by Jane Green
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.’
Chapter nineteen
‘Cath, my love, do you think anyone would ever understand how much we appreciate a Sunday off? I don’t know about you but I am absolutely exhausted.’ Lucy kicks off her shoes and stretches her arms up to the ceiling, rolling her shoulders and sighing.
‘And we thought running Bookends was going to be easy.’
‘Not easy,’ she says, smiling, ‘but my God, I wish someone had told me quite how many hours we’d have to be working.’
‘But think of all the benefits…’ I make sympathetic noises just as the front door slams, and Ingrid and Max arrive back from the park.
‘MUmmmmmmyyyyyy!’ Max comes hurtling down the hallway and flings himself into Lucy’s arms, as she strokes his hair and covers him with kisses, and whatever animosity I may have felt towards Max in the past, I can see that he obviously does miss her right now, and my heart warms.
‘What’s that, my love?’ Lucy says, gently detaching herself enough to take the piece of paper clutched in Max’s hand.
‘Darling, that’s wonderful. Is that you with Mummy and Daddy? Why have I got blonde hair?’
‘Because,’ Max says, ‘it’s me, Daddy and Ingrid. I was going to draw you, but Ingrid plays with me more,’ and with that he climbs down, too young to see how much he’s hurt Lucy, but of course I can see the pain in her eyes.
She waits until he’s run upstairs, and then rubs her temples with her hands.
‘You see?’ she says finally, looking at me. ‘I can’t blame him for that, he never sees me any more. God, Cath, I’m not suggesting it’s any easier for you, but it’s so heartbreaking when you know you’re missing out on seeing your family.
‘There I was, thinking I’d be home early evening to get Max ready for bed and make supper for Josh and I, and instead I find myself in the shop until at least eight or nine o’clock, and that’s if we haven’t got any events on.
‘I hardly see my son, and Josh and I feel like ships passing in the night right now. In the mornings I pass him in the kitchen as I’m making a cup of coffee and he’s grabbing his briefcase and running out the door, and if I’m lucky we have a chance to have a quick two-minute chat at night before I hit the sack.’
‘Lucy, you’re making it sound awful. I don’t know what to say, because I haven’t got anyone to worry about other than me, and quite honestly I love the fact that it keeps me so busy. It stops me worrying about not having a social life.’ And it’s true. I have never been happier in my life than this last month, since the bookshop opened.
I love getting to know my local community, because although I’ve lived here for years, I never really knew anyone outside my immediate social circle. I love getting to know the regulars, chatting about books with them, recommending things I think they might like, and then having them come back in a week later to tell me I’m right and they did love it. And I don’t mind in the slightest the fact that I am working late almost every night, and that whatever social life I might have had has flown out the window without a backward glance.
Lucy looks at me with a smile. ‘No social life? What are we, then?’ and she laughs. ‘The problem, my darling Cath,’ she says eventually, ‘is that I love it. I love Bookends and I love the fact that I’m a person again, not just Josh’s wife, or Max’s mother. I love the fact that I’m working with you and that I’m meeting people every day. I’m getting out there, achieving something, and Cath, I had forgotten, completely forgotten, what it was like to have a place in the world.’
‘So how do you think you can resolve it?’ I’m only slightly worried, because I know Lucy does love it, and, even though it’s difficult right now, I know she’ll stick at it and we’ll find a way of making it work. It just might take some time, that’s all.
‘On the rare occasions I’ve managed to catch Josh he’s said these are just teething problems. He says that hopefully we’ll be able to take on more staff soon and just be in the shop for normal opening hours. I hope he’s right, because I’m sure he’s finding it incredibly difficult, me hardly being here.’ Suddenly the light comes back on in her eyes and she flashes her megawatt smile at me. ‘Anyway,’ she continues, ‘that’s enough about my boring old life. I’ve been so wrapped up in myself I haven’t even asked you anything. So what’s all this about you and the lovely James going out next week?’
I called James back. I decided the best way of proceeding would be, rather than apologizing for slamming the door in his face and shoving the flowers back at him, to pretend that everything was fine and nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Obviously, as Lucy pointed out, I was running the risk of him thinking I was completely round the bend, but I’d prefer that to having him know I was furious because I thought he’d gone off with Ingrid.
He sounded guarded at the beginning of the conversation, but I can hardly blame him for that, and within the first two minutes I made him laugh by telling him about the dinner party he was supposed to have gone to, and then everything was fine.
He was astounded that Lucy had forgotten to ask him, which led to further tales of things Lucy has forgotten to do in the past, such as bring her passport to the airport with her on her honeymoon, buy Josh a birthday present for two consecutive years, and take a nightdress to the hospital when Max was born.
James tries to top my stories by telling me about his mother, who had a mental block with recipes and would always leave out a vital ingredient, so they’d sit down at night to Coq au Vin, without the chicken, Duck à l’Orange, without the orange, and Lancashire Hot Pot, without the potatoes.
We’re both laughing on the phone, and I realize that half an hour has flown by without me even thinking about it, and suddenly James asks me out for dinner, and, well, I find myself saying yes, which I suppose means I’ll be going out on a date.
A date! Why do I feel like such a teenager at the very mention of the word? But a date! I have to talk to someone about this, have to share it with someone.
Now, usually Si would have been my first port of call when asking advice, but right now he has done what he always does when he is dumped, which is immediately come round to me to have a good cry and get it all out, and then hibernate for a while to get his strength back. Once upon a time I used to feel shut out when he did that, but I’m used to it now, and I know that the only way to get the old Si back when he’s been truly hurt is to leave him be, as he spends his evenings alone, in his flat, listening to old love songs and feeling sorry for himself, until suddenly he snaps out of it and demands we accompany him to some club, or bar, or cabaret.
He’ll still take my calls occasionally, but in the hibernation period the answer phone goes on, and stays on, most of the time. If he is in the mood he will occasionally pick up, but more often than not we have to talk to the machine, knowing he’s listening and saying that we know he’s there and could he please pick up the phone, which of course he doesn’t do.
But, being the good friend that I am, I went out and bought the videos of Harold and Maude and Brief Encounter, and sent them on a bike, together with a box of Milk Tray, which Si and I always giggle about, although secretly we adore them.
His hibernation periods can last for anything from one week to one month, but, given the shortness of the relationship with Will, and the fact that despite what he said I’m convinced that Si knew he wasn’t The One, I’m expecting his cheery voice any day now
on the phone.
But who am I supposed to share this with? This strange feeling in my stomach, which, unless I’m very much mistaken, feels peculiarly like butterflies, although it’s been so long since I’ve been excited about anything I could be completely wrong.
But whatever the feeling is I’m dying to talk to someone about it. Si is incommunicado, Lucy is far too busy with the shop to really pay any attention, and Josh? Josh seems a bit distracted right now. Apparently – and Lucy says this is the only reason why she doesn’t feel quite so guilty not getting home until late – he’s got some huge deal going on at the office, and he’s having to work all the hours God sends.
So I suppose the only person that really leaves, apart from Bill and Rachel at the shop – although I like to keep my work very separate from my personal life – is Portia.
‘Why don’t we have a long girly lunch?’ she says, when I phone her a couple of days later on the pretext of finding out how she is, but really to talk to her about James. I tried to keep it to myself, but two days was too much and now I have to talk to someone. ‘My treat.’
Well, how could I resist?
I arrive at Kensington Place at exactly one p.m., and I’m shown to a table next to the window, where I sit looking at my watch, wondering when exactly Portia will turn up.
At ten past one I order a glass of white wine, and at quarter past I start studying the menu, deciding what I’m going to order.
At twenty past one, just when I’ve given up hope, I look up to see Portia grinning at me outside the window, and I grin back and relax my shoulders because she’s finally here, although it appears it was a little early to count my chickens. Portia manages to take a good five minutes to actually walk through the restaurant, because it seems she knows everyone in here.
Every few steps she stops to kiss someone hello, or shake someone’s hand, or have a brief chat, and my smile of greeting becomes more and more strained, but I sip my wine and try to look as if I really don’t mind being kept waiting for half an hour.
