Would she?
The traffic inched forward, and at the head of the queue was a policeman, waving on the cars which rubbernecked their way past an accident. Two cars had shunted each other in what looked like a fairly terminal way, and Ed was relieved to see that neither of the cars was Aliâs, even though he knew her battered red Renault was safely ensconced on their drive where she had left itthis morning. Heâd gone back to the house to pick up his own car, and there was no note, no message, nothing untoward to give a clue as to where Alicia might possibly be.
There was an ambulance parked by the roadside, and one of the drivers was being helped inside. Ed hoped Alicia hadnât had some other kind of accident. A cold dread dried his mouth. Something wasnât quite right, he could feel it.
He wasnât a man given to great bouts of intuition, but this was giving him a tingly feeling, as if there were thousands of those little black thunder flies in the hairs on the back of his neck. The speed of the traffic picked up, and Ed put the car into gear and followed it. Get a grip, Edward, he told himself. There was bound to be some reasonable explanation. No need to make a drama out of a crisis.
Finally, with a sigh of relief he swung into the car park, fumbling through his pockets for change for the Pay and Display meter at the same time as pulling on the hand brake. He left the car at an alarming angle, bought a ticket with all the loose change he could muster and, forgetting to put the ticket in the windscreen, raced across the road. Breathless, he rushed through the automatic doors and into Accident and Emergency, where he found a very tearful and unhappy Elliott being tenderly nursed and comforted by Nicola Jones, the sunny, smiling owner of the Sunny Smiles nursery school.
CHAPTER 16
Y ou can tell how old I am. I like my trainers laced right up to the top so that I can walk properly and not shuffle around dragging my feet. I do not, and will never have, a bolt pierced through my belly button, my tongue, my bottom lip or either of my eyebrows. I do not possess any clothing from Kookai. On the rare occasions I venture into a pub, I like to sit down. I know who Craig David is. Heâs the one with the voice of an angel and the hair of a sheep. But I still canât understand a single word heâs singing. I have no desire to watch Big Brother, let alone care whether Sada, Andrew, Caroline or Craig, or any other of the seemingly vacuous individuals who inhabit the house, get evicted. I do, however, watch Cast-away 2000, which in comparison could almost be considered the social experiment the BBC would have us believe it is. I think Liam Gallagher is a loudmouthed lout and am beginning to understand why women of a certain age see Alan Titchmarsh as a sex symbol. Even though heâs a gardener, albeit a celebrity one, youâd never catch him with grubby old compost under his fingernails, would you? Would he ever say an extra-naughty four-letter word if he inadvertently bashed himself with a trowel? I think not.
I look at Christian and feel that he may not share similar views. (Particularly the Alan Titchmarsh theory.) Christian definitely looks like a potential Big Brother watcher. I have a brief, shuddering vision of him sprawled on the sofa with a beer and a take-away on a Friday night in front of Davinia McCall yelling to have Nasty Nick ousted. Christian probably also thinks that Gail Porter is a babe, whereas I see her as someone who could do with a few good meals inside her. Some people would call it getting old and staid. Some people would call it maturing. Fine wine matures. But then again, so does cheese.
It is a glorious spring day with just a slight hint of chilliness adding a sharpness and clarity to the air. I have been persuaded against my better judgment to spend the day with Christian, after all. You might have guessed. And I wonder what he thinks of this. I cannot imagine that Kew is
The traffic inched forward, and at the head of the queue was a policeman, waving on the cars which rubbernecked their way past an accident. Two cars had shunted each other in what looked like a fairly terminal way, and Ed was relieved to see that neither of the cars was Aliâs, even though he knew her battered red Renault was safely ensconced on their drive where she had left itthis morning. Heâd gone back to the house to pick up his own car, and there was no note, no message, nothing untoward to give a clue as to where Alicia might possibly be.
There was an ambulance parked by the roadside, and one of the drivers was being helped inside. Ed hoped Alicia hadnât had some other kind of accident. A cold dread dried his mouth. Something wasnât quite right, he could feel it.
He wasnât a man given to great bouts of intuition, but this was giving him a tingly feeling, as if there were thousands of those little black thunder flies in the hairs on the back of his neck. The speed of the traffic picked up, and Ed put the car into gear and followed it. Get a grip, Edward, he told himself. There was bound to be some reasonable explanation. No need to make a drama out of a crisis.
Finally, with a sigh of relief he swung into the car park, fumbling through his pockets for change for the Pay and Display meter at the same time as pulling on the hand brake. He left the car at an alarming angle, bought a ticket with all the loose change he could muster and, forgetting to put the ticket in the windscreen, raced across the road. Breathless, he rushed through the automatic doors and into Accident and Emergency, where he found a very tearful and unhappy Elliott being tenderly nursed and comforted by Nicola Jones, the sunny, smiling owner of the Sunny Smiles nursery school.
CHAPTER 16
Y ou can tell how old I am. I like my trainers laced right up to the top so that I can walk properly and not shuffle around dragging my feet. I do not, and will never have, a bolt pierced through my belly button, my tongue, my bottom lip or either of my eyebrows. I do not possess any clothing from Kookai. On the rare occasions I venture into a pub, I like to sit down. I know who Craig David is. Heâs the one with the voice of an angel and the hair of a sheep. But I still canât understand a single word heâs singing. I have no desire to watch Big Brother, let alone care whether Sada, Andrew, Caroline or Craig, or any other of the seemingly vacuous individuals who inhabit the house, get evicted. I do, however, watch Cast-away 2000, which in comparison could almost be considered the social experiment the BBC would have us believe it is. I think Liam Gallagher is a loudmouthed lout and am beginning to understand why women of a certain age see Alan Titchmarsh as a sex symbol. Even though heâs a gardener, albeit a celebrity one, youâd never catch him with grubby old compost under his fingernails, would you? Would he ever say an extra-naughty four-letter word if he inadvertently bashed himself with a trowel? I think not.
I look at Christian and feel that he may not share similar views. (Particularly the Alan Titchmarsh theory.) Christian definitely looks like a potential Big Brother watcher. I have a brief, shuddering vision of him sprawled on the sofa with a beer and a take-away on a Friday night in front of Davinia McCall yelling to have Nasty Nick ousted. Christian probably also thinks that Gail Porter is a babe, whereas I see her as someone who could do with a few good meals inside her. Some people would call it getting old and staid. Some people would call it maturing. Fine wine matures. But then again, so does cheese.
It is a glorious spring day with just a slight hint of chilliness adding a sharpness and clarity to the air. I have been persuaded against my better judgment to spend the day with Christian, after all. You might have guessed. And I wonder what he thinks of this. I cannot imagine that Kew is
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