These Days of Ours (7 page)

‘We did it, cuz.’ Becca extracted Kate from Julian’s grasp, taking her firmly by the shoulders. ‘We really did it.’ Her gaze, even under false eyelashes, whisked
Kate back to childhood, or rather to some formless ageless state where it was just the two of them, sharing perfect understanding.

Which was not the same as perfect happiness, but was profound all the same.

‘We did it,’ agreed Kate, suddenly tearful. She hesitated, then folded Becca down to her level, finding her ear to whisper, ‘You can try again.’

Becca squeezed Kate brutally tight. ‘Oh Kate,’ she whispered.

Kate had been holding Becca’s hand when the sonographer couldn’t find a heartbeat.

‘Come, wife!’ Julian asserted himself with a kingly shout.

Becca pulled away, apparently recovered. ‘Time to drag my Charlie to the bridal suite.’

Even after the hymns and the speeches and enough quiche to sink a battleship, that ‘my’ sounded all wrong.

In the taxi, her ears ringing, Kate turned to Julian. ‘As weddings go,’ she said, ‘it was a brilliant wedding. But,’ she leaned in, found his lips, ‘I’m so
glad we don’t have to do it ever again.’

‘I don’t believe in the millennium bug,’ shouted Kate to Julian, as he moved about the living area, setting out glasses, tipping ice noisily into a chrome
bucket.

‘That’s because you’re a wise woman, darling.’ Julian dimmed the lights. ‘It’s crazy to think planes will fall out of the sky and all our emails will go
haywire just because computers can’t recognise the date 2000.’

‘I read somewhere that all hospitals will have power cuts on the stroke of midnight.’ Kate confronted the slab of tuna with a feeling of doom completely unrelated to the millennium
bug. ‘And radio alarm clocks will rise up and take over the world.’

‘I like this part of entertaining best.’ Julian moved into the kitchen area of their open plan apartment and handed her a perfect martini. ‘When it’s just us before the
guests arrive. In fact, let’s call and cancel, so I can ravish you among the raw fish.’

‘That’s a tempting offer.’ Kate shimmied out of the scope of his arms. ‘But I have
loads
to do, Julian. What made me say I’d make sushi?’

‘We should have bought in.’

Sometimes Kate forgot they were well off. She waited for buses in the rain as taxis raced by. She bought economy mince for Julian’s beloved shepherd’s pie. When he airily booked
first class air fares or ordered the most venerable claret on the wine list her tummy contracted. ‘Home-made’s nicer.’

‘Not sure that applies to sushi.’ Julian eyed the lumpen California rolls lying like casualties of war on the marble worktop. He was a veteran of Kate’s cooking fads, manfully
trying her goulash and her sea bass and her stir fries. ‘Can we cancel? I want you to myself tonight. It feels historic.’

‘That’s why we’ve invited Becca and Charlie. That’s why I’m going to smell of fish tomorrow.’

‘Just one phone call and it’ll be you, me, a movie.’ Julian held up a California roll. ‘And a takeaway.’

Kate poked out her tongue. ‘It’s too late to cancel. Especially on such a special night. Behave, man.’

‘You’re right,’ said Julian. ‘And besides, Becca would hunt us down and kill us.’

‘We haven’t had much . . .
us
time this Christmas,’ said Kate. ‘Maybe we should do a mini-break somewhere?’ She envisaged chintz, open fires, brocade sofas;
the antithesis of her own home. ‘I could arrange cover for the shops and—’

‘Darling, I can barely draw breath at the moment. Take Becca and go somewhere hot and ludicrously indulgent. My treat.’

‘I’m not married to Becca,’ muttered Kate, as she rinsed an orange lozenge of salmon.

‘Darling, don’t mutter,
please
.’ Julian played with a remote, and stiff white drapes slithered tither and yon until he was satisfied.

If the apocalypse really was due in five hours’ time, somebody had forgotten to tell the good people of the Chelsea Harbour development. The view from the kitchen was the same as ever: the
white modern blocks flanking a marina were glamorous enough for a five star holiday vista yet she saw it every day through the wrap-around glass walls. Kate shivered and reached for the angora
bolero Julian had bought her for Christmas.

As lights came on in windows the complex glittered against the dark winter sky like an outpost on some distant, wealthy planet. Chelsea, enduringly chic and moneyed since its famous King’s
Road kick-started the swinging sixties, was self-assured, never deigning to notice unemployment figures or natural disasters.

Much like Julian, who surfed the housing market, never getting wet, always ahead of the wave.

‘Wish I’d done a roast.’ Kate flung a ruined batch of rice in the bin. When she’d scribbled the invitation sushi had felt celebratory, and ‘right’ for their
lifestyle.

Kate had caught that word from Julian: she teased him
people don’t have lifestyles, matey, they have lives!
but nobody could deny their apartment was stylish. Lifestylish.

Initially, she’d baulked at the openness, the glossy pale surfaces, the hard edges, disappointing Julian, who had expected his wife to jump with joy at the mammoth her hunter gatherer
hubby had laid at her feet.

They’d compromised. Julian got his Bang & Olufsen sound system and Kate got her colourful rugs. Julian was fond of pointing out how she softened his minimalism with her books and
vintage china.
We’re the perfect team
, he’d say.

One day she’d win her battle to have actual handles on the kitchen cupboard doors. One day he’d manage to stop her leaving make-up smears on the glass shelves in the arctic white
bathroom.

This was marriage. Love in action. Julian didn’t know about Kate’s rainy day account, where she stashed a hundred quid here, fifty there. One day, if Julian ever fell off his
surfboard, they might be glad of it.

At the sound of the doorbell, Julian threw open the enormous veneered front door. Kate hastily civilised the chaos on the worktop as Becca’s effusive
hello
s argued with the Gypsy
Kings CD Julian had chosen.

‘God I LOVE this place!’ Becca stalked across the apartment in her sky high shoes, her beaded black dress an excellent match for the surrounding monochrome. She looked around,
noticing everything. ‘New Buddha statue!’ She pointed at a silvered ornament then threw her arms around Kate. ‘Happy New Year! Love the blouse. You’re brave doing
sushi.’

Kate looked down at her white satin shirt. A Rorschach blot of soy had blossomed on a lapel, like a dirty rose.

A cork popped. Becca threw open the door to the terrace and stepped out among the dejected ficus trees in their handmade pots.

‘Hi.’ Charlie held out flowers and wine, the customary offering to the god of dinner parties.

‘Ta.’ Kate took the gifts. ‘I love . . . um, actually, what are they?’ She frowned at the blooms.

‘No idea,’ said Charlie.

As Kate sought out a vase, she felt him looking at her hair. The boyish cut, an impulsive decision, was meant to be chic but she worried it gave her the look of a prison warder.

‘What happened to your hair?’ said Charlie.

‘It fell off,’ said Kate.

A beat, then he laughed. She laughed too. They laughed more than the feeble joke merited.

‘Julian likes it,’ said Kate. ‘I’m not sure.’

‘Julian’s got taste.’ Charlie gestured around the flat. ‘He must be right.’

Kicking off her shoes, Becca dragged Julian in from the terrace and shouted, ‘Turn up the music, Kate!’

‘Give me a mo.’ Kate hovered over the control panel. She turned a random dial and the lighting went from ‘candlelight’ to ‘extra bright’.

‘Argh!’ Becca cowered like a vampire struck by the sun until Julian reached over Kate and conjured up a flattering twilight.

By the time they took their seats for dinner, Julian was a little fuzzy around the edges. He swiped a handful of edamame, dropping some so they lay like jade beads on the black grain of the
table. Kate fancied him tipsy, when he pawed her like a lion, but it was early for him to be this squiffy.

‘Lay into the starters, everybody.’ Kate wondered if she’d sweated her foundation off. ‘Try the yakitori chicken thing.’

‘Why aren’t they on paper plates from your shops?’ asked Charlie. ‘Those nice fish patterned ones.’

Too frazzled to put a diplomatic spin on Julian’s plea that she not bring her own products home, Kate shrugged.
Paper plates are not really
us, he’d say.

‘You’ve gone to so much trouble,’ said Becca. ‘I’m crap around the house, aren’t I, babe?’

‘Yes,’ said Charlie. His hair was super short above the collar of his dark blue velvet jacket. Kate wondered how he’d smuggled such an obviously second-hand garment past his
wife, who was violently anti-charity shop. ‘I expected your mum and dad to be here tonight, Kate,’ he said.

‘God no,’ said Julian, a touch too fast. ‘I mean, we saw plenty of them over Christmas,’ he added.

‘By plenty,’ said Kate, ‘he means too much.’ She sympathised; she too had longed to escape from the small, hot kitchen where her mother had incinerated a turkey on
Christmas Day. A need to impress the son-in-law had culminated in a panic attack over the lumpy gravy. ‘Dad’s a bit down at the moment.’

‘Why?’ asked Charlie.

‘Why’d you think?’ Becca was wry. ‘He’s put off his trip to that stupid orphanage again.’

‘But he lives for Yulan House,’ protested Charlie. ‘The Christmas card he sent us had a picture of all the kids on the front.’

Julian nodded. ‘John’s fascinating on the subject.’ He didn’t listen when Kate’s dad spoke about Yulan House but made sure to look interested.

‘Mum says they can’t afford for Dad to travel all that way. She says it’s enough for him to sponsor an orphan.
Charity begins at home
, apparently.’ Kate stirred
her miso with a chopstick. ‘They’re buying a caravan instead.’

The glance Becca threw at Kate was empathetic: she knew how Julian must have scoffed at such a plebeian purchase.

‘I love caravans,’ said Charlie, wistfully.

‘We’re looking at a time share in Ibiza,’ said Becca.

‘That we can’t afford,’ said Charlie.

‘That you pretend we can’t afford,’ said Becca, adding a ‘babe’, as if the endearment would make up for annoyance in her voice. ‘We can’t keep borrowing
Kate and Julian’s villa, can we?’

‘We don’t mind,’ said Kate, knowing that Julian did mind a little. When Becca took up residence in the Tuscan square stone house she was harder to evict than bedbugs.

Relieved that the starters were well received, Kate returned to her showroom kitchen. Truly on show, feeling that the eyes of the residents opposite were trained on her, Kate rolled, and sliced,
and cursed her culinary ambition. Julian had drunk too many of his own cocktails to understand the subtle marital distress signals whizzing his way. She heard him, over at the mile long sofa, ask
Charlie about work.

‘He’s been poached!’ Becca answered for her other half in her excitement. ‘He’s starting at a new ad agency in February. BBH or something.’

‘Bartle Bogle Hegarty?’ Julian knew a little about every area of business. ‘Very prestigious. Congrats, Charlie. A fully blown media dickhead at last.’

Charlie raised his glass in a toast. ‘To me! And all the media dickheads in the land.’

‘It’s a good job,’ said Becca. ‘Good money.’

‘Can’t argue with that,’ said Julian. ‘Well done, mate.’

‘Yeah, well done,’ called Kate as she hacked at spring onions.

She couldn’t claim to know Charlie any more. The space he took up had become emotionally blank, the past pixilated. The old Charlie would have cut off his leg before writing adverts for a
living; he’d changed as much as she had.

‘May I,’ asked Becca, ‘see your new bidet?’

There was no aspect of the flat’s interior design she didn’t covet.

‘Your rather strange wish,’ said Julian, ‘is my command.’ He ushered her to the en-suite.

‘You look as if you’re struggling.’ Charlie materialised by the raw fish. ‘Need a hand?’

‘God, yes.’ Gratified somebody had noticed, Kate gestured at a platter. ‘Could you arrange my attempts at maki rolls so they look appetising?’

‘I’ll try.’

They didn’t catch each other’s eye as they worked, but, like the easy laughter over her regrettable new haircut, this silent collaboration was a step forward.

The new millennium was a time not only of superstition but of hope. Kate and Charlie couldn’t avoid each other – Becca would never allow that – but perhaps they were on the
brink of a new era when they could be friendly and savour each other’s company again.

‘Is that OK?’ Charlie stood back from his handiwork.

‘It doesn’t look like the picture in the book.’

‘As long as it tastes nice.’

‘True.’

Such politeness.

They’d never discussed the second miscarriage. She mourned the lost little soul but lacked the vocabulary to empathise with Charlie about his bereavement. She’d spent long hours with
Becca, whose uncharacteristic withdrawal into herself had worried the family. From their conversations, Kate knew Charlie had insisted they refrain from ‘trying again’ too soon.