The Last Time I Saw You (10 page)
“I know, I know it’s too soon, but . . . I’ve seen the way he looks at you. He might not even know it yet, but there’s something about you that he’s fascinated by.”
“Yeah, Sally.” She rolls her eyes, but I plow on. “He wants to know about me and Sally, that’s all it is. I think you’re right, I don’t think it was easy and he can’t say it out loud. If he guesses it was hard with me too, then perhaps I’m the nearest thing.”
“It’s not just that. They’re rare, the good ones, and you’ll turn around and find he’s plugged the gap with some primped up little Park Avenue Princess who didn’t have your morals.”
“I don’t want to plug a gap!” I say, hotly. “He’s walking wounded, I think I’m worth a bit more than living my life as someone’s emotional aspirin.”
“I’m not saying right now, of course not, but . . . when you’re talking it’s like he’s got tunnel vision.”
“Rubbish,” I say, my cheeks flaring red and hot. “He’s just fraight-fully well brought up.” I hate myself for mocking him. It feels like a tiny act of betrayal.
“OK, fine—forget it. I never said a word.”
“The only thing he can think about is Sally. And I bet he doesn’t know the half of it.”
The certainty of that statement reverberates through me as I release it into the ether. What did you do, Sally? Just what was it that took you away from here?
The next few weeks were some of the happiest I had at university. I felt there was a new mutuality in Sally’s and my friendship, like I was less of a lapdog and more of an equal. Sally always raised the tempo of everything; when I was sad, she hugged me like she’d never let go and when I was happy she would make me laugh so hard my ribs would ache. She would sneer at the student bars, scarred by that inauspicious first night—instead she’d insist we dress up to the nines and sink cocktails at fancy hotels. I couldn’t remotely afford it, but somehow with Sally rules only existed to be broken. Me and Matt were going well too and, while I didn’t feel like I was rewriting the
Kama Sutra
with my devilish moves, I was enjoying the new sensation of confidence and womanliness that came from having a real relationship.
Looking back now, I can see how selfish I was being. Matt got the scraps in one way, the two-for-one cinema night or the
all-you-can-eat curry on a Tuesday. And it wasn’t just material, I think I saved my secrets for Sally too, the real exposure of my heart.
I loved her vividness; her descriptions of the passionate relationships she’d had, the blazing rows she’d had with her parents in her quest to be exactly who she was destined to be. I was ripe for transformation, my certainties already shaken to the core by my family fragmenting: I wonder if a friendship felt like a safer place than a romantic relationship in which to emerge from the chrysalis? How wrong I was, Matt and I were never going to be the love of each other’s lives, but he was as safe as an oak, whereas Sally . . . not so much.
She needed a special one—a taut, vivid kinship that brooked no ambiguities or surprises, unless they were sprung by her. So yes, while I was selfish, I think I subconsciously knew that I could only keep her burning focus by signing up to her unspoken code of honor.
I chose not to see what tunnel vision I had, just as I chose not to see what was happening in our little household. Lola had a boyfriend now, Justin. I’m not sure which came first, the chicken or the egg, but as Sally’s searchlight swung back toward me, she had begun to retreat into the relationship. I didn’t risk thinking too hard about it.
One of those Friday night cocktail quests sticks in my mind. We were drinking in a rooftop bar, Sally insisting we had to have a fruit martini in every color, me controlling a nagging anxiety that my card would get thrown back in my face. It was low-lit and glamorous and the two of us were perched on high stools at the long zinc bar, the city spread out before us like we owned it.
“Just get one from the kitchen and stick it in the blender,” she laughed, insisting to the dubious barman that a kiwi martini was a real drink.
“Ignore her,” I said, “we can just have raspberry, it’s fine.”
“We’ve already had pink,” said Sally, waving a hand and giving the barman her most persuasive smile. “Anyway, raspberries are for plebs.”
She got her way of course, but when she called for the next two I tried to intervene.
“Seriously, my card’s going to bounce out of the window. Let’s just have a glass of white.” I was so wobbly on my high stool that all I really needed was water.
“Ignore her,” she said, an edge to her voice.
But paying for them never became an issue, because two sharp-suited businessmen had slimed their way into the seats next to us and offered to pick up the round.
“Thank you but we’re fine,” I told them primly, just as Sally accepted.
“On one condition,” she added coquettishly. “You have to drink the same.” She signaled to the barman to make it four blackcurrant daiquiris.
Of course after that there was no getting rid of them. My guilty conscience went into overdrive thinking about how Matt would feel if he could see us, the pudgier, sweatier specimen weighing up whether or not he’d be making a move. It was Matt’s swimming night, a commitment he reverentially honored, giving me and Sally a guaranteed weekend pass. He was so trusting of me, pleased I had a friend good enough to spare him earache about his weekly absence: it never would have occurred to him that I would abuse that trust.
“So what is it you do, girls?” asked the better-looking one, his eyes skimming Sally appraisingly.
“We’re students,” admitted Sally, though I half expected her to lie.
“So I guess tonight’s on us then,” said the fox, a carnivorous grin spreading across his chops.
“Well actually . . .” I started, determined to reassert our independence, to wave the white flag of my coupled-up status. Sally kicked me, actually kicked me, and I winced.
“I guess you will!” she agreed, smiling that hundred-watt smile at the fox.
They drove the conversation, laughing loudly at each other’s jokes and making eyes at each other over the drinks. I couldn’t believe for one moment that Sally really desired him, all he did was drone on about the property deals he did, but you’d never have known it from her rapt expression. Eventually I dragged her off to the toilet.
“What are you playing at?” I asked. “Do you actually like him?”
“He’s all right,” she said, shrugging.
“Can we go? I’m too drunk already, I’ve got an essay to do and I’m seeing a concert with Matt tomorrow night.”
“Ooh, a concert,” said Sally, mocking. Matt loved classical music, which she thought was the ultimate square affectation.
“Look, I can just get the bus. I’m sure his mate will take the hint and you can stay out with Rob.”
“No way,” she said, her fingers digging into the flesh of my upper arm with unexpected force. “You’re my wingman.” She turned her gaze on me. “We can’t all be loved-up like you.”
“But you don’t even really like him! Seriously, let’s just go . . .” I said, trailing off as I took in her hard look.
“We’re having a laugh. We’re just having a few drinks, with a couple of randoms. Honestly, Livvy, why do you have to get so uptight all the time?”
I felt stung by that, sensed she was rolling out one of her tests.
“But Matt—”
“Fucking Bagpuss,” she said, with a laugh that lacked any kind of warmth. “You’re not doing anything wrong. He doesn’t own you.”
With that she turned on her heel and headed back to the bar, strutting across the room like it was her catwalk. The next time she took a toilet break it was with Rob, and it was an extended one. She came back all hyped and giggly, her eyes like saucers. I was too naive to read the signs; all I wanted to do was get out of there. I’d tried telling Graham I had a boyfriend but it had ignited his interest, not dampened it, like I’d laid down the gauntlet.
We were the last left in the bar, she and Rob talking nineteen to the dozen, me removing Graham’s paw from my knee with worrying regularity. Even though I hadn’t twigged they were all on drugs, I knew that I felt out of my depth, longed for the dull certainties that I’d spent the last few months shrugging off. Of course I should have left, I don’t know why I didn’t, but that was Sally’s thrall. I tried to peel off when we got downstairs, but the boys had invited us back to Rob’s, and Sally’s expression made it quite clear what I had to do. I remembered what she’d said in the loos, felt guilty that I had the temerity to have something that she didn’t, and before I knew it I was in an unfamiliar apartment with butterflies in my stomach. They could do anything to us, and it’d be our word against theirs. There was no room for denial now, with Rob teasing out fat caterpillars of cocaine across his pretentious glass coffee table.
“Ladies first,” he said, eying Sally lasciviously. She didn’t need telling, expertly inhaling a line before she handed the rolled up note to me.
“I’m fine,” I said, determined that I’d get her to leave once its effects had worn off.
“Just try it,” she said, giggly and flushed. “Won’t last long. It’s like a tequila shot.”
I felt so far away from Matt right then, so far from Jules, so far away from everything I thought made me me. Maybe there was no me, just a series of experiences. Whatever my feeble justification was, I found myself taking the note and sniffing up the foul-tasting powder.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur, me drinking and smoking like I never could have imagined. I was flying at first, consumed with euphoria—I told Sally I loved her, gabbled away at Graham and Rob who reacted with cool amusement. “Thank you,” I whispered to Sally, the world a Technicolor playground with no worries or responsibilities. It didn’t last of course, soon I was consumed with anxiety, exacerbated by Sally disappearing off into Rob’s bedroom without a backward glance. I managed to peel Graham’s octopus arms off me, falling into a feverish sleep on the horrible leather sofa, my clammy cheek sticking to it like Scotch tape, hoping Sally would come deliver me from my racing thoughts. How could I have done this to Matt? I could never tell him; he was so clean living, would have been disgusted by me taking drugs, let alone taking them with a couple of predatory chancers. Now I’d have to lie to him, forever knowing that the comforting innocence of our relationship was polluted by my dirty secret. My guilt was rolling outward now, taking in my parents, my sister, even my tutors. I’d let them down, let myself down, and for what?
Eventually Sally emerged, shaking me awake as the milky dawn poked its way through the cold metallic blinds. My head was throbbing, my mouth was dry, and a crippling flatness had descended, which felt like it would never lift.
“Come on,” whispered Sally. “Let’s get out of here.”
She linked her arm in mine in the elevator, bound us together.
“That was a proper old school night out!” she giggled.
The walls felt like they were closing in on me, the grayness all-consuming. An old school night for me would have involved a couple of gin and oranges in the local pub, hoping that we wouldn’t get IDed. I hated Sally for a second, actually hated her, but then I pinballed my way back to love, the speed and velocity as exhilarating as a fairground ride. I’d made my choices, I had free will. I squeezed back.
“Yeah, it was a laugh.”
I didn’t even sound like me.
“I loved you first: but afterward your love
Outsoaring mine, sang such a loftier song
As drowned the friendly cooings of my dove.
Which owes the other most? my love was long,
And yours one moment seemed to wax more strong;
I loved and guessed at you, you construed me
And loved me for what might or might not be—
Nay, weights and measures do us both a wrong.”
Christina G. Rossetti,
Poems
It’s an odd thing: I longed for life to return to normal, for the frightening strangeness of the last few weeks to release its grip, but now William has slipped back into the shadows, I cannot shake that illogical feeling of weightlessness, that something indefinable is missing. For all his polite insistences, I know that I may never lay eyes on him and Madeline again—the very fact that he let me see through the cracks making it more likely, not less. Perhaps, for all my fighting talk, I never will know what happened to Sally. I used to feel our friendship was an unfinished chapter, but now she’s scrawled a postscript across the sky that blasts those feeble questions into oblivion.
I’ve tried my best not to think about it, to focus instead on work and the unexpected clarity that William gave me. It’s funny how often while I’ve been scrambling to make our rebooted campaign make some kind of sense I’ve thought of him. His quiet attention gave me a faith in myself, made me risk sticking my neck out, and weirdly, once I led the
way with confidence, my reluctant team seemed to sense it and pull together behind me. Maybe the next thing to tackle is that bloody short story, still languishing in the bottom of my handbag.
Here comes Honey, clip-clopping across the office in high heels so trendily ugly that they look orthopedic. She looks strangely flushed.
“Come on. I mean, Mary’s ready.”
I was sure we had another half hour: I’ve not seen hide nor hair of Mary all day. A gulp of panic spreads through me at the thought of standing in front of her and singing for my supper—for all of our suppers—but I tell myself not to be such a wuss.
“It’s do or die, mate, do or die,” says Chris, slamming his laptop shut with an air of grim determination.
“We’ll be fine,” I say, as Charlotte sweeps past me without a backward glance, as tall, elegant and certain as the Eiffel Tower.
It’s hard not to simply stand there and stare into those perfect aquamarine eyes, but Mary swiftly breaks the spell. “Surprise!” she says, giving Flynn Gerrard the easy smile of a woman who wouldn’t be intimidated by a rampaging silverback gorilla, let alone an international movie star. His presence is immense, as if he’s filling more space than his surprisingly compact frame actually occupies. His dirty-blond hair is doing that just-out-of-bed thing that prevents his heart-stopping good looks from rendering him too perfect, too untouchable. He lounges, limbs flung out like a lazy lion, totally in command of the room, grinning at us as though there’s nowhere in the world that he’d rather be
right now. We’re all trying to mix it up like the cool media professionals we’re billed to be, but there’s a palpable sizzle of nervous excitement that zings around the crowded boardroom.
“I know you don’t have long, so let’s just say this is everyone,” says Mary, clapping her hands. “Charlotte and Livvy are the women of the hour, so I think we should just kick off. We’ll start with Charlotte.”
Of course we will, I think, my heart sinking: it’s so clear where Mary thinks the killer pitch is lurking. She steps forward, producing the first of the boards with a self-conscious flick of her platinum-blond ponytail. There’s a picture of a sad little African girl in raggedy clothes, next to a larger shot of a perfectly uniformed white girl, grinning out into her shiny future. She reminds me of Madeline, but for that wide, joyous smile. Charlotte starts to rattle out facts and figures, life expectancies and happiness indicators, all with an expression of heartfelt gravity, blue Lady Di eyes downcast with the sheer tragedy of it all. Flynn gobbles up every second, straining forward in his seat, his rapt face mirroring her artfully contrived pain. I’m toast. It’s not the content—polished, but hardly groundbreaking—it’s the slickness of the package. She’s gone for that slutty secretary look that men are powerless to resist; a black pencil skirt with a tight white blouse, unbuttoned to the optimum level. There’s not a single tremor of self-doubt in her presentation, just that steely focus that dares you to resist. She’s reaching the final board now, holding eye contact with the helpless Flynn as if he’s just some Joe Schmo who’s walked in off the street. I can’t help but be impressed.
“This inequality has got to thtop,” she says, “and we know you are the man to thtop it. Contrasting our Western
child with our African child, thtating those figures in all their thtark truth, making it clear how a small donation can change a life forever . . . let’s move the public the way my team and I have been moved. I want to perthonally thank you for opening my eyes to how lucky I am. How lucky all of us are. Without you we’d still be living in ignoranth.” She holds his gaze, risks a tremulous smile, and then sits down.
Flynn pauses as if he’s too emotional to speak. “Wow,” he says eventually, emotion making his Irish brogue more noticeable. “I want to thank
you
,” he continues, his piercing eyes boring into her. “You’ve made it even more real to me, even more vital I do this.”
They sit there staring at each other like they’re having some kind of virtual compassion shag until eventually Mary breaks up the party.
“Lots to think about there,” she says, smiling approvingly. “Now let’s see what Team Two have got to say for themselves.”
I stand up, my legs shaking, trying to replicate that irresistible connection that Charlotte managed to seduce Flynn into. Unfortunately he can’t seem to take his eyes off her cleavage; is it me or has she somehow managed to ergonomically burst open another button on her slim-fitting blouse? And how is it that she manages to pull off that unsquarable circle of being both skinny and busty—I hope they’re horrible, silicone melons of death that lose all appeal close up.
“Um . . .” I start, utterly thrown by his lack of focus. “We considered a print campaign, but then we decided to mix it up a bit,” I say, looking to Chris and the laptop. Charlotte shoots me an almost imperceptible glare. Chris is such a doofus; he fumbles around, too starstruck to find the right
file. “Bear in mind this is a rough edit,” I add apologetically. “But what we felt was that people needed to see the issues in motion to stop these people feeling like hypothetical victims.”
We’ve had to look for bits of documentary footage on YouTube, and it does all feel a bit DIY and clumsy. “This is Susan,” it starts, with images of a girl we found. The images don’t entirely work with our voice-over, inexpertly recorded by me, which tells us about her life of extreme hardship and her descent into prostitution. Then we turn the story around, describe what a difference the charity could make, how it might change the course of her destiny. I study Flynn as it plays out, but his reaction is so much harder to gauge than it was when he had Charlotte delivering her message up close and personal. Maybe he’s creeped out by Chris’s insistence that we put “Every Breath You Take” over the top of it, which is nothing more than an ode to stalking. The film finishes, and I stand up, looking between him and Mary.
“These women deserve to live a life that’s more than a foregone conclusion,” I say, a surge of energy running through me. I do care about this. It’s not just about winning some stupid competition. “We should all be allowed the chance to choose our life, not have it foisted upon us. Thank you,” I add, hurriedly sitting down, hoping I haven’t sounded too raggedly emotional; Charlotte’s version of caring was so expertly designed.
“That was great,” says Flynn, much more businesslike than he was with Charlotte. “Wow-ee, this feels like one of the hardest decisions of my life.” What, harder than leaving the mother of your two children for your makeup artist? I think meanly, then try and erase all the editions of
Heat
I’ve read in the dentist’s waiting room from my mind. “Shall we take five?” he says, running his hand through his tousled hair.
“Sounds like a great idea,” says Mary brightly. Soon a big box of pastries has appeared, as well as trays of coffee drinks from across the street.
“I shouldn’t,” says Flynn, laughing, as he reaches for a brownie. “My trainer will have me up on charges.”
“Hard to resist though, isn’t it?” says Mary, reaching for one too, flirtatious in a way that doesn’t cost her any status. She doesn’t mean any of it, least of all the brownie—she subsists entirely on carrot sticks and hummus—but she knows exactly how to make him feel at home. I don’t know if it’s because he sees me spying on them, but before I know it, Flynn is loping toward me, that lazily sexy smile playing around his perfect mouth.
“Thank you so much,” he says, holding my gaze. Don’t blush, don’t blush, I implore myself, but the crimson tide rolls across my hot cheeks unbidden.
“No, thank you,” I say, terrified I’m going to be afflicted with some kind of terrible celebrity Tourette’s and end up asking him if he really did shag that married A-list actress in a jacuzzi.
“I’m just so impressed,” he continues, too polite to mention that I look like a traffic light. “To pull together something like that at such short notice, fuse all those facts into something coherent . . . I just couldn’t do it.” He shrugs in mock defeat.
“Of course you could!”
“No-oo, I’m telling you, I couldn’t. There’s a few things I’m pretty good at”—I try not to think about the jacuzzi—“but plenty more I’m a to-tal dunce at.” He looks into my
eyes as he says it, almost imploring me to believe him, his Irish brogue drizzled over his words like molten honey. Luckily Mary sails over, brownie subtly discarded by a cheese plant, before I can make even more of a fool of myself.
“The moment of truth,” he says. “You’ll have to excuse me. Shall we have a huddle?” he asks Mary.
“You read my mind,” she says, playfully turning on her heel and leading him toward her office. As soon as they’ve gone the whole room erupts into a totally uncool frenzy of celebrity jungle fever. Only Charlotte keeps her cool, small white hands clenched around her coffee cup tight enough to cave it in, an expression of grim determination on her face. I look at the glittering jewel on her finger, find myself wondering what it means to her: much as I loathe her I also find her oddly fascinating. She’s like some exotic animal nearing extinction; fascinating to observe, but only if you can maintain a safe distance. Does that ring give her a sense of confidence, a feeling that someone is holding her dear, wherever she is or whatever it is she’s doing? I hope that’s what it would do for me, but maybe that’s the kind of rosy fantasy you can only weave out of romantic thin air. It’s hard to imagine her in her downtime, slobbing around in front of
Come Dine With Me
in a pair of sweats, arguing over the remote control: it feels like work is her own unique version of oxygen, vital to her very survival. What does her kind of vulnerability look like?
It’s ten minutes or so before Mary and Flynn reappear, conspiratorial and giggly. My stomach balls up like a frightened hedgehog, and I cast an anxious look around my team. I led them over the cliff, took a risk on something we didn’t have time to hone and polish. I wanted to believe
that substance could triumph over style, but I fear it was wishful thinking.
“Gather, people,” says Mary. “These are exciting times.”
“Certainly are,” agrees Flynn.
“Head girls, come to the top of the table,” says Mary. “It goes without saying that both presentations were exemplary.” I look at her, desperate to believe she really means it, that it’s more than spin. She reads it off me, smiles. “They really were,” she says, and my insides liquefy with gratitude—I wish her approval didn’t mean as much as this. “There was an immediacy and slickness about Charlotte’s presentation that was hugely impressive.”
James is coming to meet me at home in time to celebrate or commiserate, but we both knew what was more likely. I’m so lost in my own sense of doom that I actually miss the moment of truth.
“. . . so despite the more DIY aspects to the presentation—”
“—though let’s face it, crafts are so in right now,” interjects Flynn.
“—we ultimately felt that Livvy’s presentation had the edge.”
“We won?” I croak.
“You did,” says Mary, beaming, and I dance a little internal jig at her visible pride in me.
“Oh my God,” I shriek, grinning like a loon at my jubilant team. “Thanks so much.” Flynn’s smiles are shot through with a sobriety, reminding me a little too late that too much crowing is inappropriate. I risk a look at Charlotte, expecting her to shoot me daggers, but she’s far too clever.
“Well done, Livvy,” she says, rosebud mouth perfectly held. “Very imprethive.” She looks to Flynn. “The important thing is the charity,” she says, smiling prettily. “And if
there’s anything more I can do to help, please know that you’ve got me on speed dial.”
I grab my team and hug them, stupidly close to tears.
“Thank you so much,” I tell them.
Chris smiles distractedly, unable to drag his eyes away from the Oscar nominee in our midst. He’s going to be dining out on this for months.
“No, thank you,” says Rosie, beaming. “You were amazing up there.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, have to say you knocked it out the park,” agrees Chris.
“You were different somehow,” says Rosie, her head cocked, considering me. “You, but with added value.”
After a bit more backslapping everyone starts to disperse. I’m late for James, I realize, but as I’m working out how best to say goodbye to Flynn, Mary grabs me.
“Flynn wants the three of us to go and raise a glass. I assume you can do it?”
How can I not be? Besides, I’m far too uncool not to secretly thrill at the prospect of a drink with a bona fide movie star.
“Course,” I say, still flooded with warmth and gratitude. “I just need to make one call.”
“Be quick,” says Mary sharply. “He’s not a man who’s used to being kept waiting.”
I take my phone out to the corridor, hoping James won’t mind me dragging him across town for nothing. I’m about to dial when I see a missed call: William. My heart jumps—what could he possibly be ringing to say? His message is
brief, to the point, his tone even as he asks me to call him whenever is convenient. I can’t help myself, I know that I’ll worry about it until I know why it is that he’s rung. I try him once, and get a busy signal. I should just let it go, but instead I go to the toilet to give myself a few more minutes, then try again.