The Love of Her Life (15 page)

‘Look, I know Steve. I knew him. Remember? I went out with him for a whole blinking year, until you introduced him to that young harlot Zoe –’ she smiled. ‘What happened happened, OK? It wasn’t your fault.’

Kate shook her head, the pain of tears already stinging at her eyes, in her nose. She smiled grimly. ‘Too heavy. I’m sorry.’

‘In what way?’ Kate said innocently. ‘God you’re so literal. I mean … ’

‘I know.’ Francesca laughed hollowly. ‘Nice start to the evening, eh? I get out of work and come to meet you and it’s like an evening with Verdi.’

She leant over and hit Kate on the arm. ‘Look. Cheers, darling. It’s just so nice to see you. You look different, you know?’

‘How?’

‘Grown-up.’

‘That’s what Zoe said,’ Kate said, remembering. It didn’t
sound like a particularly great thing to be. ‘Don’t feel it, myself. Anyway. How are you? How’s the job, how’s the house? How’s … everything?’

‘Job crap. Far too hard.’ Francesca sighed. ‘There’s a squeeze on in our department. They do this every couple of years. Just fire a whole load of people, get some new better people in, then do the same in two years’ time. So they know they’ve always got the best. We’re in the middle of it now.’

‘Are you …’ Kate said.

‘Please,’ said Francesca. ‘I made them millions last year. London’s their most profitable office.’

‘Wow,’ said Kate.

‘It’s just – you know. It’s hard.’ Francesca blew air out from her bottom lip so it ruffled her fringe, as if she were trying to cool down. ‘It feels like there’s – there’s nothing left over.’

‘After work?’ said Kate, not sure what she meant.

‘Yep,’ said Francesca, nodding in agreement. ‘You know what it’s like.’ Kate nodded uncertainly; she only vaguely remembered what it was like. Francesca went on, ‘Work work work. And then – what? Everyone else is settled down, living out in –’ she waved her arm vaguely ‘– Cheam. I don’t know. Places outside town. I don’t want that. It’s just –’ she gulped the rest of her champagne down, poured some more in. ‘I didn’t sign up for this. When we were younger, you know it’s even depressing I can say “when we were younger”, too – well, when we were younger, I didn’t think this was the way it was going to be. Look at us now. At our friends. You remember Zoe and Steve’s housewarming party?’

‘Of course,’ Kate said. She smiled. ‘Funny, we were talking about it on Sunday. Me and Zoe.’

‘I remember that evening so clearly,’ Francesca said. ‘Mainly because I couldn’t drink that much, I was on
antibiotics. I remember just looking round the room at all of us, thinking how great everything was.’ She laughed, bitterly. ‘Look what’s happened to all of us since. Zoe,
Steve
, Mac, you, me – even Sean …’ She dropped their names in like stones, hitting the palm of her hand with her fingers each time and then she gestured around the room, and Kate shuddered, involuntarily, remembering Charly’s letters, which she still had done nothing about. She took a deep breath, and blinked, pushing it all away, down inside her.

‘We’re scattered all over the place now, all of us, aren’t we?’ Francesca said. Her face clouded over, then she laughed. ‘Look at us. Tell you what, let’s stop being maudlin. You’re back and it’s wonderful to see you, babe. Tell me about New York and I’ll tell you about my new bathroom. It’s got heated floor tiles. If that doesn’t cheer us up, nothing will.’

‘My god,’ Kate recovered herself. ‘You’re living the dream.’

‘It’s true,’ Francesca said. ‘I’m the only landlady in Clapham offering heated floor tiles.’

‘How’s your flatmate?’ Kate couldn’t remember her name, a whey-faced girl Francesca had worked with.

‘Sara? She moved in with her boyfriend, a couple of months ago. I had to get someone else. Oh my god, I forgot to tell you, Kate darling – at the moment I’m lucky because I’ve got – oh yes? Hello. Thanks, another bottle.’

Kate nodded fervently in agreement as the waitress moved away.

‘Where was I? Yes. Let’s play Who Would You Do?’ Francesca said. ‘It’s been far too long.’ She shook out her hair decisively. ‘God this is nice.’

‘Who Would You Do?’ Kate asked.

‘Him,’ said Francesca, nodding at the man next to them, who was extremely short, with thinning, all over sparse black hair, who was grunting slightly as he worked his way through an elaborate cocktail.

‘You wish,’ Kate said.

‘He’s your boyfriend.’

‘He’s
yours
.’

‘How about you?’

‘Who Would I Do …?’ Kate mused. She looked round, surreptitiously. ‘Him. Actually, seriously, I would.’

They swivelled round together, again incurring the curious stares of their fellow drinkers. There, in the doorway, was an actually remarkably good-looking man, bulky, tall, something of the rugby player about him, close-cropped curly dark brown hair, an open, handsome face. He was looking round the room, and smiled at them gently, before being claimed by a rather cross-looking, short girl who leapt up and waved, her fingers wiggling in the air.

‘Dom! Dom! Over here!
Dom!
’

Kate and Francesca looked back at each other, chastened.

‘All right, calm down,’ Francesca muttered crossly. ‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist, dear. Ah, second bottle. Right, my turn.’

‘Who Would You Do?’

‘Him,’ said Francesca, pointing again at the gorgeous Dom, and both of them collapsed in laughter.

After the second bottle of champagne, everything was a bit of a blur. In the file Kate kept in her brain called Things I Must Remember When Sober (a file that is neurologically impossible to access, unfortunately) she filed the fact that Francesca paid the bill, insisting she should, and the fact that she thought the waiters probably hated them both, as they got more and more helplessly giggly. And the fact that it was great to be out, to be back, to see Francesca, to laugh and have a drink and gossip and talk about things: important things, silly things – just talk. That, she remembered, though the particulars of their conversation weren’t so clear.

She didn’t, however, remember the following things:

What else they talked about.

What time they left.

How they got home.

The next day, she thought wearily that the difference between New York and London was that in New York it was impossible to get anyone to behave like that, whereas in London it was impossible to meet a friend like Francesca for ‘a’ drink and not get knee-walking, eyeball-bleedingly
drunk. It should be possible, it just never was.

She remembered that they decided to go back to Francesca’s, because Kate wanted to see the heated bathroom tiles, suddenly she was desperate to see them. This she remembered. She also remembered:

Francesca’s front path had black and white tiles leading up to the front door.

They stopped at a cash-point on the way back. It was blue.

She had asked Francesca if she knew how she could find out where Charly was now. Where she was living.

But she couldn’t remember the answer.

So the next morning, Kate woke up, and she was chewing her own hair, and it was half strangling her, half choking her. Her mouth felt like she’d been using it to store vinegar. She rolled around in bed, her mind a total blank, trying to remember where she was, what she’d done the night before. For a brief, hangover-induced moment, she thought with panic that her mind must have been wiped during the night, like a broken iPod. She looked at the pale, ascetic walls around her, through the window at the bare trees with buds outside, and then she looked at the wall next to her. There was a photo, and she recognized herself, Zoe, Betty, and Francesca, all in ‘formal’ dress, the night of Zoe’s housewarming party all those years ago … Her arms were slung through Zoe’s and Betty’s, she was bent double, laughing at something Betty was saying, pulling the others down with her in hysterics …

Kate blinked and stared at the photo again. Yes, that was it. She was here, at Francesca’s, in her room, wearing a strange small vest and some baggy boys’ boxers – but where was Francesca?

Downstairs, someone was moving about in the kitchen, and Kate rubbed her eyes. She felt dreadful. She swung her legs out of bed and picked up a dressing gown hanging on the back of the wooden door. She raked her hands through her hair, clutching her scalp as she did. It felt warm. Was her blood actually boiling due to the amount of alcohol in her brain? Was that it? Kate stumbled downstairs, holding her head, her hair.

‘God, I feel awful,’ she said to the figure rustling the paper loudly, too loudly.

The figure looked over the paper.

It wasn’t Francesca.

‘Mac?’ Kate whispered.

‘Kate.’

Mac was looking up at her from his paper, his eyes locked on hers. He didn’t move. He looked as if he’d seen a ghost.

‘What are you doing here?’ Kate said softly.

‘I live here,’ he said. His jaw tightened; he opened his mouth to say something, then shut it. His voice was deadly quiet. ‘I might ask you what
you’re
doing here.’

‘You don’t live here,’ Kate said, confused. Her champagne-scrambled brain was turning over in itself, desperately trying to remember what Francesca had said last night.

‘
Sara? She moved in with her boyfriend, a couple of months ago.
I had to get someone else. Oh my god, I forgot to tell you, Kate
darling – at the moment I’m lucky because I’ve got … Thanks,
another bottle
.’

He hadn’t forgiven her for what she’d done. Had he? Kate forced herself to look at him. She looked at his hands first, how one of them was clutching the side of the paper so hard it was in a fist, the paper crumpling around it, like a rosette, and he threw it on the table, and stood up. He was tall, she always forgot how tall. She took a step towards him, not allowing herself to look at him. The two of them stood there
in silence. Memories of the last time she’d seen him came rushing at her … but she pushed them away. No, she didn’t let herself think of it any more.

Vaguely, somewhere else in her head, Kate heard the sound of the shower, in another corner of the house. It recalled her to her senses, and she finally looked straight up at Mac, and it was then that she felt it. She was almost felled by the venom in his eyes, the anger, the disgust, that he felt for her. Kate backed away, quailing under the force of his stare.

‘I do live here,’ he said. ‘Temporarily. I’m looking for a place.’ He collected himself, as if he didn’t want to give too much away to her. ‘Anyway. Why the hell are you here?’

She couldn’t think of an adequate reply. ‘I didn’t realize you lived here. I was out with Francesca last night. Sorry …’

‘Fine.’ He looked out of the window, collected himself for a moment. ‘Francesca’s in the shower. Do you want some tea?’

‘Oh, yes, that’d be –’

‘Kettle’s just boiled,’ he said, and went back to the paper.

‘Thank – thanks,’ Kate said, and she went forward timidly to the kettle. Her head was pounding, and her heart was beating. Ghosts everywhere, she thought. Can’t escape them.

She looked up at the clock. It was eight o’clock. She’d told Mr Allan she’d be with him at nine.

‘Shit,’ she said.

Mac ignored her.

‘I’ve got to go,’ Kate said, retreating back up the stairs to the sitting room. ‘Something’s – I’m supposed to be somewhere.’

‘Sure you are,’ he said, looking up at her briefly. His tone was careless, almost conversational. ‘You’d better be off. You’re good at that, aren’t you? Running off.’

Kate felt something inside her release, with a ping.

‘I didn’t mean to,’ she said, turning towards him, all fear gone.

‘What?’ he said, surprised. His head jerked up and she noticed the grey hairs at the sides of his head, at his temples.

‘It wasn’t my fault, Mac.’ She was calm. ‘I mean, it was my fault, but – I’ve paid for it. I know you hate me. I know I screwed up.’ She cleared her throat.

‘What are you talking about?’ he said.

Kate stared at him, almost with exasperation. ‘Mac! You know what I’m –’

‘No, I don’t,’ he said, his voice almost vicious. ‘You see, Kate, you’ve screwed my life up not just once but – yeah, actually, a couple of times. In every way. So when you troop in here and say you’re oh so sorry, I’m not sure for which of the several ways you’ve managed to ruin things you’re apologizing.’

She tried to swallow, but she couldn’t. ‘Listen to me. I didn’t mean …’ she began, but he started laughing.

‘Oh, that’s a big consolation to me,’ said Mac, still holding onto the newspaper. His eyes were cold, cold green and unflinching. ‘You didn’t mean to. Wow. Is that supposed to make everything better? Look, Kate, just forget it. I don’t want to have this discussion with you. OK?’

‘It’s not OK,’ said Kate. ‘You – me – we … that … everything that happened.’ She pulled the paper swiftly out of his hands. It sliced one of his fingers, such was the speed with which she did it. Mac breathed in sharply, and stood up. He moved towards her, and Kate actually thought for one moment he was going to hit her. ‘Everything that happened,’ she said, leaning towards him. Fight it. Fight fear with fear, she told herself, dragging up some strength from she didn’t know where, suddenly conscious of her dressing gown, her shorts, her skimpy top. They stood, facing each other, the tension palpable.

‘I’m never going to not think it was your fault,’ he said simply. He pressed his finger to his other palm; she saw blood where she had cut him. ‘That’s all. It was you, Kate. After everything that happened, we could have made it better, you and me.’ For a brief second she saw tenderness in his eyes, and she knew he remembered it the way she did, and it hurt her so much more than she’d thought it could. ‘But you went and broke it all over again. And that’s why I’ll never, ever not think it was your fault.’

She hit the side of a cabinet, her bones smacking hard into the wood. She winced, and he fractionally winced with her.

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about –’

Mac ignored her, carried on as if she hadn’t spoken.

‘You ran away
again
,’ he said, exasperation all over his lean, tired face. She thought how much older he was looking. ‘God. God –!’ He half-turned away. ‘You never even wrote.’

‘I did write, Mac, I did,’ she said, justifying herself, and it sounded so weak.

He waved it away, and turned to her, his eyes so full of pain she could hardly bear it. ‘My god! It’s like a nightmare. All of this is a nightmare, and it’s because of –’

Francesca appeared at the top of the stairs leading down to the kitchen. ‘Ah,’ she said, casually, doing up the buttons on her black city jacket. ‘Morning – Kate. I’m hideously late. Gosh, you look awful.’

‘Francesca –’ said Kate, but Francesca carried on,

‘Look at this nice surprise, eh? I meant to warn you who my –’

‘She’s going, anyway, don’t worry.’ Mac flicked his fingers dismissively at Kate. ‘She’s got things to do.’ He took a deep breath and winced, and then he turned back to his paper.

That was when Kate snapped, backing away from him, sudden tears sprouting and streaming down her face.

‘Why don’t you understand?’ she screamed. ‘Do you think it was easy for me? Mac, there was
nothing else I could do
!’

Running up the stairs, pushing past an astonished Francesca, she fell into the bedroom and pulled on last night’s clothes. Barely a minute later, she ran down the stairs again. Francesca was standing in the hallway.

‘What on earth’s going on?’ she said.

‘I’ve got to –’ Kate sobbed, her eyes puffy. She wiped her nose. ‘I’m going, please don’t – sorry, darling.’

‘You and Mac?’ said Francesca, her brow furrowed. ‘Wowsers. I always wondered. When did –?’

Mac appeared in the corridor, his bulk blocking the light from the kitchen. He touched Francesca lightly on the arm, his eyes never straying from Kate’s face.

‘Let her go,’ he said, bleakly. ‘Please, Francesca.’

‘Just wait, Kate, I’ll walk to the –’

‘No, no,’ said Kate, breathing in, and trying to smile like it was all OK. ‘I’m late, I really am, I have to go –’

And she ran out into the street, pulling the door shut in Francesca and Mac’s faces. It slammed loudly behind her. It was cold and grey outside, the sky a uniform blanket of cloud. Ghosts. The ghosts in London were everywhere.