Can We Still Be Friends (23 page)

‘Very nice. But I can’t wait to get you some proper clothes in Venice. The Italians have the best fashion now. There are all these new guys working there, and the tailoring is brilliant. Still’ – he looked at her body appreciatively – ‘it’s what lies beneath that counts. All this loveliness – and just for me. I’m a lucky man.’

Annie was seated between Mark and Ferdie Cavening at one end of the mahogany table. It was obvious that the room temperature was
calculated on the basis of the men’s uniform of thick evening jackets. She wished she had put on a vest under her thin velvet. This whole cold business was crazy. Her hosts were obviously wealthy, so why didn’t they bother to heat the place properly?

She listened to Mark as she battled to carve flesh from the partridge lying in a pool of tepid gravy on her plate.

‘Charlie tells me you’re in the fashion business,’ said Mark, peering into his wine glass as if he had found a problem at the bottom of it. ‘I’m frightfully sorry. I don’t know much about that world.’ As he smiled, Annie noticed his small, pointed teeth.

‘I’m not really. We do some fashion, but the company handles public relations for all kinds of thing – lifestyle brands, restaurants, events.’

‘Soph used to do a bit of work in that area before we married. She helped a friend who did party planning. Don’t tell her, but I always used to think it was a laugh that she was paid to plan anything. It’s not her greatest strength.’

‘She seems incredibly organized to me. Our bedroom even has biscuits in a tin by the bed. And look at the table. Perfect.’ Mark glanced at the gleaming candelabra, the silver salt and pepper cruets and the bright-yellow mustard in little blue glass bowls.

‘Well, my mother gave her a talking to when we got engaged. Told her how to run the place. She’s always been a stickler for everything being just so. Sophie got the hang of it pretty damn quick. I suppose, when you find the right chap, you’ll give up that public relations stuff.’

‘What makes you think that?’ The flush that had started to creep up over her neck and face had appeared since she was a child. ‘It’s my career, and I’m very interested in it.’ She was surprised by her indignation. After all, she was the first person to scoff at the notion that she was in a career. But she minded, greatly, Mark’s supercilious supposition that what she was doing didn’t count for anything. ‘I have my own clients now who I am responsible for. I’m not going to just chuck it in because I’m married.’ She thought, but didn’t add, that she didn’t much like the idea of turning into somebody like Sophie or Fizz.

‘Oh, you women all say that, but when the bubbas come along it’s different.’ Mark reached over to grab a heavy crystal decanter of red wine, offering it to her before splashing it carelessly into his glass. ‘Ferdie, tell us, what do you think about women and their careers?’

‘Can’t say I think much about it.’ Ferdie looked at Annie with a leer derived more from habit than desire, enabling Mark to turn to the girl who was seated on his other side. Annie noticed that the cold hadn’t prevented her from wearing a dress with a deep plunge neck, the bareness of her skin emphasized by a five-strand pearl choker.

‘Looks like you’ve got me now.’ Ferdie had an incongruously youthful face, topped by a startling blond thatch. ‘So where did you meet old Charlie? Lucky devil. I don’t know him well, but I’ve bought into a couple of his property deals. He’s got a good eye for the up-and-coming area.’ He leant across the table to where Charlie was talking to Fizz. ‘Charlie, my man, are you coming over tomorrow to follow the hounds? The meet’s at eleven. Are you a rider?’ he asked Annie. She thought of the gymkhana rosettes on the wall of her bedroom in Hampshire and how she had adored everything about horses: the tack, the stables, their glossy bulk, the tight fit of the black hat on her head.

‘I used to be. But it’s been a long time.’ Even on a subject which she should have found easy, Annie couldn’t muster any enthusiasm for the conversation. The evening was proving to be excruciating, and she was dreading the moment Charlie had warned her of, which surely must be approaching, when the women would get up and leave the men. On her own with them and out of Charlie’s orbit she knew she was going to feel out of place, an interloper in their world with her working life, unmarried status and no babies. What was she going to talk about with them? Maybe she could claim a headache and go to bed, but that wouldn’t be fair on Charlie. He’d brought her here to be a part of his life and introduce her to his old friends. Hadn’t she always wanted to be with a man who would do just that?

The clock in the hall was striking the hour when Charlie closed their bedroom door and pulled a bolt across it, before walking
across the room and starting to unbutton her jacket as if peeling a fruit.

‘I’m sorry. I just don’t feel like it now. It’s been a nightmare, tonight. I was so out of place. The girls obviously found me odd because I couldn’t join in their conversation about kids and, as for the men … they treated me as if I came from another planet. You’re not like that. Why on earth is Mark your friend?’

‘Well, I’ve known him since we were kids, when we used to spend all our time together. We don’t hang out much now but, when you’ve known someone for ages, they’re part of your history, aren’t they?’ He loosened his bow tie to hang around his neck. ‘You’re being too judgemental. And Sophie’s fine, really. She’s just different to you and your friends. She means well. Come on.’ He tried to pick her up and carry her to the bed.

‘No, Charlie, I mean it. I’m just not in the mood.’

‘Fine.’ He dumped her on the floor and walked to the sink in the corner to wash his face. ‘Be like that. But you’re ridiculous.’

Annie pulled her dressing gown out of the bag and unbolted the door. The bathroom was at the other end of the corridor, but it seemed a better idea to take her clothes off there rather than remove them in front of Charlie. She pulled the flex of the bar heater on the wall, which instantly glowed red without offering any immediate heat, and pulled off her jacket, skirt and the suspenders, everything cutting into her uncomfortably after the roast potatoes and chocolate mousse.

Wrapping the robe around her tightly, she picked her clothes up from the floor and ran back along the icy route to the room. She knew she was being unfair. After all, it wasn’t Charlie that had been making asinine comments. But, even so, she didn’t want to have sex. She wasn’t just a doll, up for it no matter what.

It had been a scramble to catch the seven o’clock from Paddington, and Sal had made it with less than a minute to spare. It wasn’t her fault. Patrick had only given her the go-ahead that morning for her story on the launch of
EastEnders
, which, as she pointed out to Andrea, was absolutely ridiculous. Everybody knew this was going to be a huge investment for the BBC. There’d been talk about it for weeks, and now she was expected to pull something together at the last minute. It was typical of Patrick to be so out of touch.

When she had finally remembered to ring her father back earlier in the week, nagged by Annie, who had answered two calls from him, he had made it clear she should come home for a visit.

‘Your mother wouldn’t want to bother you, Salome, but she isn’t at all well. I wouldn’t be calling if I didn’t think it would be a good idea for you to come and see her.’ Now that the agreed visit had come around, it was frustrating. Nobody who really counted on the paper liked to leave early (apart from Patrick). It was like the hard core at a party – the best times were often at the end, when the lightweights had gone home, leaving the real players behind.

The days were starting to lengthen, bringing with them hints that, contrary to appearance, spring would someday arrive. Yet it was pitch black and wet when she emerged on to the platform at Cheltenham and hard to see which car was which in the squally dark where they all sat, headlamps shining. Eventually, she recognized the shape of her parents’ car at the end of the lot. She walked towards it, stamping out her cigarette on the ground before she reached it.

As she greeted her father, she noticed he was anxious. His default mode was an imperturbable expression, and he was usually able to process events without the impediment of spontaneous feeling. She
expected him to make his usual observation that she smelt like an ashtray but, to her surprise, he didn’t, and on the short drive to the house she was grateful for the noisy car heater, emanating more sound than it did warmth, for helping to disguise the pauses in the conversation.

‘Was it difficult for you to get away this weekend?’

‘No. Not really. I was a bit worried because I got given a story to do last minute about a new telly programme and I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to knock it off in time. But I managed something.’

‘Ah. I take it that a new television programme is now regarded as substantial news by our national papers.’

‘Obviously it’s not the lead story. That’s a follow-up on the whole Clive Ponting thing. His acquittal was great, wasn’t it? Of course, he didn’t break the Official Secrets Act. It’s the normal cover-up stuff.’

‘Yes. I must admit it confirms one’s belief in the jury system. I suspect that we won’t have heard the last word from Margaret Thatcher, though.’ Maurice drove slowly through the town, the genteel terraces with their ironwork balconies drab in the bleak weather.

‘She and Kinnock have been going hammer and tongs about it this week. Her and her precious
Belgrano
. Of course, although our front-page story is pretty even-handed, the comments page is anti-Ponting.’

‘Of course.’ Those two words registered his disapproval of the fact that not only was she a journalist but his daughter was working on a right-of-centre paper. She’d only been with him for a few minutes and already she felt as if she was in the wrong.

‘Tell me more. About Mum.’

‘I think she should discuss it with you herself, it’s more of a woman’s thing. You’ll see she has lost a great deal of weight.’

‘But is she … is she seriously ill?’

‘We don’t know yet. She might be.’

This admission silenced both Sal and her father. They had no established mechanism for this kind of conversation. Objective discussion had always been encouraged, but talking about the messy
business of what they might feel rather than think had not. Feelings were too insubstantial and subjective to be worth analysis. That was the message.

Sal’s mother was never ill. One night, she had given in to terrible toothache and taken to her bed, but it was such a rare occurrence that it had lodged in Sal’s memory. As they walked into the dimly lit hallway, Sal had an urge to turn round and run back into the night and the distance of London.

‘Is she in bed?’

‘Probably.’ Maurice was already making his way back into the sanctuary of his study. ‘Do go and see her.’

The bulb had gone in the light on the half-landing, and her mother’s bedroom door was closed. For several minutes Sal stood outside, nervous of entering and confronting what she might find. ‘Who is to bring me that doodle-doo?’ She heard the words of Captain Hook in her head, urging his band of pirates to climb down to the hold and battle with the unknown demon. What a time to think of Captain Hook. Grow up, she told herself, first knocking and then opening the door.

The room looked reassuringly the same. Her mother shifted in the bed, the dim bedside light illuminating pill packets on the table.

‘Mum,’ she whispered, sitting on the bed.

Joy drowsily reached out, her hand touching Sal’s face. ‘What are you doing here, love?’

‘I’ve come to see you. Do you want to sleep? It’s OK. I’ll be here later … and tomorrow.’

‘Of course not.’ Joy moved herself into a sitting position. Sal could see the grey of her dark curls at the temples now, dried saliva at the corner of her mouth.

‘Can I get you something?’

‘No. Thank you. Tell me about work. We must get the paper tomorrow. Tomorrow is Sunday, isn’t it? I’m a little vague just now. It’s to do with the pills Dr Harris has given me.’

‘Work’s going pretty well.’ Sal was relieved that Joy hadn’t brought up the subject of her illness immediately. The office was
more comfortable as a topic than her mother’s health. ‘I’m being given more to write. Sometimes, I suggest an idea, and they get someone else to do it, but that gets me good marks anyway. I’m learning a lot. This weekend I’ve done something on
EastEnders
. You know. The new BBC soap.’

‘I think I heard about it. Maybe on the radio.’ Joy’s voice began to fade a little. ‘Sal, can you see my spectacles anywhere? Perhaps you could look for them downstairs. They could be on the kitchen table.’

When Sal returned, she heard the flush of the lavatory in the bathroom down the corridor from her parents’ room. She could see the spectacles on the table under the window. Wrapped in her woollen dressing gown, it was noticeable that her mother had lost weight, her wrists emerging thin and pale from the dark wool. As she climbed back into bed, Sal took the two pillows, trying to shake them out of their dismal flatness.

‘Dad … he wasn’t clear what the problem is … I mean … what’s wrong with you?’

Joy looked towards the thick curtains. ‘We don’t quite know. I’ve been having tests. I get the results next week.’

‘OK. But what made you need tests?’ As she asked, Sal was torn between an urgent desire to remain ignorant of the whole matter and the awareness that this wasn’t an option. She wished she hadn’t introduced the topic, since her mother appeared unlikely to have done so.

‘I’ve got to that time when women’s bodies can go wrong. It’s possible that I have some trouble with my womb. I’ve been getting pains, yes, and other little problems. And they’ve laid me low. I’m sure it’s just one of those things and in the end it’ll probably right itself of its own accord. You know, dear, how I don’t want you to worry. It’s not necessary to make a fuss about this. We’ll find out what’s what soon enough.’

‘What does Dr Harris say?’ Dr Harris had been their doctor all of Sal’s life. She used to hate his cold hands as they felt her stomach and the way he always looked at her over his glasses as if she was
pretending to be ill. However, now that her mother appeared so vulnerable, the mention of his name was reassuring.