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Authors: Kate Saunders

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Then it hit me, as if for the first time, that one day we would have to face a world without Phoebe. Suddenly I was sobbing. I couldn't stop myself. The sobs tore out of me like spirits being exorcised. I felt the chill of the hateful new world in which I would no longer be able to pick up the phone and hear Phoebe's gentle voice.
The boys and I had never discussed Phoebe's approaching death. Now that I had ripped down the barrier, the whole tone of the evening changed. I saw, through my frightened and involuntary tears, their shocked faces.
“Oh God,” I gasped, “I'm so sorry—so sorry—”
“Don't, Grimble,” Fritz said. “Don't, darling.” At once, he was gentle. He put his arms round me, and I howled into his shoulder. It was very like being held by Jimmy, which made me sob harder at first.
“I'm sorry—I didn't mean—I'm sorry—”
“Stop being sorry,” Fritz said. I felt his hand, large and warm, stroking the back of my head. “You have to cry about it—that's all you can do. There isn't anything else. We found that out when Dad died. So you cry as much as you want, honey.”
“Mum doesn't really want wives for us,” Ben said sadly. “She just wants our hearts not to be broken.” A tear slid down his face. “And they're broken already. Losing Dad was bad enough, but I don't know how any of us can live without Mum.”
“Don't you start,” Fritz said. “We can't all cry, or we'll never bloody stop. I think we should have a nice cup of tea. Fancy a cup of tea, Cass?”
I was trying to pull myself together, deeply ashamed of my outburst. But the boys seemed to want to carry on comforting me. Perhaps I was helping them express something. Fritz released me with a friendly kiss and went into my tiny kitchen. Ben sat me down beside him on the sofa. Solemnly, he took off his donkey jacket and spread it across our legs.
“There you are, Cass,” he said, “all safe in our little Cotton House.”
Fritz came in, with three mugs of tea on a tray. It was highly characteristic tea, thick and red and searing hot. I found myself wondering how long it was since I had tasted this late-night beverage. Spending time with
the Darlings was forcing me to confront a version of myself that I had forgotten. I was remembering now why I had enjoyed being that slightly scruffy, hedonistic person. Little by little, the world became normal again. I felt peaceful, and deeply fond of my two old friends. At that moment, I made a conscious decision to be as tough as possible about the future—for their sakes as well as Phoebe's.
I untangled myself from Ben's jacket and went into the kitchen, to scrub my tear-boggled face with a tea towel and dish up the cassoulet. We were all ravenous. Ben forgot about Mrs. Appleton's healthy bean sprouts and ate two helpings. More wine was opened. More tea was made. We talked about Phoebe, and how hard we all found it to even think about saying good-bye.
“It's worse because we sort of know what to expect,” Ben said. “It doesn't seem five minutes since we were going through all this with Dad.”
“It's odd, how much of it feels the same,” Fritz said thoughtfully. “The routine of it all, I mean—the medicines, the tests, the endless and ultimately futile visits to consultants. The fantastic thing about Dad was that he wouldn't take any bullshit.”
“He had to know as much as possible,” Ben said. “He wanted to feel he was in control. He was only thinking about Mum, and making it easier for her. And now she can only think about us.”
“She's sorry for us,” Fritz said. “I can't stand that. I wish I knew how to stop her worrying about us.”
The brothers exchanged brief, private looks of understanding. I felt foolish. I don't think I had fully realized, until now, that Jimmy's death was the point at which their lives left the rails. I remembered now how unearthly the silence had seemed, when that lively presence was extinguished. I also remembered (how could I have forgotten?) the heroic way the boys had played down their own grief, to comfort Phoebe.
“We'll do anything in the world for her, you know that,” Fritz said quietly. “And if she wants us to get a couple of wives—we'll bloody well do it, okay? Find me someone Phoebe likes, and I'll do my level best to fall madly in love with her.”
“Me too,” Ben said. “Open up your address book and do your worst.”
They were listening. Now I had come to the hard part. “It won't be
that terrible,” I assured them. “But there are a few little changes we have to make first.”
“Here we go,” Fritz said. “Extensive washing of prepuces.”
“Yes,” I said, “appearance is the first area. You should probably get yourselves some new clothes. And maybe haircuts. And you both have to shave more.” I hurried on nervously. “You're both great-looking, but the kind of women I bring in are not going to appreciate guys dressed for the dole office.”
Ben asked plaintively, “You mean we have to wear
suits
?”
“Sometimes,” I admitted. “Mostly, it's just a question of looking sharper and tidier, and wearing stuff that isn't riddled with holes.”
“But we're poor. We can't afford new stuff.”
“Phoebe will bankroll you,” I said.
Fritz was grinning, enjoying my effort to be tactful. “And will new threads and a shave be enough, or is there more?”
“Of course there's more, Fritz.” Bugger tact. This was the time to let them have it between the eyes. “You have to do something about that disgusting flat, in case someone sees it. When was the last time Mrs. Wong cleaned it?”
Fritz chuckled. “Christmas. She says she won't go in any more.”
“You two have to clean that basement until it's in a fit state for the cleaner.”
They both laughed. Ben said, “It's mainly him. You wouldn't believe what a slob he is. It'd be in an even worse state if I didn't vacuum round his legs occasionally.”
Fritz said, “Benedict, you wound me. Who cleaned the microwave only last week?”
I had been working my way up to the first bombshell, and it could be avoided no longer.
“And the most important thing you have to do,” I said, “if this scheme has any chance at all, is get proper jobs.”
There was a stunned silence. I had uttered the unutterable.
Fritz scowled. “Proper jobs? What the hell does that mean? You know perfectly well why I'm not working at the moment. I'm an actor. I can't conjure an acting job out of nowhere.”
“I'm a musician,” Ben said, stubborn as a child. “I need time to develop my performing style and work on my repertoire. I can't just write to the Wigmore Hall asking for a gig.”
“No,” I said boldly, “but there's nothing to stop you teaching, is there?”
“Teaching? Come on.”
“Why not? You could put an ad in the
Ham and High
. And I bet Phoebe will know someone who wants lessons. As for you, Fritz,” I was taking my life in my hands here, “you have to stop turning things down.”
This was dangerous territory, and we all knew it. Fritz had turned down several acting jobs he considered beneath him, including an advertisement for lager that might have brought in good money.
His scowl reappeared. “I haven't got an agent any more.”
The last agent had chucked Fritz off her books for walking out of an episode of
The Bill.
I said, “You'll have to find another one.”
“How, for fuck's sake? Do you have any idea how hard it is?”
They were both angry with me. It was one thing to criticize their appearances and sex lives, but quite another to expose their professional inadequacies. I gave a sigh that was half a groan. “Look, I'm sorry. But I had to say it.”
“As a matter of fact,” Fritz said coldly, “there is another agent who's interested.”
“Great!”
“She needs to see my work before she decides.”
“Oh.”
At last he gave me a rusty, reluctant smile. “This friend of mine from RADA is directing a fringe production, and he wants me in it. There's no money, but it should be a good enough showcase. I'd better give him a call, and offer myself up as a sacrifice.”
“That's brilliant,” I said warmly. “What's the play?”
“Dunno. But he said it would be a great part.”
“Wonderful. I can bring eligible young ladies to see you. There's a certain type of posh girl who loves hanging round a fringe theater—well, I daresay you know that.” I was being as positive as I could—though when it came to the point, forcing these two between the jaws of Real
Life felt strangely sad. “Even if you don't earn pots of money, you have to be seen to be doing something. Doing nothing is the biggest turnoff. I want to tell my friends you're ambitious and hard-working, and focused on your future careers, and—”
“Whoa, Grimble, steady on,” Fritz said. “Your nose is growing.”
“I'm not lying,” I said firmly. “I'm only exaggerating a little.” I looked at them both keenly, to make sure I had their full attention. “The thing is, I know dozens of women who'd fall in love with you—but only if I have your full cooperation. You have to be with me one hundred percent.”
The boys looked at each other cautiously.
“I'll think about it,” Fritz said.
“You said you would a second ago,” I reminded him.
“That was before I heard the terms.”
“Maybe settling down isn't such a bad idea,” Ben mused. “Is that doctor friend of yours still free?”
“Claudette? No.” I shot Fritz a meaningful look. “She's married.”
This, of course, was my preparation for the second bombshell. I didn't think I had to say it aloud—they both had at least a basic grasp of the Bleeding Obvious. Before I let any friend of mine near them, Fritz and Ben needed to scrub their current love lives with Dettox.
Fritz sighed. “Here we go again. That's the problem you can't get over, isn't it? Naughty Fritz and his married strumpet.”
“Well, I'm sorry,” I said, exasperated, “but I can't do a thing with you until you get rid of that dreary Madeleine.”
Unexpectedly, Fritz chuckled, a little savagely. “I don't know why I'm telling you this, when my sex life is absolutely and totally none of your business—but I have a feeling Madeleine will soon be going to Potters Bar.”
“Oh,” I said, tactfully trying not to sound too thrilled. “Going to Potters Bar” was our old teenage slang for being dumped.
“I'll give you the green light when she gets there.”
“Fair enough.” I was longing to interrogate him, but had the sense to keep my mouth shut. He was scowling. I knew him well enough, however, to see that he was inwardly smarting. Fritz drove all hurts deep within himself.
“And possibly,” he went on, “Ben might think about Old Mother Appleton.”
Ben was instantly defensive. “What's that supposed to mean?”
“Only that Potters Bar is lovely at this time of year.”
“I wish people wouldn't get the wrong idea about Vinnie. It's a purely spiritual relationship.”
“If I have to be a proper bachelor, so do you,” Fritz said. He was serious, but I was sure he was enjoying himself—he loathed Mrs. Appleton. “You don't count as a bachelor while you're hanging out with her.”
“Look, for the last time, it's a purely—”
“Rubbish,” Fritz said cheerfully. “If she hasn't got into your trousers yet, it's only a matter of time. You won't hang on to your virtue for much longer. And if I have to give up my girlfriend, you have to do the same.”
Ben was scowling. In his ringletty days he would have pouted. “But she's not my—”
“Fine. I'm not giving up mine unless you give up yours.” Fritz folded his arms.
“Yours is different,” Ben muttered. “I don't have sex with Vinnie, all right? But I suppose I'll stop seeing her if you stop seeing Madeleine.”
Fritz grinned at me. I could see that he was starting to like the idea of interviewing a succession of hopeful young ladies.
“Okay, Grimble—we'll get single, then you can get busy.” He threw back his head and put on his Olivier voice. “Cry havoc, and let loose the dogs of marriage!”
A
surprisingly short time after this, Fritz sent me an e-mail at work.
Re: Single Gents R Us
We've done it. Come round with a list of gorgeous girls.
Betsy, reading over my shoulder, snorted scornfully. “Not sobbing and broken-hearted, then—just clamoring for more girls.”
“He's only joking,” I protested. “Misery makes him brutal.”
“Was he serious about that married woman? Surely not!”
“More serious than he let on. I wonder what happened?” I was burning with curiosity. The chaotic Darlings had managed to shed two unwanted women in a matter of days. I couldn't even begin to imagine how they had done it.
Betsy was in a cynical mood. “He obviously thinks he's doing womankind a huge favor. You'd better get in quick, or they'll be snapped up by another pair of unsuitables.”
How right she was. The minute it got out that Fritz and Ben had come free, unsuitables would flock to them like iron filings to a pair of well-hung magnets.
I pressed “Reply,” and wrote:
See you tonight @ 7:30. Cassie.
Truthfully, I was glad of an excuse to see Phoebe and the boys. I needed distraction and reassurance, because something was wrong between me and Matthew. Though we were as civilized as ever on the surface, some kind of worm was eating at us. At the time, I couldn't be clearer than that. I didn't even have a fully formed suspicion, let alone proof. All I had was the vaguest sense that the emotional temperature around Matthew had changed—and that could have meant anything, from born-again Christianity to piles. But (like Miss Clavell in the storybook) I simply knew Something Was Not Right. I couldn't go any further than that. I was too scared. A nerve had been exposed. It wasn't hurting yet, but I knew the lightest touch would be agony.
Matthew had called hurriedly from work to cancel our date. We were supposed to be going to a tough concert (Hindemith), which I was rather glad to get out of, but it was a bad omen all the same. Matthew almost never chickened out of an event when he had already paid for the tickets. Yet this was the third time in two weeks. I knew that he really was working incredibly hard. But I was frightened. If I'd been alone, with nothing to do, I might have cried.
Betsy, who had heard the whole call, said, “By the way, I forgot to ask about Matthew. What's the problem this time?”
I forced my voice into breeziness. “Another dinner with clients.”
“Oh. Well, at least you'll be able to finish up some work. He's not the only busy person in the world.”
“Actually,” I said, “I'm matchmaking this evening. If Fritz and Ben really have dumped their girlfriends, I need to be ready with suitable names. I don't know where I'm going to find the time.”
Betsy was right about us being busy. The centenary of the magazine was looming, and we were working flat out on plans for a special double issue. We had a wild hope that this might hike up our sagging sales, and possibly provide us with a few readers below retirement age. And we were eking out a tiny budget, assisted only by Puffin (our twenty-four-year-old office slave, an amiable and extremely cheap upper-class twit) and Shay (part-time contributing editor; highly talented but we got him cheap because of the drinking).
I was writing a long article about the minor Edwardian novelist who had founded the magazine. One of his novels had recently been televised,
complete with lush nude scenes, and I was wondering if I dared to give scores of elderly readers heart failure by putting bare tits from the series on the cover. On a more exalted note, I had persuaded the Poet Laureate, two eminent British novelists and one distinguished American to contribute essays and reviews. I was preparing to be interviewed on several radio arts programs, and possibly
Newsnight,
about the past century from a
Cavendish Quarterly
point of view (strangely quiet, in case you're interested). Work is a great distraction when there's something you don't want to think about.
“So how will you get them together?” Betsy asked.
“Sorry?”
“The Darlings and their brides. How will you engineer the meeting?”
“God, I don't know,” I said. “Where did you meet David?”
“At a poetry reading,” Betsy said. “In Camberwell.”
“Oh.” This was a bit of a nonstarter.
Betsy sighed. “He looked just like Jonah does now—without the ponytail, obviously. But sometimes, when I catch him in the half-light, in his duffel coat …” She sighed again. “Where did you meet Matthew?”
“At a dinner party.” I allowed myself a pang of nostalgia; remembering how my knees had weakened at the first sight of his sharp, square shoulders. “I thought a dinner party might be the best way to launch Fritz and Ben.”
“Hmmmm.” Betsy was doubtful. “It's an awful lot of work, though. What does Matthew think?”
“He'll be all for it,” I said. “He loves dinner parties. He's been on at me to hone my entertaining skills. Dinner parties are important for future partnerships, apparently.”
“What does he think of your matchmaking plans?”
“I haven't told him.”
“Why not? Surely a male point of view would be useful?”
“Not Matthew's. He can't stand the Darlings.”
“Oh. Won't that be awkward? I mean, how will you get them round the same table?”
I had thought about this. “Fritz and Ben are the only single men we know who aren't gay, prematurely bald or barmy. Matthew wants to ‘network' with his female colleagues, and they're all single.”
“So?”
“If we invite single women to dinner, we have to invite single men to go with them, like potatoes with meat,” I said patiently. “This has been the law of the dinner party since Plato's
Symposium
, and Matthew always respects a law.”
“Well, I wish you luck,” Betsy said kindly. “And before I forget, there's a huge mistake in this month's crossword.”
“Who's on?” I stepped back into the neutral professional zone.
“Argonaut.”
“Oh God. Isn't he dead yet?”
Betsy chuckled. “Do you want me to phone the silly old codger, or shall I just have him humanely put down?”
We laughed so much at this that we decided to take a tea break. Then we composed insulting speeches for poor Argonaut's funeral, and laughed more. This sort of thing is what makes office life bearable. Shay and Puffin squeezed into the room to join us, bringing chocolate biscuits. Shay was a bloated, dark-haired Belfast man, who looked a decade older than his forty-eight years, and who couldn't come to work until he had stopped shaking. Puffin was a skinny pipsqueak with mad yellow hair and hilarious upper-class vowels. They were both delightful, and Betsy and I loved the days when they came into the office. I'm afraid it made us both dress slightly better than usual.
The tea break had stretched to forty crumby and convivial minutes, and Puffin was in the middle of teaching Betsy to dance the Gay Gordons, when there was a scuffle at the outer office door. We all dashed back to our desks, giggling like guilty third-formers. We were at the top of six flights of stairs, and when someone called unexpectedly, it was usually the dull and stingy old man who owned the magazine.
But our visitor was Ben Darling, alight with energy, despite the mountain of stairs—and smiling so that he looked, for a moment, remarkably like Phoebe. He swept me up into his arms.
“Cassie, I've come to take you out to lunch.”
“What are you doing? Put me down—this is terrible for the editor's dignity.” Laughing, I struggled free. “I'm penniless till the end of the month, so you'll have to take someone else.”
“No, Cass, honestly—this time I'm actually paying.” I hadn't seen Ben
this pleased with himself for ages. “I've reserved a table for us at a very nice Italian place round the corner. It's to thank you because you made me get a job.”
“What? What's this?” I was bewildered. “A job?”
“I know you thought I should give piano lessons, because you and Fritz think I'm a bit of a loser—”
“Ben! That's not true!” (It was a bit.)
“But I thought I'd do better with some session work. So I called all my old contacts, and struck gold. A tenor from college is adding
Pagliacci
to his repertoire, and his regular accompanist's having a baby. So I'm taking over. Don't you think that's a reason to celebrate?”
“It's wonderful,” I said carefully. “But didn't you say—I mean, I saw you more as a soloist.”
“Did you? I see myself as a musician, pure and simple. And Neil and I make tremendous music together.”
I saw that Ben was on his dignity and beginning to be pompous. “It's fantastic,” I said warmly. “Phoebe must be thrilled.”
Ben grinned. “That's putting it mildly. You'd think I'd won a Nobel prize or something. I'm playing for him at a recital next month, and I know she'll move heaven and earth to come to it.”
“Ben, this is incredibly fabulous. Where's the recital? What's he singing?”
“Shut up, you two,” Betsy said, opening her flask of soup. She had recovered from her astonishment that any contemporary of Jonah should find paid employment. “Go away out to lunch. You can't do your gossiping here.”
Ben gave her one of his radiant smiles. “Thanks, Mrs. Salmon.” (I was amused that he thought Jonah's mum must be in charge of the rest of us.) “I won't get her drunk.”
And so I found myself following Ben down the six flights of stairs and out into the sunshine, suddenly feeling foolishly optimistic. Ben, when he was truly happy, had Phoebe's gift for diffusing happiness. He was smiling and shining, and effortlessly beautiful. I checked my pulse, and was amazed that I still didn't fancy him.
He had found a pleasant Italian restaurant, tucked away into an obscure
side street, far from the ruinously posh haunts of Piccadilly. We sat at a table in the window, watching the occasional passersby and drinking light, sharp white wine.
“It really is fantastic about your job,” I said, feeling I hadn't lavished quite enough praise. “It sounds as if you might even enjoy it, too.”
Ben, whose ethereal and supposedly ailing form contained a stomach like an incinerator, snatched yet another slice of bread.
“I know I said I wanted to be a soloist,” he said, “but I'm not competitive enough. And it's lonely up there, anyway.”
“Tell me about your tenor,” I said. “Is he single?”
“I think so,” Ben said. “But he's rather fat and he has red hair, so don't get your hopes up. Neil's beauty is in his voice.”
“Is he good?”
Ben nodded seriously. “He's got what they call a ‘silver' voice—very flexible and sweet. His agent's trying to push him into opera, but I don't think his heart's in it. He prefers recitals.”
“What's the money like?”
He laughed. “I knew you'd ask that. The rehearsal rate isn't great—but there's a chance of a lot more if I do the concerts.”
“Wow, you'll be on a concert platform. Do you realize, you just made yourself about a hundred times more eligible.”
Our food arrived at the table, and Ben muffled himself in lasagne.
I picked at a risotto. It was sticky, and I never felt hungry when worrying about Matthew. “Fritz sent me an e-mail this morning,” I said. “Is it true? Has he really disentangled himself from Madeleine?”
“Yes,” Ben said, through a mouthful of pasta. He put down his fork and looked at me seriously. “Look, when you come round tonight, don't mention the bruise on his face.”
“Bloody hell, are you saying Madeleine hit him?” I was partly horrified, partly intrigued. Why on earth had Fritz involved himself with this harpy?
“She threw a brass candlestick at him. It could have killed him, so we decided not to tell Mum.”
“She thinks he walked into a door,” I guessed.
Ben smiled ruefully. “That's the sort of thing.”
“She dented his head because she couldn't dent his heart.”
“He's not good at showing emotion, that's all.” Ben, who had endured a lifetime of teasing and bullying from his firecracker brother, always had to defend him. “He buries it, and you have to guess how he feels.”
“His e-mail seemed quite jaunty.”
“Don't be too hard on him. He's not as tough as he makes out. He doesn't show it, but he's having a rough time at the moment. What with Mum.”

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