Bookends

Chapter twenty-three

Thank God my life seems to have found its equilibrium again. This whole Josh and Lucy thing has been so upsetting, that even when I tried to get on with things and forget about it, I still felt unsettled all the time, as if something terrible were about to happen, something I couldn’t control, couldn’t get away from.

I suppose it could just have been the fact that Portia had come back at all. Irrespective of her affair with Josh, I suppose it is bound to be unsettling when somebody new enters your world, changes the dynamic, disturbs the balance.

She’s called me a few times, left messages, and I’ve managed to avoid the calls, telling Bill and Rachel to say I’m out (Lucy being the only one who never picks up the phone, as she’s always run off her feet in the café) and screening my calls at home. Si, who’s the only person who knows I’m avoiding her, thinks this is crazy, but it’s so much easier to withdraw from the friendship than it would be to confront her.

And I know it’s wimpy. I feel sometimes that I owe it to Lucy, that I should just pitch up on Portia’s doorstep, screaming blue murder, but I was always in awe of Portia, all those years ago, and even though I’m an adult now and my life has moved on, when I’m around Portia I regress to those years, and I suppose if I’m really honest I’d have to say I’m ever so slightly frightened of her.

Which is why I don’t say anything. Plus it isn’t any of my business, although of course it is, because she is hurting one of the people I love most in the world, but, as Si keeps pointing out to me, she isn’t the only bad guy in this scenario. I know it takes two to tango and all that, yet I can’t help but feel that however clever and sharp Josh may be, he’s also weak. I’ve always known that, and although I didn’t think he’d be so weak as to give in to temptation quite this quickly, clearly I was wrong. But I still can’t blame him as much as I blame Portia for tempting him in the first place.

I want to, but I can’t.

Maybe it’s my anger that’s stopping me from confronting Portia. Maybe I’m so frightened of what I’ll say to her, that it’s easier to keep it contained, and to hope and pray that everything gets back to normal.

And the funny thing is that for the last week or so, Lucy seems much happier, and please let it not be premature of me to wish, to pray, that things might be cooling down.

I couldn’t go as far as to say it’s over with Portia and Josh, because he still arrives home late in the evening, claiming meetings or a heavy work schedule, which, as everyone knows, is always the classic excuse. And I still notice that Josh, who has always openly and lovingly declared his adoration for Lucy, now seems distracted much of the time, but Lucy has said that things have improved, and that, for now, seems to be enough.

She made me laugh this morning, telling me about Ingrid, who seems to be acting more and more strangely. Lucy told me how she got home last night and listened to the answer phone, the good news being that there was no message from Josh saying he had a meeting that night. And the bad news being that there was no message from Josh saying he’d be home for supper.

She poured herself a whisky, sat down at the kitchen table and kicked off her shoes, only for her mouth to drop open as Ingrid walked nonchalantly in and picked up her keys from off the kitchen table.

She had, Lucy giggled, outdone even herself. She was wearing a red PVC catsuit, which showed off her extraordinary figure extraordinarily, and her hair was scraped off her face in a slick ponytail.

‘Off to an S & M club?’ Lucy inquired politely, which is completely out of character, but, as Lucy admitted, she was too damned tired to keep up the good old British reserve.

‘No,’ Ingrid said, all sweet smiles that didn’t, somehow, seem to go with her outfit. ‘I have a hot date.’ She then added, ‘If I am not back tonight, you will not worry?’

‘Well, uh, I suppose not, not if you tell me you won’t be. Should I lock the front door, then?’

‘I think so,’ Ingrid said, waving goodbye and practically floating out of the room, as Lucy blinked a few times just to check she wasn’t dreaming.

‘God,’ I laughed, listening to the story. ‘She sounds like Denise Van Outen on Viagra. I hope he’s worth it.’

‘Oh shut up.’ Lucy and I both giggled. ‘You’re just jealous. I bet you wish you looked that good in a red PVC catsuit. I know I certainly do.’ And then her voice suddenly became serious and she looked down at the table before looking at me. ‘I know this sounds ridiculous,’ she said slowly, ‘because I really don’t think that Josh would have an affair, but you don’t think…?’ She tailed off as I mentally willed my heart to slow down.

‘I mean, it’s just that Ingrid seems far happier suddenly, and she obviously is seeing someone, and you don’t think that… well, you don’t think Josh and Ingrid?’

‘God, no!’ I practically shouted. ‘Not in a million years!’

Lucy looked relieved. ‘Oh, okay, then, if you’re sure. Anyway, as it happens Josh was an absolute sweetie last night. He turned up with a huge bunch of flowers and whisked me off to Julie’s for dinner.’

And apparently it was the first normal evening they’d had in ages. Josh had arranged for Laura to come and babysit, and once they were in the restaurant they sat and actually talked. Not about the bookshop, not about Max, not about Josh’s work, but just talked.

They talked about themselves, reminisced about the first time they’d been to Julie’s, and ended up actually laughing. It was, Lucy said, a beam breaking out on her face, wonderful. And wonderful because, it was so normal. Not romantic, not earth-shattering, it didn’t lead to passionate sex or anything like that, but she felt married again. And happy. And safe.

Si rang earlier and I told him about Lucy’s evening, and he said it was a good sign. Not time to start breathing sighs of relief, he added hurriedly, but certainly promising that they seemed to be making time for one another again, although it doesn’t mean it’s over with Portia. Not by a long shot.

But I don’t know any more. I think that maybe it was just a passing fling. That perhaps, like that one night all those years ago at university, it’s over. But there’s no doubt that something has happened, regardless of whether it may or may not be happening now.

And then Si asked me if I thought Portia knows that we know. I would imagine she’d have to be stupid not to, although the extraordinary thing is that she may have stopped phoning Si and I, having finally got the message, but she hasn’t stopped phoning Lucy.

And that’s what really pisses me off. She seems to have some sort of compulsion, but you would have thought she’d show a bit more subtlety. I mean, I’ve heard of mistresses secretly stalking the wives for a bit, just to find out what they’re like, what they look like, what they do with their days. But not when they already know the wives. That’s just sick. Or asking for trouble, but then maybe that’s part of Portia’s plan, part of her happy ending. To ensure that Lucy finds out, Portia will either have to tell Lucy or drop a hint, set up a situation in which there can be no doubt, and then Lucy will have to let Josh go.

Because right now I wouldn’t like to place money on which way Josh would run if push came to shove, and if you ask me, which Si frequently does, he seems pretty damn happy having the best of both worlds: Lucy cooking for him and mothering him and keeping a wonderful home in which he barely has to lift a finger, and Portia taking care of sex, a few evenings a week.

But would he really leave Lucy? If push did finally come to shove, would he give all that up for Portia’s life? Because I know it looks glamorous, and I know there have been times when I have been deeply envious of Portia, but would Josh really want to live that modern, trendy lifestyle?

Would he really be happy going out every single night, hanging out with media junkies at Soho House, nibbling Thai spiced fish cakes in restaurants, only ever going home to sleep, and even that is done between immaculate linen sheets that somehow don’t seem to do creases.

Remember I have sat on Portia’s sofa, and trust me, it is not a sofa that inspires you to kick off your shoes and curl up with the remote control while shovelling down a curry, which is Josh’s favoured way of spending an evening.

And while I know there are some women who are prepared to compromise their entire beings for their man, Portia isn’t one of them. Maybe once upon a time she would have willingly made a few sacrifices, but now, in her thirties, I realize that Portia has grown hard.

She is almost too independent, too self-sufficient, and if a man chose to enter her life – and I have to say I think most would be, after the initial glamour and excitement, scared off – but if a man did choose to enter it on a permanent basis, it would have to be on her terms or not at all.

And Josh might enjoy it for a while. For a while it might feel as if he had stepped into a film, but I can’t see him enjoying it for ever, and I hope, I hope and I pray, that this is a passing fling and that Josh somehow has to exorcize Portia completely before moving on with his life. With Lucy.

A week later and I could almost have believed that it really was over with Portia, because ever since that night at Julie’s, Josh and Lucy have been, well, they’ve been Josh and Lucy again. Even to the point where Lucy phoned this morning to say how about Sunday lunch, usual table, usual time? And without even thinking about it, without even checking to see if Si was coming too, I said yes.

As soon as I walk in the discomfort, the unsettled feeling I’ve been carrying with me, disappears, because there, in the corner, are the usual gang, and the scene is so familiar it is as comforting as travelling back to the womb.

A cafetière fights for space among the piles of papers, and I know exactly what papers will be there, and who brought what because the routine is the same every week, and even though we haven’t done our Sunday lunch for a few weeks, I know the routine will never change. I know that Josh will have brought the Sunday Times that they have delivered every week, and the Observer that he will have picked up on the way, and that Si will have brought the gossipy tabloids to gasp over with Lucy and I as Josh pretends to be reading the serious papers, although he will be unable to resist the gossip and feign exasperation with us, but he will, eventually, join in.

A basket of croissants sits in the centre of the table, and Josh is buried in the Money section of the Sunday Times; Si is stuffing his face with croissant while simultaneously pointing out pictures in the News of the World magazine, and Lucy is sipping her coffee, laughing with Si at his outrageous comments.

I pull off my jacket and scarf, rubbing my hands together to warm them up as they’re almost blue from the cold November air, and I drape everything over the back of the chair and sit down, helping myself to Si’s fresh orange juice as Lucy calls the waitress over and orders more coffee and an extra cup, then telling her we’re ready to order, although why they waited is beyond me because we always order the same thing.

Si has fruit salad because it makes him feel virtuous, and I think he thinks it counterbalances the fried eggs and toast he has afterwards. Josh has a full English breakfast, Lucy has scrambled eggs with bacon, and I have scrambled eggs, runny if that’s okay, with bacon, sausages and copious amounts of toast.

It’s not unusual to sit at this table, washing down all the food with gallons of fresh orange juice and coffee, for around three hours. Si’s perfected the art of shooting filthy looks at the people queuing patiently by the door, waiting for someone to leave, and it’s usually my guilt that eventually forces us up, magnanimously giving our table to the weary but grateful.

‘So,’ Si says when I’ve had some coffee. ‘Heard the latest gossip.’

‘Let me guess. Prime Minister run off with Meg Ryan? Queen pregnant again?’

Si raises an eyebrow. ‘Real gossip, sweets. Ingrid, it seems, has a’ – and he pauses to roll his r’s significantly – ‘lurverrrr.’

‘Oh, Si!’ Lucy slaps him playfully. ‘You are so beastly about poor Ingrid. I shouldn’t have said anything.’

‘So what else is new?’ I shrug my shoulders. ‘She did say she had a hot date the night of the red catsuit, and she said she probably wouldn’t be coming home, so what’s the big deal?’

‘Okay, no big deal,’ Si says nonchalantly, ‘it’s just that it’s been confirmed now. She’s going away with him next weekend.’

‘Have you met him?’ I ask Lucy. ‘What’s he like?’

‘You know how private she is,’ Lucy says. ‘She hasn’t said a word, other than to say her new lover is taking her to the George V in Paris for the weekend, and would we mind if she were gone for four days.’

‘What did you say?’

‘What could I say? Of course I said yes.’

‘But weren’t you positively dying to know?’ Si’s rubbing his hands together with glee. ‘The George V is the best hotel in Paris, for God’s sake! I bet it’s some incredibly wealthy businessman with a fetish for rubber. He’ll probably produce a bag of whips and chains once she gets there.’

‘So does this new lurrve,’ I pick up Si’s inflection, ‘mean that the dreaded Ingrid has become a nicer person?’

Lucy laughs. ‘I’m not sure that nicer is the right word, but she’s certainly more amenable. Cath, my darling, I’m still completely terrified of her, and the only reason I keep her is because of Max, but at least she seems a bit happier, which certainly makes life easier for the rest of us.’

‘Oh well,’ I say, shrugging. ‘At least she’s not stealing from you.’

‘What?’ Si’s looking at me as if I’ve gone mad.

‘I’m serious. One of the girls at work was telling me about a nanny they had, and every night when her husband got home he’d empty all the loose change out of his pockets and put it in one of those huge ketchup jars.’

‘Yeuch,’ Si spits. ‘Sounds messy.’

‘Don’t be stupid, Si, it had been emptied and washed. Anway, they suddenly realized that all the pound coins and silver had gone, and the only thing left was a huge jar of coppers. She must have got hundreds.’

‘Didn’t they say anything?’ Si’s aghast.

‘Apparently they tried to ask very nicely, but she got terribly upset, so they just left it and a week later she told them she couldn’t work for them any more after being accused of something like that and she left.’

Si smiles. ‘I suppose she took the kitchen sink with her?’

‘Don’t laugh.’ Josh lays down the Money section and leans forward. ‘Peter, one of the guys I work with, noticed that all his socks were disappearing. They couldn’t figure it out and he kept buying more and more of these Italian silk socks that cost a bomb and can only be found in Harrods or somewhere.

‘Then one day Peter’s wife went into the au pair’s room while she was out and her bottom drawer was slightly open and there were all the socks.’

‘Bitch,’ hisses Si, as Lucy and I start laughing, and Josh sits back petulantly.

‘It’s not the fact that it’s only socks,’ he justifies. ‘It’s the principle of the thing.’

‘Yeah,’ Si sneers. ‘Bloody sock thieves. They should all be hanged. Anyway, serves him right for spending such a fortune on socks in the first place.’

‘Christ, will you listen to us?’ I’m suddenly horrified by our conversation. ‘We sound so middle aged. Middle class. Talking about au pairs, for God’s sake. What’s happened to us?’

There’s an awkward silence for a moment, and then the waitress arrives with our food. Lucy sits back and sighs with pleasure.

‘God,’ she says, sniffing, ‘I can’t tell you how lovely it is to be cooked for! Cath, I promise you I won’t dwell on the subject because you’re right, this conversation is just too awful, but I’ve just got one thing to add…

‘We should actually count our blessings with Ingrid. She is a bit peculiar, but at least she’s not dishonest, or a liar, or untrustworthy, and that’s really the important thing. That, and the fact that Max, as we all know, adores her.’

‘That boy really has no taste,’ Si says acidly, with no shadow of a smile. ‘Reminds me of his father.’

‘Si!’ Lucy and I exclaim at once, and Josh looks at Si in amazement, because there was more than a hint of viciousness in that remark, and although I know what he means, that he’s talking about Portia, he has no right to be that obvious in front of Lucy.

‘Si!’ Lucy says again. ‘Are you trying to say that Josh picked me in bad taste?’

Si recovers masterfully. ‘My gorgeous Lucy,’ he says, kissing her on the cheek, ‘the one time in his life Josh has shown impeccable taste was in choosing you. No,’ he says, catching, and holding, Josh’s eye until Josh – almost imperceptibly – starts to squirm, ‘I was talking about his clothes.’

I breathe a sigh of relief as Si reaches under the table and gives my leg a squeeze to reassure me.

‘I mean, look at that shirt, for God’s sake,’ he says. ‘Aren’t you a bit old to be doing that whole student rugby thing?’

Lucy laughs and Josh looks down at his shirt. ‘But I love this shirt,’ he says. ‘I’ve had this shirt for ever.’

‘I know,’ Si grunts. ‘Looks like it,’ and, as he picks up his fork and stabs a chunk of mango, I realize that Si is genuinely angry about this, and the only way he knows how to express it is to come out with these odd, vicious remarks.

Just as long as Lucy doesn’t know.

We wander up to the O2 centre on Finchley Road for a lazy afternoon film, our breath visible in the cold air, and it feels lovely, it feels normal. I love this time of year. Early November, just as everyone starts to feel lovely and cosy, getting ready for the full force of winter, and the perfect time to disguise yourself with layers of snuggly warm clothes.

When Si walks me home I say goodbye knowing that this has been a perfect Sunday, and that it really doesn’t get much better than this. Si is off to see a friend up the road, although he says if he’s not there he’ll pop back and we can have supper together.

Luckily for Si I have managed to go shopping this week. Unfortunately I went shopping at exactly the time they tell you never to go shopping, namely when you are completely starving. Starving in a supermarket completely obliterates reasonable thought, and instead of ending up with healthy, nourishing food that will last you a week, you end up with a basket of terrible fast food that is definitely bad for you and will probably be gone by the end of the night.

But even I couldn’t have managed to polish off the contents of my fridge in one night, so Si can, if he comes back, look forward to a double cheese and pepperoni pizza, half a packet of onion bhajis, eight (I only ate two) pitta breads, the obligatory houmous and taramasalata, three quarters of a pack of pre-sliced Gouda cheese, a full and unopened packet of Chinese chicken wings, and a four-pack of white chocolate mousse.

Not a bad feast for a Sunday night, I think you’ll agree.

I open up the Culture section, grab an old biro and circle my evening’s viewing, and then, feeling absurdly decadent, start running a hot bath, even though it’s only six o’clock in the evening. I think a glass of wine is called for, and I pour myself a glass of chilled Chardonnay and pad back into the bathroom, scraping my hair off my face with an elastic band that I pulled off a wad of post a few days ago.

And, soaking back into the hot water, I think how lovely today was. Even though we have spent our Sundays like this for years, it is only when you take a break, or when something threatens to disturb the routine, that you fully appreciate it when it is back to normal.

I pull off the elastic band and soak my head under water, loving the warmth, the feeling of being completely cut off from the world, and, reaching for the shampoo bottle, I come up for breath and lather up my head.

I dip under again and, as I emerge, shampoo still clinging to my hair, I keep very quiet because I’m sure I just heard the doorbell ring. A few seconds go by and there it is again. Definitely the doorbell.

Oh Christ. I grab a towel from the bath rail and, shivering, jump out of the bath, frantically rubbing the shampoo now dripping into my eyes, almost blinding myself in the process. I stumble to the front door, clutching the towel around me tightly, squinting out of the left eye because the right is now too clogged with shampoo and days-old mascara to open properly.

Now I know you should never open the door without asking who it is first, particularly not when you’re female, single and living in London.

And even more particularly when you’re half naked and wrapped in a towel, even if, as in my case, that’s not a particularly appealing sight, given that the towel, for starters, is threadbare and not quite clean, and my face is streaked with mascara and my hair is still half covered in shampoo and is sticking up on the left side, but I was convinced it was going to be Si, so I didn’t think twice.

Now I know you’re not stupid, even though I, quite obviously am, but there on the doorstep, surprise surprise, is James.