Virtue (45 page)

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘He’s been brilliant. Really brilliant. I was so upset, and he’s just been the best.’

‘He was wonderful the night of the fire,’ I say, ‘after you went.’ Suddenly, I feel shy about talking about him. Suddenly, after all these brazen years, I find it difficult to broach the subject of actual feeling with my best friend. Stupid. I can talk to her about anything, but I don’t know how to use the L-word.

‘He said you were in a state,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry, Anna. It really wasn’t my doing.’

‘I
know
that, Haz. But he was like the only person who believed me. I’ll never forget him for that. He’s the sort of guy you really want to have around.’

Harriet brightens. ‘D’you think so?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘I’m so glad you said that,’ she says. ‘He will be too. He really likes you, you know.’

‘Does he?’

She nods. ‘He says you’re a really spunky female, whatever that means.’

I’m pleased. ‘Does he?’

‘Yeah. He’ll be really glad when I tell him you like him too.’

Deep embarrassment. ‘Harriet! Don’t!’

‘Why not?’

‘You can’t do that. That would put him right off.’

‘Sorry?’ Harriet looks puzzled, then, suddenly, discomfited. ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Oh, I didn’t realise you meant like that …’

She trails off as he returns to the table, grinning, and sits back down. ‘I must ask them,’ he remarks, ‘how they keep those plants in there looking so nice. I don’t know what I’ve been doing wrong, but every plant in my house has dropped dead in the last couple of weeks.’

I can hardly wait for him to go, and I think he realises that, because, being a man of good grace, he gives it another five minutes, with me and Harriet staring across the table at each other and me speaking in monosyllables, and then he makes another reference to his early shift and takes his leave. Harriet hops up, walks him out to the street and I stay at the table, feeling like a prize pillock. No, not just like a prize pillock: like a prize pillock who’s had the rug pulled out from under her feet and everyone’s laughing. Like a prize pillock who’s gone and fallen in love with someone who never even wanted her in a million years. Like a prize pillock who’s just discovered that her best friend’s been lying to her all along.

The waitress returns. ‘One Jerusalatini, one Eilat Iced Tea.’ Then she places a dish of hummus and a small basket of sliced cholla in front of me. ‘I thought maybe as you hated the falafel, I’d give you this,’ she announces. ‘No one can hate hummus. It came from a shop, look.’

I thank her absently, and ask for the bill. I don’t think we’re going to be here a lot longer.

‘Oh,’ she says, ‘must you go already? You’ve only just got here. I never see you, and now when you finally come, you’re dashing off before you’ve even sat down. You’ve got better places to be than here, I suppose.’

I look at her. ‘Does this work, this gimmick?’

She shrugs. ‘Some of the time. We have to turn people away on Friday nights.’

‘Friday nights?’

‘You’d be surprised how many people leave town to get away from home and end up missing it once they’re free.’

I give her my credit card, which is starting to look a tad frayed after all the use it’s had lately, and smile even though I don’t feel like smiling.

‘I’ll sort that out,’ she says. ‘Now, eat!’

Harriet returns, sits down and waits for me to say something. She has a way of wrong-footing you like that, Harriet. So eventually I say, ‘Well. So I look a total dick, then.’

And she says, ‘Don’t be silly, Anna. You didn’t know. You don’t look anything.’

‘And how long have I been making a dick of myself for?’

‘You haven’t,’ she insists.

We stare each other out for a while, then she says, ‘I’m sorry. I couldn’t tell you because I haven’t been alone with you since it happened.’

‘God, Harriet, it’s not as if it’s some sort of solemn announcement.’

‘Not for you, maybe,’ says Harriet, and adds, slightly spitefully, or at least that’s how I choose to interpret it, ‘you’ve had more practice than I have.’

And then neither of us says a dicky bird for about five minutes.

She spends the first two minutes fiddling with her drink, stirring it with the straw, ducking the bits of fruit floating in the tan-coloured froth on the top, so they bob back to the surface with new bubbles attached. Then she folds her hands onto the table and gazes off round the room as the waitress brings the chit for me to sign and, looking disappointed, scoops up the hummus to recycle to another table. Then Harriet looks at my face again.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. But it’s not as if it’s some sort of long-standing secret.’

Paranoia makes me say, ‘Must have been nice to have such a cosy place of safety to go to, then.’

‘There’s no conspiracy here, Annie.’

‘Good to be able to get me out of the picture for a while, though.’ I’m surprised at the level of bitterness that’s crept into my voice. But you know, I’ve spent two weeks in exile, being treated like a criminal, and I
feel
bitter. So much for Gillespie and his assurances.

‘For God’s sake!’ she explodes. ‘What the hell do you think this is? Do you really think I could enlist the entire Metropolitan Police to get you out of the way so I could move in on some bloke you fancied? Get fucking real, Anna. You
know
it didn’t happen like that.’

‘Well, how did it happen, then?’

‘Look, it just
happened
, okay?’

‘Oh, right. Like your mother and father
just happened
.’

As soon as it’s out of my mouth I regret it. But it’s too late now. It’s said.

Harriet’s head jerks back, and she blinks a couple of times. ‘Ow,’ she says. ‘That was harsh. You don’t really think that, do you?’

No, of course I don’t think that. Harriet, I don’t think that. But I’m in pain right now and I’m standing back watching myself lash out.

And the pain says, ‘Well, like mother like daughter, I guess. It’s a bit of a family habit, isn’t it?’

And she says, ‘Well, I don’t suppose anything would have happened at all if you hadn’t used me as your beard while you shagged the last one in line.’

Ouch back.

‘That’s what happens when you behave like men are on some sort of conveyor belt for your pleasure. Every now and then one slips off, Anna, and you can’t get too pissed off about it.’

God almighty. I’m not pissed off about
that
.

‘You can’t treat people like toys,’ she continues. ‘They have feelings.’

‘Don’t bloody lecture me,’ I snap. ‘If I ever heard an exercise in self-justification, that’s it.’

Her haughty look comes out and she says, ‘Well, I’m sorry if just this once I’ve failed to prop up your sexual confidence.’

Ouch again. You shouldn’t have rows with people you know beyond a certain point. They know too well where to find your underbelly. This is way beyond tears. This is family betrayal. The two of us are hissing at each other like injured snakes, trying to cause as much damage before we die as we can.

‘You lied to me,’ I say.

‘Anna, I never lied to you.’

‘Oh, yeah, right. You were just economical with the truth.’

She shrugs.

‘I hate being lied to.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ she says. ‘It’s not such a big deal. I started a new relationship and didn’t want to blab about it when I didn’t know what was happening myself. Get over it, Anna. It’s not the end of the world.’

‘You don’t get it at all, do you? It’s not about the relationship, it’s about the lie. You left me out in the cold for your own convenience and I’m pissed off.’

‘Oh, grow up,’ she snaps.

‘Oho. The Fawcett charm. Or should I say the
Pigg
charm.’

She reels a little at this. ‘Golly,’ she says.

‘Golly,’ I say back.

Silence again. Everything is all twisted up inside my head. My guts are knotted and I feel like my heart is about to stop.

‘Please let’s stop this,’ she says.

‘I don’t have anything more to say to you.’

‘Don’t be stupid.’

‘I’m not fucking stupid,’ I hiss, though I’d rather be shouting. ‘Don’t call me stupid.’

‘Shut up, Anna.’

‘Well, piss off, then. Just piss off. Go away. I don’t want to talk to you. You’re a fucking liar and I don’t want to see you.’

She stops. ‘You don’t mean that.’

I turn away, dig my fingernails into my palms and fight back a scream. What am I doing? I can’t be throwing the most important thing in my world away over a man. It’s not possible. We’re supposed to be inseparable. The Siamese twins. The Weird sisters. What am I doing?

‘Anna, come on.’

‘You can go now,’ I say coldly and calmly once I’ve got my voice back.

‘Anna, please, let’s not do this. I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you, and I’m sorry you’re so upset. But let’s talk about this. Come on—’

I interrupt. What is it with pride? I could turn round now, say something in return, heal the damage. There’d be scars, maybe, but people learn to live with scars every day. I could put my arms out and she would walk into them, I know that. And pride says ‘I’ll come and get my stuff when I’ve sorted out a van.’

‘No, Anna, you don’t have to do that. Come on. This is ridiculous.’

I say nothing, refuse to meet her eye.

‘Anna,
please
.’

‘Just go, Harriet.’

‘Please can’t we talk?’

‘I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to have anything to do with you.’

‘Look,’ she says, and there’s something interfering with the clarity of her speech, ‘I love you. Nothing’s changed.’

‘But it has,’ I say. ‘Please just go.’

‘Anna,’ she says, ‘look at me.’

I keep my back to her. If I turn round, she will see my face.

She stays there for what seems like an hour. I can sense her eyes on the back of my neck, feel her trying to find words.

Then I hear the rustle of her coat, hear her stand up. ‘Come on,’ she says. ‘Don’t do this. I can’t bear this.’

But I say nothing. And eventually she puts a twenty-pound note on the table and walks away.

The restaurant is closed by the time I get back and let myself into the flat upstairs. When he hears the key in the lock, Henry leaps off the futon mattress, which is the only piece of furniture left after Roy moved out, and trots over, yawning and stretching, to rub his head against my ankles. Then he sees that something is wrong, sits up attentively, looking up at me, wide-eyed.

‘How?’ he asks tentatively.

‘Not good, darling,’ I reply.

He stands on his back legs, places his front paws on my thigh, gazes up into my eyes. ‘Don’t,’ he says.

I haul him up into my arms, turn him over and squash him to my chest. He reaches up one gentle paw and pats it on my cheek.

‘Don’t cry,’ he says. And I bury my face in his velvet coat and disobey.

These are words that are hard for me to write, as the past few days have been hard to live through. It’s been such a beautiful week, the sunshine mellow and gentle, dew on the morning grass. A week when everyone should be happy. A week for families and friends, for picnics and tennis and long lazy boat rides. Instead, we find ourselves in a veil of tears. For every morning, as we wake and see the sun streaming through the curtains, hear the excited shouts of children too young, bless them, to understand what has happened, we have thought: maybe it’s just a dream. Maybe it’s not true. Maybe it will all be back as it was before. And then the truth comes crashing down like waves upon the shore, as our heavy hearts cry once again, ‘She is dead!’

I feel as though my heart has been ripped from my chest. For though I will admit that I was sometimes harsh in judgement of Godiva, let me also say this: people are often harshest in judgement of those they love the most. For I loved Godiva Fawcett, as everyone loved her. She was beautiful, she was kind, she cared in a way that few people can afford to care in this world. She offered to everyone, everywhere, her unconditional and shining love, and we loved her in return. And I cannot be the only one who has shed bitter tears when I think that perhaps, just perhaps, if I’d shown it better, she would still be with us today.

So let me say it now. Godiva, you were loved. You probably never knew how much. Let me say how much I admired you for your selfless courage in standing up for the causes you believed in. Let me tell you about the twinges of jealousy at your beauty, your goodness, your deep and palpable devotion to the child so cruelly ripped from your arms by an unfeeling judge. Let me tell you how I respected your dignity, admired the way you stood up and showed the way for women smaller of heart and weaker of will than yourself. You were loved, Godiva, and no number of tears will bring you back.

Nothing will be the same again. Never again will our lives be brightened by this shining star in our midst. Never again will our screens light up to the sight of that beauty, never again will our voices thrill to the sound of that voice. The children of the world have lost a champion, Godiva’s daughter has lost a loving mother, and all of us have lost an inspiration, a role model, a yardstick by which to judge our own paltry efforts.

No doubt there will be cynics who will claim that the widespread sorrow over our terrible loss is mass hysteria, or crowd-pleasing, or any one of the insults that soulless intellectuals reserve for the simple emotions of real people. But today I say to them this: you are wrong. If you have been untouched by the loss of Godiva Fawcett, you will be for ever untouched by all of life’s real meaning. If you remain untouched by the courage, the nobility of her death, you will never know nobility. And I say something else. Time will tell. When all you carping cynics are forgotten in your graves, the name Godiva Fawcett will live on.

It will live on in the hearts of all who knew her, and all who knew of her, and it will live on in the hearts of wide-eyed children who will learn of her greatness alongside the fairy tales they learn at their mother’s knee. When all your feats have turned to dust, those of Godiva Fawcett will be the stuff of legend. For I am certain of one thing: we have, in our own time, witnessed the life of a saint. And one day, when the carping and the criticism is over, when the world can see with clear eyes and uncluttered judgement, it will be the deeds that live on.