Faking Friends

by Jane Fallon

  ‘It needs a new shade, but those things cost nothing,’ Kat says.

  ‘Brilliant.’

  ‘And the cooker seems to work perfectly,’ Greg adds. ‘At least, Simon had plugged it in and it heated up. Plus, it’ll fit into that space exactly.’

  ‘He had one of his blokes giving it another clean-out when we got there.’

  I help Greg lug it up the stairs, cursing myself for agreeing to live on the second floor. Kat manages to get both chairs and the lamp up in the time it takes us, skipping past us as we pause for breath on the landings. At one point, two people – presumably the couple who live there – come out of the first-floor flat and tut loudly at the chaos.

  ‘Sorry. I’m just moving in upstairs,’ I say to the woman, who I would guess is in her mid-thirties. Face like a provoked piranha.

  ‘It’s Sunday,’ she says snappily.

  ‘I know. Like I said, sorry. We’re pretty much done now.’

  She stomps off, followed by the man – also mid-thirties and stringy. In a film, his part would be played by a weasel.

  ‘Well, they seem nice,’ Greg says once we’ve heard the front door slam.

  ‘That’s a point,’ I say. ‘How come Simon has all his crew working on a Sunday?’

  ‘Rich people don’t acknowledge weekends,’ Kat says. ‘If you want the job, then you agree to be on site every day until it’s done.’

  ‘Sounds like Dickensian times,’ I say, bending down to pick up my end of the cooker.

  ‘Except they’re probably all being paid a small fortune. Oh … I gave him your number, by the way.’

  I drop the cooker again. Greg yelps.

  ‘You did what?’

  Kat shrugs. ‘He seemed disappointed that you hadn’t come back with us, so … It’s no big deal. What’s the worst that can happen?’

  17

  ‘I’m going to get Oscar.’

  Kat and I are talking on the phone on Monday morning. Last night, I slept only fitfully, partly because I was in a new place with strange noises and downstairs neighbours who, I decided at 3 a.m., were actually marginally more scary than any stranger who might break in. Eventually, I gave in and did what every other person unintentionally awake at that time would do and ran through everything in my life that’s gone wrong in glorious Technicolor. Despite Kat and Greg’s kindness and generosity, I felt achingly lonely.

  Inevitably, I indulged in a bit of self-pity, but then I started to get angry. How could they do this to me? How could Mel, above all? Not that I think Jack is any less to blame, but she was the one who had known me most of my life. She knew more about my vulnerabilities and weaknesses than anyone else in the world. She’s the person I always thought would have my back if everyone else on earth turned against me. And now she was shagging my boyfriend, in my home, and playing Mum to my cat. And she doesn’t even fucking like cats.

  So now here I am, with a plan to wrestle my furry friend from her grasp and cause a bit of trouble in paradise, too.

  Kat gasps. ‘Not really?’

  ‘Why not? He’s mine, I had him before I moved in with Jack. There’s no way Mel’s being nice to him.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, she hates cats, doesn’t she?’

  When we were all sharing a house, a local stray had tried to adopt us. Kat and I used to leave food in the tiny back garden for him and built an elaborate shelter out of old bits of wood so he could hide from the elements. We’d been all for the idea of inviting him to move in. Even Liz had been up for it. But Mel had vetoed the idea without a second thought. I think I even remember her uttering the phrase, ‘Cats are evil,’ although my memory might be embellishing. I do recall that she used to kick out at him if he came within a few feet of her. When we went our separate ways, Kat had managed to wrestle him into a carrier and take him to Birmingham with her, although he’d subsequently run away, been found by the local RSPCA, scanned and discovered to have a microchip announcing that he actually belonged to our old next-door neighbours in Finsbury Park. Not so stray, after all. I did use to wonder why he was a bit on the chubby side.

  ‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘Remember Fat Albert?’

  ‘You’re really going to go in and just take him?’

  I take a long sip of my coffee. I’m sitting at my sanded-but-not-painted table on one of my salvaged chairs, drinking out of one of yesterday’s polystyrene cups because I forgot to buy any mugs. ‘Well … we both are. I need you to help me.’

  ‘I’m on my way to meet a client.’

  ‘That’s okay. I’m waiting in for the sofa this morning. This afternoon.’

  ‘Isn’t Jack going to realize something’s up? I mean, cats don’t just let themselves out.’

  ‘Here’s the genius part. I’m going to open the bathroom window a bit. He’ll think it’s Mel’s fault. He must know she couldn’t give a shit about Oscar.’

  ‘Oh my God. And then he’ll have to tell you he’s gone missing! I can’t wait to see how he explains that one away. Why do you need me there, though?’

  ‘Moral support. I can’t do it on my own. Please, Kat, I know I’m asking you way too many favours at the moment –’

  ‘Of course!’ she says, and I find myself thinking, not for the first time in the past couple of weeks, how I misjudged her. ‘I could get there by half two.’

  ‘Perfect.’

  The sofa arrives on time, which I take as a good omen. It looks oddly out of place, all shiny and new on the bare hardboard floors and next to the tiled coffee table that I haven’t had time to clean up yet. I pop down to the hardware shop and the convenience store and get a carrier, a litter tray and a bag of litter, along with a couple of tins of food. They don’t have Oscar’s favourite but I figure I can help myself to a couple of sachets from the flat and keep these for emergencies.

  I wait in the park for Kat. I’m early, so there’s time to sit and look at my former home. It’s nothing special. A flat in a Victorian terraced house with a tiny paved front garden, mostly taken up by bins, but I remember thinking, when I moved in, that it was perfect. I couldn’t imagine there being anywhere Jack and I could be happier. I’m pleased to realize I feel detached from it now. As if my emotional ties have been severed.

  Kat does her trick of ringing the doorbell while I stay hidden. This time, we don’t wait around looking through Jack’s laptop or scouring for useful things they won’t miss (although I do stuff two old mugs into my bag, because I’m still using the same manky polystyrene cup. ‘See, I told you to take mugs,’ Kat says smugly when she sees me. And I add one cereal bowl for me and a little china dish from the depths of a cupboard for Oscar.)

  He’s pleased to see me, of course, but with some kind of super cat sense he recognizes the carrier for what it is and scoots under the bed.

  ‘Oh God,’ I say, half crawling under after him. He backs out the other way, right into Kat’s grasp. A glint of something catches my eye. I reach my hand out and my fingers close around a necklace. A gold-coloured chain with a delicate gold daisy dangling from it.

  ‘Unbefuckinglievable.’ I crawl out and show it to Kat. ‘I gave her that for her thirty-fifth. She used to wear it all the time.’

  ‘Let’s take it,’ Kat says. She’s managed to wrangle Oscar into the box and he’s yowling in protest. ‘She clearly won’t realize, and you never know when it might come in handy.’

  I can’t imagine how but I don’t argue and stuff it into my pocket. I take a couple of sachets of posh cat food and I pick out one toy from Oscar’s little pile because I want him to have something familiar.

  ‘Okay, let’s get out of here.’

  ‘Did you open the window?’

  ‘Shit, no.’

  I prop open the top bathroom window just enough so that’s it’s feasible a cat could worm his way out if he really tried. Jack and I were always a bit obsessive about making sure all the windows were closed. Oscar is very much an indoor cat and we knew that if he found his way outside there’d be precious little chance of him find
ing his way home again.

  We’re out of there ten minutes after we arrived.

  I try to picture the scenario that will unfold later. In my mind, Jack arrives home first. Maybe he thinks it’s odd that Oscar doesn’t come running as he usually does when he hears the door. Maybe he’s had a hard day and he just doesn’t notice anything as he fixes himself a beer and then wonders why there’s a draught. He locates the open window. Realizes with heart-stopping terror that he hasn’t laid eyes on his pet since he arrived home. Slams the window shut. Scours the flat, increasingly panicked. Looks under the beds and then in the cupboards, hoping against hope that he accidentally shut him in somewhere before he left for work. Or that Mel did, because she usually leaves ten minutes later than him. He tries to remember back to this morning. Did they leave together? Did she go into the bathroom after him? Shit. The cat is nowhere to be found. He must have somehow got through the open window. He could be anywhere by now. Or have hurt himself scrambling down from the first-floor ledge. He could have been run over hours ago. Jack has lectured Mel on the importance of never leaving a window or door open countless times. How could she be so stupid? Because she hates cats, that’s why. Because she didn’t care.

  And then with a crashing weight: Amy. Oh my God. I’m going to have to tell Amy her beloved pet is gone.

  18

  Except that he doesn’t.

  He FaceTimes me in the evening, so I assume Mel is at her own place, wiping down her already pristine surfaces because Kat has told her she’s taking the first of her interested parties for a viewing in the morning.

  Or, even more likely, they’ve had a huge fight because she apparently let the cat out and now he’s missing, possibly never to be seen again. Perhaps she’s out knocking on neighbours’ doors and putting up flyers. Crawling around the park on her hands and knees, calling his name. Not that he would come to her, anyway.

  I’m at home but unprepared when he calls, so I let it ring out, rush around plumping up my pillows and positioning myself in my anonymous space, double check that it’s late enough to be dark in both countries, and then I FaceTime him back. If he wonders why I seem to be lounging on my bed all the time these days, he doesn’t say so. Jack is lying down, shirt off. This is a clear indication he’s feeling horny. I pretend not to have noticed. ‘Evening, gorgeous,’ he says, in what he thinks is his sexy voice. I can’t believe that, until a couple of weeks ago, it still had the power to make me go weak at the knees. Now I just think it sounds like a cliché. Something he’s learned from movies.

  ‘Evening.’

  He runs his hand down his bare chest and stares into the camera. I know exactly where this is leading. I want to laugh. Or cry. Or both at the same time. Mostly, I want to derail this particular train before it reaches the station.

  ‘We filmed a scene outside the new World Trade Center today,’ I say blithely. I zip my hoody up higher as I say it, a silent signal that my clothes are staying firmly on.

  ‘Right.’ He can’t even feign interest. His hand traces a path lower, thankfully, thus far, off screen. ‘I’ve been thinking about you a lot today.’

  ‘It was chaos because there’s this big memorial there and, of course, now the show’s going out people started recognizing us. Even me. Can you imagine?’ I witter on, trying to break the moment he seems to think we’re having. ‘I signed two autographs!’

  ‘Wow,’ he says unenthusiastically, and I know I’ve killed the passion successfully. ‘That’s amazing.’

  ‘How’s Oskie?’ I often ask Jack to go and find the cat and hold him up in front of the camera while we’re FaceTiming. I’m hoping he won’t be able to hear the plaintive meows coming from behind my closed living-room door. I couldn’t risk Oscar deciding he wanted to sit on my head halfway through our chat. I watch carefully to see if Jack gives himself away and I think I see the tiniest flash of panic.

  ‘He’s fine. Fast asleep in his bed last time I saw him.’

  ‘Aww! Show me.’ I almost give myself away by laughing as I say this.

  He fakes a big yawn. ‘Can’t be bothered to get up. Actually, babe, I’d better go. It’s really late. Early start and all that.’

  Once he’s gone, I let Oscar into the bedroom and he snuggles down next to me. I have the best night’s sleep I’ve had in ages.

  When my mobile rings and I don’t recognize the number I almost don’t answer it, but a quick check of the time tells me I could be up and about in either time zone, so I risk it. I find it almost impossible to ignore a ringing phone. What if it’s an opportunity that could change my life, and not just a bloke asking if I have PPI?

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Amy? It’s Simon.’

  It takes me a moment, then, just as it’s all coming back to me, he says, ‘From the house on Avenue Road … the skip …’

  Damn Kat and her matchmaking.

  ‘Yes, Simon. How are you?’

  I’m on my way to meet Kat at Mel’s, sitting on the lower deck of the 113 bus as it shudders down Finchley Road.

  ‘Your friend gave me your number, did she tell you? In case I came across anything else you might like.’ Ah, so that was her angle.

  ‘Right. Yes.’ I always do this, go monosyllabic when I feel put on the spot. Luckily, Simon doesn’t seem to notice.

  ‘Anyway, we found this carpet in the attic. Well, a rug, really. But huge. And Kat was saying you had nothing on your floors … It’s nice. Seventies, I’d guess. Geometric. Orangey.’

  I stop myself from saying, ‘Was it the maid’s?’ It’s very nice of him to bother, and I really would like to be walking on something other than hardboard. All I manage to come out with, though, is, ‘Orangey?’

  ‘I know, I’m not selling it well. It’s sort of orange and brown …’

  I scoff. ‘You’re not making it sound any better.’

  Thankfully, he laughs, too, so I don’t have to beat myself up for sounding rude and ungrateful. ‘I know. But it actually is quite cool.’

  ‘How big did you say it was?’

  He gives me the dimensions and I’m pretty sure it would fit in the living room, taking up most of the space, which would be a good thing, so long as it’s not hideous.

  ‘Okay, well, thanks. I’ll see if I can get Kat and Greg to swing by in the car at the weekend, if you’ll be there. Will it fit in the car?’

  ‘It might be a squeeze. Listen, I was thinking I could get one of the guys to drop it off in the van. You’re up near the North Circular, didn’t you say?’

  ‘Oh, no … I mean, I couldn’t …’

  ‘Really, Amy, you’d be doing me a favour …’

  ‘Okay, so, this time, I know that’s not true. I’m sure you have better things for your team to do than deliver rugs to far north London.’

  ‘Okay, you’ve got me. I was planning on coming with them. I wanted an excuse to see you again.’

  I’m so taken aback I don’t know what to say. So I just say, ‘Um …’

  ‘Is that creepy?’ he says. ‘It is, it’s creepy, isn’t it?’

  I laugh again. ‘Well, maybe just a bit …’

  ‘I am so out of practice at this.’

  ‘Well, I’m not exactly an expert.’

  ‘Kat told me you’d recently split with your boyfriend.’ Did she? They were only gone about twenty minutes and they somehow managed to drive to St John’s Wood and back and give a complete stranger my life history?

  ‘Oh. What else did she say?’ I can’t keep the irritation out of my voice. I’ve become very fond of Kat, but she does have a tendency to meddle.

  ‘Nothing. To be fair, I asked if you were attached. I didn’t really give her much option. Please don’t be cross with her.’

  ‘I’m not. It’s just … it’s a bit soon.’

  ‘Of course!’ he says. ‘Listen. Why don’t we drop the rug off, anyway? You might take one look at me and think, Actually, I feel ready to meet a man for a drink again.’

  ‘Ha! Or I might think, Th
at’s it, I’m off men for life.’

  ‘Sadly, more likely that one. But what’s the worst that can happen?’

  ‘Okay, you’ve worn me down,’ I say. ‘This had better be one good rug.’

  Kat is sitting on the low wall outside the modern block where Mel has her flat on the fifth floor. There are eight floors in total, about fifty flats. It’s not the most beautiful building in the world from the outside but its purpose-built, boxy proportions make for well-laid-out interiors. Mel’s place has floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room and a large terrace overlooking the beautifully landscaped communal gardens. I couldn’t even begin to count the number of evenings she and I have sat out there with a bottle of wine and put the world to rights.

  ‘You been here long? It took me about a week to get here from my place.’

  Kat shakes her head no. ‘I’ve been in and checked that the coast is clear, though.’

  We let ourselves in and walk up the stairs. Just as Kat is putting the key in the door of Flat 55, a woman emerges from next door, small child in tow, harassed-looking. I jump, blush, start to sweat, but Kat is as cool as anything.

  ‘Oh. Hi,’ the woman says with a quizzical look.

  ‘Hello.’ Kat holds out her hand and the woman has to juggle the child, her keys and a stroller to shake it. ‘Kat Mackenzie. I’m handling the sale of Miss Moynahan’s apartment. This is Julia Pembridge. I’m hoping to persuade her she wants to buy it.’ She laughs a big old fake laugh. Luckily, I’ve never met Mel’s neighbour. I don’t think she’s lived there long.