Part Five. Next

CHAPTER 41

William was walking out of a pub in Bristol, quite early in the evening, when he saw Abi. He’d avoided the place as much as he could recently, but an old friend from Cirencester days had asked him to be best man at his wedding and had invited him and his ushers to discuss the demands and requirements of their roles.

He tried very hard to get into the spirit of the thing, downed a couple of beers and laughed at some pretty unfunny jokes about the role of the best man and agreed that the Hunt Ball of the previous week had been terrific, although actually he’d reached a peak of misery there. Gyrating to the pounding rhythms of the Whippersnappers, he’d looked round at all the other gyrators, some young, some older, but with the identical DNA of the foxhunting classes, cheerful, foolhardy, blinkered folk, clinging to their beleaguered lifestyle, and wondered how he was going to live among them for the rest of his life.

Abi was walking along, laden with bags; Christmas shopping, he supposed. She was wearing black as always: black leather coat, knee-length black boots, black furry hat. And dark glasses. In the dark. Why did she do that? She saw him, briefly pretended she hadn’t, then half smiled and said, “Hello.”

“Hello, Abi. How are you?”

“I’m fine. You?”

“Oh… yes. Fine, thanks.”

He felt awful, wondering if he was going to throw up or pass out.

“Been Christmas shopping?”

“Yeah. God, it’s awful out there. Pandemonium.”

“Where’s your car?”

“Oh… just along there. In the car park. What are you doing here?”

“Mate of mine’s getting married; he’s asked me to be best man. We were just getting together with the ushers.”

“Really? When’s the wedding?”

“In April.”

“Lambing time.”

“No, not for us. We do early lambing.”

“Oh, of course you do. In the lambing shed…” She looked at him and smiled. “See how much I’ve remembered? Well I guess I wouldn’t have forgotten that.”

Oh, God, God, she shouldn’t have said that. It had been all right till then; he’d been fine, totally fine, about to move on, say cheers. But the lambing shed…

“My car’s down there, too,” he said. “Let me help you with your bags.”

“Oh… OK. Thanks.”

There was no tension, no uneasy silence as they walked; she asked him how he was, what he’d been doing, what was the main activity on the farm in the winter. He’d forgotten how interested she was in everything, and how much he enjoyed the interest. It was extraordinary-extraordinary and extraordinarily pleasing.

Her car was on the ground floor; he realised that he’d been hoping it would be a longer trip, that they’d have to go up in the lift, that the encounter might continue as long as possible.

She opened the boot. “Thanks, William. That’s really kind of you.”

He put the bags in; she shut the boot, turned to look at him. He caught the strong, heady scent he remembered; he felt a bit dizzy.

“It was so nice to see you,” she said. “I’ve often thought how nice it would be. Just to… well… say good-bye more happily. But it didn’t seem very likely. I mean, those sorts of things only happen in films, don’t they? And books? What are the chances of William Grainger, farmer, and Abi Scott, photographer’s assistant, actually bumping into each other, on the off chance? One in millions. Billions, probably.” She leaned up, gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Bye, William. Once again, I’m so sorry.”

“What for?” he said, and in that moment he genuinely couldn’t think why she should be apologising.

“Me being me. Right, then…” She turned, walked to the door, opened it. “Take care. Oh, and happy Christmas.”

She got in, slammed the door, started the engine. William stood there, mute, helpless, unable to do or say anything. She was there, not in his memory, not in his imagination, but for real. Funny and fun and sexy and interested. Interesting and absolutely on his side. And now she was going… again. Leaving him to his new-or rather old-life, blank, monotone, nothing to look forward to as he spread slurry in the cold, did the hated paperwork.

She put the car into gear, wound down the window, blew him another kiss. “Bye,” she said again.

She moved forward; he jumped out of the way, managed to smile. The car moved slowly off. She was going, leaving him again, and that had to be right, had to be the only thing. He should just be glad-as she had said-that they could say good-bye more happily. There was absolutely no alternative. None whatsoever.

Barney couldn’t believe how much it would hurt: losing Toby. Sometimes he thought it was even worse than losing Emma. At least he could have gone and talked about Emma to Toby, the one person in the world-he had thought-he could trust, talk to about anything. You couldn’t admit to being that foolish to many people.

It was like discovering the Rolex Oyster you’d been given for your twenty-first by your parents was a cheap fake. Toby, his best friend, whom he’d have trusted with his life, had turned out to be a cheap fake himself. He still couldn’t quite believe it. Or, worse, that he’d been so stupid and that Toby had pulled the wool over his eyes for so long. That hurt too. He also felt incredibly angry quite a lot of the time: angry with Toby, angry with himself, angry with Tamara.

He knew he’d never forget as long as he lived that night she came round and ranted and railed at him; he’d thought that she’d finally had a nervous breakdown because of her cancelled wedding.

But then as she calmed down and he managed to get her to tell him just what it exactly was he was supposed to have done, and as the hideous realisation dawned, he felt so terrible he thought he was actually going to be sick.

“Well,” she said, “what have you got to say, Barney, did you really think you could get away with it, all that crap?”

There had seemed no point at that moment in telling her it was Toby who was giving her the crap, Toby who was lying; it was Toby who must be confronted. He simply said he was very sorry she was so upset, that there was obviously a terrible misunderstanding and he would do his very best to sort it out. She had left, after hurling a few more insults at him; she was so clearly genuinely upset that Barney had actually felt quite sorry for her.

Toby had lied, of course; Barney had arrived at the house the following evening, had told the Westons he was going to take him out for a drink, and then parked a mile down the road and confronted him.

“Mate, she’s crazy. She must have misunderstood what I said to her.”

“No,” said Barney, “she didn’t misunderstand. She was very, very clear about what you told her. In fact, she repeated it almost word for word. I’d repeat it back to you, if you like, only I don’t think I could face hearing any more lies. I don’t know why you did it, Toby. I’m baffled.”

“I don’t understand myself,” said Toby, and his voice was rather quiet suddenly. “I’ve just had so much to cope with, with the accident and the leg and so on, and it was just… easier to tell her that. I’m sorry… I still feel pretty rotten, Barney, in pain a lot of the time, can’t sleep…”

“Oh, my heart bleeds for you,” said Barney. “I can cope with your not telling Tamara the truth… obviously. I wouldn’t either. But not lying to her about me. It’s hideous, Toby. Any other little fibs I need to know about, just so I don’t get any more nasty surprises? If not I’ll be off.”

“I…” Toby seemed about to say something, then stopped. “No, no, Barney, of course not.”

“Good. Don’t see what’s ‘of course’ about it. Actually.”

“Barney, I’m… well, I’m sorry. Very sorry.”

“Yeah, OK. I’ll drop you back. You’ll have to think of some story to give your mother. Why do I think you’ll be able to manage that?”