The Four of Us (28 page)

Wryly she was aware that it sounded as if she had a host of married friends, when in fact there were only another five office staff at Perrett & May Import and Export and, though she was on friendly terms with all of them, she wasn't friends with any of them. Not in the way she had been friends with Geraldine, Artemis and Kiki.

She folded the pillowcase she had been ironing and put it to one side, wondering if such intense, urgent, passionate friendships were only ever forged in youth. Certainly, she couldn't imagine making such close friendships again. They had been friendships she had believed would last a lifetime and that, for reasons she knew in some cases and was mystified by in others, were now nothing but ghosts of what they had once been.

Geraldine, for instance. As she began ironing her father's pyjamas and as the sound of David Bowie's ‘Space Oddity'came mutedly from the kitchen, she pondered on the mystery of why Geraldine had, ever since moving to Paris, remained so firmly out of contact. There was always a birthday card and a Christmas card from her, though never with a return address so that she could respond in kind. Why, when they had never had a cross word over anything, had Geraldine cut herself off from her with almost the same finality with which she had cut herself off from Kiki?

It just didn't make any sense to her – and Artemis had not been able to throw light on it, either.

‘A couple of cards are all I get from her, as well,' she'd said the last time they had mulled the hurtful mystery over. ‘Perhaps she just doesn't want any reminders of her old life – the life that included Francis. He and Kiki are living in America now, according to an article in a magazine I read at the hairdressers. Apparently, she's huge over there. Almost as big as Gloria Gaynor.'

Kiki was also big in Britain. As
The Jimmy Young Show
continued to be audible from the kitchen, Primmie knew it was only a matter of time before a Kiki Lane record was played. Even her early records, ‘White Dress, Silver Slippers'and ‘Twilight Love', continued to get plenty of airtime. Kiki had written both songs with Geraldine and, whenever Primmie heard them, she wondered how Geraldine felt about receiving her share of royalties from their collaboration.

For all she knew, of course, Geraldine's bitterness towards Kiki could well be a thing of the past. Ten months ago, in a newspaper gossip column, she had seen a photograph of Geraldine. Wearing a halter-necked evening gown, she'd looked stunningly elegant and had been on the arm of a French cabinet minister. A week ago there'd been another photograph, this time in a different newspaper and with a different escort. The occasion had been a reception at the French Embassy, in London, and her escort had been André Barre, a major European industrialist.

The photographs had left Primmie in no doubt that Geraldine was leading the kind of high society life that came so naturally to her and, with all her heart, she hoped that Geraldine was happy again.

Although Geraldine hadn't kept in touch – apart from the occasional card – Kiki had, or at least she had for a short while.

‘Hi,' she would say over the telephone, uncaring of the time difference between Britain and America and waking her in the middle of the night. ‘How ya doin', Primmie? How's tricks?'

There was usually a cacophony of noise in the background. Laughter and music and glasses clinking. Valiantly Primmie would try and rouse herself into full consciousness in order to hold a sensible conversation with her. Even when she succeeded, it was generally to no very good purpose, for Kiki was always high on drink or, Primmie often suspected, drugs, and meaningful conversations were impossible.

Still, the phone calls had always been very welcome. They had been a link, however inadequate and tenuous, with a part of her life that was now firmly in the past.

‘Will that young chap be needin' another mug of rosie?' her father asked, breaking in on her thoughts. ‘Yer mustn't neglect him, Primmie. Workmen need reg'lar mugs of tea. It's what keeps'em going.'

‘I've just made him one, but I'll make him another, if it will keep you happy. And he's not a young man, Dad. He was a teenager in the fifties and he's a widower.'

‘Is he indeed?' For some reason she couldn't fathom, her father seemed to find this information interesting. ‘So the two of you'ave got chattin', 'ave yer? That's nice. And bring me a mug of tea as well, Primmie, will yer? This snooker's thirsty work.'

Going back into the kitchen, this time to the sound of Abba's ‘Take A Chance On Me', had been a relief, because the way her thoughts had been going Artemis would have been the next person to dominate them.

‘My Dad thinks you might be ready for another mug of tea,' she said, filling the kettle again, wondering if the day would ever dawn when she and Artemis would be able to be friends again without there being the most unbearable tensions between them.

‘Blimey!' Ted Dove didn't pause in what he was doing. ‘The last lot isn't cold yet, Miss Surtees.'

‘Primmie,' Primmie said, her thoughts still on Artemis. ‘Please call me Primmie.'

The difficulties between Artemis and herself had kicked in from the day Artemis had left Greenwich Hospital with Destiny in her arms. The pain of parting with Destiny had been indescribable, her only comfort her certainty that the parting was in Destiny's best interests.

The first harsh reality she had had to come to terms with was that on-going contact with Destiny just wasn't possible. The emotional trauma of playing auntie to her own child was simply too much. It was easier to follow Destiny's progress via regular lunch meetings with Artemis in London and by their frequent telephone calls to each other and the photographs Artemis constantly sent her.

For nearly a year, it was an arrangement that, oiled by the fact they both loved Destiny fiercely, treasured every minute of talking about her and trusted each other completely, had been as successful as any arrangement could be, under the circumstances.

Then had come the thunderbolt that had turned her world upside down. Rupert made it known that he found the arrangement emotionally unhealthy and that he wanted it to end.

‘And that is what all the adoption societies advise as well, Primmie,' Artemis had said to her, ashen faced. ‘They say it's much better for the birth mother to make an absolutely clean break with the child she's given up for adoption – and in most cases, of course, that's what happens automatically.'

‘But I don't visit Destiny! I don't have her here to stay with me, or take her out for the day! I don't have the contact with her that even an aunt or a godmother would have! All I have are photographs – and lunches and phone calls with you, when you tell me how she's progressing and what she's been doing, when I can at least talk about her!'

The conversation had taken place at their usual meeting place for lunch, a Greek restaurant in St Martin's Lane.

‘I know, Primmie, I know.' Artemis, wearing a Jean Muir pink wool crêpe dress, its matching swing-coat disguising a figure that was way overweight again, began silently weeping. ‘It's just so
hard
, Primmie,' she said, the tears streaming down her beautifully made-up face. ‘Rupert can be quite … quite
fierce
about things he feels passionately about, and he feels passionately about this. He doesn't want me to continue giving you a blow-by-blow report of Destiny's progress, especially as the little darling is a little late in doing some things. It's nothing to worry about, of course, because some babies are walking at a year old and others stay very firmly on their bottoms for ages longer than that – but Rupert thinks there's a situation where, as she gets older, you might begin questioning some of the decisions we make about her … that you might … might …' The expression in her china-blue eyes was agonized. ‘That you might begin to
interfere
.'

Primmie had been so aghast, so devastated, that she'd thought she'd been going to faint. ‘You mean that you're not going to meet me for lunch any more, so that we can talk about her?' she'd said, disbelievingly. ‘That we're not to phone each other to talk about her? That we're not to be
friends
any more?'

‘Of course we'll still be friends, Primmie!' Artemis was openly crying now, her mascara beginning to streak. ‘How could we not be friends? And I'll still send you photographs and phone you to talk about Destiny, it's just that I won't be able to do so as often as I do now … and we won't be able to meet for lunch any more. It would cause far, far too many problems for me with Rupert. Don't dislike him for feeling as he does, Primmie. All he wants is the best for Destiny and to feel that … to feel that she's really
ours
and that we're not sharing her.'

With legs that had felt as if they were going to give way any moment, Primmie had risen to her feet and stumbled out into the street. She, too, had been wearing pink. A dusky pink silk polo neck and raspberry-coloured tweed skirt that she'd bought in the winter sale at Marks & Spencer's.

It was an outfit she never wore again; an outfit she couldn't look at without remembering Artemis's hideously searing words.

‘Excuse me, Primmie.' Ted Dove sounded a little amused as well as a tad concerned. ‘But though I said I didn't want another mug of tea yet, you've put the kettle on and if you don't switch if off pretty soon, the steam will be so thick I won't be able to see what I'm doing.'

With a start, Primmie came back to the present moment, saw that the kettle was on the point of boiling dry and switched it off. ‘I'm sorry,' she said. ‘I was miles away.'

‘Somewhere nice?'

She shook her head. ‘No, not very. Could you change your mind about not having another mug of tea? I'm making one for my dad, so it's just as easy to make two.'

‘Well, if you're bending my arm,' he said, shooting her an extraordinarily sweet smile. ‘But better make this the last one, eh? Any more, and I won't get finished by this evening.'

He had been finished by that evening and Primmie was very happy with both the work done and the price charged. Three days later he was on her doorstep again, this time without his tool bag and looking a little sheepish.

‘I wonder if you'd do me a favour, Primmie?' he said. ‘I've just done a quote for a lady further down the street and she'd like a reference before giving me the go-ahead. Would you mind very much giving me one?'

‘No, of course not.' She opened the door wider, so that he could step inside whilst she went to find a pen and paper.

When she came back into the narrow hallway, it was to find her father chatting to him.

‘Nice bloke, that,' he said, when Ted Dove had gone on his way, her reference in his shirt pocket. ‘He's the sort of chap you should be givin'the eye to. How old are yer now, Primmie? Twenty-seven? If yer don't get a move on, I'm never goin'ter be a granddad!'

There was no way he could know the storm of emotions his words aroused and, knowing that what had been said had been said innocently and as much in fun as in seriousness, she forced a tight smile and announced she was going for a walk.

Destiny was five now. The birthday photograph Artemis had sent her – presumably without Rupert's knowledge –showed a fair-haired, blue-eyed, shy-looking little girl. What would her father say if she showed it to him? If she were to tell him he'd been a granddad for five years now? She headed in the general direction of the Thames, wishing she had never kept her secret from him, hating the weight of its burden.

The following Saturday morning, Ted Dove was on her doorstep again.

‘Yes?' she said, beginning to suspect he was calling by for no other real reason than that he wanted to keep seeing her and, if her assumption was correct, wondering how she felt about it.

‘I was just passing and thought I'd ask you if you were pleased with your units,' he said. ‘If there's anything not quite right … if you want any adjustments making … it's no problem. I've got a couple of free evenings next week and …'

‘They're fine, thank you.'

‘Ah.'

Her reply seemed to take the wind out of his sails a little bit.

‘Good,' he said, rallying, obviously thinking of what next to say and making no attempt to take his leave.

In growing amusement, Primmie didn't help him out. She was wondering if he had some Irish in him, for his colouring was typical of a certain type of Irishman. His curly hair was true black – almost blue-black – and his eyes were a quite startling shade of blue. Though his features could only be described as homely, there was charm in his long, mobile mouth – and his hair and eyes were enough to make any woman look at him twice.

Under her gaze he began colouring slightly and it occurred to her that he wasn't aware of his own attractiveness, which, where she was concerned, only made him more attractive.

‘Well, then,' he said at last, ‘if there's ever anything else you'd like doing around the house, you'll get in touch, Primmie, won't you? I don't only do carpentry work. I can turn my hand to plumbing and electrical work as well.'

‘Would you like to come in for a minute or two and take a look at the kitchen now it's in use again?' she said, taking pity on him and coming to the major decision that, if he were to ask her out on a date, she would go. ‘Then you can see for yourself how absolutely perfect it is.'

With an assenting grin, he followed her down the hallway and she was aware of how comfortable she felt with him.

‘Who's that yer've got with you, Prim?' her father shouted out from the sitting room, where he was watching a Saturday-morning cartoon.

‘Ted Dove,' she shouted back, knowing her father would make no objection at all to her having Ted Dove in the house again. ‘He's just going to cast an eye over his handiwork in the kitchen.'