‘Sorry? Oh, you mistook my silence for ridicule. No, I was wondering why, with all your contacts, you aren’t doing something about it. Have you written any scripts?’
‘A few, but, ah, it’s one of those unrealistic things we all dream about,’ I replied. I decided to change the subject before he dug too deeply and discovered how far I’d gone in realising this dream. ‘What about you? What are your dreams?’
‘You know my dreams.’
‘Oh, yeah, you want to work in America. Why don’t you go for it? They practically created that features director position for you at SC because they wanted to keep you. So going to America would be the next logical step.’
‘Maybe, but I’ve got a pretty big incentive to stay here at the moment.’
‘Why, do you reckon you’ll be promoted soon? You never said.’
‘Noooo, Ms Perceptive, the incentive is you.’
‘Oh. Oh . . . right.’
‘Lift,’ he said, and gently took my hand and raised it, ran the sponge up and down my left arm, covering my brown skin with slippy, white soapsuds. Then he went for the other arm. Each stroke of the sponge soft but firm. Long and loving.
‘That was one of my defining Friendship Boundary moments with you,’ he said. ‘When you told those coppers I wanted to work in America I realised how important you were because you remembered something I’d mentioned in passing. When we were stood in the street you looked so cute and tired that I wanted to cuddle you up. I thought, “I want to kiss her. I want to kiss her. But she’s a friend and there are boundaries.” Plus you wouldn’t cheat on that bloke.’
‘Sean,’ I supplied.
‘Hmm-huh, him.’
‘You wanted to kiss me back then?’ I asked incredulously. That was two years ago.
‘Yeah, course. I’d wanted to shag you for ages because, well, I’m a bloke and you’re a sexy woman. The fact you so clearly didn’t fancy me was also a big turn-on. Most women would at least flirt, even if they weren’t interested, but you weren’t playing and that made me want you all the more. But that day on the street I wanted to kiss you. Only kiss you and hold you. I suddenly thought I fancied you, then I remembered that I probably didn’t, it was just because you’d got me out of a sticky situation and I was grateful.’
‘You’re so romantic.’
‘I know. Lift.’
And on top of all that attention, I got to have sex. Great sex.
You couldn’t make up a life this good. Not even for a movie. With all that going for me, why would I run away to Cannes when it wasn’t my turn?
I did a victory spin on my chair as I waited for my computer to boot up.
‘What you so happy about?’ Martha asked suspiciously.
I shrugged. ‘Nothing,’ I said, grinning. ‘Everything.’
Renée’s perfectly made-up face frowned. ‘Are you on drugs?’ she asked.
I shook my head. ‘Nope.’
They exchanged looks of confusion.
‘It’s just a wonderful day.’ A wonderful life.
chapter twelve
lunch crime
Jen cut a small corner off her sandwich and put it in her mouth, while I picked up my tuna melt and bit into it. The creamy filling of tuna, mayonnaise and cheese filled my mouth, a little juice trickled down the side of my mouth and I licked at it before I used my napkin to mop up the rest. Jen, meanwhile, picked up her napkin, dabbed at the corners of her crumb- and dribble-free mouth.
We were in Yates’s, just around the corner from Leeds train station. We often met there for lunch before we went shopping in town. It had dark wood furniture and a gloomy atmosphere, walls adorned with flock wallpaper, and flowery carpets. A constant fug and smell of cigarette smoke hung low in the pub, but I liked it in there. It was comfortable and calming. Familiar. They also did the best tuna melts ever.
‘So, how are you?’ Jen said.
It’d been ages since we’d done this. I hadn’t physically seen Jen since Matt moved in four weeks ago. Four weeks. Jen had cancelled the past four Tuesday nights, claiming she had mountains of work. Now that Matt had given up football she didn’t call on Saturday mornings any more. If I called, there’d be no answer – not even if Matt was in Paris. I guessed it was because I’d not gone along with that blind date she set me up with. That’d been the first time I’d ever defied Jen when she set me up. I’d asked if she was pissed off with me and she’d profusely promised she wasn’t.
‘You should’ve been Clinton’s defence lawyer,’ I’d cut in after five minutes of listening to her deny she was angry with me. ‘He could’ve done with someone as good at denial as you on his side.’
She’d changed the subject.
This Saturday I was looking forward to an afternoon of trailing around the shops like we used to. Shopping with Jen was such a complete activity we could probably hold night classes on it. After lunch, we’d cross the road to Bhs. Then we’d work our way up to the Bond Street Centre, dropping into Virgin to pick up CDs, DVDs or videos. I sometimes dragged her into the camera shop along there to gawp at the old 16mm film ones. Then we’d go into the Bond Street Centre, flit in and out of all the clothes shops, stop for coffee and cake. Next we’d go down to Albion Place, where the other clothes shops were. We’d then have more coffee and cake, before usually meeting Matt or, when I was going out with him, Sean for drinks and dinner. Greg had, over the past year or so, taken Sean’s place.
Having said that, Jen wasn’t exactly wearing our shopping uniform of jeans, trainers and top/jumper. She had on cream, close-fit trousers and a fawn polo neck in a material that bore all the hallmarks of being cashmere. Also, like loads of the celebs I’d seen in Cannes, Jen’s Jackie O-shaped sunglasses held back her blonde hair (let’s ignore the fact it was a cold, dull Leeds March). Checking her over, I realised Jen resembled a version of Jennifer Aniston far more than she ever had before. She also radiated that ultra-healthy glow most of the Hollywood stars I’d seen up close did. I’d often thought that healthiness was unnatural, seeing as it was usually coupled with being twig thin, but there was Jen, radiating the same healthiness: hair like silk, skin slightly flushed, eyes bright. Cohabiting obviously became her.
‘I’m fine. You look amazing,’ I said to her.
‘I feel amazing. It’s so wonderful living with Matt, I can’t remember ever feeling so happy. He’s the best flatmate I’ve ever had.’
‘Awww, I’m really pleased for you,’ I said, sarcasm trickling through my voice. She’d lived with me for four years and him for, what, four minutes. And it was me who’d spent those years picking up after her because it was easier than making her do it and having her sulk for a week – I couldn’t see Matt picking up her dirty undies from the bathroom floor or sweeping toenail clippings off the sofa.
Jen cut off another small corner of her sandwich and popped it in her mouth. She actually ‘popped’ it in with her forefinger and thumb. She picked up her napkin, dabbed again at the crumb-free corners of her mouth and then lowered the napkin. She was eating a plain tuna sandwich, no butter, no mayonnaise, just lettuce, tomato and cucumber on brown bread, with an orange juice. I’d felt a right plank ordering my tuna melt and pint after that.
To cap it all, she was popping stuff in her mouth. I felt very uncouth for picking up my tuna melt, biting off a piece and chewing – like normal people. I lowered my tuna melt, slowed my chewing, surreptitiously checked my front. Thankfully, there were no bits of bread squatting on my slashed-neck sunflower-motif top or drizzles of melted cheese and mayonnaise staining it.
‘Have you seen Greg recently?’ Jen asked out of the blue. She was staring intently at her sandwich, meaning she was secretly watching me. She shifted in her seat and traced a line around the rim of her glass with her forefinger.
Was this a trick question? The not-looking-at-me-butwatching-me move was a classic way to catch me out. Did she suspect something? I’d seen Greg almost every, all right, every night for the last fortnight even though we both k
new we were taking it slowly.
‘I saw him the other night,’ I replied. That’s the other night as in last night. And then, of course, there was this morning when he had to drive me into town because he kept dragging me back to bed to ravish me. ‘Why?’
‘He’s gone right weird,’ Jen said, straightening out her napkin so it was right angles to the edge of the table.
‘What do you mean, weird?’ He’d got less weird, actually. Less reserved, more open. Now he didn’t have sexual tales to tell me, he spent more time talking about other stuff. I also hadn’t realised, until we’d got together properly, how much his sleeping around and its ensuing bastard behaviour had riled me. I felt guilty because I was betraying the sisterhood by not trying to re-educate him; by rescuing him; by just listening to him.
‘He doesn’t come round,’ Jen continued. ‘The last time we saw him was when Matt moved in.’
Involuntarily, my body stiffened. The last time I saw Jen, my bestest friend in the whole world, was also the day Matt moved in but that didn’t seem to bother her. In fact, there’d been no mention about being upset about missing our Tuesday nights.
‘Maybe he’s busy, you know, with that new girl of his,’ I said.
‘It’s more than that. He never calls, never comes round, won’t talk for long on the phone, it’s like he hates us or something,’ Jen whined.
‘Course he doesn’t.’
‘Matt really misses him. I do too.’
‘It’ll be reet,’ I said. I hadn’t realised that Greg had withdrawn so much from them. Was I a distraction, his excuse for avoiding the other two? It’d make sense. He and Matt were always going out together, getting pissed, having deep manly chats, but they hadn’t seen each other since we got together. Not that he’d mentioned, anyway. What if he isn’t with me so much because he can’t get enough of me but because he needs an escape? I thought. Honesty prevailed upon me to admit that I spent so much time with Greg because Jen wasn’t around as much. Arrogance prevailed upon me to not consider Greg was doing exactly the same.
Bleep, bleep, went a mobile phone, cutting into my thoughts. Jen and I both picked up our bags, checked our phones. I’d got the text message. ‘Sorry,’ I said to Jen. ‘I’ll just read this.’ ‘Peck’, the message was from. (I’d come up with Peck as a nickname for Greg. He did have a hint of a young Gregory Peck about him when he stood up properly and looked serious. The fact he was always using his pecker to get himself into trouble was another factor.) I pushed buttons on my silver mobile to get the message on the screen. And up came:
I want 2 lick u all over. Peck x
I grinned as stars of lust tingled over my skin.
‘Who’s that from?’ Jen asked, craning her neck across the table to get a look at my phone – it was probably clear from my salacious grin that this was no ordinary message.
‘Oh, a friend,’ I said dismissively and moved the phone so she couldn’t read it. ‘Do you mind if I quickly reply?’ I asked, pressing ‘reply’.
‘It is a bit rude, we are having lunch.’
This from the woman who often spends half an hour on the phone to Matt when just the two of us are in a pub.
I cleared the message, dropped the phone into my bag.
‘What was I saying? Oh yes, I miss Greg. The way he’s disappeared it’s, well, it’s upsetting.’
I fiddled with my tuna melt as I listened to her go on about Greg. Who the hell are you? I thought. You’re not that unusual chocolate with champagne filling. You’re looking suspiciously like one of those mangy coffee creams that always gets left ’til last in the selection box.
About five-six months ago, last September, I’d been woken at the crack of dawn on a Saturday morning by the phone. It was two weeks after the Festival had finished so I was using every moment to catch up on the sleep I’d lost in the preceding weeks. I knew as a person did even in sleep that this wasn’t a normal time to be ringing. Still, I reached out, dragged the receiver under the covers and mumbled, ‘Hello.’
Instead of getting a ‘hello’, there was a gasp on the other end of the line then, ‘Oh, God, Ambs.’ Jen. She followed this by bursting into tears.
I sat bolt upright in bed, my heart going a dozen to the ten. ‘It’s all right, sweetie,’ I said gently. ‘Tell me what the matter is and I’ll help you make it better.’
Her sobs became shallow gulps until she stuttered, ‘Pr-prpr-egn-n-n-nant,’ into the receiver.
‘I’m on my way,’ I replied, throwing back the covers.
I called a taxi, all the while shoving clothes, beauty stuff and my toothbrush into a holdall. I scraped back my cheek-length hair and tied a scarf around it bandanna-style. I checked the mirror for sleep in my eye or dribble on my face. No, miraculously clean. I was in the middle of pulling on my long black coat when the taxi tooted outside.
All the way there I kept telling myself not to panic. This had happened before. In college, after college, Jen had thought she was pregnant and it’d turned out to be a false alarm. But this time something in her voice told me to brace myself for it. This was different from all those other times. Somehow, I just knew, just knew . . . No, no, it’ll be all right, I kept telling myself.
Jen answered the door to her ground floor flat in her pyjamas. Her face was a mess of blotches, her eyes red and puffed up, undried tears still on her cheeks. I slipped an arm around her shoulders and guided her into the living room. ‘Are you sure?’ I asked her, furnishing her with tissues from the box on her living-room side table.
‘I’m late. Really late. Nearly two months late.’
‘Have you done a test?’ I asked.
She shook her head. ‘But I’m never this late. You know that. Never. I thought it was stress, or because I missed Matt, what with him being away so much recently, but no, I’m still late.’
‘But you and Matt are careful, aren’t you?’ Jen couldn’t take the Pill because of a history of thrombosis in her family. So she and Matt were careful. Very careful.
‘It was a mistake,’ she said between shakes. ‘We got carried away just the once . . . He’s going to kill me. He’s going to dump me then he’s going to kill me.’
‘No he won’t,’ I said. But it was a struggle to sound convincing because, even as I said it, I knew he would. Matt was like that. ‘Besides, he’ll have to get through me first.’
Jen pressed the palms of her hands over her eyes. ‘Oh, Ambs, it’s all gone so horribly wrong. He won’t want this baby. When he finds out he’ll go mad. He’ll kill me. I don’t want to lose him. I love him. It wasn’t meant to be like this.’
‘Having a baby isn’t a bad thing,’ I tried to reason. ‘At the end of the day, whether it’s planned or not, it’s a good thing. It’s a new life. And life is good.’
Her head snapped up and her topaz-blue eyes flashed at me. ‘You don’t get it, do you!’ she screeched. ‘This’ll be the end of us. He doesn’t want children. He never has. He’s always told me that. He’s always said he doesn’t want children.’
So he should have the snip, came to mind. You want kids, also came to mind. ‘OK, before we start talking in absolutes, you need to do a test. Then we’ll sort out if he will leave you and what you’ll do. Because he doesn’t have to find out about this. Whatever you do, if you want a termination, I’ll be there with you. We’ll go through it together.’
She nodded, but absently.
‘But,’ I said, putting lots of jolliness in my voice, ‘I can’t stand by my wo-man if we don’t know what I’m supposed to be standing by. So, you put the kettle on and I’ll go to the chemist, get you a test.’
She nodded again.
‘In the meantime, I’d better go get showered and dressed.’
Jen frowned at me quizzically. I opened my coat, flashed her my blue jim-jams. She burst out laughing and it broke the tension for the moment.
The chemist looked at me rather oddly as I placed my selection of pregnancy tests in front of him. ‘You don’t need all of these
,’ he said.
‘They’re not for me, they’re for a friend,’ I said, realised how that sounded and added: ‘No, really, they are.’
‘What I mean is,’ he said, pushing his glasses back onto the bridge of his hooked nose, not seeming to care who they were for, ‘modern kits are very accurate.’
‘There’s nothing like a bit of back-up,’ I replied.
‘They’re not cheap,’ he added.
‘When you need to be sure, you need to be sure,’ I said.
He shook his head, obviously he’d had this conversation before. He scanned them in and turned to me. ‘That’s sixty-two pounds forty-five, please.’
WHO WITH THE WHAT NOW?! That’s a week’s mortgage payment; a pair of knee-high boots; two weekly shops. That’s a hell of a lot of money. I reached into my purse, stared forlornly at my debit card before I handed it over.
Back at the flat, Jen, who’d gone from merely white to translucent, was a smidgen on the normal side of hysterical. What if she is pregnant? I asked myself as she bolted to the loo to throw up. What the hell will we do?
When she came out of the bathroom she was still shaking. ‘Tell you what,’ I said, ‘I’ll do one as well, to check how accurate they are.’
‘I don’t know what I’d do without you,’ Jen said.
Fourteen tests later, we sat staring at the various little windows on various white sticks. All of them laid out on the marble-coloured lino in front of us.
‘They can’t all be wrong,’ I said, when the silence around us had stagnated and one of us had to speak.
Jen burst into tears. Loud and noisy, with fat tears that cascaded down her face, dripped off the end of her nose. How she had any liquid left in her after all her crying and weeing, I didn’t know.
I almost joined her as my heart’s beat slowed to normal. Oh, thank God, I kept thinking. Thank God. Over and over. Then I felt awful. Like I said to Jen, a new life is fantastic, but I was relieved she wasn’t pregnant. All fourteen tests said so. The one I did said I wasn’t pregnant either, but that was no newsflash.
The Chocolate Run Page 12
