The Godmother (32 page)

“Right, cupcakes it is.”

The two girls started jumping up and down and shouting very loudly, “CUPCAKES! CUPCAKES! CUPCAKES! CUPCAKES! CUPCAKES!”

I thought the pair of them would make extremely effective tools in Guantanamo Bay. I tried to smile.

“Don't worry,” said Francesca. “They go very well with strong black, heavily laced coffee.” It was rather like waking up after a beer-goggled one-night stand—a very
When Harry Met Sally
moment—I lay there wondering how long I could bear it before being able to leave without causing offence.

By the time I got home I felt pure love and gratitude for the solitude my little flat offered me. I closed the door behind me. It was all getting a bit much, even for me: Claudia and Al sacrificing their health to have a child, Francesca admitting to an affair, Helen stuck in a ruinous marriage, and little Cora, lying on a sofa, ill, at home alone because her mother couldn't climb out of the rut she'd got herself into. Don't get me wrong, I think I'm a good person to have around in a crisis—but this was one crisis too many. This was one crisis too real. What had Fran said? The appeal of fantasy was that no one got hurt. She was right. Discussing Helen leaving Neil was almost entertainment to me because I didn't like Neil, but it would rock my world if Fran and Nick split up—they were my family; it would be like my parents getting divorced. They were the rock I had always clung to. I depended on their solidarity. More so now, since my parents weren't as active as they used to be, and as much as I wanted to overlook Dad's age and Mum's condition, there would come a time…I banished the thought. I hated thinking like that.

I went to the kitchen and got to work making a real cappuccino. I have these wonderful big soup-bowl coffee cups I bought during one of several weekends in Paris with Helen. Thanks to her dad, we had the run of a hotel suite whenever he was in Europe doing business. We were once picked up by Sylvester Stallone's entourage in the Bain Douche, a famous nightclub, and whisked off back to the Ritz in a limo. Anyway, that's another story…Unfortunately, the problem with my French coffee cups is that the contents get too cold too quickly so I had to buy a microwave to reheat them. Benefit of microwave is it makes proper foam for the top of the cappuccino. I'm now quite a pro. I sprinkled chocolate on the top, slid open the glass window and
stepped out on to the balcony. I call it a balcony, but it's more of a shelf. Still, it's wide enough for a couple of fake French café chairs from Homebase, and a wobbly table.

I sat and soaked up the sun. Was it always like this, or was it just that I was around more? Sometimes work got so busy I wouldn't see Fran, Helen or Billy for months. We'd speak on the phone every so often, and, hangover permitting, I would drop by on the weekends, but it probably wasn't as often as I thought it was. In fact, thinking about it, there had been times recently when I wouldn't see my friends more than once every couple of months. I was busy. It was easier to go out with work mates—they were in situ, their lives more in keeping with mine, and they didn't have to book babysitters. Had these feelings of discontent been under my nose all along? My finger itched to call Ben. I missed talking to him. Every day I was aware of the lack of contact between us. It was the only sign that confirmed to me that not all of this was in my head. Ben. Ben. Ben. How was I going to cure myself of Ben once and for all? Was I like Francesca? Mistaken? Or was it real? I stared out over the river. If it felt real, how was anyone ever supposed to know for sure? Later, after finally getting around to tidying the flat, I sat at my desk, went through my post and checked my emails. There was one from Claudia. I have to admit it, I opened it up reluctantly. There is only so much gloom and doom a girl can take in a day.

Darling Tessa

What an amazing place Singapore is. The swimming pool is on the roof of the hotel which is forty-seven floors high. Pretty cool. I wanted to let you know that I am feeling so much better. In fact, almost as soon as the wheels left the ground, my spirits improved. Al took my hand and squeezed it until the seat-belt sign came off and I thought, How lucky I am, how incredibly lucky I am. It makes a nice change. We've been having fun. We've been getting pissed. (Me, pissed—when did you last see that?) We discovered a great bar and I have to admit, I've developed something of a margarita habit. On the rocks. With salt. Mostly I just like the way that sounds. Anyway, we've been dancing. Every day I go to the hotel gym, which is like something out of a science fiction film, have massages in my room and incredible acupuncture. I feel so much stronger. I've made a decision about what we're going to do.
I am not going to put Al or myself through it again. It's not just the terrible disappointment when it doesn't work, I've begun to think about what it would be like if it did work. My Down's stats don't look great because of my age, my cervix has had so much invasive treatment they'd want to staple me up to prevent me going into spontaneous labor again, basically I'm tired of feeling like a lab rabbit and have realized how much I have forgotten what it feels like to be a person. Am I mistaken, didn't I used to be quite fun?

I know how worried about me you were, and I don't want you to worry any more. I'm actually crying now, which I haven't done for days, but only because I'm so grateful to have had you as a friend, and so happy to put this behind me. Please just imagine the scene: I am surrounded by immaculately dressed, conscientious Japanese businessmen (are there any other kind?) who are all typing away furiously in the business center and I have wandered in from the pool in the floaty kaftan you gave me, to send you this email. The air-con is ferocious so not only am I sobbing, my nipples are picking up satellite signals. Yes, people are now starting to leave…I ought to go before they call security. Oh dear, I've made a wet bikini mark on the seat.

Luckily Al is a bit of a golden boy at the moment and the hotel group has asked him whether he'd like to do a tour of all their possible sites in the Far East. One is a proposed tree-top hotel in the jungle in Vietnam. You can only get there by elephant!!! We might stay a while, maybe even find China Beach again. It is v exciting but it does mean we won't be back as soon as we'd thought. Apart from missing you guys, I think that is no bad thing.

I love you and miss you, and if you fancy meeting me in Vietnam for old times' sake, get on a plane. I'll keep you posted of the dates. In the meantime, take care of you, find a job before you start going mad and lose confidence (trust me, I know, it doesn't take long) and stay away from trouble. And don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. Love to all. Claud xx

PS We had sex for fun the other night for the first time in years and it was great!!!

OK, so it wasn't all bad. If Claudia could put those years of peeing on sticks behind her before summoning her husband to the marital bed, then wasn't anything possible? No more IVF. I knew Al would be pleased about her decision and I'm sure Claudia would continue to be as brave as she had been
since this wretched business began. When people asked her, as they often did, when was she going to have kids, could she now look those people in the eye and say, “We can't have children,” rather than her tried and tested, knee them in the bollocks answer, “We're trying, but we haven't been blessed yet.” Less thoughtful people would say, “Sounds fun,” or, “How long have you been trying?” More sensitive people would respond with a “Good luck,” or, “Poor you…” Actually, more sensitive people wouldn't ask in the first place. Would she miss the whisper of hope that every procedure gave her? What would fill her daydreams if there was no imaginary child? Could she really give it up? I reread her email. Maybe, maybe not, but I had to hand it to her for trying.

James called later in the afternoon to say he'd booked a table at a restaurant, gave me the address and the time and then offered to pick me up. Since the restaurant was next to a bar I knew, I said I'd meet him at the bar. I'd been inspired by Claudia's email and had developed a bit of a craving for a margarita myself. The exchange of this information took no more than a minute so I was pleasantly surprised when I finally ended the call and saw that I'd been on the phone for forty-five minutes. What on earth had we talked about for forty-five minutes? I already couldn't recall. I wrote back to Claudia, answered some boring emails and discovered another headhunting company wanted to see me. After setting up the interview, I watered my plants, had a long shower and did my nails. I put my iPod onto its speakers, set it to shuffle and leapt around the room to Eminem and then sang loudly along with the three tenors to Bizet's
The Pearl Fishers
while my nails dried. I felt light inside. Buoyant. It took a while for me to put a finger on it. Carefree. I felt carefree. Which was odd, considering the events of the past few days.

I was just about to sit down to the task of blow-drying my hair, when the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Tess.”

Ben. I swallowed. Damn, bugger, balls, bollocks, hooray. “Hi,” I said.

“You answered your home phone.”

I'd been doing that recently. I must be better. Even though I changed my number, I had stopped answering the phone. I had changed my mobile too. I only ever gave people my email address now. If my old boss ever did contact
me, I had to notify the police immediately, but that would already be too late; I never wanted him to cross my defense line again. Police or no police.

“You disappeared the other night. It wasn't nearly so much fun after you left.”

I had seen Ben doing dirty dancing with his wife, so I knew that wasn't true.

“Helen needed to be taken home.”

“Yeah, Fran said she'd drunk a skinful. I didn't think she drank.”

“She doesn't. That was the problem.” That and her shit of a coke-snorting husband. Normally I would have told Ben all about it, which was horribly indiscreet of me, but back then I thought we had no secrets. Turns out, all we have are secrets.

“I was just wondering whether you'd heard from Claudia.”

“Got an email today, actually.”

“Everything OK with them?”

“Better than. Claudia sounds great.”

“Thank God.”

“Why?”

“I just got a strange email from Al, that's all.”

“What did it say?”

“‘All good here, how goes it with you?'”

“That was it?”

“Yes.”

And therein lies the difference between men and women. I get a fifty-line email from Claudia, Ben gets eight words from Al, effectively saying the same thing, but meaning so much less. I was glad I wasn't a boy. Boys are weird.

“Well, Claudia put it a bit better than that, but yes, I think all is very good with them. She sounds like a different person, and that's in an email.”

“Are they coming back?”

“Not yet. And they're not going to do IVF again, either.”

“What a relief.”

Relief? I wondered. Relief in the sense of someone being very ill, for a very long time, and eventually dying. It wasn't really a relief. It was a gut-wrenching tragedy. But sometimes no life is better than that life. And in Claudia's case, no life was better than some life at any cost.

If only I was a fairy godmother, I thought in that moment, if only I could wave a magic wand and give Claudia her baby, ease Francesca's guilt and worry, rescue Helen and give Billy back her strength. I could not magic my friends' ills away, but what I could do was break my own spell.

“How are you, Tess? It feels like I haven't seen you for ages.”

I wonder why. “I've been busy.”

“What about tonight? You up for a pint or two?”

“Actually I've…” Say it. Go on—say it. Why didn't I want to say it? What was I afraid of? That it would put Ben off me? He was married! Wave that magic wand, Tessa. Now, before it was too late.

“I'm meeting up with that bunch of reprobates, you know, the journalists. They love you, please come.”

I wondered whether Ben sensed I was none too keen to be alone with him. I guessed he was just trying to get things back to normal. Trouble was, normal had been killing me.

“Actually, I've got a date.”

Silence.

“Ben?”

“Sorry, lost you for a second. A date? Great. Anyone I know?”

I felt really awkward, but forged ahead nonetheless. I wanted us to be the friends we were supposed to be.

“You met him the other night.”

“Not that old bloke?”

“He's not old.”

“He's got grey hair.”

“Salt-and-pepper. And it's very sexy.” I found it easier to defend James than I'd thought.

“Him, sexy?”

“Well, you're not the one who's supposed to find him sexy.”

“He's not your type, Tess.” This had to stop. Ben had to know I was serious.

“What is my type?” It was a gauntlet. I threw it down.

“Younger,” said Ben, sidestepping.

“Younger blokes think women of my age are scary.”

“You're not scary.”

“No, I'm fabulous. But they can't seem to see it.”

“That's my girl.”

I'm not your girl, Ben. “It was your wife who gave him my number,” I said, throwing down another one. “Didn't she mention it to you?”

“That's not a very Sasha thing to do.”

“Perhaps she thinks he is my type.” Or at least someone other than her husband should be my type. I agreed with her. I needed to take a page out of Claudia's book. It was time to move on. It was all very well lecturing Helen about coming out from under Neil's shadow, Billy from Christoph's, but it was high time I did that myself. “I like him. We've had lunch. I find him incredibly easy to talk to. And he likes me, I can tell.”

“Of course he likes you, Tessa. There aren't many women like you.”

“Well, thank you. I'll let you know how it goes.”

“What did you say his name was?”

“James Kent.”

“James Kent.” He said it again. “I'm sure I've met him before.”

“Yeah, the other night.”

“No, before then, maybe work…I'll remember eventually.”

I didn't want Ben to know James Kent. I think I wanted this one all for myself. “Look, I've got to go, you're jeopardizing my date.”

“Me?”

“Yeah—my hair is frizzing up while we speak.”