Best of Friends (28 page)

“I’m just a bit uncomfortable about this lunch, Jay,” she said nervously. “It’s so public.”

“You suggested we meet here.” He shrugged.

“Yes, but not this table. We look like …” Her voice trailed off.

“We look like we’re having an affair,” Jay finished, shooting her a wicked look.

A waiter finally arrived bearing the inevitable bottle of champagne and an ice bucket. All they needed was an order of oysters and a sign saying “Prelude to sex” to finish the picture. Abby sighed.

“Can we order?” she asked the waiter. “I’ve got to rush back to work.”

“Of course, madame.”

She hurriedly requested green salad and steamed fish, while Jay dithered over veal with mushrooms, dragging the whole process out as he enquired about the type of mushrooms and how the veal was served. How could he want to eat veal? Jess’s ethics had finally got through to her, Abby realised. Meat was murder but fish was justifiable homicide, as Tom joked. How had she ever wanted to sleep with a man who could order veal?

Once they’d chosen, the waiters were ever present, arriving with bread, butter, water and the correct cutlery.

Then the food arrived, and as Abby pushed her green salad around her plate, she realised that she’d never felt less hungry in her life.

“Settle down, my darling,” Jay said, pouring more champagne into her barely touched glass. “I know you’re nervous. We’ll have to find somewhere more private next time.”

“There won’t be a next time,” Abby said bluntly.

“Don’t say that.” He didn’t look shocked at all, just mildly irritated, as if this phase of the proceedings was to be expected but could be got round. “You don’t mean that. We all feel guilty at first but you’ll get over it. Let’s face it, Abby, marriage is never about happy ever after. Staying with one person for the rest of your life? What a load of old rubbish.” He sounded dismissive. “Some people need more excitement in their lives and we’re those sort of people, Abby. What’s wrong with that? After all, nobody’s getting hurt and my theory is that what they don’t know can’t hurt them.”

She stared at him, seeing him as if he were suddenly a stranger instead of the man she’d shared passion with in a hotel bedroom.

“Am I right in guessing that this isn’t your first affair, Jay?” she asked coldly.

He grinned, the sexy charmer again with the glint in his eyes and an answer for everything.

“I’ve never been a monk, Abby,” he said. “The ascetic life isn’t for me—never able to taste the forbidden fruit because I’m married.” He shuddered. “No, that’s not how I am.”

A picture of Tom flickered inside her head. Tom, who’d never dream of having an affair even if he wasn’t up for the Husband of the Year award. Reliable Tom, whom she’d betrayed. She’d make her marriage work, she vowed.

“You told me you didn’t sleep around,” she said.

“So? You told me the same thing.” He shrugged. “It’s what people tell each other before they rip their clothes off: if you tell other people often enough, you might believe it yourself. I didn’t believe you, by the way,” he added. “You seemed to know what you were doing. I know I didn’t imagine those vibes—you were looking for excitement in your life.”

“It was a mistake. I’ve never cheated on Tom before,” she said bitterly.

“There’s a first time for everything,” Jay said glibly.

Abby stared at him with dislike. He’d made it all seem seedy and ugly. But that’s what it was, wasn’t it? Not a grand passion that had survived twenty years to resurface and consume them, but a tawdry fling powered by lust, boredom and reckless disregard for the people who really loved them.

Jay reached across the table and took her hand in his, sensually paddling the soft fleshy part of her thumb with his own. “Come on, Abby, you enjoyed it, don’t say you didn’t.”

She looked down at his hand. Last week, she’d have melted under its gentle caressing. Now she felt nothing. But then again, last week she didn’t know the sort of man he really was.

Honestly, did he really think she was going to hop back into bed with him after this? After he’d admitted that he was a serial adulterer and that he’d assumed she was too.

“Hello, Abby.”

Automatically, Abby looked up to see Tom standing beside the table, a shocked expression on his face, his eyes taking in the secluded corner, the bottle of champagne, the untouched food—and Jay’s hand clasped lover-like around hers. Whipping her hand away, Abby stared horror-struck at her husband.

“I thought you were meeting people from Beech.” His speech sounded forced, as if he was having trouble remembering how to form words.

“I can explain,” said Abby, shoving back her chair and getting up. “Tom, it’s not what it looks like,” she gabbled frantically, not caring that she was lying again. She wanted to make everything all right, to put the pieces back where they’d been before.

“I’m not blind. I can see exactly what it’s like,” Tom said in that same slow tone.

Abby looked desperately at Jay. “Tell him,” she begged. “Tell him we just met up for lunch. This is Jay, Tom. Jay from years ago, an old friend, we were just catching up, that’s all. Tell him, Jay!”

But Jay was leaning back in his chair, distancing himself from the crisis, his expression saying that this was her problem and she was on her own.

Abby grabbed Tom’s arm desperately. “It’s not what it seems,” she said again.

“I came to find you because I’ve had some terrible news,” he said.

Abby’s hands flew to her mouth. “Not Jess, oh, no, not Jess,” she cried.

“No. Not Jess, thank God. It’s about Sally.”

For the first time, Abby registered the fact that now the shock had receded Tom looked grey. “Sally …?” she whispered.

“Steve phoned me shortly after you left. He’s distraught. Sally’s got breast cancer,” Tom said. “Steve said he knew we’d want to know. It looks bad, he says. They didn’t want to tell anyone she’d found a lump but she had a needle biopsy and it was cancerous, so they operated yesterday. It’s spread to her lymph nodes, most of them, Steve says. They’re calling it a stage three cancer. She could die.”

Abby stared at him mutely.

“I wanted to tell you before you heard it from someone else and I knew you were coming here for lunch. With Brian and all the people from work.” His eyes, dark and tortured, burned into hers.

“But how?” Through the shock of being caught out by Tom, Abby digested the news that there was something wrong with her dear friend. “She’s been fine. Wouldn’t we know?” This was too strange to take in. How could a perfectly healthy young person be that ill without some symptoms?

“You don’t necessarily feel pain with breast cancer,” Tom said. “Like a lot of things, it all looks healthy on the outside and, on the inside, everything’s been eaten away.”

Abby couldn’t bear to keep looking at his hurt-filled eyes, knowing that he wasn’t just talking about poor Sally’s disease.

“Can we see her?” she asked.

“I don’t know. She’s in the hospital. I told Steve we’d drop …sorry. I’d drop in on him tonight when he gets back. He’s devastated, doesn’t know what to do. I’ve never known him like this. The boys are at the day nursery, then Ruby’s going to fetch them so that Delia can be with Sally but I said they could come to us if Sally would like that. They love Jess and we’ve got lots of space.” The thought of Jess made his face harden and the pain was replaced by a look of loathing. “So, now you know. You can go back to your lunch.” He spat the word lunch so venomously that Abby recoiled in the face of his hatred. “I have to go.” He turned on his heel and left.

“Wait for me,” cried Abby, but he was gone.

“That wasn’t ideal,” remarked Jay, picking up the bottle and pouring more champagne into his glass. “No point in wasting good bubbly. It’s eighty euros a bottle here.”

“Is that all you can say?” Abby glared at him. Her husband had found them out, one of her best friends was dying. Hadn’t the man any compassion?

“What do you want me to say?” Jay sounded genuinely confused. “It was nothing to do with me. You’re the one who told your husband where you were going for lunch. That was a bit dumb, Abby. If we’re going to do this again, you’re going to have to learn how to lie a little better.”

She threw down her napkin and picked up her handbag. “Do you honestly think we’re going to ever see each other again, after this?” she hissed.

“You have my number if you change your mind,” Jay pointed out before turning back to his lunch.

As she stalked out of the restaurant, Abby wished she’d thrown his bloody glass of champagne all over his smug face. Not that it would have solved a single thing but it might have given her a smidgen of satisfaction.

For once in her life, Abby didn’t know what to do. Shock numbed her. After leaving the restaurant, she sat in her Jeep and tried to work out where to go next. She thought of Tom’s anguished face and his inherent kindness. He’d rushed to find her because he knew she’d be devastated by Sally’s news. Only to discover her having an intimate lunch with another man.

And as for Sally … Dear Lord, prayed Abby, please let it all be a mistake. Bright, vital, warm Sally could not be dangerously ill. It wasn’t right. She was too young, she was a mother with two small boys—how could she possibly have breast cancer so advanced? There had to be some hope, didn’t there?

People walked past staring into the car, and the money ran out on her meter. Abby didn’t notice.

Her instinct was to find Tom and let him comfort her about Sally, and to plead for their marriage. But she was suddenly scared. They’d coped with so many other things but not anything like this. This was uncharted territory.

She couldn’t imagine the pain and betrayal she’d feel if Tom had hurt her by having an affair. How must he be feeling? And Jess … darling Jess. Abby faced the fact that her actions would hurt Jess too, the child she’d done everything in her power to protect all her life. How could she have let her stupidity hurt Jess?

At that moment, the only person Abby hated more in the world than Jay was herself. She was to blame for all this. She’d callously pushed her precious family out of her mind just because she was bored and feeling neglected. She had believed her own television hype: she’d thought she deserved more than a faithful husband and daughter, and in doing so, she’d probably lost them both. Abby remembered the unyielding light in Jess’s idealistic young eyes when she spoke about the people who hurt animals. She thought of that disgust directed at her, because it would be. Despite her protests to the contrary, Jess was still a child when it came to how she viewed her parents and she saw the world as black and white. There were bad things, good things and nothing in between. She wouldn’t just disapprove of her mother’s adultery, she’d be devastated by it. As bad, or even worse, Abby would have to tell her about Sally, and Jess adored Sally.

Sitting in a busy side street with people on their lunch breaks rushing past, Abby Barton burst into tears and didn’t care who saw her.

In blissful ignorance of the news to come, Jess was stuck in the last lesson before the Easter holidays. She was trying to concentrate, really she was. But it was such an incredible day outside, with a shimmering sun that was burning the soccer pitch to the colour of straw, and Mrs. Green’s voice was droning like a swarm of bees, inducing narcolepsy in all but the most diligent pupils.

The teacher was going through essay possibilities for their English exam. She’d spent half the class discussing how to choose the topic and was now using an old exam paper to get the students to come up with five main points for each of the essay subjects. Nobody could think of very much to say on “What Does Democracy Mean to You?” and there was a distinct lack of interest in the essay that had to begin with the sentence: “The clock struck twelve and the door to the cellar creaked noisily open …”

Everyone, however, was keen on the question about individuality: “Is It a Mistake to Follow the Herd?”, which made Jess roll her eyes. How come the whole class were keen on the concept of individuality but not the practice? They didn’t like Jimmy, who spoke four languages and was a maths genius; they didn’t like Sian, the new girl from Wales, who’d showed absolutely no interest in the school and was haughtily indifferent to feeble attempts to intimidate her; and they all thought that Jess’s idea of working in the animal refuge was oddball, therefore a waste of time. They didn’t like people who were individual, so why pretend?

Saffron was haltingly telling Mrs. Green that she liked the way Britney Spears had maintained her individuality in the world of music. “Her clothes show that she is her own person, when it would be so easy to become like everyone else,” Saffron finished proudly. “I admire that and would aspire to be individual in everything I do.”

Jess looked at Saffron with narrowed eyes. It was like watching the hundredth sheep in a field bleating that it was different before it trotted off obediently to join its pals.

Jess raised her hand.

Mrs. Green smiled at her. Jess Barton was one of her favourite students: genuinely intelligent, thoughtful and aware.

“Yes, Jess.”

“Students say they want to be individual but they don’t,” Jess began. “They actually want to be like everyone else, like the same music as everyone else, go to the same concerts as everyone else, wear the same jeans as everyone else. But they want people to
think
they’re individual because they’ve got a pink streak in their hair or whatever. That’s not individuality, that’s affectation dressed up to pretend it’s individuality. And when they come across anyone who’s genuinely individual, they gang up on them.”

Mrs. Green was thrilled with this point but the rest of the class stared sullenly at Jess.

“Weirdo bitch,” hissed a voice.

“Calling me ‘weirdo bitch’ proves my point,” Jess went on coolly. “Because some of you don’t agree with my point, you react by ridiculing it and me, instead of appreciating the individuality of it. You’re threatened by individuality and by anyone who doesn’t follow the herd meekly.”

“Very good, Jess,” said Mrs. Green. “Class, that’s an excellent topic for your essay for the holidays: to look at people in history who’ve battled for certain rights even though the general population hated them for it. History has proved them right. I know there’s some research involved but the examiners want to see you using your brains and not trotting out the usual clichés. Now, let’s look at the final category in the essay selection—the personal story piece: ‘Someone Who Changed My Life.’ Fiona, we’ll start with you. Can you tell me how you’d approach this essay?”