Just Friends (38 page)

Freya heard Sponge chortling with laughter beside her. Rather worryingly, he took his paper napkin out of a pocket to make a note.

“What’s really phony, these days, are all the stepparents,” said Jack. “You’ve got the father of the bride, mother of the bride, father-of-the-bride’s second wife, mother-of-the-bride’s second husband, father-of-the-bride’s second wife’s current husband, et cetera—all spinning a line about how wonderful marriage is. If I ever got married I could probably fill the whole front row of the church single-handed.”

“And
are
you ever going to get married?” asked Lulu (or possibly Polly) with a flirtatious sparkle. Freya raised a sardonic eyebrow. She’d love to hear his answer to that one.

But at that moment their attention was distracted by Rocky’s chirpy voice: “. . . all the way from the American South, where the nights are hot and the girls are easy—
Jack Madison.
Jack’s going to sing—and I hope this isn’t a comment on tomorrow’s wedding—’I Say a Little Prayer for You’!”

Freya turned to Jack in surprise, and found him glaring at her.

“You set me up!” he said.

“No, I didn’t.”

“I
saw
you up there, schmoozing with Rocky.”

Polly and Lulu were clapping their hands delightedly. “Go on, Jack.”

The well-oiled audience, sensing a drama in Jack’s hesitation, began to chant. “Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack . . .”

Jack rose to his feet and poked Freya in the arm. “I’ll get you for this later,” he growled.

Freya watched him go, hoping he wasn’t going to make a fool of himself. “Pass the wine, will you?” she asked Sponge.

Jack was on stage now, taking the microphone. The opening bar blasted out its fast, impossible rhythm. The blip of the autocue began to bounce over the words of the song, projected onto a screen onstage.

He didn’t sound too bad to begin with; in fact, he got a laugh for camping up the line about putting on make-up. But almost at once something went wrong. The music continued, but Jack wasn’t singing. Freya craned her neck to see what was going on. Jack was squinting at the screen in a manner that was all too familiar to her. Oh, God . . . He hadn’t brought his glasses, the idiot. He couldn’t read a word. The audience began to murmur. Rocky was frantically leafing through sheets of paper, looking for a typed version. Freya squirmed with embarrassment.

Oh, no. Jack had put the microphone to his mouth again. He was going to have to apologize, and leave the stage in midsong. She couldn’t bear to look. Even Toby had performed better than this. She lowered her head, closed her eyes, and put her hands over her ears.

But Jack didn’t apologize. He started singing.

I don’t know the words, dear,

’Cause I ain’t got my gla-ha-sse-hes up here,

So say a little prayer for meee . . .

There was a ripple of laughter. More singing. More laughter.

Whatever, whatever, whatever you know I should sing,

I’ve sung it,

However, however awful you think I am

I’ve thunk it

Slowly Freya raised her head and allowed herself to look. There he was, white jeans a-dazzle in the spotlight, with a cheesy grin on his face, hamming it up like the terrible show-off he was. The audience loved him; they thought he was hilarious. Relief washed through her. He looked pretty good. In fact he looked great. Her heart softened.
My hero.

At the end of the song, he looked over in her direction.

My darling, forgive me

I know you can’t bel-eeeve

How badly I sing . . .

Jack left the stage in a thunder of good-humored applause. As he threaded his way through the tables, hands reached out to pat him approvingly on the arm or shoulder—one even on the bottom, Freya noticed with a sudden frown. Hands off! When he took his place again at the table, amid rapturous tweetings from Polly and Lulu, she thought it would be a sensible idea to remind everybody what was what. She pulled Jack close by the shirtsleeve and kissed him on the cheek.

“Darling, ‘marvelous’
isn’t
the word,” she murmured.

He turned his head. His smiling blue eyes, disconcertingly close, rested on hers for a moment. They held surprise, and something else she couldn’t quite decipher. He thumped the table. “I need a drink!”

Soon afterwards, the karaoke ended and the guests deserted their tables to unleash their high spirits on the dance floor. Gallantly, Sponge asked Freya to dance with him and she accepted, pleased to show the watching world that thirtysomethings knew how to party, too. Complete strangers smiled at her and sometimes shouted their approval of Jack’s performance. She felt the warm, anonymous press of bodies, and saw how her dress shimmered in the flashing lights. Toby bopped up, jacket off, circles of sweat under his arms, and did his impersonation of a choo-choo train opposite her. She caught sight of Jack dancing with Vicky—how thoughtful!—then with one of those bridesmaid girls. Hmmm.

When she went back to her seat for a rest, everyone had disappeared. Freya poured herself another glass of wine and frowned at the table, empty now except for crumpled paper napkins, glasses, bottles, and a litter of crumbs. Nobody came over to talk to her. Nobody asked her to dance. She was beginning to feel painfully conspicuous when someone draped an arm around her shoulder and slumped into the chair n to her.

“Hello, sis,” slurred Roland, breathing into her face.

Freya recoiled from the fumes. He pulled his chair closer. His shirt was unbuttoned. Sweat glistened on his skin.

“So. That painting. How much would you say it’s worth?”

To keep him at bay, Freya rattled on about the yoyoing values of contemporary art, while Roland stared at her with the dopey, lopsided smile of the very drunk. “Maybe a thousand dollars, if you bought it in a gallery,” she concluded.

He patted her thigh. “You’re a little cracker,” he told her. “Fantastic legs. Come on, let’s dance.” He grabbed her hand and staggered to his feet. Freya gritted her teeth. If it had been anyone else she would have told him to get lost; but rejecting her stepsister’s chosen partner might look like sour grapes. She allowed him to lead her into the press of bodies, and went through the motions, head high and gaze abstracted, while Roland waved his arms about and ricocheted off her. Almost at once the music slowed to a smoochy number. Roland reached out and pulled her close, pressing every sweaty inch of his body to hers. His hand groped her bottom and squeezed slowly, suggestively. To him she was a single girl of a certain age, and fair game. She couldn’t bear it.

Quite suddenly she was free, and Jack was standing there with a big, bland smile on his face, and his hand resting affably on Roland’s collar. His teeth gleamed in the lights as he spoke into Roland’s ear. The n thing she knew Jack had set his arms on her shoulders and was steering her away from a bemused-looking Roland.

Freya smiled into his face with relief. “What did you say to him?”

“I told him they were playing our song.”

“Yuk. That’s so corny.”

“You have no romance in your soul.”

“Where have you been, anyway?”

“Looking for you.”

And with that, he drew her into his arms. Freya relaxed against him and clasped her hands around his waist. Jack felt solid and comfortable and familiar. His warm breath tickled her neck as he crooned along to the music.
“Stand by me . . .”
Freya rested her cheek on his shoulder and gazed through half-closed eyes at the blur of bodies and shimmer of lights. His shirt smelled good.

When the tempo changed into the pounding, irresistible beat of a familiar old song they stepped apart spontaneously and carried on dancing. It was like old times. They advanced and retreated and circled, mimicking each other’s gestures, laughing at the sheer silliness of it all. When they took a break and returned to the table for refueling, Freya felt flushed and charged with energy. She watched the muscles in Jack’s hand as he tipped the wine bottle.

“This is such . . . fun!”

“That’s because you’re not angry.”

“Angry?”

“Tight. Wound up. Snap, snap, like a vicious little crocodile.”

“Is that how you see me?” Freya was stung.

“Not tonight I don’t.” Jack drained his glass and smacked his lips. “Tonight you are a goddess. Freya, goddess of love and beauty. Come on, let’s dance.”

They plunged back into the hot pack of gyrating bodies. Fast numbers, slow numbers, silly songs that made them fling their arms in the air, old favorites whose words they shouted aloud: they danced and drank, and drank and danced, until suddenly the music finished, the lights stopped flashing, and Rocky’s voice announced that it was midnight. The party was over.

Freya stumbled out into the courtyard with Jack, dazed by the sudden darkness and cool air. Fairylights sparkled in the trees. A double line of flares lit the path. The moon was bright and benign in a pewter sky cobwebbed with cloud. She could hear her friend the owl screeching from its hidden perch; her mind shied away from the unresolved problem of who would be sleeping on the chaise longue tonight. Jack held her hand loosely as they were swept up the path with the crowd. There was a babble of voices shouting good-bye, arguing over car keys and who was sober enough to drive. Freya saw Annabelle trying to round up Roland and his chums, and shepherd them out to a waiting minibus. Then the noises receded as she and Jack veered off toward the house. They walked up stone steps and onto the terrace. The lawn was silver, shadowed by the looming shapes of clipped bushes.

“Ah-woooh!” Jack was howling at the moon.

Freya gave him a shove. “You’re drunk.”

“Who cares?” Jack threw out his arms and took a deep, ecstatic breath. “I love Cornwall.”

“You don’t say corn
waal
. It’s Cornwull—veddy clipped and veddy British.”

“Oh, is it?” With a sudden grin Jack pulled her into his arms and waltzed her up the path. “Oh, I don’t care if you are called the fair Miss Frigidaire . . .”

“ ‘Cause I’m sen-SA-tional,” she sang back, then tripped on a flagstone.

“Stop!” She stumbled against his shirt front as her ankle twisted, and her one of her shoes came off. She bent to retrieve it. “Bugger. The heel’s loose.”

“Uh-oh. Looks like I’m going to have to pick you up and carry you.”

Freya laughed in his face. No one had carried her since she was about eight years old. “Don’t be ridic—”

“Stop saying that!” He made a grab for her. Freya swerved out of his reach and took off along the terrace at a lolloping, peg-legged run. He chased after her. She darted in through the French windows, across the library and into the hall. As she reached the bottom of the staircase, her stockinged foot slid on the wooden step. She grabbed the newel post, breathless and dizzy, and swung herself around defensively to face Jack.

He reached out and picked her up, just like that. “Light as a feather,” he pronounced, staggering wildly around the hall.

Freya kicked her legs. “Put me down!”

From upstairs an unfamiliar female voice called, “Are you all right?”

Freya and Jack looked at each other and giggled. Freya put her arms boldly around his neck. “Okay, carry me, you he-man. Let’s see how far you get.”

He shifted her weight a little and began to climb. Moonlight streamed through the big window at the turn of the stairs. Freya stared dreamily at his profile. What nice ears he had. She blew playfully on the hair at the nape of his neck. When he reached the landing, he paused.

“Out of breath already?” she teased.

He turned his head and kissed her. The shock of it ripped through her. Her eyes closed, then flew open.

“Freya,” he whispered. His voice was full of longing.

“Jack . . .” She put her fingers to his face. It felt soft and hard, smooth and rough, familiar yet as new and exciting as a wild frontier. Suddenly she wanted to touch every part of him—his ears and his neck and the line of his eyebrows and that corner of his mouth that curled up—just a bit, not enough for anyone but her to notice—when he was secretly amused. She slid her feet to the ground, staying within the strong clasp of his arms, feeling his body strike sparks against hers. Then she wound her arms around his neck and kissed him back.

It seemed that her being split in two, so that her mind floated free in a haze of wonder and anticipation, while a drumbeat of desire propelled her body upstairs. She felt the reassuring bulk of Jack’s body, his thigh hard against hers, his breath on her hair. The bedroom was bathed in moonlight. Without any conscious wish or effort she was lying down, eyes shut, arms stretched wide on a bed that tilted and swayed beneath her. Then Jack’s weight was on top of her. She smiled and ran her hands down his back, feeling the ripple of his ribs under her thumbs. He pulled down the straps of her dress, then raised himself off her. Her eyelids fluttered open. He knelt astride her. He was undoing his shirt.

Wait . . . Undoing his shirt? Was this right? No . . .
Yes!
But the warning voice grew louder. This was Jack—her old friend, her
younger
friend, lover of Candace and a thousand interchangeable others, past and future. She was heading down a blind alley: she would get hurt. Freya put her hands flat against his chest. “I don’t think this is a good idea.” Her voice was weak and unconvincing.

Jack seized her hands and was kissing her palms. “Of course, it’s a good idea,” he murmured. His eyes were half-closed, his face sharp and concentrated with desire.

“No.” She pulled herself out from under him, into a sitting position. Jack reached for her—blindly, possessively. She put out a hand to ward him off. “No,” she said again. With a supreme effort she managed to swing her legs over the edge of the bed and stand up. She was trembling. She couldn’t stop. It was embarrassing. She held on to the bedpost. “I think I’m a little drunk, and so are you. Let’s not do anything we’ll regret.”

“
I
won’t regret it,” Jack said fiercely. He slid from the bed and smoothed his hands over her shoulders. He was trembling, too. “Come on, Freya, let yourself go. We’ve both been wanting to do this for ten years.”