Just Friends (28 page)

“I can’t believe you’ve never been to England,” she told him as they leaned elbow to elbow on the railing, staring out to sea. “It’s absolutely brilliant for theater. You’d love it.”

“My aunt went last summer. She said it rained every day.”

“We do have roofs, you know. And umbrellas. If you, er, won a free air ticket, for example—you’d go, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course—depending on my work.”

“What? You’d pass up a free trip to England just to slog your guts out at Bagels R Us?”

Brett frowned. “My acting work, I mean.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course.” Freya flushed at her faux pas. “But
Grains of Truth
is closing on Wednesday, isn’t it?”

“Thanks for reminding me.”

For despite the audience’s enthusiasm on opening night, the reviews had been so-so. There was talk of a Boston venue, but nothing had been settled.

“I’m sure you’ll land another part soon,” Freya said.

But not too soon,
she added silently. The spare plane ticket to England, bought originally for Michael, still lay snugly next to her own in the airline wallet in her suitcase. She could just see herself at Tash’s wedding with Brett on her arm, indisputably desirable—a trophy escort.
Twenty-six, actually,
she’d say, if anyone asked. There would be no need to explain her single state; its attractions would be obvious. Freya stole a glance at Brett’s sculpted profile. He was handsome, fun, sexy—and he liked her. He would jump at the chance.

She now set herself to the task of being the life and soul of the party, with particular reference to Brett. She dragged them all into the Hall of Mirrors and persuaded a grotesquely short, fat Brett to declaim one of his audition pieces. Then they rode on the bumper cars, swirling giddily around the black rubber floor to earsplitting technobeat. Somewhere along the line Jack won a goldfish, which he gave to a little girl who was crying because she’d dropped her ice cream out of its cone. Brett won a Coney Island baseball cap, and insisted on wearing it backwards, even though Freya told him he looked stupid with a tuft of hair poking out like that. Eventually their meanderings brought them into the crisscross shadows beneath the huge wooden piers that supported the roller-coaster. Above them, they could hear the escalating rattle of cars speeding overhead, then a chorus of screams as they plummeted downward.

“The Cyclone.” Jack rubbed his hands in anticipation. “Hold on to your stomachs, folks.”

“Is that thing safe?” asked Brett, peering up dubiously.

“ ‘Course it’s safe,” swaggered Freya. “I’ve been on it loads of times. Four tickets, please,” she told the attendant.

But at this point Candace put down her tiny sandaled foot, scarlet nails and all. Nothing would induce her to step inside one of those death machines.

“Well, I’m going,” Jack declared.

“So are we,” said Freya firmly, looking at Brett.

He ducked his head. “It’s okay. You go. I’ll stay and keep Candace company.”

“She’ll be all right.” Freya flapped her hand, as if swatting a fly.

“Thank you, Brett.” Candace gave him a dazzling smile. “How very gallant.”

Before Freya could protest further, Jack had bought two tickets and was leading the way up to the waiting cars. Freya followed grumpily. This was not at all what she had planned. She took her place beside Jack, then glanced back to where Candace and Brett seemed already absorbed conversation.

Jack followed her gaze. “How could Candace even think of another man when she has
me
?” he teased.

Freya twitched a shoulder.

“Not that young Brett isn’t a delightful piece of arm candy.”

“What a revolting phrase! Brett is a nice, intelligent, charming person—not a fashion accessory.”

“If you say so. Doesn’t have much of a head for heights, though.”

“He’s being gentlemanly—something you wouldn’t understand.”

They strapped themselves in and sat in silence, waiting for the cars to fill up. The air was warm and humid, almost tactile, like velvet against her skin. Every time she moved, her dress gleamed with a silvery light. It was funny that no one had been moved to compliment her on it. Was it too short, too tight, too teenagey? She fiddled self-consciously with the skirt, trying to stretch it down over her thighs.

“You know, the first time I ever came to Coney Island was with you,” said Jack.

“Was it? I don’t remember.”

“We came with Larry, and that Spanish girl from downstairs who drove us wild with her guitar, and some weird vegetarian person in a headband.”

“Ash.” Freya smiled at the memory. “Ashley Franks, sculptor and bean freak. He thought all the world’s geopolitical problems could be solved if only we ate more beans. And I thought he was marvelous. Briefly.”

“You all seemed so exotic. I felt like Gulliver.”

Freya nodded dreamily, staring at her knees.

“You had long hair then. When we went on the Cyclone, I remember it streamed across my face, blinding me. I didn’t know if I was up or down.”

“No danger of that tonight.” Freya ran a hand over her boyish crop. “Did you ever call Ella, by the way?”

“We’re meeting Monday. Don’t nag.”

The car began to move, ratcheting its way up the first steep incline, hoisting them into a sky now truly dark, with a sliver of moon hanging high over the ocean. At the top it wobbled perilously for a few gathering seconds.

“We’re going to die,” said Jack, stating a fact.

Freya felt her body tense with a mixture of terror and exultation. She filled her lungs with air as the car tilted sickeningly into a nosedive.
“Eeeeeeee ...”
she screamed.

“Aaaaaah ...”
roared Jack.

Eyes squeezed tight-shut, Freya gripped the safety bar and abandoned herself to the plunging, lurching, soaring movement. There was a roaring in her ears; wind rushed into her open mouth. Up and down and up and around they went; then again, that thrilling leap into the sky. Any second they were going to hurtle straight off the track into space, but she didn’t care. She felt as if she could fly all the way to the stars.

The roller-coaster slowed at last, and trundled back to its starting point. Freya let out a shaky sigh and blinked her eyes open.

“I’ve just thought of a scene for a novel.” Jack’s breath tickled her ear. “A proposal of marriage on the Cyclone. Wouldn’t that be great?”

“Hmmm. Sort of
Strangers on a Train
meets
North by Northwest
?”

“Exactly. How well I’ve educated you. When I first met you, the only Hitchcock movie you’d seen was
Psycho
.”

“But the Cyclone’s so noisy. She’d never hear the question; and if she did, he’d never hear the answer.”

“That would be part of the plot: the psychological complication.”

Freya turned to look at him. His hair stood up on end, as if he’d been electrocuted. “You know your problem, don’t you?”

“Too perfect? Too brilliant?”

“You’re a fantasist.”

“I’m a writer.”

Writers write,
Freya almost said. But she was in too good a mood to start a quarrel with Jack. “And I’m starving,” she announced, climbing out of the car.

“Me, too. What about heading over to Brighton Beach for some vodka and seafood?”

Freya groaned aloud at the temptation. “We can’t,” she said. “Brett couldn’t afford it, and I don’t want to embarrass him by paying myself. We’ll have to make do with a hot dog or some clams.”

“The last time I ate clams off the street I spent the next day hugging the toilet bowl. What if I pick up the tab?”

“Great!” she said, accepting this magnanimous offer.

“You can pay me back afterwards.”

When they emerged into the crowds, Candace and Brett were nowhere to be seen.

“Maybe they’ve eloped,” said Jack.

“There they are.” Freya pointed up some steps to the boardwalk, where a group of black teenagers were dancing in a tight, jittery circle to some unseen source of music that pounded out a hiccuping rhythm. The two white faces bobbing at the edge of the circle were easy to pick out.

“Where?” Jack peered, fumbling in his shirt pocket for his glasses.

“Come on, let’s join them,” she said, hurrying ahead.

But when she reached the group, she didn’t have the nerve. The sheer intensity of the dancers, absorbed and unsmiling, excluded her. She watched Brett twirl his limber body, arms high in the air, while Candace jiggled and swayed. When the track ended, Brett threaded his way over to her. His eyes were shining; heat rose off his body like steam. “That was fun,” he said breathlessly.

“Time for dinner,” Jack pronounced, taking command. “My treat.”

He set off down the boardwalk with Candace, casually holding the back of her neck between thumb and forefinger, in a gesture Freya had seen in countless American high school films. For the first time in years, Freya longed to be cute and kittenish, so that Brett would drape a proprietary arm around her, too, instead of bouncing along beside her, hands in his pockets, talking about clubs and bands she’d never heard of.

The lights and noise of the fun-fair receded, until all they could see, when they looked back, was the glow of the big wheel, pink and purple against the black sky, its tiny cable cars glinting like charms on a bracelet.

They came to a strip of beach restaurants, with tables outside, crowded with families and festive parties. Pretty waitresses in short aprons carried trays back and forth from the steamy back kitchens, under the watchful eyes of the proprietors, sinister in dark glasses and soft white shoes. Lively band music wafted out across the sand. The atmosphere was wholly European: no hamburgers, no Muzak, no Manhattan execs, no Fifth Avenue divas starved to perfection—just the clink and roar of ordinary people having a good time. Everyone was speaking Russian.

“This is incredible!” exclaimed Brett.

Freya smiled back. “Russian émigrés started settling here back in the fifties. They call it Little Odessa. I thought you’d like it.”

Eventually Freya spotted an empty table, and they sat down. Jack took charge of the ordering: vodka, of course; eggplant caviar, potato salad, smoked eel—

“And herrings,” Freya reminded him. “Those fat, pickled ones.”

“Good thinking.”

“And beetroot with sour cream.”

“Yeah, yeah. Who’s ordering this anyway?”

Freya left him to it, and went to the loo, accompanied by Candace.

“I love Brett,” Candace confided from the next cubicle. “He’s a riot.”

“Good.” Freya frowned at the back of the door. She hadn’t seen as much as she would like of Brett’s riotous side. He didn’t seem to have grasped that this was supposed to be a heavy date, not a jolly outing.

While washing her hands she stared at herself critically in the mirror. “Tell me, Candace, what do you think of this dress? Truthfully. Do I look stupid?”

Candace turned from her own reflection to scrutinize Freya, giving the question serious consideration. “You can get away with it,” she concluded kindly. “You’re very well preserved.”

When they returned to the table, Jack was telling Brett his old joke about the Pole and the eyechart.

“... and the Polish guy says to the optician, ‘Can I read it? He’s my cousin!’ ”

“That’s not how it goes,” Freya objected, taking her seat opposite him. “He’s supposed to say, ‘That’s my
uncle
.’ ”

“What’s the difference?”

“I’m just telling you how it’s supposed to go.”

“It doesn’t matter how it’s goes, so long as it’s funny. Brett laughed. Didn’t you, Brett?”

“Absolutely. Very funny, Jack.”

Jack jutted his chin at Freya. “QED.”

“The QED,” Candace breathed rapturously. “I’ve always wanted to travel on an ocean liner.”

“Me, too,” agreed Brett.

Freya’s eyes met Jack’s. She couldn’t help it: she laid her head on her arms and howled.

“What’s so funny?” demanded Candace.

But all Freya could hear were Jack’s deep, infectious guffaws; she laughed until her eyes streamed.