Friends to Die For (2 page)

Johnny broke into a spirited rendition of ‘I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles’ as Greg, a dedicated West Ham supporter bustled in. Greg beamed.

‘Don’t you worry mate, the ’Ammers will ’ammer ’em,’ he said.

The next day would see a derby game with Spurs. It was somehow typical of Johnny, no way a football fan, to be aware of that. Greg wasn’t much taller than Johnny but had a big personality
and walked with a swagger. He was a wheeler-dealer, a white van man who bought and sold, but his precise occupation was never entirely clear.

Karen, an inch or so taller, wore flat shoes and had a very slight stoop, no doubt caused by trying to ensure her husband didn’t look shorter than her. She always gave the impression that
she was keeping a bit of an eye on Greg.

Hoping her husband wouldn’t pick up on her slightly wary tone, Karen greeted George. Earlier in the week there had been an incident between them which she hoped was now forgotten.
Certainly George seemed the same as ever, smiling back at her with no hint of awkwardness in his response. Karen felt relieved.

‘No Carla then?’ remarked Greg.

‘For God’s sake,’ said George.

The others all seemed to arrive at once. There was olive-skinned Alfonso, with his hooded Mediterranean eyes and shiny black goatee beard, who could only be of Italian descent even though
he’d been born and raised in Essex. Alfonso was a senior waiter at the Vine, arguably the most fashionable restaurant in London, and had been invited along to Sunday Club by Vine regulars
Billy and Tiny.

Bob, in his fifties and the second oldest of the group, made a living as an inner-city gardener, watering and looking after other people’s terraces, balconies and window boxes. He had,
rather to his surprise, found himself invited to join Sunday Club when he became chummy with Tiny and Billy after they’d called him in to plant out their roof terrace and put in an irrigation
system.

Ari, at twenty-six the youngest and the richest of the friends, was the son of a wealthy Asian entrepreneur and his English wife. Billy had run into him at a few work-related events and found
the ponytailed young man not only strikingly attractive but also highly entertaining, and in spite of loving Tiny to bits, had rather wished Ari were gay. Which he most certainly was not.
Nonetheless it was Billy who’d suggested Ari may like to come along to Sunday Club.

Finally there was the Covent Garden legend known only as Marlena, a name the others suspected she had adopted in tribute to her heroine Marlene Dietrich, although she always maintained it was
her given name. Marlena, probably in her late sixties but perhaps older, was never seen without stage makeup and a spectacular blonde wig. She invariably dressed entirely in black, enlivened
occasionally by a mink wrap or a mock leopard-skin throw, and adorned to excess with an elaborate display of bling. Her exact age was a closely guarded secret, and everything about her exuded a
certain air of mystery. She was another Vine regular, and had originally been invited to join the group by Alfonso, whom she’d always regarded more as a friend than a waiter.

More drinks were ordered as everyone bustled to sit. Bob, like George, manoeuvred to acquire a place that allowed him to have his back to the wall, but because he had a deaf ear rather than a
burning desire to see and be seen. Alfonso fussed over Marlena, whom he worshipped. Ari, always in a hurry to do everything and anything, only narrowly avoided knocking over Tiny’s cosmo as
he threw himself at a chair. There was Prosecco for Marlena, Hendricks with olives on the side for Ari, and a couple more carafes of red wine for the rest.

‘Marlena darling, you’ll never guess who we had in the restaurant yesterday,’ said Alfonso, when he’d eventually sat down.

‘Hey, Fonz, you sound like a bleeding cabbie,’ remarked Greg.

‘Just tell us, darling,’ said Marlena encouragingly.

‘Madonna, Madonna, my loves, and I poured her sparkling water,’ announced Alfonso, waving his arms triumphantly in the air.

‘Wonderful, darling,’ said Marlena.

She turned to George.

‘And what have you been up to this week, sweetheart?’ she asked. ‘Still no sign of that beautiful girl of yours, I see. What a pity!’

‘I don’t believe this,’ said George. ‘Look, I’ll see if I can persuade her to join us, OK? But I do know she’s with her family.’

He took his phone from his pocket and touched one key on the screen.

‘Voicemail,’ he muttered in an aside. Then he spoke into the phone.

‘Hi, Carla darling, it’s me. I’m calling from Johnny’s – I’m with the gang, Sunday Club. Like I told you about. Don’t suppose you can join us, can you?
I’d love to see you and so would the rest of the bunch. If you can bear it, do come. Love you, baby. Kiss kiss.’

‘I think I’m going to throw up,’ said Ari.

‘Behave,’ said Marlena. ‘One day some girl will be monumentally stupid enough to let you fall in love with her.’

‘And when she does, I promise not to make all my friends feel sick.’ Ari turned away from the table and pretended to retch.

‘Oh, stop it, you’re disgusting,’ said Karen.

‘No I’m not,’ said Ari. ‘I’m handsome, charming and sophisticated. My mother told me so this morning. And for the record, Marlena, there’s always a queue of
girls at my door and—’

‘If there’s any truth at all in that then they’re obviously only after your money!’ interrupted Michelle.

Marlena put a hand on Ari’s arm. ‘Do remember, darling, today’s cock of the walk is tomorrow’s feather duster,’ she said.

Everyone laughed, including Ari. The friends were all very much at ease in each other’s company, and with the banter, sometimes quite edgy, which was inclined to dominate their time
together.

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.

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.