Behaving Like Adults

by Anna Maxted

  I did, however, order a pregnancy book off Amazon. If I liked, there was little need ever to set foot outside the house again. I could get a job proof-reading and – now that I considered it – didn’t Tesco do home deliveries? If I boarded up my letter box and disconnected the phone, Stuart could sue me all he liked, I’d know nothing about it. I spent the rest of the week lying in bed, reading the pregnancy book (apparently written for ten year olds), and wondering whether – if I had an ‘incompetent cervix’ – there was a danger of the foetus falling out of my body and getting stuck down my pyjama leg like a sock. I had a moment or two of weakness, when I itched to ring Claudia to see how Date Night had gone, but I held back.

  Then, on Friday morning, she rang me. ‘Hol, pick up, I’m bored of this. If you don’t, I’m telling Mum and Dad. You’re freaking me out.’

  She’d called my bluff. I lifted the receiver. ‘Hello. It’s me.’

  ‘Finally. Great, well, come on, open the door.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Open the door, I’m standing outside freezing my bollocks off.’

  I peered down from my lookout, and there she was, yapping into her mobile. She was wearing a high ponytail and red mittens. ‘Wait a sec.’ I scrambled downstairs, in my pyjamas. I’d been wearing them for the best part of five days. The house gleamed, and so did I (who wouldn’t, averaging three baths daily) but my pyjamas were about to disintegrate. I redialled. ‘Wait another sec.’

  I ran upstairs, into my bedroom and dragged on some clothes. In my haste, I pulled on a pink jumper. I’d been boycotting any tone brighter than brown, but Claudia was rat-tatting the knocker to the tune of – as far as I could tell – ‘Why Are We Waiting’, so I thought rather than change I’d be wise to get downstairs fast.

  I let her in.

  ‘Ah, good, you’re a bit fuller in the face. How are you feeling? Where’s the cat?’

  ‘Out socialising.’

  Claudia nodded her approval. She and Emily hadn’t seen eye to eye ever since Claw had taken off her pink and black ponyskin mules (acquired in Paris) at the door, and Emily had been sick in the left shoe. Claudia had discovered the crime, of course, by putting her foot in it. She disliked cats anyway, and such sabotage confirmed it.

  ‘Can you lock the catflap until I’ve gone?’

  ‘No! How would you like to be locked out of your own home!’

  ‘You’re mental,’ replied Claudia, and tip-tapped into the lounge. What she didn’t know was that the catflap had been locked until a week before. No matter how long Emily had sat by the door, scraping plaintively at the cat flap or yowling through the night, I couldn’t bring myself to let her out. I’d huddled under the covers and blocked out her cries. Yet another bone of contention between Gloria and myself. I’d come home more than once to find a neat pile of ironing, and Emily at large. When I’d asked Gloria not to let the cat out, she’d replied, ‘Cats are meant to go outside. They’re hunters, it’s their reason for being. It’s not fair of you, to take your hang-ups out on Emily. You’re as bad as those vegan idiots who feed their dogs on broccoli. Or their children for that matter.’

  I suppose it was Gloria who prompted me to let Emily out again. She continued to unlock the catflap in my absence, and no feline tragedy occurred. Furthermore, I hated to see Emily miserable, I felt like her jailer. And finally, Emily did four consecutive poohs on my Persian rug. I’m loathe to give in to blackmail, but I’m afraid the fourth pooh swayed it for me. I let her out, and cordial relations were resumed.

  Claudia rejected a cup of coffee and stood by the sofa rather than sit on it. To be honest, I was pleased to see her. Despite the adrenalin charge of novelty, I felt a restlessness that seemed alarmingly close to boredom. I didn’t want to admit it, but by Thursday I’d missed the office. I was still resolved to give it all up – after such a song and dance it would have been weak to change my mind – yet I was slowly coming round to the idea that maybe I could leave the house occasionally. I could be a – oh what was it called, when you did nothing under the guise of expertise? – a consultant!

  ‘Flying visit,’ said Claw. ‘To say that I’ve been considering your offer about Girl Meets Boy, and I think we should have a serious talk about it. If we don’t act fast, the agency is going to go under – the finances are better but not exactly great, and the business as a whole needs direction. I suggest Sunday, at seven, at my place. I’ll make cheese on toast. It’ll be a proper business meeting.’

  Quite how cheese on toast made a proper business meeting, I didn’t know. And her determination caused flutters in my stomach. (It’s easy not to want something – boyfriend; boots; a particular menu item – so long as no one else wants it. Once someone voices interest, you presume you’ve made the mistake of your life.) But it was too late.

  ‘Yeah, okay,’ I replied. ‘Sunday at seven it is. I’ll dig out the paperwork.’

  Claudia nodded, a pert business nod, paused at the door, and granted me a regal wave. ‘Be punctual.’

  I was left standing, mouth open. Be punctual! Before I employed her she was unemployable! Of all the cheek!

  Sunday, dot on seven, I rang Claudia’s bell. (Having first called her from the car to announce my arrival, as I refused to wait outside in the dark, alone, not even for five seconds.) Obligingly, it played the first few bars of ‘God Save The Queen’. A visit to Claudia’s flat was like going back in time. It was a shrine to the fifties. Or sixties. It wavered according to whatever tat she’d picked up that week in Brick Lane. You walked through a shower of pink door beads into a lounge dominated by a fake tigerskin carpet, deep red walls, and a cocktail bar – a garish silver homage to vinyl and formica, with a pineapple ice bucket claiming pride of place. Fairy lights twinkled from the ceiling, and the walls were adorned with illuminated pictures of waterfalls that I’d only ever seen in Indian restaurants. As Nige once said, ‘Christ alive, it’s me Great-Aunt Mabel’s house!’

  Claw yanked open the door as I took my finger off the buzzer. ‘Change of plan,’ she said, as I walked in. I gasped, ‘Oh my God!’ and started laughing. There, sitting meekly on various yellow poufs, were Nige, Nick – ba-boom! God, he still had that effect on me – Manjit, Rachel, Issy, Camille, Sam and Bernard. They were all clutching dubious looking red drinks, each accessorised with a cocktail umbrella. Everyone jumped up and started clapping.

  I turned to Claudia, wide-eyed. What were they clapping me for? I wondered. Being raped? She shrugged, grinned, said, ‘Sorry, dahl, but there was no way we were gonna roll over and let you quit the business. There are a million reasons why you should stay, as Bernard will explain.’

  Bernard – last seen sitting alone in a French restaurant – cleared his throat. He’d done something to his hair and, blow me down, it was rather cute. Next to him, Sam twisted her hands together, and stared at her big feet. Nick winked at me, and I blushed beetroot. Issy was just about boring through my head with a laser gaze, willing me to make eye contact. Rachel jammed a cigarette butt in a burgundy glass ashtray and smiled an apologetic smile. Manjit looked as if he wasn’t quite sure why he was here. No, no, yes, yes, yes, no. How easy it was to tell who knew what.

  ‘I wanted to voice the opinion,’ declared Bernard in a strong voice, ‘on behalf of us all, that you’d be highly unwise to resign from Girl Meets Boy.’ He glanced at Claw for reassurance. She nodded. ‘And, these are some of the many reasons.’

  I stood there, politely, waiting. I’d kill Claudia. This was excruciating. Bernard was unaccustomed to public speaking. ‘First, that Glamour want to do a three-page feature on you and the agency. Second, that all your members miss you. Third, that Nige gave you a massive plug on his breakfast television interview on Friday, and the phone has, according to your sisters, been ringing off the hook. And fourth, that thanks to you, I am about to marry the love of my life.’

  At which point, Sam – speaking for at least two of us, I’m sure – burst into tears.

  Chapter 32

  THER
E WAS A silence. Manjit started clapping, then stopped. I realised that I was expected to break it.

  ‘Bernard! Sam! That’s wonderful,’ I said on cue. And it was. Their joy was proof, it blasted away uncertainty, it made me see that what I did was good. Then, in an unwelcome flash it struck me that Bernard hadn’t actually specified Sam. But no, she stuck out her left hand and on her third finger shone a rock the size of Gibraltar. ‘Amazing,’ I added, as an appropriate response was required, ‘someone fetch me a magnifying glass.’

  Sam giggled. ‘My dear,’ she said, with the super-duper confidence of the newly engaged woman, ‘do you need one?’

  All the females crowded round and cooed. All the males shuffled from foot to foot looking uncomfortable.

  Claudia touched my arm. ‘Hol, no one’s asking you to make a decision this minute. But maybe you’ll consider the possibility of staying. Drink?’

  I glanced at Nick. He wasn’t looking at me any more. ‘The biggest you’ve got.’

  She poured me a double vodka and tonic, which I gulped down before realising that it might pickle the foetus. I suppose I would have been peeved if everyone had just let me quit Girl Meets Boy without a squeak of protest. I smiled nervously around the room. I owed a lot of people explanations. After the struggle with Stuart in his office, I’d rung Manjit and said I no longer wanted self-defence classes. Unless I had a gun, I figured, there was no point. He wasn’t used to arguing, so he didn’t. I still felt rotten about it. Issy – the therapist with more issues than the whole of Hollywood stuck together – was plainly aggrieved that I hadn’t confided in her, and would doubtless remain so until I sat in her office and unpeeled the layers of my soul like an onion. Nick would be wondering why I hadn’t returned his call after our magical last date, and – oh God, the last thing he needed was another person letting him down. And Nige would be busting to discover how I felt, to ooze horror and sympathy, and to suck up all this precious material, in case he were ever called upon to play a victim.

  Or maybe I was too harsh.

  ‘Come and help me in the kitchen, Hol,’ said Claw. A spurious request, but I scurried after her. She shut the door. ‘Baby coming along nicely?’ she enquired, like it was a cake. ‘You’re not cross, are you?’

  ‘Fine. No.’ I checked mentally, to see if I was lying. I wasn’t. I tried a smile. It was glorious, that Bernard and Sam were engaged. And Nige had mentioned Glamour wanting to do a piece but, in my gloom, I hadn’t believed him. I sat down on an orange plastic chair. (Claudia’s entire kitchen was orange, it was like being held captive by a tangerine.) ‘Was Nige really on breakfast TV?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Er, why?’

  ‘He’s an Understudy Catapaulted to Stardom. The play previewed on Wednesday night and Nige surprised them all. He’s actually a reasonable actor. I don’t think the critics expected it. I didn’t.’

  ‘That’s fantastic! He’s going to be insufferable. So, so what did he say about us?’

  Claw smiled at the ‘us’.

  ‘He said his only regret about his “big break” was that it dragged him away from his between-jobs job. Said “Girl Meets Boy” about five hundred times. Droned on about drowning in young gorgeous successful singles. I think that’s what did it. The magic words, “Young gorgeous successful singles”. We had forty-seven calls, not all of them from nutters.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘I swear.’

  I felt a tingle of excitement.

  Claudia gripped my hands. ‘Listen, Hol. You’re going through a rough time. You’ve had what I hope is the worst experience you’ll ever have in your life. But it’s over. The CPS – remember, Caroline calls them the “Criminal Protection Service” – not prosecuting, I understand, it must have been like being abused all over again. But you are a tough cookie. You will get through this. I’m not saying shove it under the carpet. What I am saying is, don’t let the injustice of it beat you. You have a choice. You have no power over what has happened to you, but you have every power over what happens to you next. When Manjit was depressed, yes, he took his pills, but mentally, he fought it and that’s crucial. He says all therapy is, is intelligent listening, and you know I’ll always be here to listen to you, as will Issy, as will Nick.’

  She took a deep breath. ‘And talking of Nick . . . ?’

  ‘I haven’t told him. I will.’

  I bit my lip. This was ludicrous, like a half-played game of Cluedo come to life. Most of the guests in the lounge had a secret. Nick was adopted. Claudia was gay. Rachel was having an affair with Frank. Issy had marriage problems (duh). Camille was sleeping with Claudia. I was being sued by my rapist. I was also pregnant with someone’s child. Oprah eat your heart out.

  ‘Don’t delay it too long,’ murmured Claw, peering into the oven with something like bemusement. ‘Do you know how many weeks it is yet?’

  I shook my head. No, and I wasn’t about to start counting. What if it wasn’t the right number of weeks? I hadn’t even been to a doctor, because he would tell me and I didn’t want to know. I sniffed. ‘It smells delicious in here, Claw. You haven’t been . . . cooking?’

  ‘If I’d been cooking, Hol, you’d be dialling 999, begging for Mr Chang. Everyone else cooked. The yellow thing in the oven is a posh fish pie, courtesy of Sam. Bernard has made vegetable lasagne. Camille made herb soup, which sounds weird but it’s bloody delicious, Rachel provided the wine . . .’

  Here, Claudia paused so we could grin at each other. Occasionally I err in thinking that Rachel is no different from me, and then I remember that when she hosts a dinner party, she buys a crate of Beaujolais and puts our pitiful hotchpotch of bottles on the side, so that no guest has to suffer the indignity of drinking random booze.

  ‘. . . Issy made a salad, and two loaves of walnut bread from that breadmaker she’s so embarrassingly proud of. I didn’t trust her with anything else. Eden made fairy cakes. Manjit made lemon roast chicken – he said it was that or a signature dish entitled Blastyerarse Chilli. Nige has been flouncing around the kitchen all afternoon “creating” potato skins and avocado and sour cream dips. And Nick rang Brookfields Junior School, presumably slept with a dinner lady, and got the recipe for cornflake and chocolate goo squares. He was on the phone this morning, complaining that the ingredients were cheap and nasty and he could make a far superior version if I let him improvise, but I told him don’t be clever, this isn’t about taste, it’s about nostalgia, do exactly what it says on the tin.’

  I gazed at the orange floor tiles. Eventually, I said, ‘Everyone made a real effort.’

  ‘Yeah, well. For some reason, they like you.’

  I punched her on the arm. Don’t tell me about not being able to express your feelings.

  ‘Come on. Let’s go back in. Your public awaits.’

  I looked longingly at my empty glass, and marched back into the lounge.

  Rachel was standing near the door, a vision in a purple sari, talking to Nige. He was dressed in his trademark white jeans and white shirt, and together they looked like an advert for Silk Cut. Except that they were both smoking Marlboros. Now he’d snatched fame in the West End, I guessed she thought he was worth speaking to. As for him, he lost no love on her, but I supposed he’d grant anyone an audience if the subject was Number One. I caught myself thinking these mean-spirited thoughts, and felt ashamed. These were my friends. They were here for me. Nige had probably bunked an At Home with Rupert Everett to attend, and there was a high chance Rach had turned down the Grand Old Duke of York. As for her affair with Frank, I didn’t have concrete proof. There was such a thing as coincidence.

  I kissed Nige on the cheek. ‘Congratulations, you clever boy. I’m not at all surprised. How does it feel?’

  He held out his drink to Rach, who took it, and hugged me to him. ‘You, my love, are going nowhere,’ he husked into my ear. ‘You’re going to turn the agency around, and it’s going to be the biggest success. The best revenge is living well.’ He took my hand and
kissed it, a theatrical gesture but it meant a lot. ‘Although if you want him beaten to a pulp, I do know people.’

  ‘Oh, do be quiet Nigel,’ snapped Rachel. She passed him back his glass and sighed. ‘I simply couldn’t feel any worse,’ she said finally, a very Rachel thing to say. ‘I think that once, you tried to tell me and I brushed you off. I apologise. I hope you can forgive me. I suppose I, I didn’t want to believe it. If I had to . . . well, I hope you’re rallying. I can’t imagine how you must feel. But Holly’ – you knew it was serious when Rachel didn’t call you ‘babes’ – ‘I know you’ll come through. And I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch much recently. I’ve been fraught with work and the move.’

  ‘The move?’

  ‘Yes, babes, I’m attempting to move house. Exchanged last week. You knew that, babes, I told you.’

  If I did, I wasn’t aware of it.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ continued Rachel. ‘It’s been such a mare. I’ve not been in contact with anyone – I’ve not been able to detach myself from the horror of the moment.’

  ‘What moment?’ said Nige.

  ‘Any moment. Each one has had me paralysed with shock. The moment when my vendor decided to pull out after we’d agreed a price because rival estate agents valued his property at £40,000 more than I was paying. The moment when I realised that my solicitor was an incompetent fool and was refusing to pick up the phone to my buyer’s solicitor because he didn’t like him. Roland Rat, the estate agent on loan from hell. Oh, there were plenty of moments.’