Behaving Like Adults (39 page)

Claw yanked open the door as I took my finger off the buzzer. ‘Change of plan,' she said, as I walked in. I gasped, ‘Oh my God!' and started laughing. There, sitting meekly on various yellow poufs, were Nige, Nick – ba-
boom!
God, he still had that effect on me – Manjit, Rachel, Issy, Camille, Sam and Bernard. They were all clutching dubious looking red drinks, each accessorised with a cocktail umbrella. Everyone jumped up and started
clapping
.

I turned to Claudia, wide-eyed. What were they clapping me for? I wondered. Being raped? She shrugged, grinned, said, ‘Sorry, dahl, but there was
no way
we were gonna roll over and let you quit the business. There are a million reasons why you should stay, as Bernard will explain.'

Bernard – last seen sitting alone in a French restaurant –
cleared his throat. He'd done something to his hair and, blow me down, it was rather cute. Next to him, Sam twisted her hands together, and stared at her big feet. Nick winked at me, and I blushed beetroot. Issy was just about boring through my head with a laser gaze, willing me to make eye contact. Rachel jammed a cigarette butt in a burgundy glass ashtray and smiled an apologetic smile. Manjit looked as if he wasn't quite sure why he was here.
No, no, yes, yes, yes, no
. How easy it was to tell who knew what.

‘I wanted to voice the opinion,' declared Bernard in a strong voice, ‘on behalf of us all, that you'd be highly unwise to resign from Girl Meets Boy.' He glanced at Claw for reassurance. She nodded. ‘And, these are some of the many reasons.'

I stood there, politely, waiting. I'd kill Claudia. This was excruciating. Bernard was unaccustomed to public speaking. ‘First, that
Glamour
want to do a three-page feature on you and the agency. Second, that all your members miss you. Third, that Nige gave you a massive plug on his breakfast television interview on Friday, and the phone has, according to your sisters, been ringing off the hook. And fourth, that thanks to you, I am about to marry the love of my life.'

At which point, Sam – speaking for at least two of us, I'm sure – burst into tears.

THERE WAS A
silence. Manjit started clapping, then stopped. I realised that
I
was expected to break it.

‘Bernard! Sam! That's wonderful,' I said on cue. And it was. Their joy was proof, it blasted away uncertainty, it made me see that what I did was good. Then, in an unwelcome flash it struck me that Bernard hadn't actually specified Sam. But no, she stuck out her left hand and on her third finger shone a rock the size of Gibraltar. ‘Amazing,' I added, as an appropriate response was required, ‘someone fetch me a magnifying glass.'

Sam giggled. ‘My dear,' she said, with the super-duper confidence of the newly engaged woman, ‘do you
need
one?'

All the females crowded round and cooed. All the males shuffled from foot to foot looking uncomfortable.

Claudia touched my arm. ‘Hol, no one's asking you to make a decision this minute. But maybe you'll
consider
the possibility of staying. Drink?'

I glanced at Nick. He wasn't looking at me any more. ‘The biggest you've got.'

She poured me a double vodka and tonic, which I gulped down before realising that it might pickle the foetus. I suppose I
would
have been peeved if everyone had just let me quit Girl Meets Boy without a squeak of protest. I smiled nervously around the room. I owed a lot of people explanations. After the struggle with Stuart in his office, I'd rung Manjit and said I no longer wanted self-defence classes. Unless I had a gun, I figured, there was no point. He
wasn't used to arguing, so he didn't. I still felt rotten about it. Issy – the therapist with more issues than the whole of Hollywood stuck together – was plainly aggrieved that I hadn't confided in her, and would doubtless remain so until I sat in her office and unpeeled the layers of my soul like an onion. Nick would be wondering why I hadn't returned his call after our magical last date, and – oh God, the last thing he needed was another person letting him down. And Nige would be busting to discover how I felt, to ooze horror and sympathy, and to suck up all this precious
material
, in case he were ever called upon to play a victim.

Or maybe I was too harsh.

‘Come and help me in the kitchen, Hol,' said Claw. A spurious request, but I scurried after her. She shut the door. ‘Baby coming along nicely?' she enquired, like it was a cake. ‘You're not cross, are you?'

‘Fine. No.' I checked mentally, to see if I was lying. I wasn't. I tried a smile. It was glorious, that Bernard and Sam were engaged. And Nige had mentioned
Glamour
wanting to do a piece but, in my gloom, I hadn't believed him. I sat down on an orange plastic chair. (Claudia's entire kitchen was orange, it was like being held captive by a tangerine.) ‘Was Nige really on breakfast TV?'

‘Yup.'

‘Er, why?'

‘He's an Understudy Catapaulted to Stardom. The play previewed on Wednesday night and Nige surprised them all. He's actually a reasonable actor. I don't think the critics expected it.
I
didn't.'

‘That's fantastic! He's going to be insufferable. So, so what did he say about us?'

Claw smiled at the ‘us'.

‘He said his only regret about his “big break” was that it dragged him away from his between-jobs job. Said “Girl Meets Boy” about five hundred times. Droned on about drowning in young gorgeous successful singles. I think that's what did it. The magic words, “Young gorgeous
successful singles”. We had forty-seven calls, not all of them from nutters.'

‘No!'

‘I swear.'

I felt a tingle of excitement.

Claudia gripped my hands. ‘Listen, Hol. You're going through a rough time. You've had what I hope is the worst experience you'll ever have in your life. But it's
over
. The CPS – remember, Caroline calls them the “Criminal Protection Service” – not prosecuting, I understand, it must have been like being abused all over again. But you are a tough cookie. You
will
get through this. I'm not saying shove it under the carpet. What I am saying is, don't let the injustice of it beat you. You have a choice. You have no power over what has happened to you, but you have every power over what happens to you next. When Manjit was depressed, yes, he took his pills, but mentally, he
fought
it and that's crucial. He says all therapy is, is intelligent listening, and you know I'll always be here to listen to you, as will Issy, as will Nick.'

She took a deep breath. ‘And talking of Nick . . . ?'

‘I haven't told him. I will.'

I bit my lip. This was ludicrous, like a half-played game of
Cluedo
come to life. Most of the guests in the lounge had a secret. Nick was adopted. Claudia was gay. Rachel was having an affair with Frank. Issy had marriage problems (duh). Camille was sleeping with Claudia. I was being sued by my rapist. I was also pregnant with someone's child. Oprah eat your heart out.

‘Don't delay it too long,' murmured Claw, peering into the oven with something like bemusement. ‘Do you know how many weeks it is yet?'

I shook my head. No, and I wasn't about to start counting. What if it wasn't the right number of weeks? I hadn't even been to a doctor, because he would tell me and I didn't want to know. I sniffed. ‘It smells delicious in here, Claw. You haven't been . . . 
cooking
?'

‘If I'd been cooking, Hol, you'd be dialling 999, begging for Mr Chang. Everyone else cooked. The yellow thing in the oven is a posh fish pie, courtesy of Sam. Bernard has made vegetable lasagne. Camille made herb soup, which sounds weird but it's bloody delicious, Rachel provided the wine . . .'

Here, Claudia paused so we could grin at each other. Occasionally I err in thinking that Rachel is no different from me, and then I remember that when
she
hosts a dinner party, she buys a crate of Beaujolais and puts our pitiful hotchpotch of bottles on the side, so that no guest has to suffer the indignity of drinking
random
booze.

‘. . . Issy made a salad, and two loaves of walnut bread from that breadmaker she's so embarrassingly proud of. I didn't trust her with anything else. Eden made fairy cakes. Manjit made lemon roast chicken – he said it was that or a signature dish entitled Blastyerarse Chilli. Nige has been flouncing around the kitchen all afternoon “creating” potato skins and avocado and sour cream dips. And Nick rang Brookfields Junior School, presumably slept with a dinner lady, and got the recipe for cornflake and chocolate goo squares. He was on the phone this morning, complaining that the ingredients were cheap and nasty and he could make a far superior version if I let him improvise, but I told him don't be clever, this isn't about taste, it's about nostalgia, do exactly what it says on the tin.'

I gazed at the orange floor tiles. Eventually, I said, ‘Everyone made a real effort.'

‘Yeah, well. For some reason, they like you.'

I punched her on the arm. Don't tell
me
about not being able to express your feelings.

‘Come on. Let's go back in. Your public awaits.'

I looked longingly at my empty glass, and marched back into the lounge.

Rachel was standing near the door, a vision in a purple sari, talking to Nige. He was dressed in his trademark white jeans and white shirt, and together they looked like
an advert for Silk Cut. Except that they were both smoking Marlboros. Now he'd snatched fame in the West End, I guessed she thought he was worth speaking to. As for him, he lost no love on
her
, but I supposed he'd grant anyone an audience if the subject was Number One. I caught myself thinking these mean-spirited thoughts, and felt ashamed. These were my
friends
. They were here for
me
. Nige had probably bunked an At Home with Rupert Everett to attend, and there was a high chance Rach had turned down the Grand Old Duke of York. As for her affair with Frank, I didn't have concrete proof. There was such a thing as coincidence.

I kissed Nige on the cheek. ‘Congratulations, you clever boy. I'm not at all surprised. How does it feel?'

He held out his drink to Rach, who took it, and hugged me to him. ‘You, my love, are going nowhere,' he husked into my ear. ‘You're going to turn the agency around, and it's going to be the biggest success. The best revenge is living well.' He took my hand and kissed it, a theatrical gesture but it meant a lot. ‘Although if you want him beaten to a pulp, I do know people.'

‘Oh, do be quiet Nigel,' snapped Rachel. She passed him back his glass and sighed. ‘I simply couldn't feel any worse,' she said finally, a very Rachel thing to say. ‘I think that once, you tried to tell me and I brushed you off. I apologise. I hope you can forgive me. I suppose I, I didn't want to believe it. If I had to . . . well, I hope you're
rallying
. I can't imagine how you must feel. But Holly' – you knew it was serious when Rachel didn't call you ‘babes' – ‘I know you'll come through. And I'm sorry I haven't been in touch much recently. I've been fraught with work and the move.'

‘The move?'

‘Yes, babes, I'm
attempting
to move house. Exchanged last week. You knew that, babes, I told you.'

If I did, I wasn't aware of it.

‘I'm sorry,' continued Rachel. ‘It's been
such
a mare. I've
not been in contact with anyone – I've not been able to detach myself from the horror of the moment.'

‘What moment?' said Nige.

‘
Any
moment. Each one has had me paralysed with shock. The moment when my vendor decided to pull out after we'd agreed a price because rival estate agents valued his property at £40,000 more than I was paying. The moment when I realised that my solicitor was an incompetent fool and was refusing to pick up the phone to my buyer's solicitor because he didn't
like
him. Roland Rat, the estate agent on loan from hell. Oh, there were plenty of moments.'

‘Poor you,' said Nige. ‘I'm sure Holly's heart bleeds.'

Rachel frowned. So did I. I wished he hadn't said it. ‘Moving house is a sod,' I said quickly. ‘I always look through the local paper's property section, and I'll think, ooh, three quarters of a million for a three-bedroom house in Hampstead, mm, okay, horrendous, but it's a nice area, and then, Jesus Christ, you realise it's a
flat
!'

‘Absolutely,' said Rachel, although the last time her family worried about money was probably when Henry VIII repossessed the monasteries. ‘The greed of people is astonishing. The entire process is frankly distasteful. And stamp duty. They might as well tax you for walking down the road.'

‘They do,' said Issy, who had elbowed into our circle. She eyed me sternly and said in a voice that for her was soft, ‘
I
could have helped, you know.' Nige stared.

Pause.

‘So I hear Frank is thinking of buying an E-type. How marvellous. They're super cars.'

Slowly, Issy turned her gaze on Rach. Like a cat seeing a dog for the first time. ‘Who told you that?'

‘FOOOOOOOD!' bellowed Claudia from across the room. ‘Rachel come and do the wine.' You never saw a woman of Rachel's girth move so fast.

Nige coughed. ‘I did,' he said, brushing an imaginary
speck of dust from the front of his white shirt. ‘Just now. Didn't Frank say? I bumped into him in the petrol station the other day. We discussed cars.'

‘I see,' said Issy. ‘No, he didn't say.'

I scrutinised her from under my eyelashes. She didn't look happy. I frowned at Nige. Nige drove a green Fiat Panda and I couldn't imagine he had the least interest in discussing it, or indeed any car. But then, he had no reason to lie for Rachel. He didn't even
like
Rachel. Yet, there was no denying that Rach was behaving oddly. She was definitely on edge in front of Issy. Nige smiled, not a care. ‘Shall we eat?' he said, linking arms with Issy and myself.