Connections

by Hilary Bailey

  “Horrible,” she said, in response to Jess’s enquiry about the evening. “And I don’t want to see them again. Plus my alleged cousin’s just rung up to ask me out, though he’s married. I’m broke, it’s cold, Christmas is a-coming and I’ve just got back from the girl next door’s funeral.”

  “I’m glad I called. It’s nice to have a laugh,” Jess said. “OK – listen. Are you free this evening?”

  “I said I’d go to the pub with the neighbours,” Fleur told her.

  “What? The neighbours?” Jess asked.

  “Yes – Dom and Joe.”

  “What’s the pub called?”

  “The Findhorn Star. What…?”

  “I’m there,” Jess said promptly.

  “No,” Fleur told her.

  “Yes I am,” Jess declared. “Put us together and see what you get. No – wait – I’ll pick you up.”

  Jess’s problem, Fleur reflected, was that she was incurably nosy. You couldn’t tell her to get a life because, obviously, she had one, whatever you might think about it. Fleur didn’t look forward to an encounter between Dominic and the prying Jess. “Try to remember Dominic and Joe have just buried their best friend,” she advised.

  “Oh, the funeral,” Jess said. “The druggie – yes, I’ll remember.” She broke the connection.

  Fleur sighed and went back into the bedroom. She took from the opened box a framed photograph of her grandmother and her grandmother’s sister hand in hand, four and five years old, standing in a meadow high with grass and tall daisies. They were both laughing. She hung the photograph on the bedroom wall.

  When Joe and Dominic arrived to collect her she told them, “A friend of mine’s coming. Hope you don’t mind. I’ll see you in the pub.”

  Jess turned up in a taxi half an hour later, wearing an expensive red suit and bright lipstick. With her flowing red hair she looked like a burning match. She sped round the flat saying, “Who’s your decorator? Don’t think much of him. You know who does the most fabulous blinds? In Covent Garden – Viv Jenkins.” She made further suggestions for improvements which were quite impossible for Fleur, in her penniless state, to make. Then she flopped into a chair and asked, “What happened at the Jethros’?”

  Fleur told her, then said she had sent a brush-off letter to her stepmother. She expected Jess to react badly to this and she did.

  “I knew you’d be a silly tart. There you were, going down a treat, even the tough mother-in-law making friendly overtures, inviting you for a holiday – and you have to be stupid.”

  “You knew I’d do it and I knew what you’d say,” Fleur said. “So why don’t we go to the pub now?”

  “You’d better send a bunch of flowers and another note tomorrow,” Jess said implacably.

  “I won’t. Let it go,” Fleur said. “I don’t like the way everyone hangs round Dickie Jethro because of his money. I don’t like the atmosphere there.”

  “My God. My God, Fleur Stockley!” Jess cried out, pacing the room in nervy strides, her crinkly red hair jumping about. “This is your future at stake.”

  “Stand still,” Fleur said, “and don’t deny you’ve been sniffing something in the Ladies’ somewhere.”

  Jess obeyed, meeting Fleur’s gaze defiantly.

  “I don’t know what sort of an evening we’re supposed to have,” Fleur said, “with you in this state. Are you sure you don’t want to go home?”

  “What the hell, what the hell,” Jess said. “Let’s get out of your luxury apartment and enjoy the charm of Cray Hill.” Going down the steps Jess looked up disparagingly at the sky, as if that, too, were a squalid and downmarket version of the one over other, better areas of the town. “You’d better send that note though, and the flowers. Or you’ll end up working at the checkout in Tesco’s.”

  “Shut up,” Fleur said.

  Out of old habit they pulled themselves together on entering the pub – best mates, pretty women on a night out. Dominic almost stood up when they came to the table, but thought better of it and slumped back in his seat. Ignoring wide-eyed Joe, Jess said to him, “You must be Dominic.”

  “Heard all about me then?” he countered.

  Damn, Fleur thought. Damn.

  “Just the interesting bits,” Jess told him.

  “Well then – my interesting bits are interesting, I’ll grant you that,” Dominic said, sounding Irish on purpose.

  “I’m sure,” said Jess, eyes glinting.

  Joe struggled to his feet and interrupted, “I’m guessing you came here to have a drink. What’ll it be?”

  “I’ll have a vodka and tonic,” Jess replied. “Fleur will have her usual half of lager.”

  Joe went off to get them. Dominic and Jess locked eyes. When Joe came back with the drinks Jess said, “Thanks. What’s your line of business, then?”

  “Builder,” he told her. “What’s yours?”

  “Thanks – another vodka and tonic,” Jess answered. She’d knocked the first one back quickly. “Nice pub,” she added, looking round. “Quiet.”

  “Not what you’re used to,” Joe said and went off to get her another vodka.

  Jess turned to Fleur. “Do you know this guy Beavis, the Channel Four guy Ben took for a ride?”

  “No,” said Fleur. “And I don’t think he wants to know me.” She watched Jess sink the vodka and go off to get another at the bar.

  “How’s Ellen?” Fleur asked Dominic and Joe.

  “Not too good,” Dominic told her. “Couldn’t be, could she?”

  He glanced over at the bar where Jess was putting down an empty glass and picking up a full one. She’d sunk a third vodka standing at the bar. Fleur followed his gaze and was puzzled. Not since they’d been teenagers, swigging bottles stolen from their parents – wine, beer, gin and whisky mixed together – had she seen Jess drinking like this.

  Jess came back unsteadily with two drinks, went away and got the other two, sat down, lifted her own glass and said, “Cheers,” to Dominic. She added, “Have you ever thought of modelling?”

  He grinned. “Clay or plasticine?”

  “No – seriously – with your looks, you’ve got a chance.”

  “What – me, brought up by the Christian Brothers, take my jeans off on TV? I could never do it. I’d be all the time thinking of Brother Thomas’s rope landing on my legs. Or Brother Thomas.”

  “I could let you have the names of some people if you’re interested,” Jess persisted. “Give me your number – I’ll ask around.”

  “Could you try to get me a job as the handsome one’s ugly friend?” Joe asked.

  “Is it true you used to live on the street?” Jess asked him.

  “Didn’t I used to see you going into the Groucho Club in Dean Street with loads of different blokes?” he retaliated. “I’d be the one in the doorway, huddled in a blanket.”

  “I was the one with a job, giving you money.”

  “Jewish, are you?” he said, peering at her.

  “Yes, as it happens,” she said to him. “Why do you want to know?”

  “Just curiosity,” Joe replied.

  “We all know about that kind of curiosity.”

  “Well, bugger it,” Joe said mildly. “I’m going. I said I’d see Melanie.”

  “Made a date at the wake, was it?” enquired Dominic.

  “At the party afterwards, whatever you call it. She was upset and one thing led to another. She’s a nice girl,” Joe said.

  “Where are you going to offer her a home – on the pavement in Oxford Street – or are you considering Piccadilly Circus?” asked Jess.

  “We wouldn’t aim so high – we was thinking of Elephant and Castle,” Joe responded. “Excuse me – got to rush. We’ve got to work out how to lay our thieving hands on a couple of sleeping bags. Cheers Fleur, be lucky Dom.” He held out his hand to Jess. “Got any change?” he asked. Then he was gone.

  “That was charming,” Fleur said to Jess.

  “I’ll get some more drinks, shall I,
while you have a chat?” Dominic offered.

  “Do you want another vodka?” Fleur asked Jess.

  “Yes. I’ll go for it,” Jess answered.

  “Your choice,” said Fleur.

  “At least I make them, unlike some,” Jess returned. She looked up at Dominic and smiled. “Get some drinks – then I want to hear all about you.”

  When he was at the bar she looked at Fleur. “God – he’s handsome.”

  “I noticed you’d noticed,” Fleur said.

  Drink and drugs aside, she thought, Jess would never have behaved like this – making passes at Dominic and insulting Joe – with people she considered her equals. The last ten years had seen Jess married to a respected journalist and getting more successful at her job until she’d effectively become Debs Smith’s second-in-command. The Drakes had bought a big house in Highgate and a farmhouse in France. Jess had joined the “media-ocracy”, which, if it didn’t mean having real power, meant contacts with and some influence over those who did. Fleur had done it herself and knew what it felt like, but she’d come down to earth with a bang and joined the punters. Jess hadn’t and that was why she didn’t care what she did here.

  Fleur went to the bar, picked up a glass and followed Dominic back to the table.

  Jess had an address book out and said to Dominic, “Put your number down and I’ll give you a ring when I’ve fixed up a meeting. We could go out – Fleur could bring her cousin.” She leaned forward. “You see, Fleur’s had this surprise. She’s found out something about herself. I mean, to you and me, Dom, she might look all meek and mild, somewhat depressed if the truth were told, and out of work – but – and this is the point – but—”

  “Shut up, Jess. Just shut up,” said Fleur, leaning towards her. “You’re drunk. I don’t know what’s the matter with you and I don’t care. I’m going home.” She stood up.

  Jess said, “If you can call it a home.”

  Fleur said to her, “Things change, Jess, you know. Friendships can end. I’m going. Are you coming with me or not?”

  Jess shook her head. “One day, Fleur, you’ll wake up and think what you’ve lost and you’ll bloody want to kill yourself. Don’t expect me to sympathise.”

  “This is money, Jess – only money.”

  “Just money. Just money. You’re talking about the most powerful thing in the world.”

  “You’ve changed, Jess Stadlen,” Fleur said. “God – how you’ve changed …”

  “You haven’t – that’s the trouble.”

  Dominic, too, stood up. He said, “Goodbye, girls. I’m off.” He nodded at both of them and walked away.

  “I’ll call you,” Jess called after him. He walked out.

  Jess turned to Fleur. “Charming friends you’ve got. Lovely manners.”

  “I don’t think you’ve got any right to criticise. This evening hasn’t been fun. I’ll call a cab for you.”

  “I’ll come back to your place. I don’t want to sit waiting in this grim pub.”

  They walked silently back to Adelaide House. There were no lights on in Dominic’s flat. Fleur thought he wouldn’t want to be there alone. She called a minicab and they both sat waiting for it to arrive. “I’m only trying to help you,” Jess said finally.

  “Don’t say any more,” warned Fleur.

  “See reason,” Jess appealed.

  “‘Money, the most powerful thing in the world’,” Fleur mocked. “Do you know what you sound like?”

  “A fucking realist, that’s what. OK – money’s not the most important thing in the world, but it certainly feels like it when you haven’t got any.”

  “How the hell would you know?” Fleur questioned, knowing she should not be drawn into the argument, but unable to resist. “You’ve never been without anything.”

  “My family were immigrants,” Jess stated.

  “Two generations ago,” said Fleur. “And your parents don’t go on like you. Your father would faint if he heard you. It’s the last ten years of hanging around with all those yuppies snorting coke and flashing gold cards about. If you can’t buy it, fuck it and if you can’t do either, throw it away.”

  “I loved it,” said Jess.

  “Everybody did. Then it changed.”

  “For you, maybe. Not for the rest of us. It’s still there, Fleur. Bigger and better than before, maybe a tad more discreet, that’s all. And you can come back. Your father’s your chance.”

  The phone rang. The minicab was outside. Jess picked up her bag and charged off. “Think about it,” she said over her shoulder.

  Fleur sat down, thinking: Another awful evening, worse than last night.

  Dominic rang the bell and edged in cautiously. “She gone?”

  Fleur laughed.

  “I crept back to the flat as if I was going to rob the place. I didn’t dare come round till I heard your front door close.”

  “She’s not always like that. Honest.”

  “If you say so,” he replied. “She didn’t seem to take to Joe, did she?”

  “She took to you, though,” Fleur said.

  “I don’t think she hated me,” he said.

  “I could kill her. I told her you’d been at a funeral. She was fucking demented. Basically, she’s depressed.”

  “Let’s go to bed,” he suggested. She was in his arms in a flash.

  Later he murmured, “I wonder where Joe is.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I had a premonition of doom.”

  “Don’t,” said Fleur. “You know – you’re terrific.”

  “Be careful. I’m not.”

  “Don’t believe you.”

  “Watch it,” he warned, his arms round her. “Don’t get too close.”

  “Can’t get much closer than this.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Do I?”

  “You’d better.”

  Fleur’s mother rang her the next day as she was about to set out to work the lunchtime shift at the Findhorn Star.

  “I haven’t got much time, Grace,” she said. “I’m off to work.” She was feeling frantic. The morning post had included a huge envelope of forwarded mail from the old Verity office. It had included tax demands, letters from creditors and a threat of bankruptcy.

  “I don’t mind,” Grace told her. “In fact, I’d just as soon cut this short.” She paused. “It’s slightly awkward.”

  Fleur wondered. It wasn’t like her mother to find things awkward. She and Robin lived in a crystal-clear world, achieved by allowing nothing untoward to enter their lives. Faced with an intrusion of unpleasantness, they got the stupid thing under control rapidly, like hitting a badly behaved dog with a rolled-up copy of the Radio Times.

  Grace started up again. “I’ve had a call from Henry Jones, who I gather you met at your father’s house.” She paused again. Fleur thought – Ouch! She wished she’d mentioned going to meet her father before Grace and Robin heard the news from someone else. And why had Henry Jones got in touch with her mother, she wondered? How had he even got the number? Easily, she supposed. In that world such things were easy.

  Grace said, “He told me he had the impression on the basis of that one encounter that you didn’t want to maintain any relationship with your father and his family. He told me your father was quite upset about this.” There was yet another pause, then she went on gallantly, “To cut a long story short, Mr Jones was anxious for me to stress to you how much your father wanted to keep up a relationship with you. Robin and I do find it a little odd but I told him I’d talk to you, pass on the message. Though I told him I thought this was a matter for you and your father to sort out between you.”

  Fleur thought of the long years of silence. “You don’t mind me going to visit him?”

  “Of course not. He’s your father, after all.”

  “He tracked me down. I just don’t want to get involved. I don’t know what he wants from me.”

  “I think if he wants to see you occasionall
y you should comply,” her mother told her.

  Fleur was surprised by this approach. “He did leave you when you were pregnant,” she pointed out.

  “That was a long time ago, Fleur. I’ve no reason to believe your father’s a bad man. Give him a chance.”

  “What does Robin think?”

  “Much the same as I do. This isn’t easy to go into over the phone, but I do think you might make an effort.”

  “I’ll think it over, Ma. I’ve got to go – I’ll be late at the pub.”

  “He might be able to help you,” Grace told her.

  “That’s what Jess says.”

  “I think she may be right. I’ll let you go – but do think it over.”

  “All right.”

  “Goodbye, darling.”

  “Goodbye.”

  Fleur dashed across the road to the pub and as she hurried in Patrick jumped out from behind the bar. “You’ll have to manage on your own for a few hours. My car’s been vandalised. I’ve got to get it sorted.”

  Fleur was too busy to think during lunchtime, but when things quietened down she stood behind the bar, staring towards the windows, feeling puzzled. Her mother’s attitude to the phone call baffled her. After twenty-eight years of Jethro silence and neglect an unknown man had telephoned and asked her to intercede with her daughter on behalf of the man who had stepped out on her all those years ago. Fleur would have assumed her mother would resent this, but, no – she’d taken it for granted and done what Jones asked. But, Fleur thought, if her mother didn’t resent Jones’s call, she did. It was cheek, the kind of commanding attitude she’d seen revealed during her evening at Eaton Square: the assumption that if you wanted something you just asked and expected the other person to comply.

  She turned and started absent-mindedly dusting the optics. “Henry,” her father would have said, “get hold of Fleur’s mother and persuade her to tell Fleur to love me.” And, “Right,” Henry Jones would have said. “Miss Smith – find the Carew-Stockleys and get them on the phone.” No sooner said than done. Or had her father over the years kept some kind of check on her mother’s doings? It was weird, thought Fleur.

  “Miss,” cried a man who, she realised, had been tapping his money on the counter for some time. “Miss – when you’ve finished the dusting do you think I could have a drink?”