I cover my nerves by rummaging in her pick’n’mix bag, coming out with a white mouse filled with radioactive pink goo.
‘That you were friends.’
‘She already knew that.’
‘I know. I wonder what’s causing her to question it.’
I slip the mouse into my mouth. ‘Are you telling me she was seriously concerned?’
‘Nooo …’ Caroline relents, fishing in the sweet bag. ‘I think she was merely curious about Ben’s past, like any partner.’
‘There you are then.’
‘They’re seeing things very differently since they moved up here. It was meant to be for good and now they’re divided on whether to stay. He’s being very unsympathetic about her missing her family and wanting to plan a longer-term future down south, Olivia says.’
‘Why move up, if she’s only going to lobby to go back down again?’ I say, warily.
‘If they have kids, of course she’s going to want to be around her mum.’
‘Doesn’t sound like Ben though. He’s so easygoing.’
‘Isn’t anyone, with someone other than their other half?’ Caroline looks distinctly irritable as she throws a handful of cola bottles to the back of her mouth.
‘Hmm,’ I say. I sense non-committal noises are my friend here, and having opinions, and expressing them, are not.
‘By the way, when I asked Ivor and Mindy out tonight, they both said the same thing. “Not if you’ve asked Ivor-slash-Mindy”,’ Caroline says. ‘They’re still at each other’s throats over Katya? I do think Mindy should think before she speaks sometimes.’
‘Yeah, that row was rococo. Mindy went batshit insane. I thought it was hangover-rage but doesn’t sound like they’ve made it up. Ivor says he’s mortally insulted and is making threats he’s not going to come out with us as a four again. We need to put them in the same room, let them slug this out. They’re both as stubborn as each other.’
‘I have a theory,’ Caroline says.
‘Which is?’
The lights dim and the adverts begin. An hour-and-a-half of slapstick hilarity later, I forget to repeat the question.
48
I can’t convince Caroline to stay out for a drink – ‘Gray’s parents can spot a hangover at thirty paces, and the thought of putting up with them makes me want to drink a lot, a dangerous combination’ – so she goes for her tram and I make my way back to the flat, wondering what I’m going to do with the rest of the weekend. Your life should get fuller as you get older, the canvas become more crowded, a Renoir café instead of one of Lowry’s industrial wastelands. Instead here I am, thirties in progress, and I probably had more of an agenda when I was a teenager.
The deal when I was with Rhys was Fridays with the friends, Saturdays with him, after band practice. We’d go to a neighbourhood restaurant, or pub, or most often, spend an evening in with Rhys cooking something blokey with fresh chillies, both of us slamming down too many bottles of wine. It’s not as if the loss of our coupledom has blown a hole in the middle of my social life, but being together is enough of an alibi for society about how you’re spending your time. I’m considering booking a weekend on my own in Paris for the date of the would’ve-been wedding. City of Love … maybe not. I’ll probably see a kissing couple like the ones from that famous wartime photo and have to be fished out of the Seine.
My phone starts ringing and I hope Caroline’s thought better of the abstinence and doubled back. I see the caller’s Simon and before I can stop myself, I start smiling in anticipation.
He doesn’t bother with hello.
‘Do I have to send a barbershop quartet round to court singing “Take A Chance On Me”, then?’
‘Hello, Simon. What would you do that for?’
‘To have a hope of a second date.’
‘Hah! That would extinguish all hope forever.’
‘There is some hope, then?’
‘Never say never.’
‘Friends, then? Can men and women be friends or does sex always get in the way, and other clichés?’
A gang of blokes with untucked shirts in every shade of the Ted Baker rainbow pass by, giving an obligatory ‘you’re a woman!’ roar. I’m glad it prevents me from having to make an answer.
‘Have I disturbed your book group?’ Simon asks.
‘I’m walking back from the cinema.’
‘On your own? I’ll have to talk to you until you arrive home safely, then.’
‘Very kind.’
‘Can I check, has Ben been sticking his oar in, by any chance?’
I swap the phone to my other ear. ‘Eh?’
‘I thought Ben might’ve talked to you about me. Maybe I’m wrong. If he has, though, I’d rather you judged me for yourself.’
‘Why would it be a problem if I had talked to him?’
‘He’s quite protective when it comes to you, remember.’
‘Ben’s not going to, erm, brief against you though?’ Except that’s what he has done, I guess.
‘When he asked how the date went, I felt like he was on the porch in his rocking chair, with a shotgun. You sure you two have never collided without clothes on?’
This throws me and annoys me in equal measure. Dig, dig, dig. Ben seems to be looming far too large in our conversations, and I can’t work out why. I consider mentioning Simon’s continuing stirring to Ben. Only that would mean us both admitting there’s a pot to stir. No chance. Always question people separately. I can see why they’re going to make him a partner.
‘I’m sure, Simon, I think I’d remember. Why the obsession on this point when you’ve been given an answer?’
‘I’m a lawyer, Rachel. We keep going until we get an answer we believe.’
‘That’s funny, the lawyers I know take the answer they think will fly with the duty sergeant.’
‘You’re very good at the art of deflection yourself, aren’t you?’
‘Why are our conversations more like a battle of wits?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Hah. Well … I’m home now, thanks for the company.’
‘Have a lovely evening,’ Simon replies, smoothly.
I’m three streets away from my flat, but the talking had gone as far as I wanted it to.
49
I wake up groggy on Sunday morning, rays of feeble sunshine on my face. Rupa’s billowing voile magenta curtains that pool on the floor are incredible in every respect apart from the ‘keeping the light out’ bit.
I spent a hectic Saturday night watching DVDs and drinking wine alone with no co-drinker to help hide how much I’ve had. I’ve slept so long my bones have gone floppy. I briefly imagine it’s dawn because of the birdsong, before gradually realising it’s the tweeting and chirruping of my phone, submerged under discarded clothing. I get out of bed, sweeping my hair out of my face and cursing whoever thinks it’s acceptable to disturb me.
It