It Had to Be You Read Online Free PDF

nature of the ring he knew that a policeman was calling. This ring said, ‘Hello. Police,’ not, ‘Sorry, darling, I’ve lost my key again,’ or, ‘Kathy and I wondered if you felt like popping to the pub for a quickie.’
    And he suddenly knew, because the call could now not be about Charlotte, that it would be about Deborah, it would explain why she was late, something had happened.
    As he walked towards the small entrance hall, James took a swallow of his drink and then hid the glass on the top of the piano behind the large photograph of Deborah and him on their wedding day twenty-four years ago.
    The policeman looked absurdly young.
    ‘Good evening, sir,’ said the officer. ‘It’s … um … it’s about your wife. Does she drive …’ he looked down at his notes. ‘… a silver Renault Mégane hard-top convertible?’
    ‘You’d better come in.’
    As he entered the living room, the policeman took off his helmet, revealing hair so close-cropped that he looked almost bald. He had the air of a man who had joined the force to bully members of the underclass, not to be offered a comfortable chair in a living room of the well-heeled.
    ‘What’s all this about, officer?’
    ‘I’m afraid your wife’s car has been involved in a serious accident, sir.’ He looked huge and wretched in his delicate chair. ‘I’m afraid the … um … the driver had no chance. I’m sorry.’
    He had often dreamt of this moment, in his fantasies, often when half awake, sometimes even when lying beside her in bed. Deborah dying suddenly, without pain, leaving him free, free, free.
    But this wasn’t fantasy. It wasn’t right 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.