Bookends

by Jane Green

  ‘Never mind me, did I just hear you right? You? Playing hard to get? Come on, Si, I know you too well.’ But his face, surprisingly, is serious.

  ‘I promise you, Cath. I kept telling him I wasn’t interested, but he didn’t want to hear it.’

  ‘Does he…?’ My sentence tails off, because I’m not sure whether I should be asking this question.

  Si shrugs and nods. ‘That’s the thing. I kept saying no, and he kept saying why not, and in the end I just told him, which was bloody scary because even though I kept saying no, I fancied him like you can’t believe, and I knew he wouldn’t want to know after I told him.’

  ‘And?’

  He grins. ‘And I was wrong. He’s fine about it. Says he’d already sort of figured it out.’

  ‘And?’

  Si shoves me playfully. ‘And he’d brought condoms. Thank God.’

  I hold up a hand, putting on my best schoolmistress voice. ‘Too much information, Mr Nelson.’ And he laughs. ‘Christ, come on, he’ll think we’ve done a runner,’ and we both rush back to see Paul smiling as we approach.

  ‘Done the post-mortem,’ Si pants, as we move off towards the car. ‘And you, Paul, will be glad to hear you pass with flying colours.’

  ‘I don’t remember saying that,’ I say, mock-indignant.

  ‘You didn’t have to,’ he says triumphantly, and Paul looks at me and shakes his head, as if to say, what can we do.

  ‘So how’s the great romance coming along?’ It’s Saturday and Si’s just picked me up, on our way to see Lucy.

  ‘Hmm? Fine,’ Si says, most uncharacteristically.

  ‘Fine? Fine? What the hell’s fine supposed to mean?’

  ‘It means it’s fine.’

  ‘Okay,’ I sigh, wondering why this suddenly feels like trying to get blood out of a stone. ‘Let’s find the simple way of doing this. Are you still seeing him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you still like him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Does he still like you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I hold my breath, then quickly ask (although I already know the answer), ‘Does this mean this is The One?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Cath,’ he says. ‘I hardly know him.’

  And it floors me. I mean, what is there to say? This is Si, who always, always falls in love within about five minutes. This is Si, who’s planning a life together after ten.

  ‘Si? Are you sure you’re feeling all right?’

  ‘Cath, I have never felt better in my whole life.’

  Chapter thirty-two

  I haven’t spoken to Portia since that night, but not because I haven’t wanted to. I so valued that night at the Groucho, that night when she reminded me of why we were friends, why I loved her so much, but I didn’t want her to think I was prying, and I didn’t know what to say about Ingrid, so I’ve just avoided the situation altogether.

  I’ve thought about her, of course, and thought how strange it is that life should turn out like this, and how Portia is the last person I would have expected to have a relationship with a woman.

  I’m sure an amateur psychologist might say that she had been hurt too much, too often by men, but I’m not sure that I agree. Looking back, over the years, I can see that, although everyone fell in love with Portia, it was the women with whom she really bonded.

  God, I remember how inseparable we were, how much I worshipped her, and I wonder what I would have done had there ever been a time when our friendship might have progressed to more.

  It’s not something I’ve ever thought about before now. Not that it repulses me or offends me, it just never occurred to me, but now, and I know this sounds ridiculous, but now I almost feel rejected, and I keep thinking, how come she never made a pass at me?

  And I’ve really tried to think, to remember whether she had, but maybe she hadn’t admitted anything to herself then, maybe they were merely feelings, or fears, that she pushed down until she thought she’d pushed them away.

  Lucy says that maybe Ingrid is her first, that it’s not unusual for people to fall in love with someone of the same sex and for that person to be their first and last, but somehow I don’t think that’s the case with Portia.

  Would I ask her? I’m not sure. I will always treasure the Portia I knew when I was eighteen, and the friendship we had. And I will always be indebted to her for introducing Si to Eva, for showing him that not only is there a light at the end of the tunnel, but that it burns strong and bright.

  But however much I loved her then, however close I felt to her that one night when she explained her affair-that-never-was with Josh, she simply doesn’t have a place in my life any more. She talked of happy endings, and before she came back I always subconsciously thought that I wouldn’t be able to have a happy ending unless Portia was around, but now I think I was wrong.

  I think that all those years of thinking about her, talking about her, building her up into something she couldn’t possibly have lived up to, weren’t so much about missing her as about needing to have some kind of ending. In fact, I couldn’t have put it better than Portia put it herself, although she was referring to Josh at the time. Reality could never match the fantasy. That was always the problem, and it was just a question of stopping the fantasy.

  Not an ending in the sense that I’m wiping her out of my life again, but an ending in which we both acknowledge the past, forgive one another, and then move on. I realized, that night at the Groucho, that she had forgiven me, but I still needed to forgive her, for walking away from us with barely a backwards glance.

  Lucy has called it closure, and that feels exactly right. It feels that finally, at the ripe old age of thirty-one, I am able to close the chapter on Portia, to sever the ties that have bound me to her all these years, and to let her go.

  Which is not to say I won’t see her. She and Si are growing closer, and I’m sure she’ll be there, at his dinner party, tonight, although I’m not sure how often Josh and Lucy will want to see her, Ingrid now spending almost every night at Portia’s, which is, as Lucy keeps saying, not what they’re paying her for.

  And, as Josh has already pointed out, however much he may like Portia, the last thing he wants to do is socialize with Ingrid on a regular basis. They do seem to be very much a couple, which is making it rather awkward for Josh and Lucy, given that Ingrid is still their au pair.

  Perhaps I am over-analysing all of this. Perhaps it is merely as simple as my life moving on: I have the career of my dreams now that I have Bookends; I have a relationship with James, and I am happy. No, more than happy. Content. Deeply content, and perhaps it is this that is allowing me to let go of the old life and welcome the new.

  Because God knows a lot has changed. Not that I was unhappy before, but I can see now that Si is right when he says that I was in a rut, that we all were. Bizarre as it seems, Si thinks that there is a reason for him being diagnosed positive. He has started to involve himself far more in the world of alternative therapies, and has been talking about training in acupressure massage himself.

  As for Paul, it actually does seem to be materializing into something important, and Si does have a point when he says he would never have met Paul had he not been diagnosed.

  Si tries to give the impression that he takes Paul for granted, but nothing could be further from the truth, and I adore watching them together. Because Paul does something I have never seen anyone do to Si before, ever. He mothers him. I popped in there the other night and Paul was clucking round Si like a mother hen, which Si was pretending to find irritating, but of course he was loving every second of it.

  Even Josh and Lucy have changed, grown far closer, since the ‘affair that never was’. It may not have actually happened, but there’s no denying that the pair of them drifted apart, too caught up in their separate lives to give one another time, and the actual physical act of having sex with someone outside the marriage was just a formality.

  They make time for on
e another now. They talk to one another, and at least twice a week they ensure they have dinner alone, just the two of them, to keep the romance alive (incidentally, the Agent Provocateur gear hasn’t been wasted after all).

  I had always thought of myself as the observer in this group, the one who watches silently as the action happens to everyone else, but I can now see that this isn’t the case. Si has become just as much of an observer, only he chooses not to keep his observations to himself. He speaks ‘his truth’ frequently now, along with many other truths that I don’t necessarily want to hear.

  This, by the way, is all part of his new philosophy of taking each day at a time, living in the present, and realizing that life is too short not to say the things you mean, which was fine in the beginning, but I swear he’s starting to take advantage of it now, and some things I just don’t need to hear.

  Other things, however, I do. He finally told me that I just could not go around looking like Michael Jackson circa 1978 any longer, and if I didn’t go and get my afro seen to, he would refuse to speak to me for evermore.

  I did it for Si, not for me, because some things will never change, and although I would like to make Si happy by waking up one morning with a huge interest in clothes, and hair, and make-up, it just isn’t me, and you can only force these things for so long.

  But I agreed to make concessions with the hair, and I’m glad I did. I had it professionally straightened, with some sort of reverse perm solution. It hasn’t gone quite as straight as Si would have wanted, but it does now slip down my back in large, loose curls, and is about six inches longer, and secretly makes me feel far more feminine.

  James adores it, as he’s now able to run his fingers through it without the fear of coming across a stray bird’s nest or two, but the loveliest thing about him is that he thinks I’m perfect. He lies in bed at night, stroking my thighs, not even flinching at the orange peel effect of cellulite under his hands, and he thinks I’m beautiful.

  And having him think I’m beautiful has started to make me feel beautiful, and this is perhaps the biggest change of all, because apart from one day, in the hairdressers with Portia all those years ago, I’ve never felt beautiful before.

  ‘Crisis, crisis.’ Si’s on the phone, sounding desperate. ‘I need lemons. Oh God, I can’t believe I forgot the lemons. Cath, can you bring me lemons?’

  ‘Now?’ I’m standing in the living room, water dripping into a big puddle on the carpet, as I still haven’t got round to getting a walkabout phone and I still have this ridiculous thing about taking a phone call, even when you’re in the bath and have an answer phone that functions perfectly normally.

  Si grumbles to himself for a few seconds. ‘Oh, okay,’ he mutters eventually. ‘I suppose you can bring them with, but you must be first. Seven thirty sharp. Can you do that?’

  ‘Okay. Where’s Paul? Can’t he get lemons?’

  ‘Nope. He’s gone out to get some more crackers and his mobile’s not on.’

  I already know that tonight will be the dinner party to end all dinner parties, and not because Si intends to reveal his coup de grâce in what will doubtless be the most dramatic way possible. I know because Si has been planning this for days. He has planned the menu, the flowers, even the place settings, because this will not be eaten off our laps while sitting on the sofa, oh no. Paul has borrowed a trestle table from a friend, to be covered with a crisp damask tablecloth and tiny tea lights in glasses (‘Candles, my darling Cath,’ said Si, the other day, ‘are just so done.’), all to be placed in the centre of the living room, which will be lit by the light of the fire and the tea lights alone. The champagne will be on ice, and Si’s beloved opera will be playing softly in the background as we take our seats.

  Portia was going to come tonight, although there was a question about Ingrid, Josh still being extremely uncomfortable, both with the fact that Ingrid is Portia’s lover, and also, more importantly, with the fact that she’s his au pair. Luckily for all of us, Portia had already accepted an invitation to some media do with Ingrid, and although part of me is fascinated to see them together, the other part is relieved they won’t be coming, because, let’s face it, Ingrid is not exactly my favourite person.

  Paul, naturally, will be there, having been Johnny to Si’s Fanny Craddock all week, and James has been invited as well. James knows about Si, he would have had to be stupid not to guess, and he knows that tonight is the night he is planning to tell everyone, although, as James has pointed out, everyone knows, apart from Josh and Lucy.

  ‘Is there not something slightly ghoulish about calling everybody together to announce it in this way?’ he asked, the other morning, and I was surprised to find myself saying that it is, in fact, quite the reverse. I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it will be, is meant to be, a celebration of life. Of friendships, both new and old.

  ‘Cath! Look at you! You look all gorgeous and sparkly, like a film star!’ Lucy is as exuberant as ever as we approach them, shivering on the doorstep in the cold December air.

  ‘Look at me? Look at you!’ I laugh, admiring her slinky red dress and tiny glittering beads threaded through her hair.

  Josh leans down and gives me a kiss, and I am relieved to see that he has truly forgiven me, and the twinkle in his eye tells me everything is back to normal. He shakes James’s hand as Lucy links her arms through James’s and smiles up at him with a wink.

  ‘Could it be you, young James, making our Cath look so sparkly?’

  ‘I’m certainly trying,’ he laughs, as the buzzer finally lets us in, and we all fall into the hallway and up the stairs, chattering as we rub our arms to warm up.

  Paul answers the door, and I introduce him to James, Josh and Lucy, all of whom have heard about him constantly since Si’s arrival home, although mostly from me, it has to be said, and I watch them closely to see if he wins them over.

  More fool me. With that large, open smile and trusting eyes, how could he do anything other than win them over? Si runs out of the kitchen to greet us, then runs back in to stir the soup, and Paul opens a bottle of champagne and pours it, shouting for Si to come in and join us for a toast.

  ‘To old friends,’ Si says, as we all raise our glasses and echo his words, and as I take a sip I catch sight of Lucy, who has a huge smile on her face, and she stands up.

  ‘And to new arrivals,’ she says, as we all say ‘new arrivals’, and Si puts an arm round Paul as I squeeze James’s leg.

  ‘Tiny new arrivals,’ Lucy says, stressing the word ‘tiny’ and looking around the room at each of us, as Si squeals and runs over to her.

  ‘Are you trying to tell us there’s a tiny bun in there?’ he says, patting her stomach. She nods and he throws his arms around her, and I go to give Josh a kiss.

  ‘We were planning to wait until twelve weeks,’ Josh says ruefully, ‘but my gorgeous wife evidently couldn’t keep it to herself.’

  ‘And when are we all going to be together in such beautiful surroundings again?’ she says, and Josh leans down and kisses the top of her head as she leans into his arms.

  ‘Lucy, I’m thrilled,’ I say, although quite frankly, given how I feel about Max, I’m hardly relishing the prospect of yet another devilspawn-child-from-hell, although if I’m honest Max does seem to be getting slightly better, and I am thrilled that they’re thrilled, because that’s all that really matters.

  ‘Oh bugger. The canapés.’ Si stands up and puts down his champagne glass, but Paul jumps up. ‘Don’t worry,’ Paul says. ‘I’ll get it. You stay and chat.’

  I catch Lucy’s eye and she raises an eyebrow, and I know we are thinking exactly the same thing: that all these years we thought that Si was waiting to be someone’s wife, but not only does he now appear to have found a wife of his own, he’s obviously thrilled to pieces with the arrangement.

  Lucy has followed Paul into the kitchen, ostensibly to offer help with the canapés, but actually to find out whether Paul is really as perfect as he seems (and by this
time I’m pretty sure that he is), while James and Josh are deep in conversation about children.

  I squeeze in next to James and pretend to look interested, as Josh explains how children have changed his life.

  ‘But Cath’s not ready, are you, Cath?’ And Josh and James both look at me as I stammer slightly, because up until now of course I haven’t been ready, but then I’ve never wanted to say never, and a part of me had always hoped that my lack of maternal instincts had been down to not finding the right man.

  But of course I can’t say that here, so I simply shrug my shoulders and give what I hope is an enigmatic smile. ‘I’m only thirty-one. I’ve got plenty of time to worry about children.’

  Si raises an eyebrow and I scowl at him as he starts to laugh, and Lucy, typically, chooses just that moment to walk back into the living room bearing a tray of pâté and crackers.

  She sets the tray down on the coffee table, then hurries over to the sofa and sits on Josh’s knee. ‘Children? Cath? Are you thinking of children? Gosh, that would be lovely! Imagine, we could all go off to Tumble Tots together.’ She couldn’t even hope to hide the excitement in her voice.

  Si takes one look at my stricken face and starts to laugh, as I go pale because this is all sounding horribly like I’ve been talking about James to everyone and telling them that I’m planning marriage, children, the whole works, when I haven’t done that at all.

  I don’t dare look at James, because I’m sure he’s getting the wrong impression. I clear my throat and say, ‘No, Lucy. I’m not thinking of children, certainly not in the foreseeable future.’

  ‘I’ve got an idea,’ Si pipes up. ‘You know how in America they give twelve-year-olds realistic dummies of babies that scream all night to put them off having children? Why don’t you give Max to Cath for a week or so to see how she likes being a mum?’

  My mouth opens and closes in a remarkable impersonation of a goldfish, and Lucy and Josh start to laugh, not altogether unaware of my feelings for Max.