Bookends (23 page)

‘Didn’t they say anything?’ Si’s aghast.

‘Apparently they tried to ask very nicely, but she got terribly upset, so they just left it and a week later she told them she couldn’t work for them any more after being accused of something like that and she left.’

Si smiles. ‘I suppose she took the kitchen sink with her?’

‘Don’t laugh.’ Josh lays down the Money section and leans forward. ‘Peter, one of the guys I work with, noticed that all his socks were disappearing. They couldn’t figure it out and he kept buying more and more of these Italian silk socks that cost a bomb and can only be found in Harrods or somewhere.

‘Then one day Peter’s wife went into the au pair’s room while she was out and her bottom drawer was slightly open and there were all the socks.’

‘Bitch,’ hisses Si, as Lucy and I start laughing, and Josh sits back petulantly.

‘It’s not the fact that it’s only socks,’ he justifies. ‘It’s the principle of the thing.’

‘Yeah,’ Si sneers. ‘Bloody sock thieves. They should all be hanged. Anyway, serves him right for spending such a fortune on socks in the first place.’

‘Christ, will you listen to us?’ I’m suddenly horrified by our conversation. ‘We sound so middle aged. Middle class. Talking about au pairs, for God’s sake. What’s happened to us?’

There’s an awkward silence for a moment, and then the waitress arrives with our food. Lucy sits back and sighs with pleasure.

‘God,’ she says, sniffing, ‘I can’t tell you how lovely it is to be cooked for! Cath, I promise you I won’t dwell on the subject because you’re right, this conversation is just too awful, but I’ve just got one thing to add…

‘We should actually count our blessings with Ingrid. She is a bit peculiar, but at least she’s not dishonest, or a liar, or untrustworthy, and that’s really the important thing. That, and the fact that Max, as we all know, adores her.’

‘That boy really has no taste,’ Si says acidly, with no shadow of a smile. ‘Reminds me of his father.’

‘Si!’ Lucy and I exclaim at once, and Josh looks at Si in amazement, because there was more than a hint of viciousness in that remark, and although I know what he means, that he’s talking about Portia, he has no right to be that obvious in front of Lucy.

‘Si!’ Lucy says again. ‘Are you trying to say that Josh picked me in bad taste?’

Si recovers masterfully. ‘My gorgeous Lucy,’ he says, kissing her on the cheek, ‘the one time in his life Josh has shown impeccable taste was in choosing you. No,’ he says, catching, and holding, Josh’s eye until Josh – almost imperceptibly – starts to squirm, ‘I was talking about his clothes.’

I breathe a sigh of relief as Si reaches under the table and gives my leg a squeeze to reassure me.

‘I mean, look at that shirt, for God’s sake,’ he says. ‘Aren’t you a bit old to be doing that whole student rugby thing?’

Lucy laughs and Josh looks down at his shirt. ‘But I love this shirt,’ he says. ‘I’ve had this shirt for ever.’

‘I know,’ Si grunts. ‘Looks like it,’ and, as he picks up his fork and stabs a chunk of mango, I realize that Si is genuinely angry about this, and the only way he knows how to express it is to come out with these odd, vicious remarks.

Just as long as Lucy doesn’t know.

We wander up to the O2 centre on Finchley Road for a lazy afternoon film, our breath visible in the cold air, and it feels lovely, it feels normal. I love this time of year. Early November, just as everyone starts to feel lovely and cosy, getting ready for the full force of winter, and the perfect time to disguise yourself with layers of snuggly warm clothes.

When Si walks me home I say goodbye knowing that this has been a perfect Sunday, and that it really doesn’t get much better than this. Si is off to see a friend up the road, although he says if he’s not there he’ll pop back and we can have supper together.

Luckily for Si I have managed to go shopping this week. Unfortunately I went shopping at exactly the time they tell you never to go shopping, namely when you are completely starving. Starving in a supermarket completely obliterates reasonable thought, and instead of ending up with healthy, nourishing food that will last you a week, you end up with a basket of terrible fast food that is definitely bad for you and will probably be gone by the end of the night.

But even I couldn’t have managed to polish off the contents of my fridge in one night, so Si can, if he comes back, look forward to a double cheese and pepperoni pizza, half a packet of onion bhajis, eight (I only ate two) pitta breads, the obligatory houmous and taramasalata, three quarters of a pack of pre-sliced Gouda cheese, a full and unopened packet of Chinese chicken wings, and a four-pack of white chocolate mousse.

Not a bad feast for a Sunday night, I think you’ll agree.

I open up the Culture section, grab an old biro and circle my evening’s viewing, and then, feeling absurdly decadent, start running a hot bath, even though it’s only six o’clock in the evening. I think a glass of wine is called for, and I pour myself a glass of chilled Chardonnay and pad back into the bathroom, scraping my hair off my face with an elastic band that I pulled off a wad of post a few days ago.

And, soaking back into the hot water, I think how lovely today was. Even though we have spent our Sundays like this for years, it is only when you take a break, or when something threatens to disturb the routine, that you fully appreciate it when it is back to normal.

I pull off the elastic band and soak my head under water, loving the warmth, the feeling of being completely cut off from the world, and, reaching for the shampoo bottle, I come up for breath and lather up my head.

I dip under again and, as I emerge, shampoo still clinging to my hair, I keep very quiet because I’m sure I just heard the doorbell ring. A few seconds go by and there it is again. Definitely the doorbell.

Oh Christ. I grab a towel from the bath rail and, shivering, jump out of the bath, frantically rubbing the shampoo now dripping into my eyes, almost blinding myself in the process. I stumble to the front door, clutching the towel around me tightly, squinting out of the left eye because the right is now too clogged with shampoo and days-old mascara to open properly.

Now I know you should never open the door without asking who it is first, particularly not when you’re female, single and living in London.

And even more particularly when you’re half naked and wrapped in a towel, even if, as in my case, that’s not a particularly appealing sight, given that the towel, for starters, is threadbare and not quite clean, and my face is streaked with mascara and my hair is still half covered in shampoo and is sticking up on the left side, but I was convinced it was going to be Si, so I didn’t think twice.

Now I know you’re not stupid, even though I, quite obviously am, but there on the doorstep, surprise surprise, is James.

Chapter twenty-four

‘Ah,’ I say, still squinting through the shampoo, slowly bringing James into focus.

‘Ah,’ he says, looking, it has to be said, slightly horrified by my appearance. ‘I suppose I ought not to just drop in like this.’

‘Actually I rather like people just dropping in. Except when I look like this of course. Do you want to come in and give me a few minutes?’

‘No, no, don’t worry.’ He starts backing off. ‘I’ll ring you later.’

‘James! Just come in, for God’s sake.’

I practically pull him through the front door, push him on to the sofa and scurry along the corridor to the bedroom.

Shit. It’s worse than I thought. No wonder he looked horrified, but, shoving the embarrassment aside, I run back into the bathroom, kneel by the bath and shove my head under water to quickly rinse my hair of the shampoo (I know it’s more hygienic to use the shower but quite frankly I just didn’t have the time).

I wash the mascara off my face, grab a hairbrush and run back into the bedroom, frantically pulling my hair back into the elastic band. And finally, letting the towel drop, I shove on some leggings and a baggy old sweatshirt, pausing before I walk out serenely to dash to the cupboard and pull on a bra because I do not need to hoist my boobs up from around my kneecaps in James’s presence.

And eventually I walk sheepishly into the kitchen, as I shout at James over my shoulder, asking whether he wants a cup of tea. I hear him close a magazine and get up to join me in the kitchen, saying he would love one.

He comes in and sits down as I pick up the dirty plates that are covering almost every available inch of workspace and pile them in the sink, covering them with Fairy Liquid and hot water, then dig around for a bit until I find two mugs to wash up for us.

‘It feels like ages since I’ve seen you,’ I say brightly, as I open the fridge and tentatively smell the milk that, thank God, is still fine. ‘What have you been up to?’

‘Actually I’ve been incredibly busy painting,’ he says, grinning, lifting an arm up from the table and examining the honey stain now spreading on his sleeve.

‘Oh Christ! Sorry.’ I run over with a cloth and clean the table, but James just laughs.

‘Jesus, Cath. I remember that night you came over to the studio and it was a pigsty, you said you were worse than me, but I thought you were just joking to try to make me feel less embarrassed. But you really are more of a pig than I am, aren’t you?’

‘I can’t help it,’ I say, shrugging. ‘I try so hard to be clean and tidy, but the pig inside just won’t stay down. She’s too strong. At least the mugs are now clean.’ I grin, showing off the sparkling mugs, having scrubbed furiously to remove the week-old tea stains. ‘So… painting. What are you working on now?’

‘You probably won’t believe it. God, I can hardly believe it, but after you exhibited my stuff in the shop,
North West
magazine came over and did a feature on me, and suddenly I’ve got phone calls left, right and centre, asking where people can buy my work.’

‘Oh, James! That’s amazing!’ I sit opposite him, beaming, genuinely thrilled for him and completely filled with remorse, because I’ve been so wrapped up in Josh and Lucy that I haven’t even given his exhibition a second thought.

‘I mean, I’m not surprised,’ I add quickly, because I’m really not. ‘Your paintings are beautiful, but it’s still incredible to have such a lucky break. Does this mean you’ll be able to retire before forty?’

He grins. ‘I don’t think I’ve reached quite that level of success yet, but you never know…’

‘Listen, today Bookends, tomorrow the Saatchi Gallery.’

‘God, don’t I bloody wish!’

‘Stranger things have happened,’ I laugh, ‘to people who create things a hell of a lot more strange than you do.’

‘Anyway, that’s enough about me, what about you? How’s everything with you?’

‘The same.’ I shrug, longing to be able to tell him exciting stories about my life, to make him laugh with witty tales of hanging out in glamorous places, but there’s very little to tell.

‘Had any more mad people in the bookshop lately?’

‘Nah, and I’m slightly worried about it. I’m sure every bookshop should have its token eccentric.’

‘I could always put an ad in the paper for you?’ James grins. ‘Wanted: true eccentric, sixty-plus, pink or blue hair, to add character and charm to local bookshop. No pay, but all the cappuccino you can drink. What d’you reckon?’

‘I reckon you’d have to hire coaches to bring in all the lonely old dears who’d answer the ad,’ I laugh.

‘You could always borrow my nan,’ he says. ‘She’s lonely.’

‘But is she eccentric?’

‘Not yet. But I’m sure she could learn. She could sit in the corner and screech at everyone in her thick Yorkshire accent.’

‘And she wouldn’t mind dyeing her hair pink?’

‘It would make a change from misty mauve.’

‘You are joking? Please tell me your grandmother doesn’t really have misty mauve hair.’

‘Okay, okay. She doesn’t. But she was born in Yorkshire, does talk with a thick Yorkshire accent, and lists screeching as a hobby. God knows I should know, she’s always telling me I don’t ring her enough.’

I shake my head as I start to laugh. ‘James, you do paint the most extraordinary mental pictures.’

‘Thank you. That’s the best compliment I’ve had all year. Now, there was something else I’d been meaning to talk to you about.’

‘Yes?’

‘My grandad.’

‘You are joking?’

‘Yes, actually. I know it’s a bit of a pain in the arse, that I keep dropping in like this, but actually I hate the telephone…’

‘James, love, you’re an estate agent. You spend your life on the telephone, how can you hate it?’

‘But that’s work. That’s exactly it. Once I leave work I hate the bloody thing, and it’s much easier to talk to someone in person, particularly when you want to see them anyway, plus this is getting ridiculous now.

‘The last time I tried to take you out for dinner it all ended up in a shambles, and I would really like to see you properly.’

‘What do you mean, see me properly?’ Although I know what he means, and he knows that I know, because there’s a huge grin on my face.

‘I mean go out for dinner. Spend some proper time with you. Get to know you
properly
.’

‘We could always start tonight,’ I say coquettishly.

‘Tonight?’

‘We could have dinner tonight.’

‘You’re not busy?’

‘Nope. The only thing is you’ll have to wait around while I get dressed and stuff.’

James looks delighted. ‘Tell you what,’ he says, looking at his watch and standing up. ‘If this is a proper date, and I bloody well hope it is, then I’ll be back here at eight o’clock to pick you up. How does that sound?’

‘Perfect.’ I walk him to the door, and then a thought occurs to me. ‘James, you know the last time we had dinner, when we saw Josh and… well, you know. Aren’t you going to ask about Josh and Lucy?’

‘Not my business, Cath.’ He shrugs, at which point I’m incredibly tempted to kiss him. ‘If you want to talk about it with someone, then I’m happy to listen, or try and help, but you should only tell me if you want to.’

‘James,’ I laugh. ‘You’re just too good to be true. I’ll see you at eight.’ And I close the front door behind him and squeal to myself for a bit, suddenly feeling things I thought I was incapable of feeling any more – excitement, exhilaration and more than a touch of anticipation.

I cannot believe that I have a proper date, and, more importantly, I cannot believe that I am actually excited about this date. It has been so long since anyone has made me feel these things, and even though I know I’ve avoided this for fear of getting hurt, there’s something about James that makes me want to trust him.

And the more I get to know him, the more I like what I see. I thought he was so shy, so nervous at first, but I’m starting to see his sense of humour, and the fact that he’s incredibly comfortable with who he is, and I like that about him. I could learn to like that a lot.

I dry my hair, change into something more appropriate, and when, at twenty to eight, the doorbell rings, I curse James silently for being so early, but thank God I am ready.

But it’s not James, it’s Si, and I have completely forgotten that he would be coming round for supper if his friend wasn’t in, and I start to apologize, start to explain, when I notice that Si is as white as a sheet and looks suspiciously like he’s about to throw up.

‘Si? What is it? What’s the matter?’ I clutch him in alarm as he threatens to topple over, and then lead him inside, terrified of his shaking.

He sits down as if in a daze, and then turns to me. ‘Will’s not well.’

‘Oh, Si.’ My face crumples in sympathy, because, hate Will though I do, I can see that this is hurting Si, and that hurts me. ‘I’m so sorry. Are you okay? Did you just find out?’

Si turns to me. ‘Ian just told me.’

‘Is it something serious?’

‘Cath,’ he whispers, turning to look at me, showing me the fear in his eyes. ‘He’s got AIDS.’

‘What?’ I never really knew what people meant when they talked about their blood running cold. Until now.

‘He
said
he was fine. We talked about it because you know how completely paranoid I am, and he said he’d had a test last year and it was negative, and that if I was negative too, there was no reason to… well… you know, safe sex and everything.’

‘Oh my God. Oh my God. Si.’ My breath catches in my throat and I’m so angry, so frightened, I want to start shaking him. ‘Please tell me you used condoms. Please tell me you didn’t…’

Si looks at me and then starts to cry, and I reach out and put my arms around him, rocking him to and fro as his body heaves with the sobs.

Four years ago Si lost one of his best friends. Jake was gorgeous. Funny, handsome, self-deprecating. They met at a cinema. Si, bored, took off for the afternoon and went by himself to catch a matinée. I remember he said he’d noticed Jake in the queue – and how, I laughed at the time, could he not.

Si caught Jake’s eye, and Jake caught Si’s, and although they weren’t sitting together – Si was three rows behind Jake – there were only eight people in the cinema, and when the film was over Jake turned around and asked Si what he thought.

They went for coffee. Which turned into dinner. Which, at the time, quite probably could have turned into something more, but somehow the timing wasn’t right, and instead of becoming lovers they became friends.

I remember feeling jealous of Jake. Jealous because despite the longer history that Si and I shared, there was an understanding between Jake and Si that I could never be a part of. Jealous because the two of them could go off and hit the clubs together, and even though I went, from time to time, I could never have as good a time as they could. And jealous because all of us could see that although they were only friends, Si had fallen hook, line and sinker, and if Jake’s friendship was the only thing on offer, then that would have to be enough.

Jake was American, and very early on, before they even got to know one another that well – although of course Si was already secretly planning their cottage in the country, had already planted out the vegetable garden, named their two golden Labradors – Jake sat Si down and told him about his past. He told him about his youth, the years of anonymous sex with strangers, and he told him that, despite everything, he would not have lived those years differently.

Despite everything? Jake told him that when he first arrived in London he came down with a fever. One hundred and four degrees, vomiting and shivering, and he went to a doctor who tested him for HIV.

And because this was real life, and because real life doesn’t always go the way we would like, Jake was positive. He was also devastated. He went through everything the counsellors told him he might experience: anger, fear, grief and, finally, acceptance.

His fever went away, the vomiting and shivering stopped, and he tried to pretend that everything was fine, that it had all been a nightmare, but of course it wasn’t. Jake went to counselling, he met people living with AIDS, heard their stories, and somehow along the way he discovered that perhaps he was being shown a different way to live his life.

He learned that the challenge of having AIDS is not dying of AIDS, but living with AIDS. That it isn’t an instant death sentence, that his life could be just as fulfilling, more even, than before: he could work with the community, give something back, make the absolute most of the rest of his life, however long, or short, it would turn out to be.

And Si listened to Jake, heard what he was saying, and when Jake finished, Si reached over and gave him a hug.

‘I’m scared,’ Si said. ‘I have to be honest and if I’m honest then you have to know that it frightens me, terrifies me, because it, AIDS, has always been there, but it’s never directly affected anyone who’s been close to me. But I also know that you’re one of my best friends, and whatever I can do for you, I will.’

They went to a bookshop that afternoon, and Jake pointed out the books he had read, some of which Si bought, to arm himself with information.

He learned to stop being frightened. He learned what was safe and what was not. And he learned that not every cough, every headache, every sneeze, was the onset of the downward spiral.

But Jake wasn’t just HIV positive – Si always said he wished he’d met him years ago, wished he’d got to know him before the illness, even though Jake said he wouldn’t have liked him as much, that he was a far nicer person since contracting HIV – Jake had AIDS, and although he had friends who had gone years without opportunistic infections, Jake was unlucky.

Soon after they met Jake developed PCP pneumonia. He’d already lost his appetite, had night sweats, but this was the moment he’d been dreading, the moment he hoped wouldn’t come for years.

His CD4 count dropped to just under 100, he lost his appetite, his sleep, and his mood swings were frightening, but Si tried to fight for him, tried to find the strength to make him survive. Even during the times he shouted at Si, screamed at him to fuck off, Si sat silently, patiently, stroking his hair until Jake broke down in tears.