Bookends

Chapter fourteen

‘I can’t move,’ I groan, eyes still closed, phone lying on the pillow beside my head. ‘Leave me alone. I’ve already been disturbed by that bloody James coming over this morning, and now you. Can’t you just go away?’

‘Nope.’ Si’s voice is as dodgy as mine. ‘I feel like hell too, but we’ve got to do the post-mortem, and we’ve got to do it before we clean the shop. I mean, what the hell’s the point in bothering to even talk to someone like Portia after ten years if we can’t then get together and talk about her once she’s disappeared again?

‘Plus,’ he continues with relish, his voice becoming stronger by the second, ‘I need to know what’s going on with Farmer James the Estate Agent Artist. And, the best way of curing a hangover is a fry-up. We need fried eggs, chips, sausages swimming in grease and baked bea…’ Before he finishes his sentence I’ve jumped out of bed, run to the bathroom and shoved my head back down the bowl of the loo.

I lean my hands on the sink and look at my reflection, marvelling at the face that stares back. I haven’t had a hangover this bad for years, and I’m sure I never used to look this awful the morning after. I smudge my fingers under my eyes to try to remove the mascara that’s halfway down my cheeks, then splash my face, groaning with relief at the cold water.

And as I walk back to the bedroom I hear muffled shouts coming from the telephone. I pick it up in amazement.

‘You’re still here?’

‘I refuse to put the phone down until you agree to meet me for breakfast. And I got the message about the fry-up, so we can just go for a cup of coffee, but I’ve told Lucy you’ll meet her at the shop this afternoon, so you haven’t got an excuse. You have to come.’

What can I do? I give in and we arrange to meet in an hour’s time.

An hour later I’m sitting by the window of a cosy café off the high street in Hampstead, nursing a large black coffee and a head that’s not thumping quite as badly as it was, but is nevertheless still thumping.

I hear a commotion coming down the street, and I peer out of the window to see Si being dragged towards a Yorkshire terrier that’s straining at the leash by none other than Mouse. ‘No!’ he shouts at Mouse, who has managed to get himself wound around a lamppost. ‘Naughty boy!’ He eventually manages to unravel him before looping his lead through a railing just outside the shop and instructing him to sit. Mouse obviously decides to curb his natural exuberance for once, and sinks slowly to the pavement, his eyes looking rather pathetically up at Si as he walks inside and comes to sit down at the table.

He scrapes the chair away from the table, as I grimace and lift my hands to my tender temples.

‘Sorry,’ he whispers, leaning over to give me a kiss.

‘What’s Mouse doing here?’

‘I forgot I’d promised to babysit. You don’t mind, do you? I’m meeting Will a bit later on and we’re going to take him for a walk.’

‘Is Will coming here?’ I try to make the question as nonchalant as possible.

‘Don’t worry, you won’t have to see him.’ Si can see straight through me. ‘I’m meeting him at the tube. Now, we both need to order Cokes.’ He goes off into this long explanation of why Coke is the best cure for a hangover, and, even though Coke is the last thing I want right now, once it arrives and I start sipping it slowly, it’s extraordinary how much better I feel.

In fact, within half an hour I’m feeling so good that suddenly the thought of a fry-up doesn’t sound too bad after all, and we both order exactly the same thing: scrambled eggs, sausage, bacon and fried tomato with copious amounts of white toast. Si debates going for wholemeal, as it’s ‘so much healthier’, but in the end we decide that there really isn’t any point, and that if white bread and brown bread were exactly the same in terms of nutritional content, you’d choose white every time, so what the hell.

‘It’s like those times you go into restaurants and see these rather large women ordering garlic bread, spaghetti carbonara with extra Parmesan, and a Diet Coke,’ he snorts, as a rather large woman on the table next to us puts down her almond croissant, picks up her Diet Coke and shoots Si an extremely dirty look.

‘First, James,’ Si says, and I tell him what happened last night, up to the point I saw him leave with Ingrid.

‘But I thought you weren’t interested,’ Si smirks, as I jump on the defensive.

‘I wasn’t. I mean, I’m not. It’s just that everyone was so convinced he was interested in me, and to be honest it was hugely flattering. And he is a nice guy. At least I thought so until last night, and I suppose I just feel let down.’ Something in me stops me from telling Si that I actually feel more than let down.

‘But you don’t know that anything happened,’ Si said.

‘You saw Ingrid last night. Do you really think he was just walking her home?’

Si thinks for a minute, then shrugs apologetically. ‘I’m probably not the best person to ask. I’m gay, for God’s sake, I can’t judge Ingrid’s attraction.’

‘Bollocks, Si. She looked up for anything last night, and no man can resist that.’

‘True, but if he’s as nice a guy as you think he is, then he’s not the type to jump into bed with her on the first night.’

‘Not “think he is”. Thought he was. The only thing I think right now is that I was wrong.’

Si shakes his head and laughs. ‘I can’t even believe we’re having this conversation. This is Cath-the-celibate-one I’m talking to, isn’t it? The one who hasn’t had the slightest bit of interest in men since Martin?’

‘I’m still celibate,’ I grunt. ‘Just in case you hadn’t noticed.’

‘I had noticed actually, but I still think it’s strange,’ he says pensively. ‘Portia only re-entered our lives last night, but already I feel unsettled, that the dynamic suddenly seems to be changing.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, that we should be having this conversation, for starters. I don’t remember talking to you like this about men since we were third years. I feel as if I’ve regressed ten years, as if we all have. And then did you see Josh’s face last night? If I didn’t know better I’d say he was a lovestruck undergraduate. I almost expected Portia to wind herself round him like a snake and put her tongue in his ear.’

‘Jesus!’ My mouth drops open. ‘I can’t believe you just said that. That’s exactly what I was thinking about last night. I hadn’t thought about that for years.’

‘Me neither,’ Si says sourly, ‘but isn’t it interesting that that’s the first memory that should come flooding back once Portia turns up. And, pissed as I was last night, I noticed Josh was not a happy bunny by the time he came back. I can’t help but wonder what else is going to change?’

‘Si, you’re being a touch overdramatic, don’t you think? She turned up because we were the ones who got in touch with her. Talking to you anyone would think she’s spent the last ten years plotting her revenge and she’s come back to steal all our husbands.

‘Well, Lucy’s husband, because obviously you and I are husbandless,’ I continue. ‘But still, Si, I do think that’s slightly ridiculous.’

‘So you’re saying that you don’t think she’s come back to set her sights on Josh once again?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Whatever for? The only time she’s ever been interested in Josh was one night, ten years ago. She could have had him permanently then, but if you remember correctly she didn’t want him, and I don’t for a second believe she wants him now.’

‘Not even because he’s the only one out of all of us who’s actually happily married to a divine wife with a gorgeous child? You don’t think she might be jealous?’

‘Did I just hear you use the word “gorgeous” in relation to Max Damien Devilspawn?’

Si grins.

‘Look, if we hadn’t phoned her that day, we wouldn’t have seen her last night. This is all our doing, and you’re just reading far too much into it. Josh was pissed off last night because we were all completely whacked.’

‘I don’t know.’ Si shakes his head. ‘It’s just a feeling, but I hope I’m wrong. Anyway, I suppose we’ll have to watch this space when she comes to Josh and Lucy for dinner next week. So, back to Farmer James the gorgeous Estate Agent. What was he doing coming over this morning, or is there something you haven’t been telling me?’

Half an hour later Si manages to persuade me to walk him up to the tube to meet Will.

‘You don’t have to stay,’ he begs. ‘Pleeeeaaaase,’ he pleads. ‘I’ll be your best friend for ever and ever, and I’ll invite you to my party.’

How can I resist? I do, however, clearly state that I will be staying just long enough to say hello, and then I will be off.

The gorgeous warm sunshine of yesterday has well and truly disappeared, leaving the weather cold and windy, and truly autumnal. I’m grateful I brought my scarf to keep the wind away from bones that are fragile enough already. We stride slowly up the hill, apologizing as Mouse becomes entangled with people or runs across them, tripping them up with his lead.

My breath is visible in the crisp air, and Si clamps his hands under his armpits to keep them warm, as I dig mine deep down into the pockets of my coat.

‘I love this weather,’ Si says, taking a deep breath and exhaling with a look of intense satisfaction on his face.

‘Are you serious? Give me the summer anytime. People in short sleeves, carefree, everyone smiling and milling round outside.’

‘Nope.’ Si shakes his head. ‘Give me cold, windy winters. Or, even better, this time of year. Autumn. Anything where it’s cold and you have to wrap up warmly. Kicking through the leaves across the heath, then going home to snuggle up under thick blankets with a roaring fire to keep you warm.’ He sighs with pleasure.

‘Any second now you’ll be talking about melting marshmallows in mugs of creamy hot chocolate,’ I laugh sarcastically.

‘Well, yes, actually.’ Si affects a wounded look. ‘What would winter fantasies be without the ubiquitous hot chocolate.’

‘God.’ I shake my head in wonder. ‘You really are an old romantic, aren’t you? No wonder you haven’t managed to settle down with anyone. Who could live up to those expectations? Who could live as if their life were a constant movie?’

Si thinks for a second. ‘Rupert Everett,’ he offers finally, smacking his lips together before licking them lasciviously. ‘That’s who.’

We reach the station five minutes late, and there’s no sign of Will. Si immediately begins to worry that we’ve missed him, that he’s been and gone, that he thought Si wasn’t turning up.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I say. ‘He’s probably late himself.’

And, although it’s really far too cold to be standing around a chilly tube station, that’s exactly what we do. For half a bloody hour.

‘Hasn’t he got a mobile?’ I ask eventually, and Si nods, so we troop down to the payphone down the hill, Si having forgotten to re-charge his. I lean outside, attempting to control Mouse, while he phones Will.

I want to eavesdrop desperately, but I don’t want to look as if I want to eavesdrop, so I pull Mouse over to a shoe shop and try to appear amazingly interested in shoes, which isn’t exactly a realistic proposition, but it’s the best I can do on such short notice.

Eventually I hear the door to the phone box open, and Si comes out looking completely dejected.

‘How do you fancy coming with us for a walk?’ he says finally, his voice flat.

‘Us?’

‘Mouse and me.’

I look at my watch and shrug apologetically, because I have to get to the shop, but Si and I walk up the hill together, back to the tube station, in silence, as I wait for him to explain. Eventually he lets out a long sigh and says, ‘He forgot.’

‘He what?’ I’m flabbergasted. And horrified.

‘He’s with friends in some brasserie somewhere, and he said he completely forgot.’

‘Bastard!’ I spit.

Si doesn’t say anything, he just shrugs, so I take the opportunity to unleash a tirade of vitriol that probably isn’t that appropriate, given I hardly know the guy, but I just can’t help it. How dare he treat Si like that. How dare anyone. I look at Si’s sweet, loving face, and I just want to kill this man for treating Si as if he’s disposable.

‘Okay, okay,’ Si says, stopping me. ‘I get the picture.’

‘Does this mean you’ve realized he’s not for you?’

‘I don’t know. Let’s just say I might have started to see things a bit more clearly.’

‘Si.’ I try a more gentle tack. ‘Don’t you remember what you always used to say to me? That I deserved the best and when was I going to get enough self-esteem to realize that if somebody didn’t appreciate me, then it was time to simply walk away without giving them a second thought?’

Si nods.

‘Well, don’t you think you’re old enough to start listening to your own advice? Because, as you always used to say to me, you don’t have to wait for someone to treat you badly repeatedly. All it takes is once, and if they get away with it that once, if they know they can treat you like that, then it sets the pattern for the future.’

‘You forgot to say ugly enough,’ Si says, with the vestige of a small smile on his face.

‘What?’

‘You said didn’t I think I was old enough. You forgot to say “and ugly enough” too.’

‘I thought that went without saying,’ I grin, and Si takes my hand and gives me a quick squeeze.

‘Thanks,’ he says, ‘you’re the best friend a girl could ever ask for.’

I arrive back home, change into my oldest, most disgusting clothes, grab a bucket of cleaning stuff and dash to the shop.

Lucy’s already there, cleaning up the kitchen, and she makes us both strong cappuccinos before we start work. We sit at one of the cleaner tables to drink our coffee and gossip about the night before.

And then, Jesus, do we work. We scrub, sweep, mop and polish, until the shop is positively gleaming, until you wouldn’t have a clue that last night there were well over a hundred people crammed in here.

And eventually, when we’ve finished, Lucy looks at me with a twinkle in her eye and says, ‘So what’s on your agenda for the evening?’

I shrug, planning nothing more exciting than a long hot bath and an early night in preparation for the big day tomorrow.

‘Before you have your hot bath and early night,’ Lucy smiles, reading my mind, ‘can I tempt you with a delicious savoury cheesecake that I’m planning to have for supper with a large salad and an even larger glass of red wine. Care to join me?’

‘I’d love to. But can I take a raincheck on the wine?’

Lucy’s kitchen is even more disorganized than usual. The dustbin lid is wide open like a gaping mouth as rubbish threatens to spill out all over the kitchen floor, and a couple of supplementary bins, rather cleverly disguised as Sainsbury’s bags, are dotted around at the base of the main bin.

The sink is overflowing with dishes, and the board with messages, scribbled on various bits of paper, envelopes, scraps torn out of magazines, each in Lucy’s illegible handwriting. The fridge is now evidently doubling up as a noticeboard, and the magnetic poetry kit has been completely hidden by several scraps of paper clinging on to the fridge with the help of some rather dusty hamburger-shaped magnets.

One of Max’s videos is playing at full volume in the living room, and even in the kitchen the noise is slightly deafening, which isn’t helped by Max zooming around the kitchen with a plastic aeroplane making vroom vroom noises.

Christ. I know I’ve been neglecting my flat for the past few weeks, but this takes neglect on to a whole other level.

But Lucy is, as always, the port of calm in the storm, blissfully unaware of the chaos around her. I follow her into the kitchen, and she sits down at the kitchen table to slice tomatoes directly on the wood, creating yet more criss-crossed gouges in the old pine that has definitely seen better days.

Max climbs on to her lap and attempts to grab the knife, while Lucy smiles and gently brushes him aside.

‘Don’t be silly, darling,’ she says, ‘you know knives are bad for you,’ and I wonder again how she manages to stay so serene in the face of all this noise and mayhem. ‘Go and tell Ingrid to get you ready for bed, and Cath, why don’t you open that bottle of red on the side,’ she continues, as I bristle at the very mention of Ingrid’s name.

Max runs upstairs shrieking for Ingrid, and minutes later there she is, Ingrid, coming down the stairs looking as sullen as ever. I examine her face closely, trying to see whether she had sex last night, even though I don’t really know what I’m looking for. She certainly doesn’t seem to have any sort of post-coital glow, which is what people always talk about, how they say you know. Not that I think I’ve ever actually seen a post-coital glow, but I’m sure I’d recognize one if I looked hard enough.

I remember talking about it with Portia all those years ago. We’d just run into someone we knew on the high street, and she seemed to be in a particularly good mood. Once we left, Si looked over his shoulder knowingly and said, ‘Well someone had a good time last night,’ and neither of us knew what he was talking about, or how he could tell.

Not long after that I had a wild night of passion with no one very interesting, and the next morning I ran out without washing and hurried back to the house, dashing into Portia’s room and grabbing her mirror from the dressing table.

‘Well?’ I said, sitting on her bed and examining my face in the mirror. ‘Do you see it?’

‘Hmm.’ She took my chin in her hand and turned my face this way and that, making me stand in different positions around the room for the light. ‘Do you want me to be honest?’ she said eventually.

‘Yup,’ I nodded. ‘Because I can’t see it, although Si says you can never see it on yourself.’

‘You look completely exhausted.’

‘Oh. Is that it?’ I wasn’t disappointed in the slightest, and Portia nodded. ‘Oh well,’ I started walking out to run a bath. ‘Perhaps that’s what everybody’s talking about.’

And here I am, examining Ingrid’s face as she strides into the kitchen and stops in front of Lucy, left hand planted aggressively on her hip. Lucy looks up and smiles benignly.

‘I would like to know where you think Max’s blue pyjamas are,’ she says, as Lucy shrugs.

‘The wash?’ Lucy says hopefully, as Ingrid shakes her head. ‘Ironing pile?’ Ingrid shakes her head and pulls her right hand from behind her back. ‘They are here,’ she says. ‘In the laundry basket. Where they have been now for more than one week.’

Lucy grimaces at me, then starts to apologize to Ingrid, who merely says, ‘He is your son and tonight he will have to sleep in his day clothes,’ before heading for the fridge and helping herself to a yoghurt, which probably explains how she manages to stay so thin.

I haven’t taken my eyes off her, but I’ve stopped examining her for the post-coital glow and now I’m just looking at her in amazement, astounded by how she can talk to her employer like that. When she turns around again, she catches me looking at her, and she just stands there watching me.

She peels off the yoghurt top, slowly brings it up to her mouth, and licks it, all the while looking at me, obviously trying to embarrass me for staring at her. I look quickly away as she smirks and leaves the room.

‘So.’ I stand up and put the kettle on to hide the expression on my face. ‘What do you think about James and Ingrid, then?’

Lucy looks utterly bewildered. ‘What do I think about James and Ingrid what?’

‘Well, they left together last night. I’m assuming she didn’t come home?’

Lucy starts to laugh. ‘Sweet Cath, do you really think that Josh would have come back to rescue us from a night of debauchery if Max had been sleeping here alone?’

Why didn’t I think of that? Thank God.

‘But they did leave together,’ I continue. ‘And James looked as if he were practically salivating.’ This last bit isn’t quite true, as I couldn’t actually see his face when they left, but, if I had been able to, I’m pretty sure that’s what he would have looked like. ‘I’m certain they both fancied one another,’ I say decisively.

‘Really? I can’t see them together at all. Not that I know either of their types, but I wouldn’t have thought she was James’s type, far too obvious for him.’

‘That’s what I’m worried about,’ I find myself saying involuntarily, clapping my hand over my mouth as it comes out, because really, I’m not worried at all.

Lucy puts the knife down and smiles. ‘Does this mean that you’re finally admitting that you might have some feelings for the lovely James after all?’

‘Absolutely not,’ I say. ‘We’re just friends. Well, we were, anyway.’ And with that the kettle boils, and I busy myself with the intricate task of making a cup of tea.