everything’s OK. Night, darling. I’ll be home tomorrow, around six, going straight up to St. Anne’s from here.”
“Fine. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
• • •
That was done then: very unlikely now that she would call him again.
Jonathan walked into the foyer of the Bristol Meridien, so nicely anonymous, so filled with pleasurable associations.
He checked in and went up to his room, had scarcely pushed the door open when she walked out to greet him, stark naked, holding out a glass of champagne.
“You’re very late,” she said. “What kept you?”
CHAPTER 6
When all else failed, Georgia prayed. Not because she believed in God, exactly, but because He did seem, on the whole, to be very good about listening to her and letting her have what she wanted. Which meant, she supposed, that she really ought to believe in Him a bit more, and be a bit more grateful.
Well, if He answered this particular prayer in an even half-positive manner (she promised both herself and Him), she would make a much, much greater effort not just to believe in Him, but to behave in a way more appropriate to the belief. Because He most definitely would deserve it.
What she was going to ask of Him today, she thought, eyes screwed up, fists clenched in absolute concentration, was not actually that difficult to grant. She wanted a car: a car driven by someone else, on its way to London, and with a spare seat. And actually, since she was standing just above the approach road to the M 4 , it would not be a miracle on the scale of the loaves and fishes. All God had to do, in fact, was point her out, perhaps nudge the driver into thinking some company would not go amiss, and He’d be free to get on with whatever other tasks were on His mind.
After half an hour, her arm aching, her bare legs drenched in dust, it began to seem that God had better things to do that morning.
At this rate she just wasn’t going to make it. She had to be there, actually at the audition, by three; it was already twelve, and her father always said you had to allow two and a half hours minimum from the Severn Bridge. And that was when you knew exactly where you were going; she had to find some obscure place in the middle of London, and get herself tarted up before she could present herself to the snooty cow—they were always snooty—in reception. She was almost thinking of giving up. Of going home again, telling her mother that she had missed not just the early coach but the later one and that it wasabsolutely, yes, her own fault. Only actually it wouldn’t be that easy to get home again; she’d need another lift just to get back to Cardiff; she might as well carry on, get to London anyway.
God, she was so stupid. Why hadn’t she stayed safely at home in Cardiff and gone to bed early, so she’d have heard her phone when it went off? Only she wouldn’t have had to; her mother would have made sure she was awake and driven her to the coach station in plenty of time. But it had been after two when they got home, and her phone had failed totally to wake her until almost nine. Esme’s mum had been very sympathetic, but she didn’t have a car; Georgia’d gone out in a panic to find a cash machine and catch the next coach, only it spat her card out, and she couldn’t get any money. Her only hope now was the train; she’d gone back to Esme’s in tears, hoping to beg some money from her, but she didn’t have any either. She’d hoped the boyfriend, who’d stayed over, might lend her the money, but he was clearly tight as well as a complete wanker. In the end, he did offer to take her to the M 4 in his car and drop her there so she could hitch a lift.
And here she was, on the side of the road, praying …
• • •
Maeve Connell had also been calling upon the Almighty—not for help, but to be her witness in an ultimatum to her husband.
“I swear before God, Patrick Connell, you don’t get home in time for my mother’s birthday dinner and
“Fine. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
• • •
That was done then: very unlikely now that she would call him again.
Jonathan walked into the foyer of the Bristol Meridien, so nicely anonymous, so filled with pleasurable associations.
He checked in and went up to his room, had scarcely pushed the door open when she walked out to greet him, stark naked, holding out a glass of champagne.
“You’re very late,” she said. “What kept you?”
CHAPTER 6
When all else failed, Georgia prayed. Not because she believed in God, exactly, but because He did seem, on the whole, to be very good about listening to her and letting her have what she wanted. Which meant, she supposed, that she really ought to believe in Him a bit more, and be a bit more grateful.
Well, if He answered this particular prayer in an even half-positive manner (she promised both herself and Him), she would make a much, much greater effort not just to believe in Him, but to behave in a way more appropriate to the belief. Because He most definitely would deserve it.
What she was going to ask of Him today, she thought, eyes screwed up, fists clenched in absolute concentration, was not actually that difficult to grant. She wanted a car: a car driven by someone else, on its way to London, and with a spare seat. And actually, since she was standing just above the approach road to the M 4 , it would not be a miracle on the scale of the loaves and fishes. All God had to do, in fact, was point her out, perhaps nudge the driver into thinking some company would not go amiss, and He’d be free to get on with whatever other tasks were on His mind.
After half an hour, her arm aching, her bare legs drenched in dust, it began to seem that God had better things to do that morning.
At this rate she just wasn’t going to make it. She had to be there, actually at the audition, by three; it was already twelve, and her father always said you had to allow two and a half hours minimum from the Severn Bridge. And that was when you knew exactly where you were going; she had to find some obscure place in the middle of London, and get herself tarted up before she could present herself to the snooty cow—they were always snooty—in reception. She was almost thinking of giving up. Of going home again, telling her mother that she had missed not just the early coach but the later one and that it wasabsolutely, yes, her own fault. Only actually it wouldn’t be that easy to get home again; she’d need another lift just to get back to Cardiff; she might as well carry on, get to London anyway.
God, she was so stupid. Why hadn’t she stayed safely at home in Cardiff and gone to bed early, so she’d have heard her phone when it went off? Only she wouldn’t have had to; her mother would have made sure she was awake and driven her to the coach station in plenty of time. But it had been after two when they got home, and her phone had failed totally to wake her until almost nine. Esme’s mum had been very sympathetic, but she didn’t have a car; Georgia’d gone out in a panic to find a cash machine and catch the next coach, only it spat her card out, and she couldn’t get any money. Her only hope now was the train; she’d gone back to Esme’s in tears, hoping to beg some money from her, but she didn’t have any either. She’d hoped the boyfriend, who’d stayed over, might lend her the money, but he was clearly tight as well as a complete wanker. In the end, he did offer to take her to the M 4 in his car and drop her there so she could hitch a lift.
And here she was, on the side of the road, praying …
• • •
Maeve Connell had also been calling upon the Almighty—not for help, but to be her witness in an ultimatum to her husband.
“I swear before God, Patrick Connell, you don’t get home in time for my mother’s birthday dinner and
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