Bookends

Chapter eighteen

Despite such an inauspicious start, the party at Josh and Lucy’s ends up being one of the better ones. Si and I are there for dinner all the time, but somehow having a new person completely changes the dynamic, and I truly find it one of the most refreshing and interesting evenings I’ve had in ages. In fact, probably the nicest evening I’ve had since, well, since that evening with James.

My only concern is Si, and the first thing I do when I step through my front door, even though it’s almost one o’clock in the morning, is pick up the phone and call to see if he’s okay.

And of course I’m not surprised that his phone is picked up by his answering machine, and I leave a brief message, asking if he’s okay and telling him that he can call me anytime if he needs me, because I’m praying that Will hasn’t taken it out on him.

I don’t hear from him until the next day, and then at around eleven a.m. I get a sheepish phone call.

‘It’s me.’

‘I know,’ I say, surprised he’s taken so long. ‘How are you?’

‘Embarrassed,’ he admits. ‘I know I’ve got to phone Josh and Lucy and apologize, but I don’t know what to say to them.’

‘Why are you apologizing? It’s your arse of a boyfriend who should be saying sorry. And before you start justifying him, he behaved appallingly.’

‘I know.’ And he does know, because I have never heard Si sound this contrite before. ‘But he won’t apologize. He doesn’t think he needs to, because he’ll never be seeing any of you again.’

‘Charming. I take it he liked us as much as we liked him, then?’

‘More, possibly. Except for Portia, whom he raved about all night, but then again she is a semi-celebrity, which seems to turn him on somewhat.’ His voice sounds slightly bitter.

‘So I take it all is not rosy in the garden of Eden?’

‘God, I don’t know, Cath.’ He lets out a deep sigh. ‘I thought it was just you, being difficult, but last night I saw a completely different side to Will. I went back to his flat, and he basically ignored me the whole night, and I was appalled by his behaviour at Josh and Lucy’s. I just don’t understand it.’

‘You mean you didn’t try to talk about it once you’d left? That’s not like you, Si.’

‘I couldn’t. He was in such a foul mood that I just sat there very quietly and then we went to bed.’

‘Si, what are you doing with him?’

‘He’s not all bad, you know, Cath. He can be incredibly sweet and loving, but…’ and he stops and sighs again.

‘So it’s not over yet?’

‘Not until the fat lady sings.’ And with a sad smile that I can picture as he speaks, we say goodbye.

And when I get home that evening there is a message from Lucy, a message from Portia, three messages from Si, and finally, as I’m expecting a fourth message from Si, I hear James’s voice on the machine.

‘Hi, umm, Cath. It’s James. Look, I’m not sure what I’ve done to upset you, but whatever it is I’m really, really sorry. I’d really like it if you called me…’ and he leaves the number. I replay the message a few times, trying to work out if there is a subliminal message lurking in between the lines, or if perhaps I can pick something up from the tone of his voice, but there’s nothing.

I kick off my shoes and wander into the kitchen, flicking the kettle on and opening my fridge to see if there’s anything vaguely edible. Luckily there is a tub of houmous, and an open pack of thin cheese slices with only the top one having gone hard and orange thanks to my inability to wrap food properly. I take them out and go to the cupboard, where I discover an open pack of rice crackers shoved right at the very back – God knows where they came from, as I’m sure I’d never buy anything that healthy for myself – and then I head back to the fridge just in case something delicious has materialized in the short time it’s taken me to open the cupboard door.

Nope. I didn’t miss anything, so I make myself a coffee and take it into the living room with the food to think about James and whether I should call him back. The problem is, I think, as I take a bite of rice cracker that’s so old it’s now soft and pliable, that I actually do quite like James.

The problem is that if I were to even contemplate getting involved with anyone at this time in my life, James is probably exactly the sort of man I’d choose.

But the bigger problem is that I can’t get involved. I can’t go through all the shit that Si’s going through now with Will – the hassle of introducing someone to all my friends and praying that they’ll like him and that he’ll like them. Although I suppose that bit’s already been taken care of with James.

Look at me. I’m sprawled on the sofa, one leg flung over the back, crap sit-coms that I’d never admit to watching blaring from the television screen, and I’m cramming soft rice cakes topped with plastic-effect cheese and a healthy dollop of houmous (scooped from the tub by my finger, I’ll have you know) on the top. I’m slurping the coffee because it’s too hot, and the only reason I can do any of this is because I’m on my own.

I remember being with Martin. I remember being with other men at university, and going out with men in my early twenties. The whole palaver of having to make an effort all the time. Making sure you look nice. Ensuring he doesn’t know you spend evenings stuffing your face with tasteless crap because you can’t be bothered to walk the three minutes to the corner shop to buy something decent.

I wouldn’t be able to do this if I were with James, with anyone. And even if I could, the risk of hurt, or loss, is always there, and right now I’m happy. I don’t want anyone to come and spoil that.

‘Not even if you could, potentially, be a thousand times happier?’ Lucy once asked.

‘Not possible.’ I shook my head with a grin. ‘Not when I’ve got all of you.’

‘You can’t grow as a person,’ she said sadly, ignoring my joke, ‘when you close yourself off emotionally. It’s all well and good saying you avoid pain by avoiding relationships, but what about the wonderful things you’re avoiding as well? What about the joy and the intimacy and the trust that come with finding someone you love?’

‘I don’t need to find someone I love to have that,’ I remember saying. ‘I have joy and intimacy and trust with my friends. What I don’t have is heartache and insecurity and the loss of my self, and Lucy, trust me, I’m happy like this.’

‘No pain, no gain,’ Si sniffed, but then again he would, because no matter how many times we have this discussion, no matter how many times I try to explain how I feel about men, about relationships, Si just can’t understand.

Which is why, I suppose, he’s with Will now. Si has always settled for second best, for men who use and abuse him, because as far as he’s concerned it’s better than being on his own, although he doesn’t use those exact words. Si always thinks he can change them. The worse they treat him, the more of a challenge it is, and I will say this for Will: he definitely poses the greatest challenge of Si’s life.

I finish the rice cakes and head back into the kitchen, opening the fridge again just in case, but no, same old mouldy vegetables as there were half an hour ago. Aha! The freezer! I thank God, and thank Si, that nestling in among the frozen peas and spinach in the top drawer is the one thing that’s guaranteed to make my night.

A Sara Lee frozen Cinnamon Danish that Si brought over one Sunday but that we never – for some extraordinary and inexplicable reason – got around to eating. Licking my lips, I set the microwave to defrost and linger in the kitchen, smelling the delicious cinnamony, almondy smells that waft from the left-hand corner of the kitchen.

I can’t wait for the ping. I open the door ten seconds before it’s ready and pull the Danish out, tearing off a large chunk even before I put it on a plate. Oh God, this is delicious, the soft dough and marzipan melting in my mouth, and I take the plate inside, vowing to eat only half and settle back into the sofa, plate balanced on my knees.

Ten minutes later I’m groaning with disgust, but even as I groan I’m licking my index finger and sweeping it around the plate to catch any crumbs I missed earlier. I’ve eaten the whole thing, and it was delicious, and I don’t feel guilty. Well, not that guilty.

And let’s face it. I’d never be able to do this if I had a boyfriend, would I? But James is a nice guy. James could be a good friend. I’ve always said I don’t need any more friends, but that’s mostly because Si has filled the role of boyfriend/brother/best friend better than anyone else I could have hoped for. But now that Will has come on the scene, maybe it is time I looked for someone else. Not to replace Si, because nobody could do that, but, even in the short time since he met Will, Si hasn’t been around for last-minute cosy suppers at home. I haven’t been able to pick up the phone to him at five thirty p.m. and tell him to meet me outside the cinema in an hour because we’re going to the movies.

And maybe I have been feeling just the tiniest bit lonely since Si met Will. Then again, I muse, there is always Portia; yet, however close we were once upon a time, I can’t help but feel that there’s too much water under the bridge for us to be that close again.

I can still see the old Portia when I look at her, still have a vestige of the feelings I had all those years ago, but, although part of me steps back into the old role, the other part, the part that’s spent ten years without her, knows that we’ve grown too far apart, that our lives are too different for us ever to be best friends in the way that we once were.

Yes, James would be the perfect friend. I resolve to phone him back, but right now, with bulging belly and lethargy inflicting every bone in my body, I can’t be bothered. But I will ring him tomorrow.

The TV stays on for the rest of the evening. I mute it temporarily to phone Portia and Lucy, and I leave a message for Si, then carry on mindlessly watching, and find myself becoming really quite engrossed in one of those detective drama series, and I’m rooting for the good guy when the doorbell rings.

Shit. Now I know I said that James would be a perfect friend, but I’ve just reached a crucial bit where we find out whether the main suspect’s alibi was in fact real, and this habit James has of turning up with no warning is beginning to seriously get on my nerves.

I stomp down the hallway and open the front door, ready to give James a mouthful but trying to swallow it before it comes out, because I don’t want to frighten him off permanently, not when I’ve just decided he’ll make the perfect friend.

I open the door, trying to smile, and on my doorstep is Si.

‘Si! I was just thinking about you! What a gorgeous surprise,’ I exclaim happily, giving him a hug, and when we pull apart Si gives me a wobbly smile and proceeds to burst into tears.

‘Oh shit.’ I usher him in and lead him to the sofa, sitting down next to him and rubbing his back until the first bout of tears has subsided a little. ‘Cup of tea?’ I say finally, knowing it will bring a smile to his face, as he always jokes that nobody in soap operas can ever deal with emotional outbursts, and all they do when someone’s in a terrible state is offer to put the kettle on and make a nice cup of tea.

He smiles, rolls his eyes and starts crying all over again. After a while I ask if it’s Will, and he nods his head. I ask if it’s over, and again he nods, and along comes a fresh spurt of tears.

Eventually he manages to calm down enough to tell me. I do make a cup of tea, and bizarrely it does seem to help, if only because he has to force himself to stop hiccuping in order to drink the tea. Once the hiccups have gone, he starts to take himself in hand and to take control.

Will had phoned Si at work today, and after a brief chat in which Si now says he could tell something was wrong, Si asked if they would be seeing one another later. Will said that Si could come over if he wanted, and that he’d be in around eight.

So Si duly went over, planning to have a talk with Will. Not The Talk, he said, just a talk about how important his friends were to him, and how important Will was becoming, and how life would be so much easier if he could try to get along. He was going to say that he understood his friends weren’t Will’s types, but sometimes, when you’re trying to make a relationship with someone new, you have to think about somebody other than yourself.

But Si never got the chance to have any sort of conversation. Will opened the front door, then ignored Si as he walked back into the living room. And there, on the sofa, was Steve – a guy they’d met together in a pub a couple of weeks back.

Steve was exactly the sort of man that Si always runs miles from. Good-looking, arrogant, dismissive. Exactly, I thought to myself, like Will, except this Steve obviously didn’t bother with the charm act at all.

Will went to sit back down on the sofa, pressed up next to Steve, and the pair of them sat there drinking their beers, giggling like teenagers at jokes that Si was clearly not in on.

So Si sat there for a while, watching them flirt, desperate to leave but hoping this was some horrible nightmare that would be over any second, when Will looked up with an expression of surprise and said, ‘Are you still here?’

Shocked, Si stood up, as Steve snorted in amusement and Will buried his head in his shoulder to hide the laughter.

‘Not interested,’ Si heard Will say as he stumbled out of the flat. ‘You’re boring as fuck, your friends are boring as fuck, and as for your fucking…’ and he heard the laughter as he slammed the door.

It was a wonder, Si sniffs as he sits here on my sofa, that he didn’t crash the car on the way back. It wasn’t that Will was the love of his life, but the humiliation was awful. He’d never been so humiliated in his life, having to sit there and watch the two of them together, and then that sneering comment, the rejection.

‘I can’t cope,’ Si says, his voice starting to break again. ‘I can’t cope with the rejection. Why does this always have to happen to me? Why? What have I done?’

And what can I say? What is there to say? Eventually I come out with a feeble, ‘He wasn’t good enough to even lick your bloody shoes,’ which is the only thing I can think of.

‘I know that,’ Si says, which I suppose is something of a breakthrough. ‘But that’s not the point. He wasn’t good enough for me, and he still managed to get the final word in and kick me once I was down.’

‘You know what?’ Anger is finally kicking in on Si’s behalf. ‘Alison Bailey said he was a cunt.’ Si looks at me in shock because I spit the word out with relish and this is not a word anyone is accustomed to hearing from my lips, not least Si, who knows me better than most.

‘She said he was a nasty evil shit who got a kick out of destroying people. He’d done it to some girl at work, and she said the best advice she could give would be to stay well away.’

Si starts to look interested, and because I can see this is helping I decide to add a few personal touches, a few flourishes of my own. ‘She said that he plays mind-fuck, he gets off on playing psychological games with people and seeing what it will take to break them.’ She may not have said that, but I know that’s exactly the sort of person he is.

‘I swear, Si. You may be hurting now, but Jesus, all I can think is that you got off incredibly lightly.’

‘Did she really say all those things?’

I nod.

‘He was a pig to Josh and Lucy, wasn’t he?’

‘God, yes. The worst.’

‘So you don’t think it’s me?’

‘Si, you’re gorgeous. He’s just an arse for not recognizing it.’

‘Do you think that somebody, someday will recognize it?’

‘Absolutely, one hundred per cent, definitely.’

‘Thanks, sweets.’ He gives me another smile that’s a lot less wobbly than the last one I saw, and I give him a hug until he starts to sniffle again, warning that I mustn’t be too nice or it will set him off again.

‘You know what will definitely make me feel better?’ he says suddenly with a faint twinkle in his eye, looking much like a naughty little boy. ‘That Cinnamon Danish I brought a couple of weeks ago.’

‘Ah.’ I sit there as my brain works furiously trying to think of an excuse, but I can’t say that I had ten people over for tea last week, as Si would know I was lying, and, embarrassing as it is to have to admit I ate the whole thing by myself, he doesn’t have to know the whole truth.

‘It’s in here,’ I say, pointing at my swollen stomach.

‘What? All of it?’ Si’s horrified as I shake my head and laugh.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve had it in the fridge for a week, and I’ve worked my way through it, ending with the last piece tonight.’

‘So there’s nothing left, not even one little piece?’

‘I’m sorry. Nothing.’

‘Well, there’s only one thing for it, then,’ he says, standing up and reaching for his coat. ‘Come on, get your shoes on. We’re going out for ice-cream.’

On any other night I’d tell Si to get stuffed because going out this late in the freezing cold is the very last thing I feel like doing, particularly after the entire cinnamon Danish, but tonight I have to show what friends are made of, so I pull some boots on and head out the door.

Half an hour later we’re sitting in the window of Haagen-Dazs, rain splattering the glass, my wonderfully smooth locks having now, thanks to the rain, frizzed up to the usual Cath mess.

Si’s spooning out the last of a tub of Strawberry Cheesecake ice-cream, and I’m watching him with my chin in my hand, nursing a large glass of water and doing my best not to be sick.

‘Are you sure you don’t want my last spoonful?’ Si says, holding the spoon to my mouth.

‘Absolutely not.’ I shake my head as the Danish threatens to rise once more. ‘But I’m glad you love me enough to ask.’