Fast Friends (3 page)

Well, they’d certainly both changed in fifteen years.
Camilla even managed a wry smile at the thought. Here she was in her velour
dressing-gown and matching slippers, hugging a mug of tea, glasses perched
precariously on her nose, and remembering that she hadn’t plucked her eyebrows
for weeks.

And there was Roz, gypsy-eyed and
glossy mouthed, in
scarlet silk which
shimmered each time she spoke. She was as
clever
and beguiling as ever, of course, and it was a sure bet
that she was
wearing silk stockings. The memories were coming back now, old jealousies
resurfacing as the initial burst of pride faded and sank.

I ought to contact her, thought
Camilla. It would amuse her
to see me
now, how I am. Roz had grown into her looks; always
striking, she was now almost breathtakingly beautiful. And her
old
room-mate? I was pretty, Camilla told herself fiercely. Now
I’m simply . . . faded. Almost as if Roz had drawn
my looks
from me like a vampire and added them to her own.

‘And how’s your love life, Roz?’ the interviewer was
saying with what he hoped was an impudent grin.

‘
Fine, thanks. How’s
yours?’ said Roz, examining her
polished fingernails and smiling as the
audience erupted with raucous laughter. Camilla glanced at her own nails around
the
mug, short and unvarnished and flecked
with white. A house
wife’s hands. Roz
had lovers, whilst she was stuck with two
children and a husband who said he had a headache whenever
she
kissed him in bed.

‘
And you’re living in
Gloucestershire now, I understand.’
The interviewer decided to move on
to safer ground and Roz, from the
chaise-longue,
nodded her approval
before listening carefully to her reply. As her television self described the
house she glanced around the sitting-room for confirmation. Cotswold stone
walls, tapestry curtains, exotic rugs strewn over polished
parquet, ‘architectural foliage’ and miraculous
concealed light
ing. Next week,
Homes & Gardens
would feature
it; the ultimate in country chic and effortless stylishness, and women – it was
almost always women – would sigh over the photographs and storm down to John
Lewis in search of tapestry curtains of their own. According to the features
editor, anyway.

‘
. . . so you don’t miss
the bright lights of London?’ asked
the interviewer with an enormous
wink, and Roz saw out of the
corner of her
eye the headlights of a car drawing nearer, along
the narrow lane
leading to her house. Plenty of bright lights to
keep me amused on these long winter nights, she thought with
a
momentary twinge of annoyance because Jack was here earlier than she’d expected
him.

‘I’m never bored,’ she told the interviewer smoothly.
"There’s
always something to do, even in
the country. Plenty of people
have learnt that over the years.’ It was
exactly the kind of
double
entendre
the audience loved and they erupted once more,
laughing
and applauding idiotically as if she had said something original.

The car stopped outside and Roz flipped the remote control
once more, switching herself off. As she
rose to her feet the
doorbell rang
twice, as it always did when Jack had his finger
on it. This habit of his, she reflected, was just beginning to
irritate
her; maybe the affair was on the wane, after all.

Dear Roz, Camilla wrote for the third
time that evening. It
was
extraordinarily difficult to know what to say to someone whom you hadn’t seen
for fifteen years. The first attempt had
sounded
like a cross between a fan letter and a very dull diary,
but now that
the idea had taken root she was determined to re
-establish contact. Anything that might liven up her life was
worth a try, and she didn’t have the nerve to
parachute out of
a plane.

Guess who – a voice from the past!
This is Camilla (no
longer
Avery-Jones, I’m now Mrs Stewart) and having just
watched you on TV, I thought how nice it would be if we
could
get together sometime and catch up on
all the gossip. What a
lot has
happened since we left Elm House! (Camilla didn’t
mention that most of
it had happened to Roz – let her think that
she
wasn’t the only one with the thrill-a-minute lifestyle.) I’m
living in London, so next time you’re in town, why don’t you give me a ring and perhaps we could
meet for lunch. Do get in touch. It would be so nice to see you again.

Camilla hesitated, then signed it ‘Love
from Camilla’ and
hoped
it didn’t sound odd, although ‘Yours sincerely’ would
have sounded even odder. And then
before she could have
second thoughts she stuffed the letter into an envelope and
addressed it to Roz c/o "The Johnnie Mason Show’ at
the BBC.
There, she had done it. From now on
– as always, thought
Camilla with a rueful smile – the ball was in Roz’s
court.

Chapter 2

’Why on earth should Roz Vallender want to get in touch
with
you?’
sneered Jack. Camilla fixed her gaze on the
television
and felt her stomach lurch. She wished now that she hadn’t
mentioned it, that she had waited until she had
received a reply.
It would have been
far better if she could have casually
announced that she had a lunch
date with Roz.

‘
We were best friends
at school,’ she muttered, and Jack
waved away her words with an
impatient gesture.

‘Don’t I know it. You’ve told me enough times, for Christ’s
sake. And if she’d wanted to stay friends
she could have
contacted you years ago. You’re only making a fool of
yourself.’

Apprehension mingled with annoyance, but for a moment he
experienced a rising spiral of excitement, too.
Unsure whether
he was actually in love with Roz, but definitely
infatuated with her nevertheless, the thought of his wife and mistress renewing
their old friendship added an irresistible
frisson
of danger to
the situation. Which was, after all, partly the reason
for most extra-marital affairs, he acknowledged without guilt. And his affair
with Roz was undoubtedly exciting.

‘
She was interviewed on
"The Johnnie Mason Show" last
night,’ Camilla tried to
explain. ‘It was a spur of the moment decision. It doesn’t matter, anyway, if I
don’t hear from her,’ she
added defensively. ‘I
just thought it was a good idea at the
time.’

What would
you say, wondered Jack as he watched his plump
wife take another biscuit from the tin in front of
her, if I told
you that whilst you
were watching Roz on TV last night I was making love to her on her living-room
floor?

‘It’s ridiculous,’ he said flatly. ‘You won’t hear from
her. Roz
Vallender’s wealthy and famous. Why
on earth should she want
to see you again, now?’

Nico spotted the letter lying beneath
Roz’s glass coffee table
and read it whilst he waited for her to finish dressing up
stairs.

‘Are you going to phone her?’ he said when she appeared in
the doorway, shimmering in silk the colour of old gold, a long jacket and short
skirt that showed off her slender legs.

‘We went to school together.’ Roz smiled. ‘I ought to
reply to her letter really, but . .

She gestured helplessly with her hand
and Nico frowned.
Close
to his own family and friends, he was never able to
understand why Roz chose to remain so
remote from her own.
She had mentioned in passing the other week that she hadn’t
seen her mother for three years and
the knowledge had upset
him.

‘Why don’t you want to see her?’ he persisted, risking her
annoyance. ‘It would be nice. She only wants
to meet you so
that you can catch up on each other’s news.’

Roz looked doubtful but not,
thankfully, irritated by his
insistence.

‘
I suppose,’ she said
slowly, ‘I’m just not terribly interested
in hearing about other people’s
lives. If they are more exciting than mine, I’m envious. If they are dull and
unhappy, then I’m
bored. So there really
doesn’t seem to be much point, darling,
do you see?’

‘
No,’ Nico shrugged. ‘But it’s your affair.’

Roz grinned, picked up her bag and slipped her arm through
his. Their table at the restaurant was booked
for nine and
although she and Nico would be seated immediately whatever
time they arrived, she was starving.

Harrods was revving up for Christmas even if no-one else
was, thought Camilla, shifting her carrier bag from one hand to the
other and surreptitiously rocking back on her heels
in order to ease the weight from the balls of her feet. She always felt like
this in Harrods. The customers were generally so
chic, so
flawlessly dressed and made-up that she felt compelled to make
an effort herself.

And now, after three hours, she thought unhappily, my high
heels are killing me, my face is red and
shiny because my coat
is too hot and my hair is falling down.

To add insult to injury, the impossibly elegant girl
standing a few feet away was looking effortlessly cool and comfortable in
black lace trousers and black leather boots.
People like that, Camilla decided, people with all-year-round tans, expensive
blond hair and twenty-two-inch waists, were always
around
when you didn’t need them.

Coffee. If she made her way to the coffee
bar on the next
floor,
removed her stifling coat and rested her feet, she would
be good for another hour at least.
Harrods – or rather its
customers –
might be intimidating but she so adored spending money there that she couldn’t
bear to leave yet, and the pre-Christmas buzz had lifted her spirits
immeasurably. It was more fun here, anyway, than staying at home watching
Jennifer, the new nanny, amuse her own children more efficiently than she
herself ever could.

Everyone who had passed through the perfume hall on the
ground floor and had been sprayed had evidently now congregated in the coffee
bar on the third floor as Camilla wrenched off her coat and slid into a chair.
DKNY mingled with Eternity and she held her breath, regretting being caught in
the crossfire but feeling too tired to search for another free seat. She would
enjoy her coffee, demolish the fat slice of chocolate cheesecake
on the plate before her (cheerio diet, see you
tomorrow), and
decide whether to splash out on a set of ludicrously
expensive
violet silk underwear with which
to fascinate Jack, or to spend
the money on sensible shoes for the
children.

‘. . . and you’ll never guess who I’ve just seen in the
lingerie department,’ announced a fat woman proudly to her friend with
whom she had just met up. They were crammed into
seats
opposite Camilla’s and had strong Birmingham accents.

‘
I think I saw Michael
Caine in the food hall,’ the other
woman retaliated, and Camilla tried
not to smile.

‘Well, I
know
who I saw,’ said the first with
increasing
importance. ‘Recognized her
straight away, of course, after
seeing "The Johnnie Mason
Show" last week. You know who I mean, Marion. That dark girl who’s got her
own programme on
Wednesday nights. Whatever’s
she called now? The name’s on
the tip of my—’

‘Roz Vallender?’ said Camilla, so astonished that she
spoke
without thinking, and the fat woman
slapped the table with
relief.

‘
That’s it, of course it
is. Couldn’t think of it for the life of
me, dear. I just saw her as large as life in the lingerie depart
ment,’
she confided. As Camilla blurted out, ‘But I know her . . .
We were at school together,’ she felt a sudden
surge of adrenalin,
excitement mingled with fear, clutch at her stomach.