Bookends (6 page)

‘Not to mention far more handsome,’ prompts Si.

‘Of course,’ she laughs. ‘And far more handsome.’

‘You know what it is,’ muses Josh, staring into his glass of wine as if it holds all the answers. ‘This is sort of her revenge, isn’t it? She’s taken the worst aspects of our characters and magnified them until that’s all the character is. But the weird thing is, she’s taken our characters as she knew them then, and I for one think I’ve changed immeasurably. We all have.’

‘Go on,’ I prompt, assured by Josh’s interpretation.

‘I
was
weak at university. I was insecure, had never been away from home, and so Portia’s decided that at thirty-something I would have to be a wimp. You were selfish at university, at times.’ He looks at me, and, although I don’t want to agree with him, I know it’s true.

‘But not when it came to Portia,’ he continues. ‘She was the weak spot for all of us, but you were often thoughtless, so she’s made you a self-obsessed adult.

‘And Steen.’ He looks at Si.

‘I know,’ says Si. ‘You don’t have to tell me I have a bitchy streak. I
have
calmed down, though, haven’t I?’ He looks at me, doubt written across his eyes. ‘
You
think I’m a nicer person now, don’t you, Cath?’

I reach over and hug him. ‘Of course,’ I say, smiling. ‘I think you’re lovely.’

‘Good,’ he says. ‘It’s good of you to be so selfless for a change.’

I hit him, and he squeezes my leg and gives me a long, smoochy kiss on the cheek.

‘Revenge for what?’ asks Dan, intrigued, as a silence falls and we all start to look slightly shifty.

‘It’s a long story,’ Lucy says matter-of-factly, able to do so because she wasn’t involved, she simply heard about it many years later. Josh sat her down and told her, late one night, when they were having a conversation about first loves. Portia was his first love, he told her. She broke his heart and it took him a long time to recover, but it was all in the past now, and anyway, he hadn’t seen her for years.

‘A story for another time,’ Lucy says brightly. The disappointment shows on Dan’s face, but he’s polite enough not to push the point.

‘So what about Portia?’ Si asks finally, when he’s disengaged his lips from my face. ‘Is she the breathtaking Mercedes? Perfect on the outside but unable to find lurrve?’

‘Who knows,’ shrugs Dan. ‘She’s very beautiful, but I only met her the few times she came to my flat with interior designers and stuff.’

‘Interior designers,’ I smile. ‘
So
Portia.’

‘I can give you my old number if you like,’ Dan says suddenly. ‘I don’t think she changed it, and it seems like you’d all like to get back in touch.’ He smiles. ‘If for nothing else but to shout at her.’

‘No, no,’ says Josh. ‘It was all a long time ago.’ I see him shoot a worried glance at Lucy, but she doesn’t look bothered in the slightest.

‘We were just curious.’ Si’s voice is nonchalant. ‘That’s all.’

‘
I’d
like her number,’ I find myself saying, even though I hadn’t planned for those words to come out of my mouth. ‘What?’ I turn to Josh and Si, demanding to know why they are so shocked. ‘What?’

‘Bugger!’ shouts Lucy, jumping up and knocking her chair halfway across the kitchen. ‘Bloody bread and butter pudding.’

This evening brings up so many memories for all of us. Si and I walk back to my flat in silence, both immersed in thoughts of Portia, memories of our gang, the strength of our love for one another.

‘I do still miss her, you know,’ Si says softly into my ear, as he’s hugging me goodbye.

I pull back and look at him. ‘Maybe that’s why we met Dan tonight. Everything happens for a reason, doesn’t it, Si? Maybe I was supposed to get her number. Maybe none of us is supposed to miss her any more.’

Chapter five

I lose my nerve. It’s not that I don’t try, I do. For the last two weeks I’ve picked up the phone at least twice a day, Portia’s scribbled number on a scrap of paper, mocking me from the table next to the telephone. I’ve even got as far as dialling all seven digits, but as soon as the phone starts to ring, I slam it down, not knowing what to say, heart pounding and breath coming in short, sharp spasms.

It’s only
Portia
, I keep telling myself. It’s not like I’m ringing someone up to have a confrontation, which seems to be the only other time my heart pounds and my breath is used up by fear. I’m only ringing her to catch up. There’s nothing scary about Portia.

‘Well?’ Si asks, as he has now asked on a daily basis. ‘Have you done it yet?’

‘Yes,’ I say earnestly, slowly. ‘And I decided not to tell you that in fact I saw her last week, because I didn’t think you’d be interested.’

‘God, you’re being such a wimp,’ Si says. ‘If it were me, I’d just pick up the phone and call her.’

‘Go on, then,’ I push the phone towards him. ‘There’s the number. Do it.’

It’s a Thursday night, the night of Portia’s series, and though Si has been coming over to my place to watch it for months, since our new-found discovery these evenings have taken on a greater significance.

We have still, these last couple of weeks, kicked off our shoes, curled up on the sofa, and pigged out on takeaway Chinese for an hour before the show starts. But now, instead of laughing our way through, we are glued to the screen, desperately searching for clues to our own characters.

Earlier this evening we sat in silence, just the blue flickering screen lighting up the concentration on our faces.

‘I’d
never
say that,’ Si exclaimed indignantly, after Steen emerged with a particularly bitchy line.

‘No one’s saying you would.’ I rubbed his back gently, eyes still fixed on the show, waiting for Katy to come back in.

‘Jesus,’ I whistled a few minutes later. ‘I know it’s meant to be funny, but she is so selfish. I’m not like that, am I?’

‘Sssh,’ urged Si. ‘Here comes Steen again.’

And now it’s over, and Si grabs the phone and dials the number, giving away nothing, looking as if he’s just phoning Josh, just for a chat.

I watch his face intently, waiting for him to become animated, but he shakes his head after a few seconds and puts down the phone.

‘Answer phone.’

‘What? Didn’t you listen? What does her voice sound like? What does it say?’

I grab the phone from him and press redial, and, although I know what will happen, why I’m phoning, it is nevertheless a shock to hear Portia’s voice, and I would know that voice anywhere.

I’m so sorry neither of us can get to the phone. Leave a message and we’ll get back to you. Thanks for calling.

‘Neither of us?’ I look at Si. ‘Why didn’t you say she said “neither of
us
”? That means she’s married.’

‘And what decade are
you
living in?’ Si is horrified. ‘
The fifties
?’

‘Okay, not necessarily married, but living with someone, then.’

‘Could be her flatmate,’ Si says.

‘Right.’ I raise an eyebrow. ‘Because we
do
have flatmates when we’re thirty-one and earning packets of money.’

‘We do if we’re lonely,’ Si says seriously, and it shocks me that Portia might be lonely, and I want to step in and stop her loneliness. ‘Actually,’ Si says, looking pensive, ‘it could just be for security. There was an article in
Cosmo
about looking after yourself, and it said that if you lived on your own you should always refer to “we” or “us” on an answer phone to deter potential burglars.’

‘
Cosmo
!’ I shriek with laughter. ‘Jesus, Si, aren’t you a bit old for
Cosmo
?’

‘I didn’t buy it.’ Si looks shifty. ‘I just happened to pick it up at a friend’s house.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ I grin. ‘A likely story.’

‘Look,’ Si says, gesturing at the phone, ‘this is the perfect opportunity. You want to talk to her, but you don’t actually want to
talk
to her, and I know you’re terrified of how she’ll react. I am too. This way you can leave a message, and then it’s up to her. She may not call, but at least if she does you’ll know it’s because she wants to.’

I grab the phone, hit the redial button and listen to her message again, trying to smile so that I sound cheerful, happy, successful, and keeping a hand on my heart to try to calm down.

Beeeeeep
.

‘Portia, hi. Umm. This is, umm, quite strange, hearing your voice on the machine.’ Si rolls his eyes at me. ‘I mean, it’s not strange, because it’s your machine, but we haven’t spoken for ages. Years. Your name came up the other night at dinner – we met Dan, umm, the guy who sold you his flat, and it’s just that we were wondering how you were, and it would be really nice to see you, to catch up. Anyway, umm, give me a call, if you want. Oh. It’s Cath, by the way…
beeep
.’

‘Shit!’

I redial, feeling like an idiot. ‘Sorry. Your machine cut me off, but do call me, it would be lovely to hear from you…’ I put the phone down, feeling incredibly pleased with myself.

‘There,’ says Si. ‘That’s done, then.’

‘Do you think she’ll call?’

‘If she hasn’t changed, she will.’

‘You’re right.’ I nod thoughtfully. ‘If she hasn’t changed, she’ll call.’

Ever since I can remember I have loved books. Not just loved, but been passionate about. I regularly spend hours at a time browsing in bookshops, losing track of time, losing myself in another world.

There’s a bookshop near my office, and a couple of times a week I go there in my lunchbreak, and spend a good hour wandering around, smiling softly to myself, sometimes just brushing the covers on the hardbacks grouped on tables in the centre of the floor, other times spending the full hour engrossed between the covers of a new release.

My dream has always been to own a bookshop. Actually, my dream has always been to own a bookshop that also encompasses a café. I envision it as the sort of place that would attract regulars, lovable eccentrics who would step in to make the cappuccinos if I needed a hand.

It would be a laid-back kind of place. There would be beaten-up old leather sofas, squashy armchairs, possibly a fireplace in winter. Of course when it’s summer, and I remember how much I love the sunshine, I envision it in a completely different light – my summer fantasies make it light, bright, breezy. It has stripped pine floors and slick chrome chairs, huge glass windows and Mediterranean-blue walls.

I indulge in this fantasy far more frequently as I get older. I used to think, in my early twenties, that I would work until I had enough money in the bank to open my bookshop, and that, as soon as I did, I would hand in my notice and get going.

But of course enough money is never quite enough, and now, although I seem to have amassed a fairly sizeable amount in the Abbey National (thanks largely to my lovely grandmother, who died and left me her flat in Wembley a couple of years ago), I know it will never be enough to allow me to jump ship, because actually it’s not about the money at all.

Si says I’m scared, and of course he’s right. Up until a year ago, I loved my job, I really did. I loved my clients, loved putting campaigns together, got a real buzz from it. But this last year it’s felt more and more like hard work. I seem to be less and less motivated, but every time I think about leaving, fear clutches my heart and I know I haven’t got the nerve.

What if the bookshop were a disaster? What if I lost all my money? What if I couldn’t afford my mortgage? How could I give up my PPP? My pension plan?

One day, I tell myself, I will do it. I will fulfil that dream. It’s just that I’m not sure when.

*

‘Cath, darling! We need to meet. When are you free?’ Lucy’s voice is bubbling over with excitement, making me smile.

‘Why? What’s happened? You’re not pregnant again, are you?’

Lucy shrieks. ‘God, no. Not yet.’ Then there’s a silence. ‘Bugger. I might be. When’s my blasted period due?’ she mutters. ‘Oh, anyway.’ Her voice is bright again. ‘This is much more important. I have a proposal to put to you.’

‘I can’t marry you, Lucy,’ I laugh. ‘I’d love to, but you’re already married.’

‘If I were a big strapping chap, I would certainly marry you, but this, Cath, is something else entirely.’

‘Go on, give me a clue.’

‘Can’t. Not on the phone. When can you meet me?’

‘How about Saturday morning?’

‘Saturday? I can’t wait until Saturday. How about this afternoon? Or early evening? But afternoon would be better.’

I flick open my work diary on the desk and check the rest of the day. Thankfully there are no more meetings, and, although I don’t do this often, I agree to scoot off early to go to meet Lucy. I shouldn’t feel guilty about this, considering the hours I’ve been working recently, but I do, and if it weren’t for her insistence, I wouldn’t be doing this.

‘Hoorah!’ she says, when I agree. ‘Come over to me, then, and we’ll have a coffee. See you later. Bye bye. Oh, Cath, wait. Did you speak to Portia? Was she there?’

‘I left a message, so now it’s up to her.’

‘Well done. Quite right. See you later.’

There’s something luxurious about being at home, in my neighbourhood, at three o’clock in the afternoon. It’s a completely different world at this time, the people so different from the ones I’m used to seeing at night or on the weekends, that I’m almost tempted to forgo Lucy and grab a window table in a coffee shop, just to people-watch for the rest of the day.

So many young mothers with their babies. Where do they all come from? Harassed-looking young men in dark suits, mobile phones glued to their ears, must be local estate agents, I decide.

But what astounds me most are the sheer numbers of people. Why are they not working? What are they all
doing
here, in West End Lane, in the middle of the afternoon?

My flat seems strangely quiet at this time of day. It’s not like the weekend, when the phone never stops, or there’s music playing, or Si’s round, as usual, tidying up after my mess. It’s absolutely still, so still I start to feel guilty, as if by being there I’m doing something I ought not to be doing, as if I have somehow disturbed the flat.

I dump my case, filled with research for me to look at over the weekend, pull off my right shoe by dragging the sole of my left down it, then use my bare right foot to do the same to the other side, thanking God that Si isn’t here to witness this, as it drives him mad.

‘
Don’t
do that,’ he’d say, wincing. ‘You’ll ruin your shoes, for God’s sake. You can’t just leave them there, haven’t you got any shoetrees?’

The shoes rest on their side on the floor, daring me to look at the scuff marks I just made, so I kick them under the bed and pull on some flat boots, sighing with relief at being able to stomp around again, and run out the door.

I pause briefly at the entrance to the kitchen, tempted to grab something from the fridge, a quick snack, but of course I am going to Lucy’s, and there is no better cook in London than Lucy, so why ruin a delicious pre-dinner snack with a piece of stale pitta from my own fridge?

‘Hello, Max. It looks like you’ve been eating something yummy.’ Max stands in the doorway, blocking my path, looking at me as if I’m about to start selling him dusters and dishcloths, a mixture of disdain and pity, which is quite extraordinary, bearing in mind he’s three years old and half his face is covered in chocolate.

I’m not, as you may have gathered, a natural with children. In fact I’d go so far as to say that when God created me, he seemed to have forgotten all about my maternal instinct.

That first time Si and I pitched up to see Lucy in hospital, the day after Max was born, Lucy sat up in bed, looking tired but radiant as usual, and gestured to this tiny, tiny, little baby, eyes squeezed shut, fast asleep in her arms.

‘He’s divine,’ whispered Si in awe. ‘Look,’ he said in amazement, ‘look at those tiny hands, tiny feet. God, have you ever seen fingernails that small?’ Si held his hands, his feet, while I lurked in the background, smiling awkwardly.

‘Don’t be frightened, Cath,’ Lucy smiled, gesturing me forward with a nod of her head. ‘Here,’ and she offered the bundle in her arms to me, ‘have a cuddle.’

Well, what could I say? I couldn’t refuse, so I took Max in my arms, hoping that I’d suddenly feel all warm and gooey, but I didn’t feel anything other than uncomfortable, and, just as I was about to start praying that the baby would keep quiet, Max opened his eyes.

He opened his eyes, looked at me and screamed. But screamed. His face was bright red, his eyes scrunched up, and he was screaming as if he’d seen the devil. I practically threw him back to Lucy, and of course the minute he was in her arms he shut up. I haven’t picked up a baby since.

Si thought this was hysterical. For a good few weeks afterwards he was calling me
Scary Cathy
, and whenever I touched him – laid a hand on his arm, gave him a hug – he’d screw up his eyes and start wailing, collapsing in giggles every time.

It made me laugh at first, but after the forty-seventh time he did it, I started to get ever so slightly pissed off. Even Lucy told him off, which was most uncharacteristic of her, although she didn’t actually mean it.

‘Oh, Si,’ she’d playfully berate him. ‘Don’t be so mean. Poor Cath. It wasn’t her fault. Maxy’s just nervous of strangers, aren’t you, Maxy?’

Si would then have to prove her wrong by smugly taking Max from her arms and making faces at him or bouncing him up and down while he gurgled with delight.

And now, at three years old, Max still makes me feel as uncomfortable as he did when a newborn baby. But now, instead of screaming, he just has this habit of looking at me, and I find myself trying to befriend him, being extra-specially nice to make him change his opinion of me.

‘If you’re a good boy, Cath will give you a present. Would you like that?’ I feel ridiculous, saying these things to him, but I don’t know how else to talk to a three-year-old.