that a man’s fantasy should suddenly become real. He was deeply shocked. He sat down heavily. He wondered if the officer could see into his thoughts – his dreadful thoughts.
Of course he hadn’t really wanted Deborah to die. Only in make-believe.
He was shocked that she had died.
But, the fact remained, he had dreamt of being free and now he was free.
He heard himself say, ‘Is there no chance, officer?’ and to him it was the voice of a man acting out the role of a grieving husband, and acting it badly. It was dreadful.
‘I wonder if you could get me a glass of water, officer,’ he said, to buy himself time. ‘The kitchen’s through there.’
‘Of course, sir.’
The officer looked delighted to have something practical to do.
As soon as he was alone, James closed his eyes and groaned. He couldn’t have explained what he was groaning about, whether he was groaning because Deborah had died or because he had dreamt of her dying or because he was dismayed at the confusion of his emotions or because it was so appalling that a man should have to face his fantasies in real life or because he was a worthless shit who was going to find it very difficult to live with himself.
He had been glad to get the officer out of the room. Now he was glad to see him back. His dreary normality was comforting.
‘Glass of water, sir,’ said the officer, not without a glimmer of satisfaction at his success in carrying out this simple task.
The water tasted quite wonderful. It really was the most magnificent drink. He couldn’t think why he ever drank gin or Noilly Prat or whisky or vodka or port or wine or beer or sherry or Madeira or Ricard or Campari or Manhattans or dry Martinis or Negronis or Harvey Wallbangers or Deborah’s damson gin. Deborah? He was never going to see her again, never feel the warmth of her smile. Never. He was free to marry the woman he loved, but never to see Deborah again, that really was a heavy price to pay.
‘What exactly happened, officer?’
The officer consulted his notes, frowning with concentration. Reading didn’t come naturally to him.
‘It was on a road just outside Diss, sir.’
‘Diss?’
‘It’s a town in Norfolk, sir.’
‘I know it’s a town in Norfolk, but what was she doing there?’
‘I have no idea, sir.’
‘No, of course you don’t. Silly of me. Sorry. Carry on.’
‘She hit a Porsche head on, sir. Both cars are write-offs. Both drivers dead.’
‘I suppose I’ll have to go and identify her.’
‘I … um … I’m afraid that probably won’t be possible, sir. There’s … um …’
The young officer began to break out into a sweat. What had he been on the verge of saying? There’s not enough of her left, sir?
‘It’s my understanding that it will be done with dental records, sir. Shouldn’t be too long.’
‘So the car might have been stolen? It might not be her.’
‘I suppose it’s possible, sir, but there was the remains of a handbag on the back seat, sir, with two credit cards of Mrs DJ Hollinghurst, and … um … on the floor at the back, a pair of high-heeled red Prada shoes, sir.’
‘I see. Thank you.’
Cry, damn you.
‘It seems, sir, that the accident was entirely the fault of the other driver. He was overtaking. A witness said that there just wasn’t room. There was nothing that your wife … if it was your wife … could have done.’
‘It was my wife, officer. Nobody else would have had those red shoes in the car.’
It was the shoes that puzzled him. Why should she have been taking them? She had God knows how many other pairs she could have taken. Why had she taken her very favourite pair, and to Diss?
The policeman had gone half an hour ago, and he had done nothing, except think about having another wonderful glass of water, and then pour more Noilly Prat into his drink instead. He shouldn’t have poured himself any more. He had a lot of phone calls to make, and he didn’t want to end the evening slurring his words. He wanted to be dignified. He would need to have his wits about him. But he had persuaded himself that in pouring more Noilly Prat he was weakening the overall alcoholic content of his drink, since Noilly Prat was less alcoholic than gin, so that was all right.
He’d wished that he hadn’t hidden the drink behind his wedding photograph. It had been difficult to recover it without looking at the photograph, and he could hardly bear to do that. Those smiles. That radiance. Those hopes. He waited for the tears to come. He waited in vain.
So many phone calls. Oh, the burden of those calls. He felt so alone, so desperately alone. That was ridiculous. He had two devoted brothers, many friends he could rely on for support. And Helen. There was no need to be alone. He could ask Helen to come round. No, Helen here? How insensitive would that be?
He could go round to be with her, though. He needed her. He must phone her first. But what could he say? Bad news, Helen. No. Wonderful news, Helen.’ No!
Hello, darling. We’ve often talked about what we’d do if we were free, you’ve urged me to divorce Deborah, and I’ve said I just couldn’t, I couldn’t bear to hurt her that much, well, fate has taken a hand, she’s been killed, instantly, outright, thank goodness for that. We’re free, my darling, to spend the rest of our life together. Isn’t that wonderful?
Couldn’t do it. Not yet anyway. Certainly couldn’t do it in this room, in front of that photograph.
Probably he’d need another drink before he rang her, and that thought struck him as very odd.
No. It wasn’t odd. It was … seemly. He had loved Deborah for, oh, almost twenty-five years. Only in the last few years had he … after he’d met Helen … and even then he and Deborah had had good loving times. He didn’t think that she had suspected anything. She had continued to look after him most splendidly. He owed her a seemly death, a respected death. He … he loved her. In his way. Yes, he did. Despite … although … oh, God.
No, he must ring Max first. Except he couldn’t. Max didn’t like being phoned at work. His bosses frowned upon personal calls. We were six hours ahead of Canada. Max usually finished work at about five-thirty. He’d try him on his mobile at twenty to six Canadian time.
That meant that he’d have to stay at least reasonably sober until twenty to twelve British time. Oh, Lord.
It had to be Charlotte. Oh, God.
He forced himself to dial the dreaded number. He hoped he’d get straight through to her, so that in an instant the whole problem of speaking to each other after all those years would have been solved.
‘Yep?’
‘Oh,
