Between Friends (5 page)

But there he was by her side, a miracle. She studied the smooth muscles of his arm, curled above the covers, the dark hairs thick on his chest, and caught her breath.

‘Hello, witch.’

He had woken and was looking up at her, sleepily.

‘Hello, spinner of magic spells,’ she replied, smiling shyly.

He hooked his arm round her neck and pulled her down towards him. Her hair fell over his shoulders and he caught at it, smoothing it between his fingers before taking her face between his hands and kissing her.

She really did believe that something magical had happened.

‘Home, Benji. Home b-boy.’

Damn the stutter. It had started again. She couldn’t believe it. And now it was starting to rain. If she didn’t get home in the next ten minutes, she’d be soaked.

Magical. Yes. The sorcerer had cast a spell over her and it had lasted for years before the scales had fallen from her eyes.

And then, dear God, the pain had been excruciating.

But that was another story, one that she had buried – until Tom’s reappearance yesterday had exposed the flimsiness of the fabric she had woven to cover everything.

One word from Tom and the world she had constructed would rip apart.

She had to hold strong.

No-one must never know what had happened.

Chapter Eight

‘I adore this painting, Marta. You’ve got a lovely house. Your pictures ... the colour scheme ... it’s pretty.’

‘Thank you. We like it.’

‘You and Jake.’

‘Of course, me and Jake. Talking of Jake, Tom, can I ask you a favour?’

‘Sure.’

‘Yesterday – it’s my fault, I know – but, well, you woke him up with the radio and of course I’d forgotten to tell him you were coming so he got a bit of a shock, but anyway, would you mind keeping the noise down a bit? During the day when he’s sleeping, I mean?’

‘Darling! Of course.
Mea culpa
.’ He thumped his chest. ‘How thoughtless of me.’

‘No, it’s all right, it was my fault.’

‘Sweetie, I’ll be an angel. You won’t even know I’m here.’

‘Don’t be silly, we love having you here.’

‘Enough to feed me?’

‘Are you hungry?’

‘Ravenous, darling. Just finished the show and I never like eating before it. Got to keep sharp. That edge of hunger adds a certain
je ne sais quoi
, I always think.’

Marta smiled. ‘I’m sure you’re right. I was just going to forage in the fridge, I think there’s some lamb left.’

‘Su-perb.’ Tom followed Marta through to the kitchen and settled himself at the scrubbed pine table. ‘Jakey out?’

‘Jake’s working tonight.’

‘He’s
so
admirable. Pulling pints. Such a thankless job, I always think.’

‘He enjoys it,’ Marta said defensively. ‘He meets lots of interesting people. Anyway, it’s only temporary.’

‘Of course. He’s job hunting. What’s his line again?’

‘Marketing. He used to work for one of the big banks before—’

‘Tell me about it, darling.’

‘I suppose actors are used to the kind of life where jobs come and go. But you must get lots of parts, Tom, don’t you?’

‘Bits here, bits there. What I need are more weighty parts and a better mix of theatre and television.’

‘I thought you liked theatre?’

‘Love it, darling, simply adore it. There’s nothing like connecting with a live audience, know what I mean? It’s an actor’s life blood. Got any wine, by the way?’

‘Oh sorry.’ She pulled a bottle out of the fridge, found two glasses and placed everything in front of him.

‘Thanks. But theatre doesn’t pay. Truly, that’s the long and the short of it. And living out of suitcases all the time, well—’ he shrugged, ‘—you can imagine how tedious it gets. Bottoms up, darling.’

‘Is television harder to get, then?’

‘Not harder, not exactly.’ He frowned. ‘Maybe I should change my agent. Angela Cutler. She just doesn’t seem to have the right contacts. I mean, I get ten theatre auditions to every one in film or television. And I think some people,’ he lowered his voice conspiratorially, ‘you know—’

Marta didn’t know. ‘What?’

‘Well, offer favours. To the casting director. Or the producer.’

Marta laughed. ‘You mean those old stories about the casting couch? I thought that kind of stuff went out with the silent movies.’

‘How sweet. Sadly, not. And I’m too principled to stoop to that kind of thing.’

‘Of course. So you’d like more television roles?’

‘I’d kill for them, sweetie. Simply kill for them.’

Marta scraped the remains of the lamb casserole into a saucepan and started stirring. When they sat down to eat a few minutes later, she said thoughtfully, ‘I know someone. A script writer.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘My old English teacher, as a matter of fact. Ann Playfair. She taught all three of us, Jane and Carrie and me. She was brilliant, the kind of teacher who inspires you. I think we all had a bit of a crush on her.’

‘What kind of stuff does she do? This is still fantastic, by the way,’ he said, waving a forkful of lamb towards her before it found its way to his mouth.

‘She writes one-off dramas. Soaps, too. She writes for
Emergency Admissions.
’

Tom choked and coughed. ‘
Emergency Admissions
? You’re kidding!’

‘She’s been with the show for years. Do you watch it?’

‘Do I watch it? Darling, who doesn’t?’

‘I could call her if you like. Just to get some advice. See if there’s anything on the horizon.’

‘You’re adorable, did anyone ever tell you that?’

Marta smiled broadly. ‘And other names. But I do like to help, if I can. Would it help?’

‘Who knows? But nothing ventured, as they say.’ He grinned again. ‘A part in
EA
, now that would be an income.’ He dropped his fork on his plate and held out his hand towards her, curled it round hers softly, then lifted it to his lips and kissed it with a show of gallantry. ‘I’d be forever in your debt. A call from you. A personal recommendation, even to the script writer, I mean, it all helps, you’ve no idea.’

Marta retrieved her hand. ‘Then I’ll do it. As soon as I get time.’

She caught the kiss Tom blew her playfully. Having Tom here was fun.

Tom, strolling up the road from the newspaper shop the next morning, saw Jake Davidson close the front door of the cottage, stride down the path and turn towards the bus stop.

The pastry in the brown paper bag was still warm. There was plenty of money in the pot in the hall, enough to get both the paper and a Danish. So thoughtful of his hosts to provide pocket money. And now he’d have the place to himself to brew a cup of roasted coffee and settle down with the
Mail
and some good gossip.

His mobile rang when he’d barely sipped the first cup. ‘Tom here.’

‘Tom?’ It was Angela, his agent, sounding apologetic.

‘Hello Angela darling. Any news about
Look Back in Anger
?’

He knew there was news and he knew by the sound of her voice it was bad. Bloody Angela, she was so hopeless.

‘Sorry Tom. You didn’t get it.’

Damn. Stupid, bloody West End, he never had managed to break into the big time. She was putting him up for the wrong parts, that was the problem. He should never have read for Cliff, he should’ve been auditioning for the lead, Jimmy Porter, that was much more his style. She couldn’t get anything right. ‘Fuck.’

‘I know, I know. Sorry.’

‘Who got it?’

She named a well-known actor.

‘The ginger fucking fruitcake? Sod it, Angela, you’ll have to do better than this. I do need to live, you know.’

‘Sure, Tom, but—’

‘Don’t give me your buts.’ Tom’s anger fizzled, then sputtered out. ‘Anything else in the pipeline?’

There was a sigh and the rustle of paper. ‘Not at the moment, Tom, no. I’ll keep looking. How’s Edinburgh going?’

‘You know how it is up here. A thousand bloody shows on the Fringe every sodding day. There’s no chance of getting a decent audience.’

‘How many last night?’

‘Five.’

‘Oh.’

‘Yeah, five. There are more of us in the cast, for fuck’s sake. I’ve got a good mind to jack it in and come back to London.’

‘You can’t do that, Tom. Anyway, it’s only a few more days. What have the crits been like?’

‘All right. Moderate to good. Listen, do you know anyone on
Emergency Admissions
?’

‘Don’t think so. Why?’

‘Might have a line in there. I’ll keep you posted.’

‘Great.’

‘And Angela—’

‘Tom?’

‘Get off your backside and get me some fucking work.’

‘I’m doing my best, Tom.’

‘Maybe your best isn’t good enough.’

‘Well, if you feel like that—’ She sounded hurt.

‘No, no,’ he said hastily. He couldn’t do without Angela Cutler, not yet anyway. ‘You know I love you really. Just do it, huh?’

‘Do you really? I sometimes wonder.’

‘You know I do, sweetheart. You’re the best.’

There was a small sigh, before she said, ‘Bye Tom.’

Fuck her. Fuck them all. Women. They needed so much bloody maintenance.

Now he had indigestion. He’d been banking on the part in
Look Back in Anger
. Even Cliff would have done, a few months in the West End would have been good news. He shoved the pastry away from him, topped up his coffee and downed it quickly. Maybe he’d have a quick look around while Jake was out. He could use the computer, do his emails.

The master bedroom was spotless – Marta kept a neat household. He pulled open a drawer in the long dressing table beneath the window. Women’s stuff. Nail polish, cosmetic brushes, hairbrushes, lipstick. The next drawer held knickers, tights, socks. Tom felt through them expertly. Women often concealed small, valuable items in their lingerie drawer.

His fingers tightened round a polythene bag that felt lumpy and hard. Jewellery. Costume stuff mostly, silver chains with silly little pendants, hoop earrings of the kind Marta favoured, baubles. A couple of rather better items – a fire opal set in gold, on a gold chain, and a pair of earrings that looked as though they might be sapphire and pearl. A brooch in the shape of a bow, a clumsy thing, old fashioned and heavy, but the stones looked real and the setting just might be gold.

Tom weighed it in his hand, studied it, then shoved it in his pocket, rolled the polythene bag back up as he found it and replaced it carefully under the knickers. It didn’t look like the kind of thing Marta Davidson would wear much. With any luck, she wouldn’t even notice it was missing until he was long gone. He’d drop into the pawn shop with it tomorrow.

Tom found Jake’s computer in the small room next door. He booted it up, signed in to his email, dealt with the dozen or so that required a response, then logged onto his favourite site.

A scarlet sheet floated into the screen, then settled into graceful folds.

Bed Buddies welcomes...

His breathing quickened. Screwing Angela Cutler was a duty – she had to be kept happy – but with Bed Buddies he could get great sex with absolutely no commitment and at no cost. Ideal. And perhaps he’d find a new buddy while he was here in Edinburgh, that’d just be the icing on the cake.

‘Hairy Mary.’ She sounded a laugh.

‘Annie get your gun.’ Hmmm.

‘Super Ficial.’ Maybe not.

‘D.A. Delight.’ Fucking hell. Now that was a name he hadn’t seen in a long time. D.A. Delight.

Tom smiled radiantly at the screen and tapped in a message. Now he could really have some fun.

Chapter Nine

‘So he’s like,
what
? And I was so embarrassed, Suzy, I just can’t tell you,’ Emily Harvie said into her mobile. She was lying on her bed, staring at the poster of her idol, Stephen Isserlis, wrapped around a cello and smiling at the camera like it was a woman he was about to seduce.

‘Forget it, Ems. You’ve sown the seed in his brain, haven’t you? And you can take it one step further at my party.’

‘Yeah, your party.’ Emily perked up at the thought of her friend Suzy’s party. ‘I’ve got to get some new clothes. My mum’s so mean though, I don’t know how I’ll do it.’

‘Do the old “all my friends are getting a new dress” routine. Never fails.’

‘You don’t know my mum. Still, I’ll work on her.’

‘You need to look really wicked to get Robbie’s attention.’

‘Robbie,’ Emily sighed dreamily. ‘Do you really think I’ve got a chance, Suze?’

‘Course you have, you’re sweet looking and clever, too, and he likes clever girls.’

‘He’s so much older. I don’t think he thinks I’m cool.’

‘That’s why the new dress is important.’

‘Yeah, I know.’ The sound of a snigger outside her bedroom door triggered an alarm in Emily’s head. ‘Listen, Suzy, gotta go. See you in the morning.’

‘See you, Ems. Bye.’

While she was saying these last words, Emily was crossing the floor of her bedroom and now she flung open the door to find Ross darting across the landing towards his own room.

‘Stop, you sneaky little brat! Come here.’

Ross turned and stuck his tongue out, his round face cheeky. ‘Emily fancies Robbie,’ he chanted. ‘Emily fancies Robbie.’

‘Shut
up
!’

Ross turned and faced her, crossing his arms across his chest. Already his figure was filling out and his shoulders were becoming broader and squarer. He was shaping up to have his father’s stocky frame. ‘Robbie Jamieson’s really into drugs,’ he said knowingly.

‘He so is not!’

‘Is.’

‘He’s not. Anyway, how would you know?’

‘His brother Sandy’s in my class, remember? He tells me stuff.’

‘I don’t believe you. Robbie’s really cool.’

‘I’ll tell Mum you’re going to get off with him.’

‘You will not! Why would you do that?’

‘Keep my big sister safe,’ he smirked.

Emily strode across the landing and grabbed her brother by the T-shirt. ‘You dare and I’ll kill you,’ she said threateningly.

‘Oh, I’m really scared.’

It had been some years since Emily could dominate Ross physically. She let go of the T-shirt with a small thrust and studied him. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘What do you want?’

Ross pretended to think. ‘Let me see—’

‘
Ross.
’

‘Okay, okay. You know I’m off to school camp soon? I want to borrow your iPod.’

‘But you’re away a whole week!’

‘Yup.’

‘That’s too much.’

‘I’ll just go and tell her now, shall I?’ He moved towards the top of the stairs.

‘All right, all right,’ Emily said hastily. ‘You’re a smelly toad though.’

‘And you’re a smelly armpit,’ Ross giggled and ducked into his room as Emily’s hand flashed out at him.

She could hear him laughing inside his room. Having little brothers was such a pain.

Casting aside her irritation, she set her mind instead on the challenge ahead: getting finance for a new, Robbie-catching outfit. She skipped down the stairs and into the kitchen.

‘Hi.’

Her mother looked round from the stove, where she was staring vacantly at a saucepan of spaghetti that was bubbling and spluttering and dribbling over the rim and down in spurts onto the worn white enamel.

‘It’s boiling over, Mum.’

‘Mmm?’

‘The saucepan.’

As her mother continued to stare at her, the pot gave a extra-vehement hiss and a small fountain of bubbles shot in the air and cascaded downwards. Emily stepped across the kitchen and pulled the saucepan off the heat.

‘Mu-um,’ she said reproachfully. ‘Spaghetti. Water. Boiling over?’

‘Oh.’ Jane’s gaze began to focus and she looked first at Emily and then at the saucepan. ‘Oh sorry. I hadn’t noticed.’

What on earth was wrong with her? She’d been acting really strangely in the last few days. She’d forgotten to buy Emily’s favourite cereal bars for her lunch box, there were no clean knickers this morning because apparently the washing hadn’t been done and now she didn’t even seem able to cook supper without burning it. Emily’s mood, itself stretched to breaking point by Ross’s pathetic but all too successful attempts at blackmail and her own anxiety about the challenges that lay ahead, veered to irritation rather than sympathy. Still, she needed to choose her words carefully.

‘Can I help, Mum? I mean, you seem a bit tired.’

‘Help? Oh, would you Emily? Thanks.’ Jane dragged a hand over her forehead in a fruitless attempt to prevent her hair falling into her eyes. ‘Can you stir the sauce?’

Emily lifted a tomato-smeared wooden spoon from the work top and stirred as her mother appeared to pull herself together and swing into action, laying out cutlery and place mats for supper.

She waited a few minutes.

‘Mum?’

‘Mmm? What?’

‘You know you said I could play the Forster if I passed my Grade Six?’

‘We haven’t had the results yet.’

‘But if I do—’

‘I’ll think about it, Emily.’

Her mother spat the words out as if they were something nasty. Her face was all screwed up. Not good. Bother. Maybe she should’ve started with the dress. Emily turned away, hunched her shoulders and stirred crossly. Mum had been putting her off and putting her off about the cello. What was wrong with her anyway? Her teacher said that all cellos needed to be played to keep sweet and that was even truer of the best cellos than cheap ones – and anyway, Mum hadn’t played the thing for years.

She turned the problem over in her mind, watching the lumps in the Bolognese sauce and wondering vaguely if she should try to break them up. Perhaps her mother was feeling bad about not letting her play the Forster, so maybe she could capitalise on this by asking for a new dress. What was the best plan? To argue more about the cello, or move straight on to the request for a new outfit? On this occasion, the need to impress Robbie won over her music.

‘You know I’m going to Suzy’s party in a couple of weeks?’

‘Mmm.’

‘And you remember it’s my birthday soon?’

‘I’m not l-likely to forget that, Emily.’

Promising.

‘I really need a new dress.’ She glanced at her mother, whose face was a blank canvas. ‘And some shoes?’

‘Dad and I have already bought your present. And I’m not sure about going to Suzy’s party, Em’

Emily threw the spoon into the pot, turned her back on the stove, crossed her arms and stuck out her lower lip. ‘Honestly, Mum! I’m not a baby. I can look after myself. Everyone’s going. And I’ll be the only person there looking like a complete twat.’

‘Emily!’

She’d gone too far. Her mother hated bad language.

‘Sorry. But still—’

Jane sighed. ‘I’ll think about it, Emily. I’ll see what your father says. Have you d-done your homework?’

‘Mostly.’

‘Well, why don’t you go and finish it, then you can watch that television programme after supper.’

Emily sighed again, this time more heavily.

‘G-go.’

It was hard to make bare feet sound indignant on cushion flooring, but she slapped her soles down as hard as she could anyway. Benji, curled up in his bed in the far corner of the kitchen, half-heartedly raised one ear and peered at her with sleepy curiosity, out of one eye.

Jane watched her daughter flounce across the kitchen and out of the door. If she hadn’t been feeling so agitated about – well, about everything at the moment – she would find it quite funny. But since the other night, since the moment when Marta’s front door opened and Tom Vallely appeared, her sense of humour had vanished.

She pulled out a chair and slumped down. The good times had been thrilling, a ride on a wave that seemed to have no crest and would never break. From the day he’d appeared at her door they’d become a possibly the most unlikely couple in the whole of Guildhall, and yet inseparable.

That first room they’d rented together ... she’d thought she’d died and gone to heaven. They’d stood, stunned, in the middle of the huge bedroom, staring at each other, gawping at the high ceiling. The bed was huge, a massive ship of a bed, an ocean liner of a bed.

‘
How
much did you say she’s charging?’ she’d whispered.

‘It’s affordable. Just. I may have to pimp your body on the streets of Soho to pay for it, but you can put up with a little prosti—’

‘
Tom
!’ She’d swung a pillow at him, laughing. He’d retaliated, seizing her wrist and wrestling her to the bed, where they’d made love like it was the first time.

It had just been a room in a shared house, but it had been their kingdom and Jane had felt like a queen.

Just before her final examinations she was offered a place with the London Philharmonic, and Tom, even before he’d graduated, landed a sizeable part in a film. His performance attracted the attention of other producers and for a spell he was regarded as one of the biggest new talents around.

Had it started then? Was that when, unnoticed by her, the wave had started to curl at the top, its momentum fading? He’d been the toast of the town and starlets and wannabees were drawn to him like bees to exotic flowers. She had never believed she was pretty enough, funny enough, glamorous enough for Tom and she’d been surprised but profoundly thankful that their relationship had held fast. They had more money and they moved to a comfortable flat in unfashionable Battersea, but with a fine view of the river. Her future seemed secure while Tom’s career, though patchy, had more ups than downs. She floated through the months on a cloud of euphoria.

And then, the wave broke, as waves do, and her world collapsed.

She’d been touring up in Leeds, doing a Christmas extravaganza of popular classics. She had hidden a small store of carefully wrapped and thoughtfully chosen Christmas gifts for Tom in the bottom of the wardrobe in the light-filled riverside bedroom in Battersea, behind a pile of shoes. On Christmas Eve, when she was due to get back, all she’d have to do was arrange them under the tree. The next day, Tom’s parents were coming over to share lunch with them.

She called Tom before the last concert, excited at the approach of Christmas and the idea of being home again very soon.

‘Hello, Wiz.’

The nickname has grown from that first wonderful night they spent together. Weaver of magic spells. Wizard.

‘Hey, Witchy.’

Tom wasn’t working. In January, he was due to start in a new production in the West End. For the last couple of weeks he’d been in rehearsal and learning his lines – the boring bit. That hadn’t changed since college.

‘Learnt them yet?’ she asked.

‘What? Oh, the lines. Yeah.’

He sounded odd. The achievement of memorising usually made him euphoric. ‘Are you okay, Tom?’

‘Yeah. You?’

They were playing the concert that night in Santa hats – ridiculous, but fun. Everyone was in a festive mood and it was catching.

‘Yes. Dying to get home, sweetheart, to be with you. Have you got the food sorted?’

She’d left Tom a shopping list, knowing that she wouldn’t be home in time herself.

‘Shopping?’ Tom sounded vague. ‘Oh sure, yes. Shopping.’

He didn’t sound too sure. Jane pressed him.

‘The turkey? You remembered to drop by the butcher’s? The queue wasn’t too long? I ordered a big one, with your folks coming and everything.’

‘Turkey? Yeah.’

‘And the sausage-meat stuffing?’

‘Mmm. Listen Jane, I’ve got to go. Hope it goes well tonight.’

‘Are you sure you’re okay, Tom?’ she asked, but he’d already rung off. She was perplexed and disappointed. There’d been none of the usual silly farewells, ‘Bye Witch’ or any of the dozen other ridiculous phrases they had adopted into their personal language and privately found so hilarious.

It was Christmas Eve when she turned her key in the lock and opened the door in excited anticipation.

‘Hello?’

The flat was dark and empty – Tom must be out doing some last-minute shopping. She propped her cello carefully in its corner in the hallway and flicked on the light in the kitchen. The place felt chilly. She had been dreaming about a cup of tea for at least the last two hours. Crossing the room, she spotted an envelope propped against the kettle.

JANE..

It was Tom’s bold writing, dashing, confident, stylish, the J a flourish, the word underlined by an curving line that ended in two dots, his trademark. JANE..

She dropped the envelope as though it was on fire. It fell lightly to the floor and lay JANE.. side down.

She backed away from it. Walked around it. Retreated to the other side of the kitchen and looked at it as though it might explode if she went any closer. Why did she have such a bad feeling about this? Ridiculous. It would just announce he’d gone to a party, or out for some last-minute gift shopping.

She should call him.

Two or three times she did dial his mobile, but it was off.

The bad feeling persisted and grew stronger. He should be here. It was Christmas Eve. She had been away for ten days.

He liked cooking, while she was hopeless at it. Usually, if he wasn’t working, he’d make a nice meal, have the table set and a bottle of wine open.

No matter how often she tried, Tom’s phone remained stubbornly off. At last she dashed at the envelope, swooped down to pick it up and tore it open frantically, as though energy and determination might ward off whatever lurked inside.

Hey Witch, I didn’t know how to tell you this, so I’ve taken the coward’s way out. The truth is I have met someone else. I don’t know how else to say it and, you know me, I like everything straight, so there, that’s it, time to move on. Thanks for everything. Tom..

She spent Christmas Day alone. There was no food. The cupboard yielded little more than tinned spaghetti, which she hated, and porridge oats, ditto. After twenty hours without food, she finally made a pot of porridge and forced down a small bowlful, leavened by the addition of some tinned evaporated milk.