Bookends (22 page)

Chapter twenty-two

‘Si really isn’t that keen on Portia, is he?’ A few days later it’s a slow afternoon in Bookends, and Lucy’s helping me tidy up the stock room. She tries to look nonchalant, but it doesn’t work, and I know that this isn’t the end of the question, that Si’s reaction every time Portia’s name is mentioned has only served to sow the seeds of doubt in Lucy’s head.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh, come on, Cath! There’s something going on, isn’t there?’

All the colour drains out of my face, and, I swear, my heart actually misses a beat.

‘What do you mean?’ I speak slowly, trying to keep my voice calm and steady, and managing somehow, even though the voice sounds nothing like my own.

‘For starters, you look like a ghost every time Portia’s name is mentioned, and Si looks as if he’s about to murder someone, probably Portia. What on earth is going on with her?’

Oh God, what do I do? Do I tell her? Should I confess? This is, after all, one of my closest friends in the world, and would I not be a better friend by telling her of Josh’s betrayal?

What if the roles were reversed? Would I want to know? If I were with, say, James, and he was being unfaithful, and Si or Lucy found out about it, wouldn’t I be more furious if I discovered that they knew and hadn’t told me?

But then they say it’s always the messenger who gets shot, and maybe it isn’t any of my business. or maybe I should just pray that it is, after all, a phase, and just cross my fingers and hope that it’s all over soon.

I take a deep breath and look into Lucy’s eyes, and I know immediately that I will not be the one to tell her, to hurt her in this way.

‘What’s going on with Portia?’ I repeat, stalling for time.

‘Yes, have the three of you had some kind of falling out or something?’

My relief is palpable.

‘It’s ridiculous that you and Si were so excited about seeing her again after all this time, and suddenly she’s become
persona non grata
, and I can’t understand why.’

I shrug. ‘You know,’ I say, after a while, ‘it isn’t anything tangible. I think that both Si and I have realized that ten years is a long time, and people change enormously in ten years, and I just don’t think we have that much in common with her any more.’

Lucy’s about to say something else when the door creaks open and Si staggers in, clutching his head and groaning in mock-agony.

‘Fine, thank you,’ I laugh. ‘Nice to see you too.’

‘Sssh,’ he says. ‘Hangover.’

‘Let me guess… Turnmills
again
?’

He nods.

‘So you’ve been out clubbing all night and you probably got home at, what, six this morning?’

Si nods.

‘Which would explain why,’ I look at my watch, ‘at five minutes to four in the afternoon you’re still feeling like shit. I hope it was worth it.’

Si looks up as a grin spreads all over his face.

‘Uh oh,’ Lucy laughs. ‘I hope
he
was worth it.’

‘Well, you know what they say,’ Si sounds, and looks, brighter than he has done in ages. ‘The best way of getting over someone is to find someone new.’

‘No! Already?’

‘Well, not permanently,’ Si says. ‘Definitely not relationship material, but gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous, and let’s just say a good time was had by all. Meanwhile back at the ranch, how did the new sexy Lucy go down on Friday night?’

Lucy sighs. ‘Going down was the last thing on my mind that night.’

‘Now Lucy,’ Si admonishes her, ‘didn’t I tell you it should have been the first.’

‘I tried. Really, I did, but he didn’t want to know…’

‘Oh, Lucy,’ I stroke her arm, and, fuelled by cappuccinos and carrot cake, the full story comes out.

Josh phoned early Friday afternoon and said he had a meeting but wouldn’t be back later than eight thirty, so Lucy ran up the road to the beauty salon and had her legs waxed, even though they didn’t really need it, just to be on the safe side. Then up to Waitrose, where she strode round the aisles smiling to herself, because here she was, playing the archetypal fifties housewife, shopping mid-afternoon for food for her husband’s dinner, when tucked inside her cupboard at home were bags of gorgeously sexy lacy underwear with which to tempt him later that night.

She went home and slapped on a cucumber face mask while chopping and peeling, switching the radio on in the kitchen and dancing around in time with the music, feeling, for the first time in a long time, as if she were getting ready for something special.

At six o’clock, when the casserole was firmly in the oven, the pastry had been carefully laid out over the tarte tatin, Lucy poured four capfuls (‘Four capfuls!’ exclaimed Si) of luxurious and horrendously expensive bubble bath into the hot running water, and lay back feeling excited, and sensuous, and completely relaxed.

Max, for once, seemed to be on his best behaviour, and after dinner and a story he climbed into bed, had a goodnight cuddle, and went straight off to sleep, leaving Lucy to finish her preparations.

She tipped her head upside down once her hair was dry and sprayed hairspray all over, so when she tipped her head back she looked wanton and sexy, in the way that Josh had always said he loved, although she could never be bothered to do it these days.

She stood in front of the bathroom mirror, a magazine laid out on the closed seat of the loo, its pages open to a beautiful blonde model advertising lipstick, and Lucy, not being an expert with make-up but being none the less exceptionally creative, tried hard to copy the make-up, brushstroke for brushstroke, line for line.

She shrugged off her huge old slightly grubby towelling robe and carefully pulled the new underwear out of the bag, folding the tissue paper and putting it back so as not to disturb the perfection.

And slipping her feet into her highest heels, she opened the wardrobe door back as far as it would go, and examined herself carefully in the full-length mirror hanging on the inside of the door.

‘Well hello, big boy,’ she said to herself, in an accent as close to Mae West’s as she could manage, a slow kitten-like smile spreading on her face. ‘Why don’t you come up and see me some time?’

Si laughs briefly, breaking the spell, and even Lucy has to join in. ‘I bet you looked fantastic, though,’ he says.

‘You know what?’ A genuine smile breaks through. ‘I actually did, although I didn’t look like me in the slightest. I looked in the mirror and there was this sexy, curvaceous glamour puss staring back.’

‘What do you mean, it didn’t look like you? You
are
a sexy, curvaceous glamour puss.’

‘Oh, Si, I do love you. No, I’m not, nor would I normally want to be, but I didn’t think I even had it in me any more to look like that.’

‘Anyway, go on, what happened?’ I’m getting impatient.

Lucy slipped a little black dress over the top and went downstairs to pour herself a glass of champagne, which always gets her in the mood for romance. The table looked beautiful. No kitchen, not tonight. The dining room was sparkling, candlelight glinting off crystal, and sleek silver candlesticks. Everything was perfect.

At twenty past eight Lucy took the casserole out of the oven and replaced it with the tarte tatin. She ran upstairs and blotted the shine off her nose, reapplied lipstick and a dash of lip gloss to give her a sexy pout, and took the ice bucket and champagne into the living room.

There she lit ylang ylang scented candles, put Nina Simone on low, and watched herself in the mirror as she waited for the front door to open.

After fifteen minutes she picked up a magazine lying on the coffee table and started idly flicking through, not really concentrating. Fifteen minutes is nothing, she told herself. Who could, after all, predict exactly when a business meeting was going to end?

She was telling herself the same thing forty-five minutes later. And again at ten o’clock.

But at a quarter past ten she stopped waiting. She kicked off her shoes and put the casserole – which had grown cold long before – into the fridge. The empty champagne bottle went in the bin, and the tarte tatin – Josh’s favourite pudding – was tipped on top of the champagne.

And just as she finished clearing the dining room, disappointment, sadness and too much champagne making her movements slow and heavy, the front door opened.

‘Sorry I’m so late,’ Josh said, hardly glancing at Lucy. ‘The bloody meeting went on for hours. I’m exhausted.’ He was pulling his tie off as he put his briefcase down in the hallway, and finally looked at Lucy as she stood in the doorway in her little black dress and stockinged feet, lipstick chewed off, hair pulled back in a scrunchie, and for a minute her heart lifted.

‘You don’t mind if I go straight to bed?’ Josh said, looking at her but most definitely not seeing her.

Lucy, deflated, shrugged, sighed, and took the champagne flutes into the kitchen, whereupon she threw them, slowly and deliberately, against the back door.

‘Jesus!’ Josh came thundering back down the stairs to survey the shards of crystal littering the kitchen floor. ‘God, you must be more careful. Look, leave it for Ingrid to clear up in the morning. I’m off to bed. Night.’ And he kissed her distractedly on the forehead, then went to bed.

‘Do you know how I felt?’ Lucy asks, sitting here with us now. ‘I felt relieved that he hadn’t even noticed, because if he had seen me, seen what I was wearing, seen the effort I had made, I would have been embarrassed, and that’s the one thing I couldn’t stand.

‘And, as much as I hate to admit it, it does rather seem like dignity is about the only thing I’ve got left in this blasted marriage right now.’

‘God, Lucy, it sounds horrific.’ I take her hand and squeeze it, as Lucy rubs her eyes as if to rub out the memory.

‘It’s actually almost funny. It was like something out of a bad film. If we had ever actually got around to getting a dog, I probably
would
have told him his dinner was in the dog.’

‘Given that it does actually sound like something out of a bad film,’ Si says, ‘I suppose we can assume that by the time you actually got to bed Josh was snoring like a baby, and lying on his side with his back towards you.’

‘I know you’re in the film business,’ she says sadly, ‘but do you always have to be so right about everything?’

And then none of us says anything, because although her last remark was punctuated with a brief smile, it isn’t like Lucy to say something like that, and I know then that she is hurting far more than she is letting on.

‘We could always go to plan B,’ Si says, after a while.

‘And plan B is?’

Si shrugs. ‘God knows, but give me five minutes and I’m sure I’ll be able to think of something.’

Lucy gets up and goes to the loo, and as soon as she’s out of earshot I lean forward towards Si. ‘I think maybe you should talk to him.’

‘Me? Why me?’ Si’s voice is now back to its usual level, and he sits back in his chair, pointing at his chest indignantly before leaning forward again conspiratorially. ‘Why not you? Josh has always listened to you.’

And it’s true, Josh has. I’m not sure why, but perhaps because I’ve always had a proper job (as opposed to Si’s sporadic bursts of creativity), because he knows I’m independent, he has somehow trusted me, and, although I do not want to do this, I think that Si may have a point. That if Josh will listen to anyone at all, he might listen to me, and at this point in time I can no longer sit back and watch his marriage disintegrate.

Since I saw him and Portia together, we haven’t actually had a proper conversation. He used to call me in the office for long, cosy chats, but now that I’m in the bookshop, with Lucy, he only ever phones to speak to her, and even when I pick up the phone he usually sounds far too busy to talk. I don’t even remember the last time Josh phoned me at home for a long chat, but then again I suppose I haven’t exactly made much of an effort either.

But once upon a time what Si has just said would have been true, and perhaps it still is true. Si can see that his point has struck, and that I am thinking about it, so he carries on, telling me that Josh trusts me, and that we owe it to Lucy, and then finally that it’s all my fault that Portia’s back anyway, so I should take responsibility for getting rid of her again.

‘Si! That’s not bloody fair. You can’t pin this one on me. There was no way I could have known what would happen with Josh, and anyway you used to talk about her all the time as well.’

‘I know, I know. I’m sorry and I didn’t mean that, it’s just that I feel so bloody guilty. It is kind of our fault. I mean, if you and I hadn’t dialled her number, this wouldn’t have happened.’

‘You know what? I don’t believe that. Ultimately this is Josh’s decision, and neither of us is to blame. We shouldn’t get involved at all, but I love Josh and Lucy too much to ignore this, so I’ll do the only thing I can.’

‘Which is?’

‘Tell Josh that we know, and remind him of what he’d be losing if he and Lucy broke up.’ But the very thought makes me feel sick to my stomach.

‘And what if he says that Portia’s the love of his life and she’s the only thing he cares about?’

‘First of all, Si, stop being so bloody negative, and second, I just don’t believe Josh would do that, I just can’t believe that.’

Lucy comes back to the table with a bottle of champagne that’s part of our secret stash, well hidden in the stock room.

‘Look at you two with your heads together, whispering furtively. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were planning a secret rendezvous.’

‘You might say that,’ Si sniffs, standing up and getting some glasses out, ‘but I couldn’t possibly comment,’ and with that he pops the cork and the three of us start to drink.

Chapter twenty-three

Thank God my life seems to have found its equilibrium again. This whole Josh and Lucy thing has been so upsetting, that even when I tried to get on with things and forget about it, I still felt unsettled all the time, as if something terrible were about to happen, something I couldn’t control, couldn’t get away from.

I suppose it could just have been the fact that Portia had come back at all. Irrespective of her affair with Josh, I suppose it is bound to be unsettling when somebody new enters your world, changes the dynamic, disturbs the balance.

She’s called me a few times, left messages, and I’ve managed to avoid the calls, telling Bill and Rachel to say I’m out (Lucy being the only one who never picks up the phone, as she’s always run off her feet in the café) and screening my calls at home. Si, who’s the only person who knows I’m avoiding her, thinks this is crazy, but it’s so much easier to withdraw from the friendship than it would be to confront her.

And I know it’s wimpy. I feel sometimes that I owe it to Lucy, that I should just pitch up on Portia’s doorstep, screaming blue murder, but I was always in awe of Portia, all those years ago, and even though I’m an adult now and my life has moved on, when I’m around Portia I regress to those years, and I suppose if I’m really honest I’d have to say I’m ever so slightly frightened of her.

Which is why I don’t say anything. Plus it isn’t any of my business, although of course it is, because she is hurting one of the people I love most in the world, but, as Si keeps pointing out to me, she isn’t the only bad guy in this scenario. I know it takes two to tango and all that, yet I can’t help but feel that however clever and sharp Josh may be, he’s also weak. I’ve always known that, and although I didn’t think he’d be so weak as to give in to temptation quite this quickly, clearly I was wrong. But I still can’t blame him as much as I blame Portia for tempting him in the first place.

I want to, but I can’t.

Maybe it’s my anger that’s stopping me from confronting Portia. Maybe I’m so frightened of what I’ll say to her, that it’s easier to keep it contained, and to hope and pray that everything gets back to normal.

And the funny thing is that for the last week or so, Lucy seems much happier, and please let it not be premature of me to wish, to pray, that things might be cooling down.

I couldn’t go as far as to say it’s over with Portia and Josh, because he still arrives home late in the evening, claiming meetings or a heavy work schedule, which, as everyone knows, is always the classic excuse. And I still notice that Josh, who has always openly and lovingly declared his adoration for Lucy, now seems distracted much of the time, but Lucy has said that things have improved, and that, for now, seems to be enough.

She made me laugh this morning, telling me about Ingrid, who seems to be acting more and more strangely. Lucy told me how she got home last night and listened to the answer phone, the good news being that there was no message from Josh saying he had a meeting that night. And the bad news being that there was no message from Josh saying he’d be home for supper.

She poured herself a whisky, sat down at the kitchen table and kicked off her shoes, only for her mouth to drop open as Ingrid walked nonchalantly in and picked up her keys from off the kitchen table.

She had, Lucy giggled, outdone even herself. She was wearing a red PVC catsuit, which showed off her extraordinary figure extraordinarily, and her hair was scraped off her face in a slick ponytail.

‘Off to an S & M club?’ Lucy inquired politely, which is completely out of character, but, as Lucy admitted, she was too damned tired to keep up the good old British reserve.

‘No,’ Ingrid said, all sweet smiles that didn’t, somehow, seem to go with her outfit. ‘I have a hot date.’ She then added, ‘If I am not back tonight, you will not worry?’

‘Well, uh, I suppose not, not if you tell me you won’t be. Should I lock the front door, then?’

‘I think so,’ Ingrid said, waving goodbye and practically floating out of the room, as Lucy blinked a few times just to check she wasn’t dreaming.

‘God,’ I laughed, listening to the story. ‘She sounds like Denise Van Outen on Viagra. I hope he’s worth it.’

‘Oh shut up.’ Lucy and I both giggled. ‘You’re just jealous. I bet you wish you looked that good in a red PVC catsuit. I know I certainly do.’ And then her voice suddenly became serious and she looked down at the table before looking at me. ‘I know this sounds ridiculous,’ she said slowly, ‘because I really don’t think that Josh would have an affair, but you don’t think…?’ She tailed off as I mentally willed my heart to slow down.

‘I mean, it’s just that Ingrid seems far happier suddenly, and she obviously is seeing someone, and you don’t think that… well, you don’t think Josh and Ingrid?’

‘God, no!’ I practically shouted. ‘Not in a million years!’

Lucy looked relieved. ‘Oh, okay, then, if you’re sure. Anyway, as it happens Josh was an absolute sweetie last night. He turned up with a huge bunch of flowers and whisked me off to Julie’s for dinner.’

And apparently it was the first normal evening they’d had in ages. Josh had arranged for Laura to come and babysit, and once they were in the restaurant they sat and actually talked. Not about the bookshop, not about Max, not about Josh’s work, but just talked.

They talked about themselves, reminisced about the first time they’d been to Julie’s, and ended up actually laughing. It was, Lucy said, a beam breaking out on her face, wonderful. And wonderful because, it was so
normal
. Not romantic, not earth-shattering, it didn’t lead to passionate sex or anything like that, but she felt married again. And happy. And safe.

Si rang earlier and I told him about Lucy’s evening, and he said it was a good sign. Not time to start breathing sighs of relief, he added hurriedly, but certainly promising that they seemed to be making time for one another again, although it doesn’t mean it’s over with Portia. Not by a long shot.

But I don’t know any more. I think that maybe it was just a passing fling. That perhaps, like that one night all those years ago at university, it’s over. But there’s no doubt that something has happened, regardless of whether it may or may not be happening now.

And then Si asked me if I thought Portia knows that we know. I would imagine she’d have to be stupid not to, although the extraordinary thing is that she may have stopped phoning Si and I, having finally got the message, but she hasn’t stopped phoning Lucy.

And that’s what really pisses me off. She seems to have some sort of compulsion, but you would have thought she’d show a bit more subtlety. I mean, I’ve heard of mistresses secretly stalking the wives for a bit, just to find out what they’re like, what they look like, what they do with their days. But not when they already
know
the wives. That’s just sick. Or asking for trouble, but then maybe that’s part of Portia’s plan, part of her happy ending. To ensure that Lucy finds out, Portia will either have to tell Lucy or drop a hint, set up a situation in which there can be no doubt, and then Lucy will have to let Josh go.

Because right now I wouldn’t like to place money on which way Josh would run if push came to shove, and if you ask me, which Si frequently does, he seems pretty damn happy having the best of both worlds: Lucy cooking for him and mothering him and keeping a wonderful home in which he barely has to lift a finger, and Portia taking care of sex, a few evenings a week.

But would he really leave Lucy? If push did finally come to shove, would he give all that up for Portia’s life? Because I know it looks glamorous, and I know there have been times when I have been deeply envious of Portia, but would Josh really want to live that modern, trendy lifestyle?

Would he really be happy going out every single night, hanging out with media junkies at Soho House, nibbling Thai spiced fish cakes in restaurants, only ever going home to sleep, and even that is done between immaculate linen sheets that somehow don’t seem to
do
creases.

Remember I have sat on Portia’s sofa, and trust me, it is not a sofa that inspires you to kick off your shoes and curl up with the remote control while shovelling down a curry, which is Josh’s favoured way of spending an evening.

And while I know there are some women who are prepared to compromise their entire
beings
for their man, Portia isn’t one of them. Maybe once upon a time she would have willingly made a few sacrifices, but now, in her thirties, I realize that Portia has grown hard.

She is almost
too
independent, too self-sufficient, and if a man chose to enter her life – and I have to say I think most would be, after the initial glamour and excitement, scared off – but if a man did choose to enter it on a permanent basis, it would have to be on her terms or not at all.

And Josh might enjoy it for a while. For a while it might feel as if he had stepped into a film, but I can’t see him enjoying it for ever, and I hope, I hope and I pray, that this is a passing fling and that Josh somehow has to exorcize Portia completely before moving on with his life. With Lucy.

A week later and I could almost have believed that it really was over with Portia, because ever since that night at Julie’s, Josh and Lucy have been, well, they’ve been Josh and Lucy again. Even to the point where Lucy phoned this morning to say how about Sunday lunch, usual table, usual time? And without even thinking about it, without even checking to see if Si was coming too, I said yes.

As soon as I walk in the discomfort, the unsettled feeling I’ve been carrying with me, disappears, because there, in the corner, are the usual gang, and the scene is so familiar it is as comforting as travelling back to the womb.

A cafetière fights for space among the piles of papers, and I know exactly what papers will be there, and who brought what because the routine is the same every week, and even though we haven’t done our Sunday lunch for a few weeks, I know the routine will never change. I know that Josh will have brought the
Sunday Times
that they have delivered every week, and the Observer that he will have picked up on the way, and that Si will have brought the gossipy tabloids to gasp over with Lucy and I as Josh pretends to be reading the serious papers, although he will be unable to resist the gossip and feign exasperation with us, but he will, eventually, join in.

A basket of croissants sits in the centre of the table, and Josh is buried in the Money section of the
Sunday Times
; Si is stuffing his face with croissant while simultaneously pointing out pictures in the
News of the World
magazine, and Lucy is sipping her coffee, laughing with Si at his outrageous comments.

I pull off my jacket and scarf, rubbing my hands together to warm them up as they’re almost blue from the cold November air, and I drape everything over the back of the chair and sit down, helping myself to Si’s fresh orange juice as Lucy calls the waitress over and orders more coffee and an extra cup, then telling her we’re ready to order, although why they waited is beyond me because we always order the same thing.

Si has fruit salad because it makes him feel virtuous, and I think he thinks it counterbalances the fried eggs and toast he has afterwards. Josh has a full English breakfast, Lucy has scrambled eggs with bacon, and I have scrambled eggs, runny if that’s okay, with bacon, sausages and copious amounts of toast.

It’s not unusual to sit at this table, washing down all the food with gallons of fresh orange juice and coffee, for around three hours. Si’s perfected the art of shooting filthy looks at the people queuing patiently by the door, waiting for someone to leave, and it’s usually my guilt that eventually forces us up, magnanimously giving our table to the weary but grateful.

‘So,’ Si says when I’ve had some coffee. ‘Heard the latest gossip.’

‘Let me guess. Prime Minister run off with Meg Ryan? Queen pregnant again?’

Si raises an eyebrow. ‘
Real gossip
, sweets. Ingrid, it seems, has a’ – and he pauses to roll his r’s significantly – ‘lurverrrr.’

‘Oh, Si!’ Lucy slaps him playfully. ‘You are so beastly about poor Ingrid. I shouldn’t have said anything.’

‘So what else is new?’ I shrug my shoulders. ‘She did say she had a hot date the night of the red catsuit, and she said she probably wouldn’t be coming home, so what’s the big deal?’

‘Okay, no big deal,’ Si says nonchalantly, ‘it’s just that it’s been confirmed now. She’s going away with him next weekend.’

‘Have you met him?’ I ask Lucy. ‘What’s he like?’

‘You know how private she is,’ Lucy says. ‘She hasn’t said a word, other than to say her new lover is taking her to the George V in Paris for the weekend, and would we mind if she were gone for four days.’

‘What did you say?’

‘What
could
I say? Of course I said yes.’

‘But weren’t you positively dying to know?’ Si’s rubbing his hands together with glee. ‘The George V is the best hotel in Paris, for God’s sake! I bet it’s some incredibly wealthy businessman with a fetish for rubber. He’ll probably produce a bag of whips and chains once she gets there.’

‘So does this new lurrve,’ I pick up Si’s inflection, ‘mean that the dreaded Ingrid has become a nicer person?’

Lucy laughs. ‘I’m not sure that nicer is the right word, but she’s certainly more amenable. Cath, my darling, I’m still completely terrified of her, and the only reason I keep her is because of Max, but at least she seems a bit happier, which certainly makes life easier for the rest of us.’

‘Oh well,’ I say, shrugging. ‘At least she’s not stealing from you.’

‘What?’ Si’s looking at me as if I’ve gone mad.

‘I’m serious. One of the girls at work was telling me about a nanny they had, and every night when her husband got home he’d empty all the loose change out of his pockets and put it in one of those huge ketchup jars.’

‘Yeuch,’ Si spits. ‘Sounds messy.’

‘Don’t be stupid, Si, it had been emptied and washed. Anway, they suddenly realized that all the pound coins and silver had gone, and the only thing left was a huge jar of coppers. She must have got hundreds.’