But he just nodded, and shoved everything into a bright blue plastic bag, and when Kate said ‘I don’t need a bag’ he looked at her coldly, as if she’d just been sick on the floor.
Kate said, feeling insane, ‘How are you today?’
In New York, they would have known her name by now, smiled with utter delight when she walked in, have everything piled up and in her own bag in three seconds, and engaged in mundane but satisfying small talk while they made change. The strip lighting above the till hummed. A car outside revved loudly, and silence reverberated in the shop as the man behind the counter nodded, politely, but said nothing.
‘Well … Bye,’ said Kate. ‘See you later!’
She walked out, her bag swinging by her knees, feeling mad, wanting to talk to herself, shaking her head. Suddenly, the spell of the last few days was broken. Wednesday stretched ahead of her, lonely hours spent in the flat she’d thought would be her first married home, and the only respite conversation with two old men, one sick, one grieving, one her father, one her neighbour. She opened the front door with a heavy heart.
And then Francesca rang.
‘So, stranger,’ said the voice on the phone, as Kate slid over and upright, as upright as she could get on the sofa. ‘What. You’ve been back for practically a week and you don’t call me. How kind. What’s up?’
‘I think I’m going mad, Francesca,’ Kate said. ‘I need a drink.’ She paused. ‘How are you? Are you well?’
‘Fine,’ said the reassuring voice, so cool and collected. ‘I’m still at work. Give me thirty minutes. I’ll meet you at Kettners, in the bar. Eight, OK?’
‘Er …’ said Kate, suddenly getting cold feet. That was the Centre of Town. She hadn’t banked on having to go into the Centre of Town.
‘That’s my best offer,’ said Francesca. ‘Take it or leave it. I’m not schlepping over to you. I’m in Clapham, remember, or is your geography shot to hell now you’re a New Yorker?’
‘Shut up,’ said Kate indignantly. ‘Of course it’s not. I’ll take it. Eight p.m. See you in a bit. Bye –’
But Francesca had already put the phone down.
This, then, was it. The centre of town, the tawdry, pulsing, utterly confusing centre, filled with sights and smells and sounds. She had missed the pre-theatre chaos; coming out of the tube at Piccadilly Circus, Kate almost smiled at how awful it was, this centre of her beloved home city. The Trocadero, Eros, Shaftesbury Avenue – all marooned in a sea of traffic, swelling tourists, horrid, feral pigeons and the hotdog stands, with the ever-present smell of reconstituted pigs’ eyelids, fried and sweating next to rancid onions. In New York the streets were wide, Times Square may have been Disney-fied but it was clean and friendly and open all night, and the adrenaline rush of walking through it was incomparable. There was order there, she never understood people who said New York was chaotic. This – this, she thought, as she walked up Shaftesbury Avenue, dodging caricaturists, lounging men in cheap leather jackets, angry white van drivers, gaggles of tourists with backpacks bigger than them, as she turned into the bottom of Wardour Street – this was chaos.
As she stepped into Soho, the traffic eased off. She walked past the little school and the church with its graveyard, so unexpected, down Old Compton Street, where a few brave souls were sitting out in the night air, celebrating the relative warmth of another sunny March day. Nostalgia was nudging her, the memories of evenings at Pulcinella’s, or the tapas place round the corner, the Mayflower back across the road, or the Dog and Duck on Dean Street – she had spent vast amounts of her twenties in one of those places. And Kettners.
Kettners hadn’t changed, she was relieved to see. It still kept its old-world, almost frowsy charm, a certain faded elegance mixed with a buzzy atmosphere, old-fashioned waiters who were proper waiters, not out of work actors who wanted to let you know they were great at every available opportunity. No, Kettners was old-school. It had been one of Kate’s favourite places in London. She smiled at the girls behind the cloakroom counter and turned right, down a step, into the bar by the restaurant, where the old guy sat at a piano, singing ‘Someone to Watch over Me’ – it was always ‘Someone to Watch over Me’. Memory and emotion washed over her, and she paused on the step, momentarily disorientated.
‘Oi,’ said a voice in the corner, and Kate looked over to see Francesca slumped on a sofa in the corner, her suit jacket bunching up, the shoulder pads standing up inches higher than she. Her long dark hair fanned out about her shoulders. She smiled at Kate, and patted the leather cushion.
Kate knelt on the sofa and hugged her, remembering as she did so how thin Francesca was.
‘It’s great to see you,’ she said.
‘You too,’ said Francesca. ‘About bloody time, too. Do you know it’s been …’
‘Two years,’ Kate said. ‘I know. I’m sorry.’
Francesca said, unexpectedly, ‘I know you are. Let’s not get into all that.’ She cleared her throat and said dryly, ‘Not until we’ve had a few drinks, anyway. There’s a bottle of champagne on its way.’
The house champagne at Kettners was famous – it was cheap and good. A dangerous combination.
‘Great.’ Kate rubbed her hands, the excitement of being out finally hitting her.
‘So. How’ve you been?’ Francesca said, as a waiter gingerly placed an ice-bucket on the table and two glasses.
‘No,’ Kate said firmly. ‘How’ve you been? I’m sick of myself, tell me how you’ve been. You look great, Francesca.’
‘Screw that,’ said Francesca. ‘Kate, the mystery woman, comes back all of a sudden, and I’m going to spend the evening talking about loan structuring and how much I hate London Bridge, and how my boss is a total fucking pig? Idonthinkso. Come on, Katy. How the fuck have you been? Tell me.’
And, as if watching herself from the ceiling, Kate heard herself say, ‘I don’t think I should have come back.’
‘Back to that flat?’ Francesca nodded, and poured the champagne. ‘I did wonder, you know.’
‘Really?’
‘Course,’ said Francesca. ‘I wouldn’t have, that’s for sure. Why couldn’t you stay with someone else?’
‘Zoe?’
‘Well, yes –’
‘I know,’ Kate said weakly. ‘She’s just got so much on. And what with everything. I didn’t want to …’
‘Yep,’ said Francesca. She handed Kate a glass. Kate took it. She took a huge gulp of it, and the fizzing bubbles stung her nose, but she let them. It reminded her, as it always did, of something; what was it?
‘How’s she been?’ Kate said, not wanting to hear the answer.
‘You’ve seen her though, haven’t you?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Kate assured her. ‘I may be crap, but I’m not that crap.’
‘Hm.’ Francesca raised her eyebrows, and then she smiled, her serious dark eyes crinkling with warmth. ‘Maybe you’re not, darl. Zoe.’ She took a sip of champagne. ‘She’s OK. You know she’s back at work now?’
‘She told me,’ Kate said.
‘It’s – it’s time for her to rebuild her life.’
‘Two years and nine months.’
‘Of course,’ said Francesca. She ran her palm, flat, over her forehead, and Kate remembered that Francesca had loved Steve, long before Zoe had appeared on the scene. She had been his first girlfriend at university. Kate nodded at her, eyes narrowed.
‘Hey!’ Francesca said sharply, and she brought her palm square down onto the low table in front of them. The other drinkers looked around in surprise. Francesca said in a low voice,
‘Look, I know Steve. I knew him. Remember? I went out with him for a whole blinking year, until you introduced him to that young harlot Zoe –’ she smiled. ‘What happened happened, OK? It wasn’t your fault.’
Kate shook her head, the pain of tears already stinging at her eyes, in her nose. She smiled grimly. ‘Too heavy. I’m sorry.’
‘In what way?’ Kate said innocently. ‘God you
’re so literal. I mean … ’
‘I know.’ Francesca laughed hollowly. ‘Nice start to the evening, eh? I get out of work and come to meet you and it’s like an evening with Verdi.’
She leant over and hit Kate on the arm. ‘Look. Cheers, darling. It’s just so nice to see you. You look different, you know?’
‘How?’
‘Grown-up.’
‘That’s what Zoe said,’ Kate said, remembering. It didn’t sound like a particularly great thing to be. ‘Don’t feel it, myself. Anyway. How are you? How’s the job, how’s the house? How’s … everything?’
‘Job crap. Far too hard.’ Francesca sighed. ‘There’s a squeeze on in our department. They do this every couple of years. Just fire a whole load of people, get some new better people in, then do the same in two years’ time. So they know they’ve always got the best. We’re in the middle of it now.’
‘Are you …’ Kate said.
‘Please,’ said Francesca. ‘I made them millions last year. London’s their most profitable office.’
‘Wow,’ said Kate.
‘It’s just – you know. It’s hard.’ Francesca blew air out from her bottom lip so it ruffled her fringe, as if she were trying to cool down. ‘It feels like there’s – there’s nothing left over.’
‘After work?’ said Kate, not sure what she meant.
‘Yep,’ said Francesca, nodding in agreement. ‘You know what it’s like.’ Kate nodded uncertainly; she only vaguely remembered what it was like. Francesca went on, ‘Work work work. And then – what? Everyone else is settled down, living out in –’ she waved her arm vaguely ‘– Cheam. I don’t know. Places outside town. I don’t want that. It’s just –’ she gulped the rest of her champagne down, poured some more in. ‘I didn’t sign up for this. When we were younger, you know it’s even depressing I can say “when we were younger”, too – well, when we were younger, I didn’t think this was the way it was going to be. Look at us now. At our friends. You remember Zoe and Steve’s housewarming party?’
‘Of course,’ Kate said. She smiled. ‘Funny, we were talking about it on Sunday. Me and Zoe.’
‘I remember that evening so clearly,’ Francesca said. ‘Mainly because I couldn’t drink that much, I was on antibiotics. I remember just looking round the room at all of us, thinking how great everything was.’ She laughed, bitterly. ‘Look what’s happened to all of us since. Zoe, Steve, Mac, you, me – even Sean …’ She dropped their names in like stones, hitting the palm of her hand with her fingers each time and then she gestured around the room, and Kate shuddered, involuntarily, remembering Charly’s letters, which she still had done nothing about. She took a deep breath, and blinked, pushing it all away, down inside her.
‘We’re scattered all over the place now, all of us, aren’t we?’ Francesca said. Her face clouded over, then she laughed. ‘Look at us. Tell you what, let’s stop being maudlin. You’re back and it’s wonderful to see you, babe. Tell me about New York and I’ll tell you about my new bathroom. It’s got heated floor tiles. If that doesn’t cheer us up, nothing will.’
‘My god,’ Kate recovered herself. ‘You’re living the dream.’
‘It’s true,’ Francesca said. ‘I’m the only landlady in Clapham offering heated floor tiles.’
‘How’s your flatmate?’ Kate couldn’t remember her name, a whey-faced girl Francesca had worked with.
‘Sara? She moved in with her boyfriend, a couple of months ago. I had to get someone else. Oh my god, I forgot to tell you, Kate darling – at the moment I’m lucky because I’ve got – oh yes? Hello. Thanks, another bottle.’
Kate nodded fervently in agreement as the waitress moved away.
‘Where was I? Yes. Let’s play Who Would You Do?’ Francesca said. ‘It’s been far too long.’ She shook out her hair decisively. ‘God this is nice.’
‘Who Would You Do?’ Kate asked.
‘Him,’ said Francesca, nodding at the man next to them, who was extremely short, with thinning, all over sparse black hair, who was grunting slightly as he worked his way through an elaborate cocktail.
‘You wish,’ Kate said.
‘He’s your boyfriend.’
‘He’s yours.’
‘How about you?’
‘Who Would I Do …?’ Kate mused. She looked round, surreptitiously. ‘Him. Actually, seriously, I would.’
They swivelled round together, again incurring the curious stares of their fellow drinkers. There, in the doorway, was an actually remarkably good-looking man, bulky, tall, something of the rugby player about him, close-cropped curly dark brown hair, an open, handsome face. He was looking round the room, and smiled at them gently, before being claimed by a rather cross-looking, short girl who leapt up and waved, her fingers wiggling in the air.
‘Dom! Dom! Over here! Dom!’
Kate and Francesca looked back at each other, chastened.
‘All right, calm down,’ Francesca muttered crossly. ‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist, dear. Ah, second bottle. Right, my turn.’
‘Who Would You Do?’
‘Him,’ said Francesca, pointing again at the gorgeous Dom, and both of them collapsed in laughter.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
After the second bottle of champagne, everything was a bit of a blur. In the file Kate kept in her brain called Things I Must Remember When Sober (a file that is neurologically impossible to access, unfortunately) she filed the fact that Francesca paid the bill, insisting she should, and the fact that she thought the waiters probably hated them both, as they got more and more helplessly giggly. And the fact that it was great to be out, to be back, to see Francesca, to laugh and have a drink and gossip and talk about things: important things, silly things – just talk. That, she remembered, though the particulars of their conversation weren’t so clear.
She didn’t, however, remember the following things:
What else they talked about.
What time they left.
How they got home.
The next day, she thought wearily that the difference between New York and London was that in New York it was impossible to get anyone to behave like that, whereas in London it was impossible to meet a friend like Francesca for ‘a’ drink and not get knee-walking, eyeball-bleedingly drunk. It should be possible, it just never was.
She remembered that they decided to go back to Francesca’s, because Kate wanted to see the heated bathroom tiles, suddenly she was desperate to see them. This she remembered. She also remembered:
Francesca’s front path had black and white tiles leading up to the front door.
They stopped at a cash-point on the way back. It was blue.
She had asked Francesca if she knew how she could find out where Charly was now. Where she was living.
But she couldn’t remember the answer.
So the next morning, Kate woke up, and she was chewing her own hair, and it was half strangling her, half choking her. Her mouth felt like she’d been using it to store vinegar. She rolled around in bed, her mind a total blank, trying to remember where she was, what she’d done the night before. For a brief, hangover-induced moment, she thought with panic that her mind must have been wiped during the night, like a broken iPod. She looked at the pale, ascetic walls around her, through the window at the bare trees with buds outside, and then she looked at the wall next to her. There was a photo, and she recognized herself, Zoe, Betty, and Francesca, all in ‘formal’ dress, the night of Zoe’s housewarming party all those years ago … Her arms were slung through Zoe’s and Betty’s, she was bent double, laughing at something Betty was saying, pulling the others down with her in hysterics …
Kate blinked and stared at the photo again. Yes, that was it. She was here, at Francesca’s, in her room, wearing a strange small vest and some baggy boys’ boxers – but where was Francesca?
Downstairs, someone was moving about in the kitchen, and Kate rubbed her eyes. She felt dreadful. She swung her legs out of bed and picked up a dres
sing gown hanging on the back of the wooden door. She raked her hands through her hair, clutching her scalp as she did. It felt warm. Was her blood actually boiling due to the amount of alcohol in her brain? Was that it? Kate stumbled downstairs, holding her head, her hair.
‘God, I feel awful,’ she said to the figure rustling the paper loudly, too loudly.
The figure looked over the paper.
It wasn’t Francesca.
‘Mac?’ Kate whispered.
‘Kate.’
Mac was looking up at her from his paper, his eyes locked on hers. He didn’t move. He looked as if he’d seen a ghost.
‘What are you doing here?’ Kate said softly.
‘I live here,’ he said. His jaw tightened; he opened his mouth to say something, then shut it. His voice was deadly quiet. ‘I might ask you what you’re doing here.’
‘You don’t live here,’ Kate said, confused. Her champagne-scrambled brain was turning over in itself, desperately trying to remember what Francesca had said last night.
‘Sara? She moved in with her boyfriend, a couple of months ago. I had to get someone else. Oh my god, I forgot to tell you, Kate darling – at the moment I’m lucky because I’ve got … Thanks, another bottle.’
He hadn’t forgiven her for what she’d done. Had he? Kate forced herself to look at him. She looked at his hands first, how one of them was clutching the side of the paper so hard it was in a fist, the paper crumpling around it, like a rosette, and he threw it on the table, and stood up. He was tall, she always forgot how tall. She took a step towards him, not allowing herself to look at him. The two of them stood there in silence. Memories of the last time she’d seen him came rushing at her … but she pushed them away. No, she didn’t let herself think of it any more.
Vaguely, somewhere else in her head, Kate heard the sound of the shower, in another corner of the house. It recalled her to her senses, and she finally looked straight up at Mac, and it was then that she felt it. She was almost felled by the venom in his eyes, the anger, the disgust, that he felt for her. Kate backed away, quailing under the force of his stare.
The Love of Her Life Page 16
