Menus were passed around and studied even though they all knew the contents well. But there were always the Sunday specials of course. This week grilled salmon with garlic mash, chicken fricassee and roasted pumpkin risotto.
It took some time to sort out the food order for everyone, amid plenty more noisy banter. The waiters were patient and smiley. They gave every impression of enjoying the presence of this lively and high-spirited group.
The friends had great energy when they were together. They met at Johnny’s to have as much fun as possible. That was what Sunday Club was for, and why it had become a fixture in their lives.
two
It was Karen, the group’s earth mother, who made the suggestion that was to ultimately have such devastating consequences. But she didn’t know that then, of course. And neither did any of the other nine men and women sitting round the table that Sunday night.
‘Why don’t we play The Game?’ Karen asked, after everyone had settled down a bit. ‘We never have with all of us together here. I can’t even remember if we’ve all actually been here together before. I suppose we must have, but . . .’
George, the actor, groaned theatrically, but the others recognized it as affectation and not a genuine reaction to the suggestion.
‘Oh let’s,’ said Michelle, who neither looked nor sounded much like a police officer when she was off duty.
‘If only you were more interesting, George, we wouldn’t need to play games,’ drawled the legendary Marlena.
Tiny and Billy, surely the ultimate gay men about town, concentrated on looking cool. As did Karen’s husband Greg. Young Ari, whom the group regarded as being thoroughly spoiled in spite of his protestations to the contrary, tried to look bored and rather too sophisticated for such a thing. But that was normal. In fact, by and large, the group all rather liked The Game, which involved one of them asking a question that everyone would answer in turn. It might be something playful and light, like what would they do if they won the lottery, or what had been the best holiday they’d ever had? Or it could sometimes be something that invited a more thoughtful response. What was their greatest regret? Or what would they want to be or do in life other than what they were or did?
It was Sunday Club’s version of the Truth Game, but the emphasis was on entertaining conversation rather than revelation. Regardless of the subject matter, all ten of them knew they were obligated by the very ethos of Sunday Club to attempt to be amusing or surprising or shocking – preferably all three – both in their answers and in their reactions to the answers of the others. That was the whole point of The Game, though on this particular evening several of the group would fail to fulfil that obligation. After all, most people have secrets of some sort in their lives. Anyway, this was Sunday Club: nobody was going to be forced to reveal anything they didn’t wish to.
Since Karen was the one who suggested The Game, custom had it that she got to choose the question. She ran her hands through her spiky red hair, screwed up her eyes, and made a big show of giving the matter serious thought.
‘Has there been one great life-changing moment in your past, and what was it?’ she asked eventually.
Greg answered first. Quickly. Mischievously. His pale eyes sparkling disingenuously beneath a tousled fringe of mostly blond hair which, although now flecked with grey, remained abundantly curly, and still contrived to help him retain a boyish appearance.
‘When I met you, Karen, of course,’ he said, grinning, pleased with himself.
‘Oh, don’t be so daft!’ said Karen. But she seemed pleased too, if just a tad puzzled. With one hand she fiddled with the little steel spikes on a shoulder of her chunky black leather waistcoat. Karen dressed retro punk, but for all that she was earth mother at heart.
‘No, I mean it,’ Greg persisted. ‘I was Jack the lad. Me and my mate Wiz were a right pair. We got up to a lotta no good, and Wiz paid the price . . .’ Greg’s voice trailed off, his face momentarily clouding over.
‘What happened to him?’ asked Ari.
‘Oh, there was an accident. He died. We were at St Michael’s – that school they closed down ’cos it was so bad. Nothing saintly about that place, I can tell you. We got into a bit of a gang, that sort of thing . . .’
Greg paused, clearly uncomfortable with the subject. ‘But that’s another story,’ he continued in a brighter tone. ‘Anyway, I never thought I’d want to settle down with someone. Until I met Karen. She saved my arse, really, and all I wanted was to be with her and for her to have my kids.’
‘Aw,’ said Alfonso.
‘What a great softy you are,’ said Marlena.
‘That’s me, darlin’,’ replied Greg.
It was too. Certainly as far as his family were concerned. But it was most unlike Greg to make such a public declaration. Plus he was one of those who felt almost honour-bound to play everything for laughs. It was in his DNA. He had his cockney laughing-boy image to protect, and it wasn’t often that Greg let the act drop. Not for a moment. But just that morning he’d heard from someone he’d hoped never to hear from again. Indirectly. And rather obtusely. However, Greg was in no doubt that he’d been given a message. He was still sorting out exactly what that message was and how he was going to deal with it. But it had dredged up long-buried memories of Wiz, and St Michael’s, and a period of his life he regarded as the bad old days. And he knew it was unlikely to turn into anything other than bad news. For him. And even, Heaven forbid, for his wife and children.
Greg emptied his glass in one. A dribble of red wine escaped and ran down his chin, forming rivulets in his designer stubble. He wiped it away with the back of a hand.
‘Soft as shit,’ he muttered.
‘I don’t think I ever heard you say anything like that before, Greg,’ said Karen, still puzzling over her husband’s public declaration of love.
Greg shrugged. ‘What, “shit”?’
‘You know what I mean,’ said Karen.
‘It’s the truth, babes. Changed my life in spades, meeting you,’ said Greg.
‘Oh, pass that sick bag,’ exclaimed George. ‘Seems I’m just a humble amateur when it comes to being nauseating.’
‘Don’t be such a dreadful old cynic,’ said Marlena.
‘Well, honestly,’ continued George. ‘I think we should make a rule here and now that meeting your bloody boring life partner isn’t allowed as an answer to this question . . .’
‘Who are you calling bloody boring?’ asked Karen.
‘I’ll rephrase that,’ said George. ‘It’s not the partner, whoever they are, who’s boring. Well not necessarily . . .’
He glanced towards Karen, who pretended to throw a punch in his direction. She was actually pleased that George was teasing her, just the way he usually would. A few days previously the two of them had been helping Marlena get rid of some unwanted furniture – never easy in Covent Garden – and afterwards she’d plied the pair of them with champagne. Karen wasn’t a big drinker. She’d quickly got rather drunk and George had offered to take her home. Greg had been working late. The kids were on a sleepover with school pals. Karen had made a silly pass at George. In her own flat. George, thankfully, had rejected her advances – most regretfully he’d said – on the grounds that they were both spoken for. The very thought of it now made her squirm with embarrassment, but at least George appeared to have dismissed the episode as a moment of madness. And so must she. The only thing that mattered was that Greg should never find out, which could only ever happen if she or George were to tell him. Well, she certainly wasn’t going to. And George was showing no such inclination. Underneath the self-obsessed bluster, he had always seemed to Karen a kind man, and certainly without malice. She should stop worrying, she really should. It wasn’t as if anything had happened.
‘It’s just that particular answer is bloody boring,’ George continued, cutting through Karen’s jumbled thoughts.
‘Sure you’re not jealous, George?’ asked Ari.
‘I’ve got
my gorgeous Carla,’ said George.
And thank God for that, thought Karen.
‘Yeah, for five minutes if your previous form’s anything to go by, Mr Slap and Tickle,’ said Ari.
‘Oh please,’ said George.
During a previous Sunday Club session of The Game he’d made the mistake of revealing that his earliest childhood memory was his mother reading him the Mr Men books. And he’d confessed that his favourite was Mr Tickle. The friends had instantly seized on this; in view of his womanizing reputation, they’d dubbed him Mr Slap and Tickle.
‘Maybe the gorgeous Carla’s chucked you already. She hasn’t rung you back,’ continued Ari.
‘Really, Ari,’ said Marlena. Then turning to George, ‘Take no notice, sweetheart. But why don’t you give her another call? Get the girl here and shut the lot of us up.’
George protested mildly, but ultimately agreed to try Carla’s number again. With, as it turned out, the same result.
‘Oh dear, I’m still getting your voicemail, baby, and I soooooo want to speak to you. Please come to Johnny’s if you can. This lot are driving me mad. They’re desperate to meet you. But don’t be put off. They’re all right, honest. All my love, baby-face. More kisses.’
After that, the entire group joined in poking fun at George.
‘Listen, get off me, I’m sorry I said anything,’ he exclaimed. ‘Let’s everybody tell the story of their true-love life-changing moment. Why the hell not?’
‘Well, you won’t be getting an answer of that sort from me,’ said Michelle, her expression suddenly darkening. She’d been drinking quickly, knocking back the wine faster than the others, though nobody had noticed. She reached for a carafe and poured herself another glass. Her voice was hard and brittle when she spoke again.
‘I haven’t got a partner – bloody boring or otherwise. Mind you, come to think of it, meeting my ex was certainly life-changing. Or should that be life-destroying?’
‘Bambina, bambina,’ interrupted Alfonso. ‘Let’s not get too heavy, eh? C’mon, George, your turn. Clockwise round the table as usual. So let’s see how exciting you can make your answer.’
George propped one elbow on the table, rested his chin on his hand, and made a great show of being deep in thought. Which he most certainly wasn’t.
‘I think it was probably my Hamlet in the final year at drama school . . .’ he began.
‘Yeah, it prepared you for panto and you’ve never looked back!’ sniped Tiny.
‘Oh, all right then, maybe it was my Rutger at the King’s Head.’
‘Your what, darling?’ Marlena interjected.
‘Rutger. Norwegian play. I was the eponymous lead. Thought you knew your theatre.’
‘I do,’ said Marlena.
‘So, all right, it wasn’t the most important play in the world, and it did only last a week in Islington, but I like to think I grew as an actor while I was playing it.’
‘Oh, come on, George,’ said Bob. ‘Be serious. Give us a proper answer.’
‘I am being serious. I’m a very serious actor. In fact every time I step onto a stage or in front of a camera it changes my life.’
‘That’s why he wears tights,’ said Alfonso.
‘I gave you an honest answer, man. I mean, I carried that play, everybody said so.’
‘Butterfingers,’ said Marlena, sparking another outbreak of laughter around the table.
‘Oh, leave him alone,’ said Billy. ‘We all know you can never get any sense out of George.’
George smiled enigmatically. Or at least he hoped it was enigmatic. He had done what he liked to do, played what he considered to be his true role in life: he had entertained his friends, and at the same time wound them up a bit. He didn’t mind being laughed at. He had, after all, set out to make them laugh. He enjoyed being part of the group. Although he would never publicly admit it, Sunday Club was actually very important to him. In spite of his flamboyant and confident demeanour, there was a deeply introverted side to George. He could never reveal his innermost thoughts to his friends. It wasn’t in his nature. He liked to keep his hopes and his dreams to himself. He was what he was. And he saw no need to share his soul with anyone, that was all. But he sensed it was necessary to give just a little.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘What really changed my life was learning how to deal with bullies. When I was a kid I seemed to attract bullying. And it felt like I had nobody to tell. Then I discovered that if I could make the bastards laugh it was all right. So I learned to be funny.’
‘That’s what you think you are, is it?’ remarked Alfonso, but he was smiling.
‘Yeah, there was one kid at school I taught a proper lesson to though . . .’ George’s voice tailed off.
‘Go on then, tell us,’ encouraged Alfonso.
‘Oh, it’s history. Hey, it must be your turn, Bob.’
Bob hesitated. He always felt he was the least amusing of the group. Sometimes he wondered why they bothered with him. George, Alfonso and Ari were sharp as tacks and being witty came as second nature to them. Tiny had a dry humour, a big belly laugh, and bucketloads of charisma. Billy, clever, cool Billy, was a natural conversationalist with a knack of almost always saying the right thing. Marlena was Marlena, legend on legs, she both looked and was extraordinary and when she spoke the entire room fell silent. Greg oozed old-fashioned cockney charm and sometimes was the funniest of them all. Karen was quieter and seemed more ordinary, but she too had a quick mind; Bob thought she was exceptionally bright and intelligent but deliberately played it down so as not to outshine Greg. Plus she was a great audience. Her laughter came easily and was irresistibly infectious. Michelle was young and so pretty she didn’t really need any other attributes. Bob thought he must surely seem like a sad old man to them. He certainly felt like it that day. It should have been a special day. Always had been a special day. In the past.
Bob ran a hand over his close-shaven head; his thinning hair, once dark brown but now pepper and salt, had been cropped in that drastic way to hide the bald patches. Fortunately the look was quite fashionable.
‘Spit it out, Bob,’ said George.
‘Sorry, it’s Daniel’s birthday today. His thirtieth. I’m a bit preoccupied. Probably shouldn’t have come out . . .’
‘We’re glad you did, Bob,’ said Karen.
Nine pairs of eyes, their expressions ranging from compassionate to plain embarrassed, stared at Bob. Most of them knew, more or less, why Daniel was a painful subject.
Bob had been a career soldier but had quit the army in order to bring up his only son after the boy’s mother died of breast cancer not long after his birth. Danny was just seventeen and still at school when he’d fallen in love with a backpacking New Zealander, some years older. Out of the blue she’d announced that she was pregnant and on the same monumental day decreed that she was going home and taking Danny with her. Doe-eyed Dan, a bright boy who until then had seemed destined for university and a choice of illustrious careers, or so his father had hoped, went along with it at once. He would travel the world with the girl he loved and their unborn child, and nothing was going to stop him, not even the father who’d devoted his entire existence to him.
Thirteen years on, Bob still missed his son terribly. Danny’s leaving had undoubtedly been a life-changing moment. But Bob didn’t want to talk about that.
‘It was the army, going through the first Gulf War, that changed my life,’ he said. ‘There was a lad killed – first death I saw. He wasn’t much older than my Dan when he pissed off. I always felt I should have saved him – I mean, I was the lad’s sergeant . . . Never the same after that.’
Marlena reached across the table and put her hand on Bob’s.
‘I’m sure you did all you could,’ she said.
Bob smiled at her bleakly. ‘Not enough though. I still think about it . . .’
‘My old man was a squaddie,’ remarked Greg, filling the silence. ‘What was you in then, Bob?’
‘Scot
s DG.’
‘Hey, that’s one tough outfit,’ said Greg.
‘The what?’ queried Billy.
‘Royal Scots Dragoon Guards,’ said Bob.
‘I thought they were all funny hats and skirts,’ remarked George.
Greg turned to face him.
‘Shut up, you prat,’ he said mildly, then addressed Bob again.
‘You were in the thick of it, then, in the Gulf, weren’t you?’
‘Yep, we sure were,’ said Bob.
‘Man,’ said Greg. ‘And you were an effin’ sergeant. Respect, mate, respect.’
Bob smiled at him. You could see in his eyes that he was remembering something long forgotten, another life, another world.
Karen nudged Tiny. It was his turn.
‘Everyone can guess mine, I expect,’ he said. ‘Finally accepting I was gay. I mean, who’d have thought, right?’
Tiny placed a hand on one hip and stuck out his elbow, camping it up.
The group giggled obediently.
Then Tiny turned towards Bob. The camp gone. Serious. Perhaps picking up on the mood of the night.
‘And that meant losing my family, my kids – my missus never let me see ’em again – so I know how that feels, Bob. It was down to me though. I was the one who walked away.’ Tiny paused. ‘And then I threw in my all with this skinny little tyke.’
He wrapped an arm around Billy’s narrow shoulders.
‘Oh, sorry, not supposed to mention partners, are we? Tricky, though, when the fucker’s sitting right by you, eh, Greg?’
Greg grinned and nodded. Karen addressed Billy then.
‘So, how are you going to follow that?’ she enquired.
‘Well, by saying that it’s much the same for me, of course,’ Billy began, leaning back in his chair and looking as if he were about to make a speech.
‘Is it fuck!’ interrupted Tiny, his big bass voice reverberating around the restaurant, causing a nearby weekend dad to glower in the direction of the Sunday Club table. ‘Would you believe I have to move out of the flat when his bloody mum and dad come to visit?’
The entire table erupted into cries of ‘No!’ and ‘No way!’
Friends to Die For Page 2
