What My Best Friend Did (4 page)

We are suddenly back out in the corridor, being ushered quickly down it, away from the noise of the alarm, still going. A doctor bursts through a set of double doors and hurtles past us. I look back over my shoulder to see that a stream of medical staff is now pouring like ants into the small room.

“They just need some space to work in,” the nurse with us says insistently. “That’s all. Come on, we’ll wait down here in the relatives’ area.” It’s a command, not an option. She tries to hurry me away, but I can’t take my eyes off what’s happening behind us. Another doctor has appeared from the other end of the passage and is running. All these people fighting for Gretchen, her life—her actual, real life in their hands. A picture of her slumped up against the wall back in her flat slams into my head. A nurse runs past me, almost banging into me in her haste, and disappears into the room. Again I see Gretchen, pills at her feet … Oh my God. Everything seems to start moving in slow motion and I’m barely aware of my own voice suddenly shrieking, “No!” And then I’m collapsing to the floor, Tom is bending and trying to scoop me up, pulling me to him and I’m crying, crying, crying … as if it’s my heart that is breaking.

H
er name is Gretchen Bartholomew, for God’s sake.” I sighed, sitting on the small suitcase and trying to ignore the resulting ominous crunch that was probably every bottle in my toiletries bag breaking. “I’ve never even met the girl, but I can tell you that with a name that pretentious she can’t be anything but a massive twat. Why, why, why did I say yes to this?”

“It’s an all-expenses-paid trip to LA and if you do a good job, this magazine might use you for travel features,” Tom said sensibly, slipping his shoes on. “And she can’t help her name. She might be really nice.”

“The whole thing just sounds really tacky!” A pair of my knickers that seemed determined to ping free were caught in the teeth of the suitcase zipper. I shoved them back in and started to tug it closed. “And she’s a kids’ TV host, which means she’ll be thick as two short planks. Oh come on, you …” My fingers were going white with the effort of trying to get the bloody thing closed.

“Why are they shooting her?” Tom asked absently.

“She’s moving to Hollywood to make it big over there or something,” I said, puffing slightly, “like anyone cares. This case is going to literally explode when I open it at the other end.” I looked at the straining seams worriedly. Maybe four pairs of shoes was a bit excessive. I very gingerly got off it and waited. Thankfully, it held—but bulged like a swollen water balloon ready to burst.

“On the subject of coming and going,” Tom picked up the ends of his tie, which was looped around his neck, “while you’re away, shall I ring that Spanish bloke and let him know he can have Vic’s old room?”

My face fell. Tom smiled sympathetically as he tightened the tie and came over to give me a hug. “I know you miss her, Al, but we can’t keep her room empty for ever, we can’t afford to.”

“Paris,” I growled, muffled by his shirt, “is a really stupid place for her to live. I hate that gitbag French doctor with all his smooth, “Come and live in my chateau,
cherie.”

“No you don’t,” Tom laughed, “we like Luc. You were the one who spent hours on the phone reassuring her she’d done the right thing! And now, she’s very happy.”

“Fine, we’ll phone the Spanish bloke then,” I said rather crossly, thinking about Vic, who I missed badly. “He did seem the least clinically insane of all of the applicants.”

“But on the other hand”—Tom pulled back, a considered expression spreading across his face—“are we sure we don’t want to live somewhere just us, rather than with some over-pumped-up Spanish beefcake we got out of the back of the paper?”

“We can’t afford to, we’ve been over this,” I said through a mouthful of toast that I’d grabbed from my plate, before looking around for my handbag. I couldn’t remember where I’d last seen it.

“Unless, of course, we start looking for something smaller, maybe to buy. Together.”

I immediately stopped looking for my bag and turned to him instead. That was the first time either of us had openly and formally suggested anything of the kind. I waited for my heart to leap joyfully. To my surprise it didn’t, but then my taxi was due to arrive in minutes. How typically male of Tom to pick absolutely the worst time in the world to debate a major life-changing issue and randomly chuck a statement like that into the pot.

“Renting long term is just dead money,” Tom continued, taking a quick sip of his tea. “It’s great when you’re younger and you need flexibility, but we could save so much by paying into a mortgage now … and the market conditions are great for people like us.”

“People like us?” I said, confused.

“Settled people, couples … most of our friends have bought somewhere,” he said pointedly. “I’ve saved a really reasonable deposit and—”

“But shouldn’t we do it because we want to, rather than as a practical solution to Vic moving out?” I asked.

Tom looked at me blankly and said, “Well we do want to—don’t we?”

I paused.

“Ahh!” he continued, looking at me carefully. “I’m so stupid! You mean this isn’t a very romantic way of doing things. Shit, Al—I’m sorry. I take your point. You’re right. Although getting a mortgage is just as much a commitment as getting married …”

My eyes widened. What?

“… Or at least legally it is, should anything go wrong—which it won’t.” He held my gaze significantly and then smiled at me.

Wow. I just stood there, feeling slightly stunned, realizing that my boyfriend of two years had just calmly told me he fully intended to marry me.

I waited to feel thrilled, like I was “coming home,” as if all the pieces in the jigsaw were slotting into place … but it was a bit of an anticlimax. I didn’t feel anything really, but given that I’d been eating, sleeping and drinking Frances’s wedding preparations until very recently, that was hardly surprising. I pretty much wouldn’t have cared if I’d never seen another seating plan, or order of service, for the rest of my life. And Tom had, after all, told me this over breakfast like he was announcing he’d paid the electricity bill. At the age of twelve or so, when I had dreamily imagined I would be married with several children by the age of twenty-three, I’d never pictured the moment someone would drop down on one knee and say, “Alice, will you get a mortgage with me?” He hadn’t even really asked me to do that.

“Actually,” Tom rolled his eyes, appearing not to notice I’d apparently gone mute, “what we should do is get this flatmate in now and start looking to buy in a couple of months—best of both worlds! That would give us,” he glanced up at the ceiling briefly, “just under an extra three grand, which should cover the legal fees and some of the stamp duty on whatever we find.” He smiled happily at me. “You’re right, that’s by far the best plan.”

I hadn’t actually said anything, had I?

“I’ll ring him later today and get him to move in ASAP. Time is money!” He rubbed his hands gleefully. “Mortgage-wise, what do you think realistically you could say was your annual income now? Net, not gross?”

“Tom,” I said slowly, finally recovering the power of speech, “I’m about to get on a plane to the other side of the world, I don’t even know where my handbag is and my taxi will be here any minute. Do we have to do this now? Can’t we just wait until I get back?”

“OK.” He seemed rather disappointed that I didn’t appear to have a relevant spreadsheet of figures in my back pocket. “I’ll just tell the Spanish bloke he can move in then.”

“Good idea,” I said through slightly gritted teeth as we came full circle. “You do that.” Now, where the arse was my handbag?

A car horn honked outside. I dashed to the window and looked out. A silver Ford, its driver pretending he was itching and not picking his nose, sat just below the window, presumably waiting for me. “Shit!” I said in dismay, “He’s here!” I rapped on the window and the driver glanced up to see me frantically holding up one hand, fingers spread, silently mouthing, “Five minutes.”

I whirled around quickly to see my handbag swinging lightly in Tom’s outstretched hand. “Your passport is already in there,” he said. “I checked. Just calm down, you’ve got plenty of time.”

The taxi honked again.

“All right!” Tom said, frowning at the noise. “He’s keen. I’ll get the case.” He walked over and picked it up. “Jesus, Al! You are only going for two nights, right?” He puffed as he lifted it up and walked quickly to the top of the stairs. “You’re not secretly leaving me?”

I laughed, rather more loudly than I meant to, which seem to disconcert me more than it did him.

“So what’s the theme behind this shoot?” he asked as we went down.

Men were weird. How could they one minute be talking about something so serious and then the next switch to complete trivia like nothing had happened? “Hooray for Hollywood,” I said in answer to his question. “So much for my plan to start doing more creative, less commercial stuff … I’m just a big, fat, superficial sellout.”

Tom laughed as I pushed past him and opened the front door. “It’s not that bad! OK, it’s not exactly
National Geographic
and it does sound a bit daft, but it’s all cash in the bank.” He waited as the taxi driver got out. “Just think of the greater good,” he added as the driver took the case, shoved it in the trunk and got back in the car. “I know it’s not what you really want to be doing, Al, but it’s only two nights. You’ll be back before you know it. Hey, don’t forget, on Saturday it’s Bunkers and George’s engagement-Christmas do.”

“It’s a bit early for a Christmas party, isn’t it? It’s barely the end of November!”

Tom shrugged. “That’s George for you. Super-organized. And you know Bunkers—he’d never miss a chance like this to get as many women as possible under the mistletoe before the wedding ring gets slipped on his finger.”

My heart sank even further. Edward Bunksby, known as Bunkers (a “witty” play on his name and the fact that he was an enormous solid rugby prop), was a raging lech from Tom’s office who liked to squeeze women’s bottoms in lieu of a handshake. His aggressive fiancée, Georgina, had the sharp eyes of a shrew, spike heels and an engaging line of chat which usually went along the lines of, “Hi, I’m George. I’m the youngest female partner in my firm. So how much do you earn?” Rumor had it she kept Bunkers’s balls in her briefcase and only let him have them back on special occasions.

“I know he’s a bit of a prat and George is pretty full on, but I ought to show my face, really. It’s at their house—he’s invited everyone from work. I’ll get them a present though, so you don’t need to worry about that.”

I sighed.

“Sorry, did you want us to see some of your friends this weekend?” he said.

“Like who? I’ve not seen anyone for weeks, I’ve been working so hard—I’m practically a social recluse.”

“Which is why you should try and have fun while you’re away,” Tom said soothingly and pulled me into a hug, planting a kiss on my mouth.

I’ll try,” I promised, suddenly feeling completely overwhelmed. Engagement parties, mortgages, weddings. It wasn’t even 8 A.M. yet. “Do I look all right?” I asked anxiously, glancing down at my nude-colored coat over my black tunic dress and thick black tights. “I thought I could take the tights off when I get there, if it’s hot. I’ve got flip-flops in my bag. That’ll be OK, won’t it?”

“You look great. Text me when you land.” He opened the car door. I got in and wound down the window.

“Love you, Al,” he said. “Safe journey.”

“Love you too,” I replied automatically. “So just phone that bloke then, tell him he can have the room. Don’t do anything else though, will you? Oh and don’t forget to call your mum—tell her we’ll come to them on Boxing Day and do my mum and dad on Christmas Day.”

“Sir, yes sir!” He pretended to salute me and I shot him a ha ha look as the car began to pull away. I turned at the end of the road to see him still standing there, waving cheerfully. I waved back, but as we rounded the corner, sank back into the seat heavily and was discomfited to find myself thinking that perhaps three days’ escape in LA might have some advantages after all.

Later, strapped into my seat on the plane and reading the safety card, I still couldn’t settle, which was daft, because it wasn’t like Tom’d said, “Will you marry me?” All we’d actually agreed to do was rent our spare room out, which was hardly dramatic. But he was thinking about mortgages and marriage … and thinking seriously too, by the sound of it.

That was a good thing, surely? It wasn’t like I hadn’t imagined myself walking down the aisle on my father’s arm, and Tom, beaming, turning slowly to face me. I had. Why was I feeling stressed out?

To be fair, I’d been stressed about everything recently. It’d been tough going self-employed, particularly money-wise. I hadn’t been able to ask Mum and Dad to help me out either, because they’d been totally rinsed by Frances’s wedding. I thought Dad was actually going to explode when he’d received the quote for the flowers. But then, why should Mum and Dad have bailed me out anyway? It’d been really hard work, but everything I’d achieved, I’d done myself—which I was quietly proud of, although it had meant doing a lot more of the sort of jobs I didn’t much enjoy, like the one ahead of me.

I found having to make myself do the whole, “That’s brilliant, look at me like the camera loves you!” excruciating—it felt so fake, having to force myself to be someone I wasn’t and didn’t especially want to be either. That was the beauty of travel photography: I didn’t impose myself on anything or anyone, just recorded everything as it would have been even if I hadn’t been there, and then quietly left. This gig, however, was completely different. Whatever very small satisfaction I would squeeze out of taking a picture of a pretty girl against a city backdrop wouldn’t outweigh the sheer embarrassment of being in public and taking pictures of someone dressed as—I checked my brief—a British office worker/naughty schoolgirl astride a star on the Walk of Fame. Oh God. I felt myself cringe inwardly, my stomach squirming. It was so cheesy.

A plate of plastic plane food, which managed to taste curiously of nothing and yet had a uniquely gross texture and scent, didn’t do much to help matters, but once I’d watched a couple of movies and had a little nap (although I got three electric shocks from the tartan blanket and discovered in the tiny toilet cubicle festooned with toilet paper that my hair resembled Doc Brown’s from
Back to the Future),
I began to calm down a bit.