What My Best Friend Did (27 page)

“Well Tom isn’t here, is he?” said Frances, scowling at Mum as she gathered Freddie from Adam’s arms. “Tactful, Mum.” Everyone looked at me awkwardly and my gaze dropped to the floor. “You had him next to Grandpa last year. It’s bloody hot in here, you know. Freddie looks very uncomfortable.”

“That’s because he’s got a hat on, Frances,” said Mum. “I’m not sure you’re right actually; didn’t Tom arrive after lunch? Oh no—that’s it! I remember now, he brought that vast thing of champagne and we all had it as a lovely toast, didn’t we? Anyway,” she said hurriedly, catching sight of my face as Phil visibly nudged her, “never mind about last year. You come and sit next to me, Alice, so I can feed you up a bit. Let’s all sit down.”

New Year’s Eve wasn’t much better. I sat dully in front of the TV, wedged in next to Granny on repeat loop in my ear, saying over and over again, “The BBC does this sort of thing terribly well, doesn’t it?” while they all sipped at their sherries and Grandpa said, “Isn’t that the nice girl from the M&S adverts? I didn’t know she could play the piano too. What a talent she is.”

As the fireworks went off over Big Ben and it chimed in the new year, I wondered where in the world Bailey was, who he would be kissing … and what glamorous party Tom and Gretchen were at. I pictured them in black tie, laughing and clutching champagne stems, with a large group of witty friends.

“Now then, my little Alice, changing guards at Buckingham Palace,” said Grandpa kindly, cutting across my thoughts, “don’t be sad. You come and give me a kiss. You wait, my love, this will be your year.” He wrapped me in a hug, spilling his sherry all over the carpet as Mum suppressed a tut and quickly grabbed for a tea towel.

By ten past midnight I was in my old single bed, under the same duvet cover I’d had aged fifteen (ballet dancers in dresses of various colors, wistfully trailing ribbons behind them), wishing with all my heart I’d taken Vic up on her offer of New Year’s in Paris. On cue, my phone buzzed with an answerphone message. I could hear cheering in the background and general merriment. “Just remember, this too will pass!” Vic shouted over the noise. It made me think of Gretchen’s bloody tattoo. “‘Happy New Year’ never seemed more appropriate! You are so brave and I’m proud of you! You’ll get there—I know you will! Love you!”

Once the Christmas break was thankfully over, I went back to work. The familiarity of the studio was reassuring when I opened up and I was relieved to have something to focus my attention on. After a morning spent concentrating on a product shot that was technically very complicated, I realized that I hadn’t thought about Bailey, Gretchen or Tom for at least three hours. It was quite a revelation.

But, it being January, things were a little slow in patches too. The studio owner cheerfully popped by to tell me he was putting his rates up; on the same day a celebrity hairdresser canceled some head shots. In a moment of paranoia, I panicked that perhaps Gretchen might have placed a few sly words in ears; she had contacts, after all. But then I realized, of course, that would have suggested she cared enough to bother, when I knew she didn’t. Even so, I felt better when the hairdresser rang back the following day with a date to reschedule.

But just as I was starting to put the old year firmly behind me, Bailey surfaced again, on Thursday, January 15 at 5:04 P.M.

“Hello?” I answered my phone curiously; it had come up number withheld. I shut the lid to my laptop.

“Alice?” And even though we hadn’t spoken since the evening he’d ended it all, I knew it was him straightaway. Not only that, but the mere sound of his voice lit me up inside and I slithered back down a snake, dropping past the ladder of progress I’d painstakingly hauled myself up. How did he do that? Just by talking?

He didn’t even bother with the niceties of “How are you?”and “Good Christmas?” but just cut to the chase. “Ally, I know this is a bolt out of the blue and I’m the last person you probably want to speak to—which is why I withheld my number—but I need your help. I’m really worried about Gretchen.”

I nearly threw the fucking phone across the room. Why? Why did people only ever ask me about her? She had him, she had Tom. For God’s sake, she apparently had the whole bloody world wrapped around her finger. Couldn’t they just stop seeking me out and let me get on with my life? And since when had he ever called me Ally?

“I’ve fucked up massively. I’m supposed to be at Gretchen’s—like now—but I missed my plane earlier. I’m in Spain, you see, and I’d call Tom but he’s in Bath at some work thing and, well, he hates me. I phoned Gretchen and she sounds pissed. As in drunk. Incredibly drunk actually.”

“So?” I tucked the phone under my chin as I packed up my bag.

“It’s five P.M.! I know she likes a drink but come on! Will you please go around and check on her? She just kept saying, ‘But you’re supposed to be here,’ over and over and then she got really cross, told me I was a cunt and hung up.”

“Oh well, in that case, yes please, I’d love to go around,” I said sarcastically.

“Something’s not right, Al. I can feel it,” he insisted. “Something is going on.”

“OK, well the last person she’s going to want to see is me. She’s very far from my number-one fan.”

“I know,” he said uncomfortably, and I wondered how much she had told him, “but I still need you to go around. Please. I’m worried.”

“Just call the police if you’re that frightened,” I said, picking up my keys and turning the studio lights off. “Or your parents.”

“They’re doing a production of
Whoops There Go My Bloomers!
in Little Chalfont. No one’s answering any phones. I can’t phone the police just because she’s drunk … Alice, please,” he begged. “Please! Just check she’s OK and then leave. I’m begging you. Please do this for me—please.” He played his trump card and waited. “I’m counting on you. Don’t let me down.”

A
t twenty to seven I very grumpily and apprehensively arrived at Gretchen’s flat. I’d already been home, vowing to myself that I wasn’t going, before I’d finally given in and done an about-face. Someone was going into the block when I arrived and let me in with them, but I knocked and rang several times on her front door to no avail. Sighing, I eventually held open the letterbox and called in, “It’s me. I don’t want to be here any more than you want me to be, but I promised Bailey. Please just open the door.”

I heard the scuffle of feet from across the room and watched through the very small gap as a half-empty whisky bottle slid into sight and stopped spinning, the amber liquid still sloshing around, finally stilling. Then I saw a pair of bare legs weave quickly but unsteadily toward me, before stumbling out of view. There was a heavy thump, like the sound of someone falling over. Then silence.

“Gretchen,” I called worriedly, “are you OK?” My irritation was instantly forgotten. “Open up!” I hammered my hand on the door and, to my relief, heard her voice say, “Coming, coming. I’m trying. Hang on.”

There was a heavy thud against the door, the sound of a lock being thrown back and then the door swung open to reveal her swaying slightly in a pink vest top and matching shorts, the sort that come in packs of three and blokes might picture sixteen-year-old girls wearing while having a pillow fight.

“You’re late,” she said, looking agitated, and promptly sneezed as she walked back into the flat, leaving me to shut the door behind me. “He said you’d be here ages ago. The timing is all buggered up, I had to stop and now I’m not sure where I’m at. It’s a bit of a problem!” she said in a singsong voice. “But, I think you should find me in the bathroom. Or maybe the sitting room. I don’t know.” She looked anxious as she wrung her hands. “I’ve never planned it before, just done it, and now it’s gone all saggy tits up, thanks to my stupid brother.”

My heart sank. She was manic. “You’re not making sense. Slow down. Have you come off your medication, Gretchen?” I asked, although the answer to that was obvious.

“I had to, you stupid cow!” she burst out, eyes wild and wide as she rushed up to me and grabbed my coat front with both hands, getting so very suddenly up in my face that I tensed with the shock and jerked away from her. Her breath stank of booze and there was a thin shining trail of snot running down from her bright red nose before she wiped it away with the back of her hand and grabbed me again eagerly. “There’s something you don’t know. I want to tell you a secret, because I need you to help me with my plan. I can only tell you if you say yes. Do you promise to help me?”

“Yes,” I agreed reluctantly, taking my coat off. I was going to somehow have to get her to sit quietly until Bailey arrived, because there was no doubt she was going to have to be admitted again—she was ramping up nicely to a major flip-out. I exhaled. I was going to see Bailey again. If I’d have only known I’d have worn some bloody makeup and wouldn’t have come dressed in scuddy trainers and trackies.

She let go of me and stepped backward, twisting her fingers and picking her nails frantically.

“I’m pregnant! No one knows—except you.”

I whooshed back to attention and my mouth fell open.

“I had to stop the lithium because it’d mess the baby up.” She started pacing in a small square. “I said no way did I want one so that’s partly why they put me on it. You shouldn’t have lithium if you want one, they said that, they said that to me. So I stopped really fast, but of course there was the party night anyway … so I couldn’t have had it, even if it was normal. Because he’d know. And that’s why you’ve got to help me.” She raked a hand up through her hair. “I can’t do this alone.” Her eyes started shining with tears.

“Do what alone?”

She rushed up to me again, grabbed my hands and said rapidly, “I’ve got a plan. I’ve thought about it and it’s going to work. I just need your help. That’s all. You’re not going to have to do anything … except call the ambulance. That’s all Bailey was going to have to do. Just find me and call. It won’t be any different, you just have to pretend you found me and call for help.”

“An ambulance? What are you—”

“Shhh!” she said. “I’ll explain. Tom’s away with work—that’s why it’s got to be tonight, he’s back tomorrow. All we have to do … is actually do it.”

“Do what?”

“Get rid of the baby,” she said patiently, as if I was a bit slow on the uptake.

I pulled my hands away so sharply one of her nails scratched me. “What?” I said, thinking I’d misheard her.

“It’s really simple,” she said, jiggling up and down like she was warming up for a run while explaining an easy-bake recipe to me. “I’ve already had some whisky and if I have too much of my lithium, my co-proxamol and drink some more, I’ll go into a coma—I learned about how to do it on the psych unit. I’m sure that will be enough to get rid of it … I think I’m only about seven weeks. Everyone will just think I’ve tried to commit suicide again; they’re all waiting for it to happen anyway. At home, over Christmas, I found a book under my mum’s bed called
Living with Manic Depression
and she’s folded the page down over this bit that says, “Research shows a high percentage of suicides within a year after a person has been discharged from hospital.” You see? They all think I’m going to do it anyway and no one will even need to know about the baby! I need you to call the ambulance because I don’t want to actually die. You’ll have to call them when it looks like I’m going unconscious because if it goes too far I could have a heart attack.” She sneezed violently and wiped at her nose.

“Did you even hear what you just said?” My voice was trembling. “Did you actually just say your poor mum is dreading and waiting for this to happen and that’ll fit with your plan? And this is a BABY, Gretchen. Tom’s baby. You can’t do this! I won’t let you! It’s sick. It’s more than that—it’s evil.”

“It’s not Tom’s baby! Well, I suppose there is a chance it could be—but it doesn’t feel like it is. You know what I did at the party in the garden. I saw you go and check in the alley. In fact,” her eyes blazed, “this is all your fucking fault anyway. If you hadn’t kissed Tom, I wouldn’t have thought you were getting back together and I’d never have let Paolo touch me again.”

“Paolo?” I said, horrified.

“Oh fuck off,” she said scornfully. “Don’t act like you didn’t know, little miss I’m-so-good-and-innocent-but-you-can’t-have-my-ex-boyfriend-because-I-don’t-like-it!” She mimed a pout and stamped her foot. “Do you know how sad I was, Alice? I cried and cried and Paolo found me and hugged me and then he was kissing me and … I’m not going to lose Tom, Alice. He’s the one good thing I’ve got in my life.”

“But there are other ways. Other things you can—”

She shook her head vehemently. “If he left you because of a kiss, he’ll leave me for this. I’ve worked so hard—I didn’t go all the way to America for nothing. I’ve had so much taken away from me, I’m not giving him up too.”

“You could … Hang on, what did you just say?” I suddenly realized what I’d just heard.

“I’m keeping him,” she said defiantly. “And no one is going to stop me.”

“Before that,” I said, staring at her.

She looked confused. “Before what? You have to stop talking, Alice.” She flapped her hands erratically. “We need to just do this!”

“You followed him out to America?” My voice was higher than it had been a second ago. I felt a wave of anger rush through me.

“Yes! I mean no—I don’t know. So what if I did?” She darted over to the sofa and snatched up a bottle of pills which I hadn’t noticed and tipped out a handful. She ran over to the whisky, stumbling en route, dropped down next to it, unscrewed the cap with one hand, took a huge swig and then shoved the pills in. She swallowed, a look of pain flashing across her face as she forced them down. She took another gulp of drink and then gasped and coughed. She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and said,“See? You can’t back out now.” She grinned manically, a flash of triumph in her eyes.

I was completely horrified by the surreal and totally terrifying thing I’d just seen her do. It was like watching a scene from a film.

She closed her eyes and took another slug of whisky so big she gagged and had to cover her mouth with her hand. “Urgghh!” she said, lurching slightly. She paused and then smiled up at me through swimming eyes. “I can’t be sick.”