Lying Together (2 page)

‘Really?' Clive blows on his tea. ‘I wouldn't have thought he was the type to care either way.'

‘And that's where you're wrong as well. He's obsessed with passing on his genius genes. He's been on about a baby ever since she moved in. And now it hasn't happened, he wants her to go for tests.' I sip my tea: Clive's usual gnat's pee. The steam makes my eyes water. ‘I told her not to get involved with him right from the start.'

‘He's sure it's not
his
fault, then? Firing blanks?'

‘Apparently not.' I gulp the tea, burn my throat a bit.

Clive waits, finds an opened packet of biscuits and rustles around in the Cellophane tube. I know something's coming. ‘Didn't
you
have a thing with him once?'

‘Good grief, Charlie Brown, whoever told you that?' I laugh.

‘Your esteemed other half, no less. That party when he got so drunk, remember? And the fella in question actually turned up with Evie in tow and stood in the corner glowering at us all? To be honest, I couldn't see what all the fuss was about. I said so to Richie at the time – mind you, Richie was goggling a bit himself, saying there
was
something about him, a
je ne sais quoi
, if in a slightly Stalinist vein – but I simply couldn't see it myself. So you and Evie both!' Clive crushes the empty biscuit wrapper between his hands and aims it at the bin, missing by a mile. ‘He must be good in the sack, then.'

‘Nothing about Radnor is good. Steve's just imagining things.' I'm surprised Steve's even mentioned Radnor. Blood rushes to my head, and to hide it I bend to put my empty mug on the floor. I can see Clive's shoes – shiny old suede, showing the shape of his toes. And his once-natty trousering frayed along the hem.

‘Well, it's all very bizarre.' He gets up, cascading crumbs onto the floor. ‘I can't see why Evie doesn't take a leaf out of
your
book, Anne. Find some nice ordinary guy who'll appreciate her for what she is. Ability to breed isn't everything, is it?'

‘No, it isn't. So shut up about it.' I can hear the sharpness in my voice as I swing back to my screen, bring up the order numbers and scroll down.

Clive, bless him, looks perplexed, addresses the silent multitude: ‘
Now
what have I said?'

I tell him it's nothing. I tell him I'm just fed up with being stuck in the office all day. ‘And I don't feel too good this morning, either.'

Clive backs off. He's anxious to placate me, suggests I have some time off. ‘You take as much as you need, duckie. Whatever will help.' He'll take it all back as soon as the phone's going and he can't access the spreadsheets.

‘I'll see,' I say.

I decide I'll have to speak to her. I've avoided her the last few days, but it has to be faced. I send her a quick email, and she rings me back almost straightaway. I don't know how she keeps her job in that marketing firm; she's always got plenty of time to socialize. We settle on lunch in Harborne. Two-course menu £9.99. Waiters reasonably speedy and pasta reasonably reliable. I tell her, ‘Maximum one hour. I've got work to do, even if you haven't.'

She's already waiting when I get there. You can tell these days that she's a bottle blonde, and her skin's a bit pimply. But her skirt's short and tight and her tits are on display, and the waiters mill around her, as usual. She gets up, dropping her napkin and knocking her shoulder bag off the arm of her chair, and gives me a big hug. ‘Annie baby! I've missed you so much!'

‘God, Evie, it was only last week. Don't be so melodramatic.' But I can't help smiling. I kiss her back. She smells of wine and crumbs. ‘How's things?'

She grimaces. ‘Let's order – I'm starved. I've got a bottle already.' She waves the Valpolicella at me. I notice she's drunk nearly half of it already. She slops some in my glass: ‘Cheers.'

‘Cheers.'

‘And bugger all men.'

‘For “men” read Radnor, I presume?'

‘They're all the same. With the exception of your Steve, of course; he's a doll. And Tom, too. Why couldn't I have chosen someone like that? Or be happy on my own like Marsha? I'm a fool, aren't I?'

I could tell her that she is. I could tell her that she would be well rid of Radnor, that he is trouble incarnate. But I know that wouldn't help – for all her generalized moaning, she won't hear real criticism of him. She says Radnor's the only man who's ever taken her seriously. From the time they started to go out, Radnor was effectively God. I remember her phoning me after their first date, saying he'd given her
the most wonderful evening ever
and why hadn't I told her before that he was so
romantic
? ‘Because he's not,' I'd said. ‘Don't be fooled by the way he looks at you. He's disastrous around women. Take it from me.' But she wasn't listening – or if she was she thought I was joking. After a few intense weeks, the die was cast. ‘I can't believe it,' she'd said, curled up on my sofa, her baby-blue eyes sparkling. ‘He thinks I'm perfect. It's a bit frightening, to be honest, Annie. So you must never, ever,
say anything
.'

* * *

Now she's starting to cry and I offer her my hanky. The waiters busy themselves with laying knives and forks on adjoining tables, waiting for a suitable opening.

‘I wasn't going to do this.' She balls my hanky into a greyish mass. ‘I feel I'll run dry, soon. And I get really bad headaches. What I want is to just to
see
you. Have a laugh. Feel normal.'

‘Whatever normal is.'

‘Yes. Well, more like you. Come on, Annie, drink up.' She beckons a waiter, consults the giant menu. ‘I'm going to have the carbonara.'

‘I'll have the con funghi. And a salad.' I'm feeling less nauseous, now. There's nothing like making decisions.

‘That's two salads, then.' Evie smiles up at the waiter, an intimate, flirting smile. She can't help it.

‘Yes, Signora, Signora.' He bows to us both, goes off humming.

She has that instant appeal, Evie. Even when I first saw her and she was looking a good deal worse than she does now. She was dressed in one of those strange hospital gowns, socks and slippers. She was sitting on the next bed to me.

‘Hi,' she'd said, leaning towards me. ‘Thought you'd wake up soon. Feeling okay?'

‘Not sure.' I tried to move, and felt the thick pad between my legs. A flicker of regret came and went.

‘They'll have you up in a minute if they see you're awake. I'd close my eyes if I were you.'

I did as she said. It was easier not to think. I dropped off to the murmur of distant voices, the clatter of crockery in the corridor outside. When I came to again, she was still sitting on her bed, but dressed this time. In white. With her baby blond hair freshly brushed, she looked like an angel.

‘You look like an angel.'

‘Oh my God, she's hallucinating!' She had a deep, throaty giggle.

I laughed, but whispered, ‘You
do
, though.'

‘Fallen angel, more like. I'm Evie, by the way.'

‘And I'm Anne. With an e.' I don't know why I said that. But we both laughed.

‘Really? And how are you feeling, Anne with-an-e?'

‘I don't know. Yes I do. Awful.' I moved a little, felt the blood oozing out of me. I winced.

‘You'll get over it. In a couple of weeks you'll have forgotten all about it. Take it from me – veteran of three campaigns.' She smiled.

I stared at her. In her white dress, with her flaxen hair and peachy skin she seemed immaculate.

A nurse came, took my temperature and went. ‘She disapproves of me,' said Evie as she left the room.

‘Why d'you think that?'

She laughed. Then launched into all the reasons why women tended to hate her. Her good looks, her easy attitude – and above all her success with men. Not that it was all success; more a series of flash affairs with dubious endings. Dubious men, too – older, invariably married, and always on the make. But she made it sound hilarious.

‘I know it's not very
feminist
of me, Annie, but if every stupid man in the world wants to queue up and spend his stupid money on me, who am I to stop them? I mean, would you turn down a flight to New York on Concorde – or a fortnight in the Maldives?' She picked idly at some grapes. ‘I take it because it's on offer. Because I like to have a good time. And up till now that's been okay. I've had a lot of fun. But honestly, it's getting now that
everyone
I fancy seems to be married or “in a relationship” already. And if they're not, they're lying about it, like bloody sorry-but-I'll-be-in-London Roger. It's a bummer, isn't it?'

I nodded, as if I'd had the same trouble. But men had never queued up to spend money on me, let alone take me to New York or the Maldives. I'd had a few boyfriends at the Lycée in Strasbourg, the regulation squeezes and fumbles in the back of a battered old Citroën. But no secret liaisons, no illicit weekends, no jumbo-sized bouquets in gilt baskets, no gifts of designer clothes. Nothing serious at all. Until Radnor, that is. But he was the one thing I wasn't going to mention – not that I was saying much, anyhow. But I nodded, enthusiastically: ‘Yes, it's a bummer.'

‘Still, after next week I'll have one less thing to worry about.'

I looked at her. ‘What d'you mean?'

‘It's up to me, but Mr Lambourne says I don't really have a choice.'

‘Mr Lambourne?'

‘You know, our
consultant
? The one who's so gorgeous he just
must
be married? Don't tell me you haven't noticed his big brown eyes? Oh Annie, you're in another world! Well, anyway, he came along yesterday in that beautiful tweed suit of his and sat on this very bed, and said he was so sorry but “the uterus was just not holding up”. Made it sound like knicker elastic. I wanted to laugh, except he would have thought me a hard-faced bitch. He was more upset than
I
was, I think. Apparently it's a total disaster area in there. Fibroids and adhesions and God knows what. Trust me not to do things by halves. They've offered me counselling, but I can't see the point.' She fingered the bedspread, quiet for a moment. ‘Do you think it serves me right for sleeping around?'

‘Of course not.' I didn't believe in that kind of retribution. But I felt a bit panicky for myself all the same.

‘But you think, don't you? Like it's Fate. I mean, I've never really wanted kids, but now, well …' She blew her nose, then smiled briskly. ‘Look, I have to go in a minute. Roger was supposed to collect me an hour ago but he says he's got a meeting, and to get a taxi and he'll pay for it. Honestly, as if
transport
's the only thing I'm worrying about! Three days I've been in here bleeding like a stuck pig, and he can't get away for a frigging half-hour. The bastard!'

‘Yes, the bastard.' I hadn't had any visitors either. Admittedly, I was only in for the day and no one knew where I was, but it gave me satisfaction to say the words.

‘Yes. They're all bastards!' She passed an elaborate fruit basket done up in a ridiculous amount of artificial yellow ribbon. ‘Have a plum! Roger's guilt offering.' She pushed one into my mouth. ‘Go on! Sink your teeth into it! Hard.' We laughed again.

When she finally went off to her taxi, I felt bereft. I realized suddenly that my head was aching, and I had cramps in my belly. I hadn't noticed the pain when Evie was there. I looked at her empty mattress with its plastic cover, and watched my tears trickle down over Roger's best quality purple plums.

A few hours later I was home. Back to the house I shared with two glum geography students who were away on a field trip. There was no food in the kitchen except half a box of cereal and two sprouting carrots, but I wasn't hungry anyway. I locked the door, unplugged the phone and went to bed. I just wanted the day to be over as soon as possible; I wanted to erase it from my consciousness. But I couldn't sleep, and when I did, I dreamed of babies – lines of them lying dead and blue in their cots because I'd forgotten to feed them. A woman in an apron and starched cap kept saying,
You're a fine mother, aren't you? You don't deserve such lovely children.
I woke up feeling sick, convinced I'd done the wrong thing. I wanted someone to reassure me. And there was only one person I could speak to.

As soon as I decently could, I rang her. I was a bit afraid it might have been one of those hospital friendships – like holiday friendships – that don't make it into real life. But she sounded genuinely pleased to hear from me. ‘I'll come round to your place if that's all right. I'm sick of sitting around taking it easy. I've read every magazine in the place and if I have any more lifestyle guidance, I'll go nuts. I'll get a taxi – put it on Roger's account. And I'll tell you
all
about the bastard. You won't believe it!' So next thing we were sitting in front of my gas fire on Tiverton Road, eating our way through a box of éclairs she'd picked up at Druckers on the way. The white cardboard box was open between us, and we were cramming like schoolgirls. She was telling me about how Roger had finally rung up the night before. ‘From his carphone! Somewhere in Edgbaston! Couldn't even be bothered to come and
see
me. Is that cherishing or what?' She'd told him it was all over between them and he'd not believed her, could
just not see why
she was so upset, kept telling her he'd sorted ‘this whole thing' out for her and what more did she want? ‘And I told him that if having half your insides removed was sorting anything he could just piss off. And he said “Now you're just being unfair.” So I said, “
Unfair
! Well, pardon me! I'm sure you'll be better off with someone who appreciates you more. So sod off and don't ring me again – or I might tell your
wife
!” And I could tell down the phone that he went pale.' She made a comical face and we both fell about laughing.