Can We Still Be Friends (29 page)

The cigarette Sal lit was more to create an idea of warmth than because she really wanted one.

‘I’m thinking. Look at that city. You can even see the massive new development way out to the east, over there … to the left. There’s a lot that’s being destroyed in all this expansion. Maybe there’s a story in that, and the Chapel would fit. Gioia could be part of a piece about the small people in a battle against the forces of commercialism. Patrick might not like it, but Stuart’s always trying to
get human interest pieces in. Gioia’s a character, isn’t she? She’d be good copy.’

‘What about Annie?’

‘Christ, Kendra. I come up with something and now you’re going doubtful on me. Bringing up a problem. What about her?’

‘That’s going to land her in it with Charlie, isn’t it?’

‘Annie will be fine.’ Sal stamped on her cigarette butt, grinding it into the earth. ‘She’s got her baby. That’s what counts.’

By the time Sal reached work, conference had begun in Patrick’s office. All the senior staff were gathered there, the rest of the place waiting to be inflated by their return to desks. Marsha was sitting at hers, of course, already on the telephone, scribbling notes about something or other. She had perfected a manner of talking which didn’t allow Sal or anyone else to hear what she was saying unless she chose.

It was a funny achey feeling, thought Sal, a bit like she was going to have flu, but different. As she threw her bag on the floor by her desk she realized she was about to be sick. The Ladies was all the way across the office and down a flight of stairs. By the time she was bolting the stall door, she could feel the burn in her throat.

Sitting on the toilet to compose herself, she stared at the linoleum tiles, momentarily feeling the wave recede just before it returned and she had to be sick again. God. You’d think she was pregnant or something. Maybe it was food poisoning – but she hadn’t eaten anything last night. Was she pregnant? That was impossible. She’d check her pills, but she was sure she was on target – about halfway through the cycle. She’d missed a couple of days ages ago when she’d spent an unexpected few nights with Pete, but that was right at the start of a cycle. She’d been together enough to clock that. It was safe then. It was about now … 14, 15, 16 – those days that were dodgy. She started to feel better.

Stopping at the picture desk as a diversion from writing her piece, Sal leant over the transparencies lined up on the light box. It was a pity that newspapers only published black and white when you saw
the foxy red of Sarah Ferguson’s hair. It was what gave her that particular look. She could never have been a brunette.

She supposed she’d better start getting something down soon. If she got this story on the engagement finished then she could have a word with Stuart about her property idea. Find some other examples of people being evacuated, swept up in the tide of new commercialism. It might be a goer.

There was a corner of the Rootsteins’ paved garden known as Art’s corner just near the cuboid water feature where the morning sun flickered in a filtered pattern through the trellis. At first he’d craved the soft lawn and coloured borders of their Hampstead garden but now, Art agreed, Marisa had been right to concentrate on a simple linear scheme. The clean lines cleared the head.

Kendra was pleased to find him seated there, just as she had expected, reading a stack of work papers while Marisa took her Saturday morning Pilates class. The spacious simplicity of the house was heavenly after the cramped chaos of Gioia’s flat, with its clothes and books in piles and the pipes that would often whistle, without explanation, in the middle of the night.

She bent to give Art a kiss on the top of his head, and his hand rose to stroke her cheek as he always used to do.

‘My, you’ve got a sweat on you. Get something to drink, doll. Since you’ve gone we stopped with the Coca Cola, but I’m sure there’s something in the fridge.’ Kendra’s Coke habit was something she battled with. She knew it was practically poison and you had to be completely naïve not to regard the worldwide creep of the company as truly dubious, but she never seemed able to give it up.

The contents of the fridge were as delicious as always. Marisa felt the only fridge worth having was a full one, even though she only ate a narrow repertoire from it. Returning from school, the first thing Kendra would do was open the double doors and delve into the array of cold meats, cheese, dips and ice cream. Her friends had always been impressed by the size of the fridge. Most of their
kitchens only had small ones that fitted under the counter. She poured herself a glass of milk and carved a slice of Pecorino.

‘It’s great to see you.’ Art watched her return. ‘You’ve lost some pounds. It suits you. Your mother’s at that Pilates. How she has the discipline I’ll never know. Still, she’s in great shape for her age. I should be doing the same.’ He patted his stomach where it protruded in a satisfied bump.

‘How’s things? How’s she? And Laila?’

‘Laila’s boy’s got some apprenticeship, so she’s a happy woman. And things are good. You know I didn’t feel for Mrs Thatcher at the start, but she’s turning this place around. Business is picking up.’

Kendra perched on the low stone wall beside the gurgling water, letting the soothing sound override Art’s opinion. She could hear children playing in the large garden that lay just beyond where she was sitting.

‘Dad, I want advice …’

‘Sure.’

‘We have this problem with the Chapel. It’s being threatened by developers, who want Gioia out. But I remember you talking about things like right of residence, or some deal where they can’t get rid of you if you’ve been there long enough. Would she have any legal leg to stand on?’

‘I’d have to see the paperwork, but your friend doesn’t strike me as the kind of girl who’s got the wherewithal for a battle with the property guys. Do you know who it is?’

‘Yeah – Charterhouse, I think it’s called. Annie’s husband is in with them, which makes it awkward.’

‘Husband? Did that pretty girl go get married? Well, well …’

‘Yeah. But, really, Dad, what do you think?’

‘Without knowing more, I couldn’t call it, but I doubt she can do much. Maybe she could negotiate some compensation. I take it she doesn’t own the place?’

‘No, but she’s been maintaining it. We were about to try to do the roof, which is threatening to kill someone, so many tiles are loose.’

The front door slammed, followed by Marisa’s quick steps. Art
recognized Kendra’s disappointment at this interruption and looked past her to where Marisa, her black leotard and tights displaying a body that was rigorously slim, stood in the entrance.

‘I had no idea you were paying us a visit. I would have changed the class.’ She moved towards her daughter. Kendra could feel the knobs of Marisa’s spine as they hugged. ‘Were you in on this, Art?’

‘Don’t be paranoid, Mum. I was in the neighbourhood and just called to see if I could drop round.’

‘You have the key. You know you’re always welcome.’ Marisa smoothed back an imagined tendril of hair, placing her fingertips on her shoulders, shrugging them back in a loosening exercise.

‘Kendra was telling me that her friend Annie is now married. Can you believe it, Maris? They’re all growing up. It’ll be babies next.’ The words might as well have been grenades, as far as Kendra was concerned. Babies, grandchildren. How had they got on to this already? The previous period of enjoyment, even a slight recognition that she missed some things about home, was replaced by the more usual desire to escape. It never took long for Kendra to feel guilty about something. Truthfully, she had been starting to feel a little guilty about enjoying being there, as if that was in some way disloyal to Gioia.

‘Does she still work for that PR outfit?’ Marisa was examining a brown leaf that she had snipped from the jasmine that climbed above the water feature. ‘I saw her there a couple of times when we did that NSPCC fundraiser a year or so back. I’ll never know why they chose to go with that inebriated dame who runs the show. But I’ll give it to her, she delivered on the names for the night.’

‘Yeah. She’s still working there. She’s got quite a few of her own accounts now. And, since you mention it, Dad, she’s having a baby too.’

‘That’s nice, isn’t it? Well, well.’ Art gave his spectacles a wipe on the sleeve of his sweater before replacing them and turning his attention back to the safety of his papers and so concluding this particular strand of conversation.

‘She’s a little young for all that. This is the age when you explore.
Nobody should tie themselves down. When I think of what I wanted at your age and what has happened to my life …’ Looking at her mother standing in the splayed feet of a Pilates stance, Kendra found it hard to imagine her ever wanting anything other than what she so purposefully had achieved. ‘You have no idea what can happen. People change. Come and look at the Tibetan screen your father and I are considering buying. It adds a different aura to the room.’ Kendra followed her mother up the stairs to where the screen was positioned in one corner of the drawing room. It was a beautiful object, that was true, but it didn’t help her and Gioia. Why was it that when something really mattered it was so hard to get any help? She’d always assumed her parents could get anything they wanted – at least that was the impression they gave – but now, when she’d hoped Art might be of some use, he had shrugged the problem away. Didn’t they understand that this wasn’t about a Tibetan screen?

Sal sat on the edge of the bath staring at the pregnancy stick with horror and fascination. It was the third one she’d tried. Just to be sure. But there it was. Nobody could deny there was anything other than blue in the window. She counted the number of tiles around the bath. And then counted them again. If she just sat here and kept counting, maybe this wasn’t really happening. Outside the locked door, she could hear the television, a yelled offer of a cup of tea. The laughter probably meant somebody had made a joke, but this large flat full of people made her feel utterly alone. It would have been so much easier if she was still in Cranbourne Terrace with Annie.

There was no question of telling Pete about this disaster. The rules were that they were free; no sweat, no obligation. She wasn’t even going out with him really. They just spent time with each other because it was fun. It wasn’t like there was any commitment. And the sex was great. She was turned on just by thinking about Pete’s fingers caressing her as she lay on his old fur coat on the floor. This could ruin everything.

If she kept calm she could get it sussed. No need to be sentimental about this. Fuck it. She didn’t want a baby. There was no part of her, not even the smallest part, that wanted one. And, anyway, it wasn’t a baby, it was about the size of a bean. It wasn’t like a baby at all.

She’d have to get cash for an abortion at one of those private places. She knew from friends the nightmare of the birth control clinic where they made you feel terrible about it and took ages, asking all kinds of questions. It was awful timing, but maybe she could get Annie to lend her some money. Only the other day she’d been telling her how generous Charlie was and how she’d actually, for the first time ever, got money in a deposit account. Obviously, it wasn’t ideal, what with Annie being pregnant, but then in her case she was so happy about it, and she would always want to help. She would see it was different. Sal couldn’t possibly have a baby.

That white top was typical of Annie. Sal considered how, if she wore it, she would look like a Jehovah’s Witness, but Annie, who she remembered had found it in a local antique shop, had immediately registered its stylish possibilities.

Near where they lay in the park, a six-a-side football match was taking place. Sal watched as a boy in navy shorts wiped the ball with his hand, inspiring noisy jeers. The whole country was still raging about Maradona’s handball. She wished she was a bloke. Really, when it came down to it, that was pretty well all they had to care about, being knocked out of the World Cup. They didn’t have to have an abortion.

‘It’s lovely here, isn’t it?’ Annie said as she plaited blades of grass. ‘It’s not like being in the city at all. I’m trying to persuade Charlie that we should get somewhere with a garden. I keep thinking of the baby in one of those old-fashioned prams, the ones with the big navy hood.’ She looked over at Sal, who was lying on her back.

‘You shouldn’t get too ahead of yourself. It’s still early, really. I mean, they’re not even babies yet. It’s not safe to get all sentimental so soon. You know, I understand, and everything, that you’re
thrilled about the baby … but … all I’m saying is … there’s lots of time.’

‘God, what’s up with you?’ Annie sat up, pulling down her smock and stroking her stomach as she did so. ‘It’s as if you’re angry with me for being pregnant or something.’

‘Of course I’m not. You only think that because your hormones are all over the place.’ Sal was surprised by her own aggression – what was that about? She was about to do a massive U-turn when Annie stood.

‘I’m just not staying here with you like this.’

Sal pulled at the hem of Annie’s skirt like a small child. ‘The thing is … the thing is – well, I’m, oh shit. I’m pregnant too.’ Annie looked down at her. ‘No, don’t try and say anything, because there’s nothing you can say that will make this better. But I have to get an abortion. And quickly. And, Annie, I know it’s terrible of me to ask, but can you lend me the cash? I just can’t bear to wait. I need to do it. Of course, if you can’t, I understand.’

‘Whose is it? Is it Pete’s?’ Annie wasn’t sure whether it would be better if it was or it wasn’t. She realized she didn’t know much about Sal’s love life at the moment; she’d been so wrapped up in her own world: Charlie, work and the pregnancy. She sat down again on the grass. ‘I’m sorry. It must be terrifying for you. Are you sure that this is what you want?’

‘Of course I’m sure. I can hardly have a baby living in some grotty flat in Earls Court and take it into the office like a dog in a basket. I’m just at such a different stage to you. I don’t want to analyse it and work out how I feel. I just want it over.’