, I’m not. Working. Not after six, anyway. And I haven’t got anything on. No.”

“So… does that mean yes?”

“Yes. I mean, it does mean yes. Thank you. That’d be great. Yes.”

And wondered if he realised as clearly as she did what he had asked and what she was saying yes to.

They had had a drink in a pub she had suggested. It was a lovely evening; they sat outside and chatted. Slightly awkwardly. Quite awkwardly, actually. Both knowing why. She should have said no. She shouldn’t have sighed.

After a bit he said he should go; and she said she should go; and they got back into Barney’s car and drove back to the hospital, so that Emma could pick up her car.

“Well,” she said, “that was very nice, Barney. Thank you. And… don’t worry about Toby anymore.”

And she smiled and she certainly didn’t sigh. Mistake, the whole going-for-a-drink thing. Big mistake.

Barney remembered the next few moments for the rest of his life. Watching her smile, open the door, swing one long leg out of it. And feeling a rush of sheer and shocking panic. She was going, the moment was passing, the day was over, the excuse almost gone. Well… good. He was engaged, she was… well, probably nearly engaged. What was he doing even thinking what he was thinking?

He put out his hand onto her arm. Her thin, brown arm. Which was warm and felt… well, felt wonderful. She looked at him, startled; then down at his hand and then back at his face. Her eyes, those huge blue eyes, meeting his. It was fatal, awful. “Don’t go,” he said. “But, Barney…”

“Please don’t go. I don’t want you to go.” And then, very quietly: “I don’t want to go either.” He put the car in gear, drove very fast out of the car park, down the road, towards Cirencester. He knew the whole area extremely well. Knew where there were lanes, quiet lanes, with gateways into fields where you could stop. And park. And turn to someone. And kiss them. Over and over again. And feel them kissing you back.

Later he said, “I knew, you know; I knew the minute I saw you.”

“Me too. ‘There he is,’ I thought, ‘there’s the One.’”

“And then what did you think?”

“I thought, ‘Oh shit.’ I said, ‘Oh shit.’”

“I thought the same. I thought, ‘There she is.’ And then I thought, ‘Oh, fuck.’ I said, ‘Oh, fuck.’”

“Because it’s rubbish, isn’t it? All that?”

“Course it is.”

“I mean, I’ve got Luke.”

“And I’ve got Amanda. I’m engaged to Amanda. Who’s…”

“Who’s beautiful. And so nice, I can tell.”

“Beautiful and so nice. But I don’t seem to love her. Not like I thought I did.”

“And then there’s Luke. Who’s such a dude and so nice. But I don’t seem to love him either. So… what do we do?”

“Explore it a bit,” said Barney. “We have to; it’s the only thing to do.”

They did; they explored each other. But quickly. One long evening, talking, talking, talking. One long night, making love, hardly sleeping, in Emma’s flat. One long day, walking, talking, kissing, worrying; another evening talking, and one hurried, wonderfully awful fuck in a room at the hospital.

Like all lovers, they developed jokes, codes, secrets.

“Thanks for calling” meant “I can’t talk now;”

“Maybe tomorrow” meant “I miss you;”