Can We Still Be Friends (27 page)

‘Yeah, yeah. I know everyone’s talking about the Big Bang. Boring subject of the year. But don’t you think it’s depressing the way we’re all having to move miles out east, where there’s literally nothing but a few blocks that look like they’ve been made out of kids’ toys, and a couple of crappy wine bars?’

As she spoke, Sal filleted the vine leaves from the table decoration, leaving them as satisfactory skeletons, the dark green falling in dusty crumbs as it joined with her cigarette ash in small piles.

‘I mean, I know you and Charlie are property types and I suppose you make stacks of cash, but it’s so sterile what’s happening. Fleet Street’s going to be a morgue soon, now we’re all moving out east.’

Mark wasn’t paying too much attention to what Sal was saying, since he was concentrating on the white triangle of her knickers where her skirt had ridden up. He had taken quite a shine to Annie’s lively friend with her skinny bare limbs. He looked across the marquee to where Sophie sat talking to Charlie’s mum, who, after that move to the South of France, was definitely turning into a bit of an old slapper. Sophie could only be a few years older than Sal but she looked like a member of another generation in her navy suit, the shimmer of large pearl studs appearing through her dark sheet of hair. He imagined what it would feel like to run his hand up the leg in front of him, moving his fingers under the elastic of Sal’s pants.

Sal shifted, depriving him of the view he was so enjoying, and leant towards him to pour them both another glass of wine. It was a shame that, any moment now, Sophie would be over here, suggesting they should be on their way.

‘I know what you mean about the East End. But give it time,’ he responded to Sal’s rant. ‘Mind you, it’s not only the East End that’s getting done up. Charlie’s got his eye on a development in north London. Grim part of town with nothing to recommend it, if you ask me, but he’s convinced it’s got potential.’

‘Yeah, I know it – Kendra and Gioia’s place is up there. They hate the way it’s all becoming estate agents and stuff. They work in an old church that Gioia’s had for ages.’

‘Sounds right up my Charlie’s
strasse.
’ Mark turned to look behind him, where Sophie had appeared. ‘Hello, darling. Have you been having a good chat with Suze? She looks like she’s had one too many rosés, but when I was little and would stay with them for weekends, I used to think she was like an angel when she said goodnight to us. All blonde hair and floaty dresses. Have you met Sal? She’s Annie’s flatmate – or
was
, before the arrival of our Charlie on the scene.’

‘Mark, we ought to be thinking about going. We need to get back before seven to relieve Mrs B.’ Sophie looked down at Sal, whose legs were once again spread out in front of her. ‘It’s so hard to get nannies to do weekends now. Charlie’s desperate for kids, you know, but heavens, they change your life.’ Was Annie going to turn into somebody like her? thought Sal. What a depressing possibility.

The train seemed to be stopping at a station every five minutes as it crawled back into London. Sal could see her reflection in the window as the countryside passed, the day fading to dusk. An empty vodka miniature kept rolling around until Kendra picked it up.

‘I can’t believe you wanted another drink. We’ve been at it all day.’

‘Maybe that’s why,’ answered Sal. ‘Who knows? Anyway, I’ve just thought of something. Mark, that best man with the dolly wife, he told me Charlie’s involved in some development around your area. He might know about the people who are trying to get Gioia out.’

‘Shit. It couldn’t be him, could it? Who’s doing it? Wouldn’t Annie have said?’

‘Would she know? But it’s probably not. There are millions of property blokes out there now.’ Sal drained the last from her plastic cup.

‘Maybe not. But you’re right. He might be able to tell me something to help.’

‘Not much we can do now, as they’re on their way to Portofino.
But when they get back I’ll ask her. It’ll be easier for me. Think of it this way. If it is Charlie, he might not know it’s such a problem for you.’

Kendra looked doubtful and turned to glance at Gioia, asleep beside her.

‘She’s exhausted. I think the worry is getting to her. Anyway, what about you? What’s going on with you?’

‘Me?’ Sal was surprised. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Have you got somewhere to live?’

‘Not yet, but I will. I’m dossing with some guys from the office right now. Don’t worry, Kendra.’

There it was again
. Non preoccupare.

‘And your mum? How’s she?’

‘Oh, that’s sorted out. She’s better.’ Sal stood up. ‘See you in a minute.’

Kendra watched her walk down the corridor to the smoking carriage next door, a cigarette between her lips before she even got there. How come they were meant to be friends and yet Sal wouldn’t talk about her mother? Should she push her on it? What was her problem?

Sal did not see a problem because, if there ever was a problem, it was Sal’s practised position to ignore it. Most of the time, this was an effective ploy and, in the matter of her friends, her optimistic, tunnel-visioned approach was a useful antidote to Kendra’s fretting and Annie’s compliance. When Joy became ill, it was the first time that this position had not worked. Even Sal’s ability to avoid issues she found difficult was challenged.

The drama of her mother’s hospitalization had been followed almost immediately by the identification of an internal mass that, after a few tense weeks, was identified as a fibroid rather than the more sinister tumour nobody had wanted to mention. But the resulting operation had left a significant amount of damage and had meant that Joy, for the first time in Sal’s life, needed her support. It was not a situation that she felt comfortable with. She was used to
her parents providing a distant, stable background to her ambitions. They demanded nothing from her and she little from them, even if from time to time she wished her father might be more admiring. Finding herself required to visit home regularly to help with the recuperative process – ‘Six weeks putting your feet up,’ the doctors had declared the minimum – Sal was thrown by this unusual demand on her time, if not on her emotion. The only good bit was that she found herself becoming closer to Pete, his room, which smelt of dope and sandalwood, a sanctuary from home. Even in the brightness of midsummer, her parents’ Cheltenham house was permanently dim. Sal didn’t understand why her parents couldn’t just buy a few of the uplighters everybody had begun to use instead of clogging up the place with small lamps which each had to be switched on and off individually.

After a month, Joy began to rally and Sal was pleased to find her, one Sunday, cooking up her notorious paella, a concoction of rice, peas, red peppers and frozen prawns inspired by a visit to Barcelona in the seventies. Even though this dry and tasteless ensemble bore little resemblance to that dish, just the fact of Joy pouring in the water mixed with stock cube indicated that she was on the mend. It was a relief in every way. Being in Cheltenham reminded Sal how essential it was for her to have got away from the place. Whatever happened, she wasn’t going back. London and her career were what she wanted, what made her feel like the person she was. As soon as she was at home it was as if she had been expected to drink some potion and turn into a different person that would fit in. She had always felt that way about it, but never so much as now, when she knew what it was like to have escaped.

Lee had never seen a walk-in wardrobe before. He could do with one himself but, since he was still a part-time resident of Jojo’s squat up near Euston, it remained a very remote possibility. Still, he might not have the space but he’d got the clothes. He was archiving them. It was what designers did, although his, rather than hanging in a storage room, were housed in cardboard boxes divided into months and years. The boxes travelled with him, sometimes built into a wall around the mattress he also transported from place to place. They’d be worth something some day. Particularly if they’d been shot for the cover of
The Face
or had been featured in
Men in Vogue
.

The room was lined with teak cupboards along two sides, and a shoe rack at the end where Charlie’s polished shoes were displayed was reflected back by the floor-to-ceiling mirror opposite. It created the effect of shoes travelling like a time machine into infinity. The wardrobe was a tangible illustration of Charlie’s delight in order, as well as a display of his success. After all, not many people could afford to have six Paul Smith suits, let alone shelves of laundered shirts, each folded into an individual packet. Lee picked up a pair of black and white Ralph Lauren co-respondents.

‘Wild. Does he wear these often?’

‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in them. He’s got a bit of a thing for shoes. He collects them. Come. Look at my space.’ Annie had slid open doors to display clothes grouped in blocks of colour: blacks merging into grey and then white, florals gathered at one end next to a large section of quiet creams and browns and toffees. Lee didn’t remember Annie going for those shades before she’d taken up with Charlie.

‘He says they work well with my colouring. I know what he means. All those bright colours that suit Sal just make me look
tragic.’ Annie was wearing a pair of jeans belted at her waist and a shirt of palest pink tucked into them. She had a pair of brown leather Johnny Moke loafers on her feet, identical to the navy, green and rust pairs Lee could now see in the wardrobe. ‘And look,’ she continued, ‘look at these drawers. Aren’t they incredible?’ They moved with a plush mobility indicating true craftsmanship. There was none of the sticking she was used to from years of old chests of drawers.

It was Lee’s first visit to Charlie and Annie’s flat. To be honest, it was a bit of a relief that Charlie wasn’t around. Lee didn’t much take to him, but Annie was happy and that’s what counted, he supposed. Now he’d seen that walk-in wardrobe it all made a bit more sense. Annie had left the room and was kneeling beside a dark, low cabinet in the sitting room.

‘What do you want? There’s champagne … wine … but I could make you a Bloody Mary or a Screwdriver – anything, really.’ She listed the contents of the cocktail kit housed there with pride: ‘Shakers, strainers, shot glasses …’ Lee was looking at the huge Keith Haring print hung on the wall above. He was crazy about Haring.

‘Is that real, that Haring? A glass of champagne, please, if you’re offering.’

‘It’s a print, one of an edition Charlie picked up recently. He’s pretty good on modern art.’ They walked down the long dark corridor of the flat that led to the kitchen.

‘It’s a bit Major Tom in here, isn’t it?’ Lee looked around at the steel counters, the spike of the Alessi lemon squeezer the only object to disturb their surface. ‘This oven’s got so many dials it could fly you to the moon.’

‘Yeah, I know. I still haven’t figured out what most of them do … Here you go.’ She offered Lee the flute of champagne, serving herself only an inch of liquid.

‘Cheers. Are you off the booze?’

Annie fiddled with her hair, ‘Cheers. Actually, I’ve got something to tell you. It’s a secret, but I can’t bear to keep it much longer. I’m pregnant.’ The information was produced hesitantly, as if this fact
was open to interpretation. ‘It’s weird saying it like that. I haven’t got used to hearing it.’

‘Wow. When? You just got married!’ Annie thought that Lee sounded a little squeaky.

‘Yes. I know. I’ve just been lucky. And Charlie’s so excited – it’s really sweet.’ The idea of Charlie being sweet was too great a leap of imagination for Lee.

‘What are you going to do about work? Have you told Tania?’

‘Of course not. I told you, it’s still a secret.’ Annie took a sip of champagne as a gesture of celebration, but she didn’t want it. She had been feeling sick most of the time and terrible in the mornings for the past few weeks. It had been a nightmare travelling to work on the Tube with everyone crowded around her. She kept reminding herself that the baby was only the size of a bean and they couldn’t crush it.

In the last month, she’d been handed some new accounts by Tania, and one was based in Paris, which would involve flying out several times a year. She wanted to be enthusiastic, knowing that the task was a measure of her success in the office, but it was hard when you felt the way she did at the moment. Tania had also given her the account of a new bar in the City, but how could she get worked up over their wine list when she thought she might throw up at any point?

Charlie had told her that she must get a good man to look after her; why didn’t she ask Sophie who she used? Her local doctor had confirmed the pregnancy and suggested the nearest hospital for the birth, but it was true that, once she’d had an appointment with Mr Churston at the Portland, who had assured her that everything was ‘tickety boo’, she felt hugely reassured. Still, that didn’t help with the journey to work in the mornings.

The only other person she’d told was Letty.

‘Darling! I couldn’t be more excited,’ she had shrieked down the phone. ‘My first grandchild. Now, when we next get together I must tell you about the kind of thing I experienced, because I gather pregnancies have a lot to do with genetics. I’m sorry to say I was sick
as a dog with you but absolutely fine with Beth. You know, in my day, they were prescribing Thalidomide for morning sickness and, when I think what happened to those poor mites … but I never took it. Anyway, they say ginger is the thing now.’ Annie could picture her mother doodling on the message pad by the phone as she rambled on. ‘So, darling, what’s the plan about work? I hope you’re not thinking of staying on for too long.’

‘I haven’t thought about it yet. It’s still so early. You know, people do have babies and work nowadays, Mum. In fact, they’ve been doing it for years.’

‘Don’t be ratty, Annie. I just want the best for you, and I worry about all you girls with your big jobs and tiny babies. I’m sure Charlie has a view.’

Charlie indeed had made it clear that he was taking a similar line to her mother, and the subject of maternity leave had become a no-go area of discussion. Annie thought that, once she started feeling better, it would be easier to work everything out. She changed the subject. ‘Have you still got all the baby stuff – mine and Beth’s? You must have the christening gown? I want to come down and have a rummage.’ The thought of the boxes of their childhood clothes all wrapped in layers of tissue in the attic provided a far more enjoyable topic for the rest of their conversation.