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Authors: Kate Saunders

Bachelor Boys (22 page)

BOOK: Bachelor Boys
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“You're not a shit,” I said. “You hate behaving like this—so why are you doing it?”
“Entirely for the sex.” He was grim.
“Come on!”
Fritz said, “I need unromantic, dangerous, smutty sex because it's the opposite of death. The kind of sex I have with Felicity is like oxygen to me at the moment. She's life to me. Maybe that's why I can't stop fucking her. It's not a question of the sex being good—it's
essential.
”
I was angry with myself for failing to see the real and obvious reason behind Fritz's behavior. All roads led back to the awfulness of Phoebe dying.
“Mum's upset with me,” Fritz said. “That's the worst thing. I couldn't even stay with Annabel to make her happy.”
“For God's sake, nobody expects you to do that.”
“And I've never seen Ben so angry. He thinks I'm scum.”
“He'll calm down eventually.”
“Mum's afraid I won't look after him,” Fritz said, tender and exasperated. “She's teaching him to cook, for instance.”
“I know. I ate today's lesson.”
“She had it all worked out, you see. I was to marry Annabel and live in the top part of the house. Ben was to live in the basement with his grand piano.”
“Poor Phoebe.”
“She has all these dreams for us, and it hurts to know they'll never come true.”
I didn't know what he meant.
Fritz said, “For a start, we won't be living in this house after she's gone.”
This came as a sickening shock. It was hard enough to imagine a world without Phoebe. Now I had to hear that her beautiful and bounteous home would die with her.
“I took over Mum's finances about a month ago,” Fritz said. “And I found everything in a total mess. She's leaving us with a whacking great overdraft.”
“But what about the money Jimmy left?”
“It wasn't as much as she thought. She always was hopeless with money—never read a bank statement in her life.”
“Does she know about this?”
“No. Why does she need to know? The bank is letting us run up the debt, on the understanding that the house goes on the market before she's cold in her grave.”
“That's appalling!”
Fritz reached across the table to take my hand. “It's not such a disaster. The house is worth a fortune. Ben and I will take away plenty of change. Let Mum think whatever makes her happiest.”
“I suppose so.”
“My West End wages are keeping us in food at the moment, but I need more paid work. I've told my agent I'll consider anything.” I must have looked skeptical. He added, more forcefully, “This isn't the time to worry about my dignity. If there's money involved, I'll dress up as a chicken and hand out leaflets in Oxford Street.”
“It's not that bad, is it?”
He smiled. “Actually, I've just been called back for a car commercial. If I get that, I'll be able to send Phoebe out in the lap of luxury.”
His hand was warm around mine. We both sat looking over the edge
of the chasm. Fritz had decided that Phoebe was to know nothing about the financial mess. He knew how important it was for her to die thinking she had provided for her useless sons. I respected him for fooling her, and I loved him for it. I'd forgotten all about my anger. Talking about Phoebe's death was like climbing out of the world, into a bubble of numb unreality.
He said, “It's not going to be long.”
“Is she—is she a lot worse?” My mouth was dry.
“Not exactly. But something's changed in the way she talks. That's all. She told me she dreams about Dad a lot. I can't help feeling—knowing—she's drifting away.” I saw that his eyes were brimming. “I don't think Ben has noticed anything. Well, she doesn't want him to.”
“She thinks you can handle more.”
“She thinks I'm brave,” Fritz said. “And I am. I can handle anything.”
I had never seen him crying—not even when Jimmy died. He sat gravely looking down at my hand, and the tears slid down his cheeks. Neither of us mentioned them. I ached with sympathy, but knew that Fritz didn't want to be comforted. My anger was forgotten. It came from the other world, where there was no death. But I was dismayed by the way everything around us seemed to be sliding into chaos and ruin. My promise to Phoebe had only made things worse. Her beloved boys were not only not engaged, but not speaking to each other. I was mortally afraid that thanks to me, her death would shatter what was left of her family.
I
t was my duty, as the best friend of Annabel, to hold myself in readiness for the inevitable postmortem. The ends of Annabel's affairs usually fell into a certain routine. First came the solo grieving, which involved sobbing, daytime television and biscuits. After this, there would be a couple of evenings at my flat, combing over the details of what had gone wrong—which involved tissues, takeaway pizza and self-reproach. And then (give or take the odd session with a bottle of wine) we'd be more or less back to normal.
I waited for the summoning phone call. And at first I was rather relieved when the days passed and it didn't come. This latest debacle was rather my fault, after all. But the silence went on for such a long time that I started to worry. Though Annabel was back at work, she apparently took no notice of her voice mail. It was the same story at her flat. I sent message after message into the void, and continued to hear nothing.
Eventually, she sent me an e-mail at work.
Bum—I've lost my job. I feel so utterly bum about this that I can't face anyone, not even you. Sorry I haven't been in touch. I'm going to Scotland to stay with Mummy and Trevor. Promise to call you when I get back.
Bum indeed. Now I really felt terrible. Poor Annabel had lost both her lover and her arbitraging, and the fact that she had chosen to stay with her daft mother and dafter stepfather in Aberdeen spoke volumes about the state of her mind.
At least I didn't have to worry about Hazel. Her e-mails were little bulletins from paradise.
Jonah stayed over again—it gets better and better!!! He's so sensitive and gentle and thoughtful, and the best part is that my dad would have been horrified. At last I've managed to fall for someone he wouldn't approve of, who also happens to be one of the kindest, nicest men in the world!!!!
“Hazel's fabulous,” Betsy said, knitting away in a fury of satisfaction. “I can't thank you enough.”
“Don't mention it,” I said.
“The girls think she must be crazy, but I always knew Jonah would find someone who really appreciated his qualities. I think he might be moving in with her—wouldn't that be wonderful?”
“Yes, you'll be able to use your attic again. Whatever will you do with it?”
Dear old Betsy, she only laughed at my sarcasm and offered me another piece of cake. Jonah was off her hands at last, and in her joy she bombarded us with cake. Puffin ate so much of it that he had to have his cavalry twills altered. I quickly learned to loathe the sight of hundreds-and-thousands, which she shook over her icing in industrial quantities.
Frankly, this cake had a bitter taste to me. I had intended Hazel for Ben Darling, and her falling in love with Jonah seemed to underline my ineptitude as a matchmaker. I had let Phoebe down. Ben was still single and Fritz was still entangled with old Poison.
Because they loved Phoebe, Fritz and Ben were officially speaking again. But they avoided each other as much as possible, and the strain between them was only too obvious. Ben could not forgive Fritz for his caddish treatment of Annabel. Since the split, he had been intensely moody. Fritz was spending more and more time at Peason's mansion flat in St. John's Wood. Ben spent all his time sulking and seething in the basement. When Fritz called round for his belongings, he put huge effort into not speaking to him.
They couldn't totally avoid each other, however, because one of them had to be with Phoebe. The two of them now took turns living with her
in the upper part of the house. One of them always slept in the room next to hers. They never left her alone for a moment.
I found this out when Fritz called me at work. “We need a large favor, Grimble. It's for Phoebe.”
“Of course.”
“Can you come and stay a night with her next week?”
He explained their arrangement. I was alarmed that it had become necessary, and ashamed of myself for not knowing.
“I'll be shooting all day and going to the theater in the evening,” Fritz said. “And Ben and Neil have a concert in Swansea.” (Fritz had got his car commercial; you may remember him flaring his nostrils in the wing mirror, to the strains of Vivaldi.) “We can't leave Mum on her own. She's by no means high maintenance, but she needs to have someone with her.”
I was brisk and practical. I said I'd be delighted to stay, and asked all kinds of intelligent questions about nursing. Fritz took just the same tone. He didn't need to spell out the fact that Phoebe was getting worse. But we were horribly aware of it. I felt slightly sick, and slightly afraid I'd show myself up by being squeamish.
Fritz seemed to sense my fearfulness. His voice became kind. “Tell you what, come round to the theater. Then I can give you a set of keys and full instructions about the drugs—I know you like to have things written down. Come tonight, if you can bear to sit through it again. I'll even buy you dinner.”
“I'd love to see the show again, but I refuse to break bread with Peason.”
He laughed. “Fear not. She's doing something else.”
“In that case, yes please. I haven't been anywhere for ages. Does it matter that I'm wearing rather awful clothes?”
“You never look awful. I'll leave a ticket at the box office, and book a restaurant that Felicity doesn't like. I'm glad you're coming, Grimble. I want to make the most of my night off.”
I felt cheerful after this phone call, and somehow strengthened. Caring for Phoebe—loving Phoebe—had moved us to a new level of intimacy. I was honored to be treated like a real member of her family.
I found
Rookery Nook
even more entertaining the second time. It looked faster and smarter in its West End setting, and I didn't have
Matthew fidgeting beside me. Fritz was as good as ever. He looked wonderful under the lights. God, how I fancied him. And what on earth could I do about it? Here was another reminder of my uselessness. Bloody Peason also looked wonderful. There was no question of competing with her. If I'd ever had a chance with him, I'd missed it. And none of it mattered anyway. Nothing mattered now except Phoebe.
Afterward, I wove through the crowd of well-fed, well-dressed middle-aged theater-goers to the stage door. It opened on to a narrow corridor and a flight of stone stairs, pitilessly lit and packed with shouting strangers. I must admit, I find these places intimidating. I spent some time wedged against a fire extinguisher, being ignored. One of the actors (no doubt remembering my blush-making contribution to the first night party) kindly directed me up three flights of stone stairs to Fritz's dressing room.
I knocked at the door, and Peason's voice said, “Yes?”
I found her sitting in her coat, her face still vividly made up. “Hi,” I said.
She was examining herself in the big mirror over the dressing table. “Hi, Cassie—oh, lucky thing, you look so comfy in those jeans. I always have to dress myself up to the nines, and it's such hard work. Fritz won't be long, by the way. He said to sit and wait.”
There were two chairs in the small room. One contained Peason, the other was freighted with her handbag. I tried to look as if I didn't mind standing.
“That was marvelous,” I said, making my formal obeisance.
“Thanks. People think a West End transfer is easy, but they haven't a clue about the extra work involved.”
“It's looking superb.” I was having a struggle with my adjectives. “Polished,” I added.
“Fritz says you're taking a share of the mother duty,” Peason said. She addressed me through the mirror, with a brilliant smile. “I can't tell you how grateful I am. It's so nice of you.”
“It's a pleasure, actually.”
“The house is gorgeous, of course. I can see why you enjoy being there. It must be worth several million by now. I'd so love to live there, wouldn't you?”
I thought that she looked particularly beautiful, and particularly nasty, when she talked about money.
“Yes,” I said. “It's a shame they'll have to sell it.”
“I'm so glad you see it like that,” Peason said, with a disagreeable rush of intimacy. “It's so hard to get Fritz to see sense. The fact is, there's no real need to sell the place at all. I don't see why he shouldn't live there after—well, you know, after—if only the eternal Ben could be got out of the way.”
I hated her. She couldn't wait to get rid of Phoebe and poor Ben. “The house belongs to him too,” I said.
“Obviously. Someone would need to buy him out.”
Did Peason have enough money to do this? I felt sick again. I didn't want to save the house if it meant she had to live there. Seriously, how could Fritz bear even hearing about such a violation?
“Hi, Grimble.” Fritz came in, wearing his street clothes.
“I'll be off then,” Peason said. I was no threat to her. She smiled at me, and planted a scorching kiss on Fritz's mouth—the sort of long kiss where you make an “mmmmm” noise. “Have a lovely evening.”
She left, and Fritz seemed as relieved as I was. “I've booked us into Joe Allen's,” he said cheerfully. “Just let me take off my makeup—I don't want to go in looking like some old queen.”
The restaurant was busy and noisy. Fritz said he was starving. He encouraged me to order a large hamburger. We drank very good red wine. There were lights and people and a great babble of talk. Every few minutes Fritz would break off our conversation to wave to acquaintances or exchange kisses with friends. I felt dowdy and countrified. Since the split with Matthew, my world had narrowed down to a shabby flat in Chalk Farm and a shabby office in Dover Street. I was bewildered by the glitter and the noise, and the unreality of being out late.
How long was it since I'd been out to dinner with Fritz? In fact, had we ever been out together? Despite fancying him (which I was used to), I found him excellent company that night. The shared business of Phoebe sealed us in our own world. We were relaxed and unguarded. The relief of being able to talk about her, with someone who felt the same, was like taking off tight shoes.
He had typed me a page of instructions—contact numbers, times of medication, approved foods.
“I'm so glad you can do this,” he said. “I hate the idea of leaving her with someone who doesn't belong to her.”
I asked him how long he and Ben had been working in shifts upstairs.
Fritz said, “Since the transfer, more or less. Ben's there more than I am. He's wonderful with Mum—knows what she wants before she does.” He smiled. “What she really wants is for poor old Ben to get a girlfriend. I'd like it too. If he's getting laid, maybe he'll stop treating me like Jack the Ripper.”
“He'll forgive you eventually. He always does.”
“This time is different, Grimble. Something's got to give, before he hits me again. Next time I might not be able to stop myself hitting him back. The strain of pretending everything's fine in front of Mum is beginning to tell on us. So do us all a favor and bring some of your eligible names.”
I said I'd do my best, and started thinking through my mental card index of suitable brides. The plot, however, was about to confound us all.
 
Over the next few weeks, summer turned slowly to autumn, and I kept up my hamster-wheel routine of work and home. The days seemed endless, but time was passing faster than I could bear. Once a week, sometimes twice, I spent the night with Phoebe when the boys were otherwise engaged. I got used to the responsibility surprisingly quickly, and it soon became if not a pleasure, then a welcome break in the routine.
Phoebe's physical frailty was frightening, but though the setting had crumbled, the pearl of her personality was as perfect as ever. I don't know how any of us would have coped if the essential Phoebe had changed—she herself had said she'd put up with anything if she could keep her marbles.
The strain between her sons did not bother her as much as I'd feared. She said they were both “hot-headed,” just like their father. “You remember the terrible fights Jimmy used to get into. Sometimes it was absolutely mortifying—for instance, when he had that shouting match at parents' evening with Fritz's biology teacher. But his rages never lasted long.”
I said, “I think Fritz knows he was in the wrong.”
Phoebe said, “He'll see sense one of these days. He's not remotely in love with that frightful woman.”
Fritz had (reluctantly) brought Peason to meet Phoebe. And though Peason had shown a flattering interest in the house, the visit had not been a success. Phoebe pronounced her “shallow” and “vulgar,” and warned Fritz that her famous bum would be “enormous” by the time she hit forty. Phoebe did not often take dislikes, but when she did she was implacable.
According to Phoebe, Fritz was in love with someone else.
BOOK: Bachelor Boys
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