Too Close For Comfort (4 page)

‘Mummy calls these cars gas guzzlers.’ She made a weird chomping sound, gaze still trained on the gleaming wheel arch. ‘That’s what we do when they won’t let us go
first.’

‘What,’ I said, making a strange
nyug
,
nyug
,
nyug
noise, muddy dampness starting to seep through the
knees of my overpriced jeans, ‘like that?’

‘No, Mia,’ she said, world-weary. ‘That’s not how gas guzzlers sound.’ She took off like an arrow, wellies pelting down the pavement. ‘Come on,
slowcoach!’

*

There were only a few stragglers left by the time we squeaked through the school gates. No: stragglers was the wrong word for them. The trio of women who stood near the doors
seemed energised, crackling with a nervous electricity that was almost visible. As Saffron hurtled towards the doors, they turned en masse as if they were an elegant monster.

‘Slow down, sweetheart,’ said a lithe blonde, her right arm shooting out to stop her with confident authority.

I expected Saffron to balk at it, but instead she ground to a meek halt. I drew up next to her, smiling too keenly.

‘Don’t worry, I haven’t kidnapped her. I’m Mia, her godmother.’

The blonde’s cat-like blue eyes raked over me. ‘That’s your story and you’re sticking to it!’

I laughed nervously, failing to summon up a witty riposte. I recognised the brunette standing next to her from a couple of birthday parties ago. Up close, she didn’t have the
blonde’s thrown-together elegance; she was verging on chubby, rosy lipstick carefully painted on, fur-lined parka too obviously expensive. The third woman lacked their polish close up. She
peered out through large glasses, made no great effort to smile.

‘We’ve met, haven’t we?’ said the brunette warmly. ‘Melissa?’

‘Mia.’ I paused a second too long. ‘Lovely to see you again. I should get this one to class.’

‘Don’t panic,’ said the blonde, and I tried not to prickle at the undertow of condescension. I was fairly sure by now that she was Kimberley Farthing, but I wasn’t going
to bestow celebrity status on her by admitting it. ‘Normal service has definitely not resumed yet.’

‘No, no, of course,’ I said, instantly guilty for the judgements that had been spooling across my brain like a ticker tape of breaking news.

The heavy double doors swung open behind us, a stocky man in wire-framed glasses stepping through them. Teamed with a checked shirt and a pair of vaguely colonial-looking tan-coloured trousers,
they made him look older than he actually was. His smooth face, topped by a mop of curly blond hair, told me he couldn’t be much more than twenty-five. But it wasn’t just his clothes
that aged him; it was the weight of sadness that he was carrying. It was the kind of sadness that should have taken a lifetime to accumulate.

‘Saffron!’ he said, forced warmth in his tone. ‘There you are!’

‘Sorry, Mr Grieve,’ she said, eyes round and guilty. ‘I know it’s very, very bad to be late.’

He suddenly dropped to his knees, just like I had by the car. He knew it – he knew, like I did – that she was chock full of feelings she didn’t have words for.

‘That’s OK,’ he said, extending his big paw towards her. ‘You’re here now.’

She slipped her small hand in his, her trust automatic, and he stood up. The mothers watched the interaction unfold, almost fascinated by it. I wanted to say something, stake a claim, I suppose,
but it felt like there wasn’t a role for me in this particular tableau.

‘Ladies,’ he said, his voice low and muted. He seemed only prepared to glance at them, his focus still on Saffron.

Kimberley stepped towards him, touched his bare arm, which was covered in a light fuzz of blond hair. ‘Know that we’ll all be thinking of you today.’

Mr Grieve – who must have had a real name – shook his head as if he didn’t quite trust himself to speak. He moved away.

‘Come on, you,’ he said to Saffron, holding the door open so she could run through.

‘Come for coffee if you like?’ the brunette asked, and I wondered if it was an unnecessary apology for getting my name wrong. Kimberley was distracted, still looking at the swinging
door, even though Saffron and her teacher had been swallowed up.

‘Perhaps if you’re there we’ll be able to persuade Lysette she needs to face the world.’ She smiled, leaned in to kiss my cheek so suddenly that I nearly flinched.
‘I’m Helena, in case your memory’s as bad as mine.’

Saying no felt rude. Later I would wonder if rudeness was woefully underrated.

*

The day had started overcast and murky, but by now the drizzle had turned into a full-scale downpour. We crossed the pretty square as fast as we could, fat raindrops bouncing
off the flagstones. The Crumpet – its name written in thick, black, curly letters on its swinging metal sign – was overflowing with waterlogged buggies and open umbrellas, the tables
packed tightly together and crammed with damp and grumpy customers. Kimberley cut through the chaos as if she were parting the Red Sea, somehow managing to persuade the waiter to rearrange the
terrain until there was a perfect corner nook that could have been designed for us. I found myself combing over what Lysette had said the night before, her plea for me to help her. A fistful of
menus had appeared in Kimberley’s hand, ready to distribute, a carafe of water had been automatically placed in front of her. I couldn’t imagine her ever needing help, not even in a
nuclear holocaust. If she was masterminding Nigel Farthing’s career, I’d bet on him making prime minister by Christmas.

‘No reply from Lysette,’ she said once we’d settled, sitting straight-backed on her chair with the poise of a ballerina. Helena had slid into the seat next to her, the two of
them like an interview panel. ‘Has she messaged any of you?’

‘I’m really worried about her,’ said the third woman, who I was only just getting a handle on. I knew she was called Alex, and that she seemed to adore Lysette, but that was
about it. ‘How bad is she?’ She peered at me accusingly from the seat next to mine. They’d subjected me to swift, thorough questioning as we walked here and had established I was
Lysette’s therapist friend. ‘You must be able to tell.’

Their focus suddenly sharpened, as if a net had caught me in a wide embrace and was starting to tighten. I tried to speak, but the words dried before they reached the outside. Then the waiter
arrived, a checked shirt half tucked into his jeans, a crumpled pad in his hand.

‘Can I get you girls started with some drinks?’

His voice was a lazy drawl, an Aussie accent pushing up the tips of his words. He ran his hand through his collar-length brown hair, an easy smile playing across his face. We’re not girls,
I thought, we’re pushing forty, but I knew as soon as the prim thought had landed that that was the point.

‘We’re all skinny lattes, Jake,’ said Kimberley, turning to me, then turning her wide green eyes back towards him as if she was my interpreter. ‘What do you
fancy?’

‘A fat one,’ I said, knowing immediately how idiotic it sounded. ‘And some kind of croissant pastry thing?’

‘You got it!’ he said, shouldering his way back through the crush of tables towards the noisy coffee machine.

Alex stared after him, her eyes starting to fill.

‘Sorry . . . sorry,’ she said, wadding up a stiff paper napkin and taking off her glasses to scrub at wet eyes. Her nails were bitten and ragged, her left hand
ringless, naked-looking next to their chunky diamonds. ‘It just feels macabre to me. We’re sitting here ordering coffees like it’s OK Sarah’s not here. I keep looking at the
door like she’s about to walk in.’

‘Run in, more like,’ said Helena, trying to smile. Her vowels were a bit nasal-sounding, Estuary: they lacked the cut-glass precision of Kimberley’s. ‘She’d be
trying to pay for all the coffees to apologise, and Jake’d been giving us free stuff.’

‘Jake’s always charmed by her,’ agreed Alex.

‘We’d have a pile of muffins by now,’ said Helena, laughing, her face immediately darkening as the brief respite from the truth receded. There was silence for a few seconds,
before Kimberley turned back to me. I noticed how the other women’s gazes seemed to follow hers.

‘How is Lysette? I mean . . . sorry, that’s a stupid question. Sarah was her best friend. What I mean is, what can we do?’

The feeling that rose up in me was so primal that I couldn’t even scold myself for it. She’s my best friend, I wanted to roar. She’s been my best friend since we were thirteen;
that position never became vacant.

‘Bereavement, particularly traumatic bereavement, is very complex,’ I said, my voice tinny and pompous. ‘Lysette’s in shock. It’s hard to say how long that’s
going to last, but it will shift.’

‘They were so close,’ said Kimberley. I felt like she was watching me too forensically, like I was a rare Siberian tiger, trapped behind bars. ‘If Sarah was going to do
something like that, I can’t believe she wouldn’t have known something was wrong.’

Alex’s eyes flicked quickly towards her, something unreadable in her gaze. She looked downwards, begun mopping up a slop of water with her soggy napkin.

‘But Lysette was away last week,’ said Helena, and I felt a surge of defensiveness. Lysette was already taking too much responsibility, without them providing a chorus.

‘If somebody wants to’ – it felt too brutal to continue – ‘it’s very hard to stop them.’

You stupid, coffee-swigging women, I thought, she threw herself from a building! I see the aftermath of cries for help – clients who’ve had their stomachs pumped or hold out wrists
that are criss-crossed with shallow scars – but if you jump from a multistorey car park, you know there’s no get-out clause. I shuddered, wishing suddenly that I was anywhere but
here.

‘I need to see her!’ said Alex, intense. ‘I need to talk to her properly about what she knows.’

Looking back, I think I heard something in her voice, something under the words, but I dismissed it, too busy slamming myself for being so possessive and judgemental. Jake was coming back
towards us now, coffees precariously balanced on a metal tray.

‘We should tell him,’ hissed Helena.

‘I can’t,’ said Alex firmly. ‘I can’t say it out loud again.’

‘Ladies, coffee’s up,’ he said, unloading them from his tray, and depositing a dry-looking croissant in front of me. He looked around us, his handsome face registering the
tension. Kimberley fixed him with a steady gaze, her hand already on his arm, voice low and authoritative.

‘Jake, there’s something we need to tell you.’

‘What’s happened?’ he said, immediately tense.

‘It’s Sarah,’ she said, nodding imperceptibly towards a chair that he should pull up. Customers were desperately trying to catch his attention, but his focus on her was
absolute: it couldn’t be otherwise. ‘You know our friend, the baby? She died. She committed suicide.’

I watched her face as she said it, looked for any doubt in her mind about Sarah’s fate. I couldn’t detect any: it only seemed to lie with Lysette. Jake blanched. His large, strong
hands started to shake.

‘I can’t . . . no.’

Kimberley increased the pressure on his arm, cocking her head to meet his eyes.

‘I know. It’s the most terrible thing. We couldn’t not tell you.’

‘The baby’ – there was something so odd in that phrase. Jake suddenly stood up, his chair screeching against the stone floor, Kimberley’s hand left in mid-air.

‘I’m sorry. I’ve got to get back.’

‘It’s horrible,’ said Kimberley, her focus still pin tight, almost as if none of us were there. To my left, Alex emitted a sob. There was something strange and unsettling about
the intensity of their grief.

Jake stumbled away, shaking his head. Customers were waving at him, but he was like a stunned animal, not yet able to respond.

‘You did so well,’ said Helena. ‘I just couldn’t do it.’

Kimberley gave a small smile. She turned to me.

‘Do you think I did OK?’ she said, catching me completely off guard.

‘It’s not for me to judge.’ She waited. ‘Yeah, you did really well. You were very calm.’

‘Thanks. It’s just so hard to know how to handle . . .’ She looked away. ‘Any of this.’

She turned back to me, and again, they swung their gazes in unison. I ripped the nose off my croissant and chewed on its dry innards. There’s a French place round the back of the Holloway
Road where me and Patrick go on Saturday mornings. It’s shabby and loud, presided over by a tubby Frenchman whose accent hasn’t been even slightly dented by a decade in London. Right
then I missed it acutely. I took a large slug of my coffee, grateful for the fact it was lukewarm. I’d be able to down it without causing offence.

‘Disbelief is a natural way to feel right now,’ I said. ‘Death is so hard to absorb, particularly a death like this – a contemporary, right out of the blue. Try to be
gentle with yourselves.’

‘Thank you,’ said Helena, reaching out to cover my hand with hers, gratitude in her eyes for the tiny crumb I’d given. Her skin felt almost unnaturally soft. ‘I
can’t imagine feeling – I don’t know – like the world isn’t going to play some shitty trick on me.’

‘Of course. It’s only just happened, you’ve still got the funeral to get through . . .’

I felt a trickle of dread. I’d promised Lysette I’d stay; it was terrible to admit, but part of me had hoped Roger would summon me back to London, a convenient scapegoat.

‘Could I talk to you?’ asked Helena. ‘About what counselling would be like? Lysette says you’re amazing.’

Kimberley was watching me in that way she had – like she could see something that no one else could see just outside my peripheral vision. Then she gave an unexpected smile, like the sun
breaking through cloud, and she looked too beautiful to pick apart.

‘Sure!’ I said, without allowing myself time to let the question echo inside. ‘I should go, get back to Lysette, but I’ll give you my number. I’ll be here for a few
more days.’ I took another gulp of coffee, even though it tasted disgusting: the cold milk had congealed into a greasy skin that hovered on the surface. ‘Thanks for . . .
it was nice to meet you all.’