A Friend of the Family (31 page)

And she smiled and nodded at him. ‘I do,’ she said. ‘I really do.’

And then, very, very slowly, their lips met and they kissed.

Baby Hangovers

Tony was the one to stop the kiss.

He stopped it after about thirty seconds.

Someone had to, after all.

‘This is wrong,’ he said. ‘We shouldn’t be doing this.’And he wasn’t just saying it to be a gentleman, he was saying it because he meant it. It
was
wrong. All wrong. Halfway through the kiss, Tony had suddenly realized. This wasn’t what their relationship was about any more. It had moved on. In fact, it had moved on from the moment Millie first told him she was pregnant, and he just hadn’t noticed.

‘I know,’ she said, pulling away from him, putting her fingertips to her lips, ‘I’m very drunk.’

‘Me too,’ said Tony.

‘It’s just,’ she began, her hands twisted together in her lap, ‘I’m feeling so…’

‘It’s OK,’ interrupted Tony, ‘I know. We’re both confused. We’re both pissed. We’re both being totally ridiculous.’

Millie nodded vehemently, tucking her hair behind her ear. ‘Absolutely,’ she said, and then she threw Tony a half-smile. ‘God – how the hell did that happen?’

Tony shrugged.

‘Who started it? God, was it me? Did I just launch myself at you with my tongue sticking out?’

Tony smiled. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I think it was a two-way effort. You know, fifty-fifty.’

‘How embarrassing. Not that I – well, you’re a very attractive man, Tony, you really are. But, I have no idea why that just happened. I really don’t. It must be my hormones, or something.’

‘Mine too,’ he said, starting to feel the stirrings of embarrassed laughter somewhere in his stomach.

‘God – snogging on the sofa, how juvenile.’ She covered her face with her hands and sniggered.

Tony looked at Millie, sitting with a look of numb, semi-amused shock on her face, her cardigan still slightly askew from his passionate fumblings, and an image flashed through his mind, an image of him and Millie snogging on the sofa. And for some reason the image sent him straight over the edge and he laughed out loud. Millie threw him a sideways glance and her own smile increased. Tony looked at her and laughed again. And then they both totally cracked up.

They laughed long and hard for about five minutes, rocking back and forth, clutching their sides, wiping the tears away from under their eyes. They laughed so hard that they couldn’t speak and so much that Tony began to feel bruises forming under his ribcage. And they laughed for so long that all the tension from the previous four hours completely dissipated. And when they finally stopped they looked at each other and
Tony knew that he had a new and wonderful friend in his life.

They sat up for a bit longer and chatted about the evening, about the baby and about Sean, and then, when Millie started yawning more than talking, Tony took her upstairs to bed. She let him make a fuss over her as he showed her her bedroom, showed her the en suite shower, brought her toothpaste, a spare toothbrush, gave her a clean T-shirt to wear in bed. She let him sit on the edge of her bed once she was ready and stroke her hair and hold her hand. She was compliant and childlike.

‘Oh no,’ she said suddenly as she lay there. ‘My baby – do you think it’s going to have a hangover tomorrow? Like me?’

Tony shrugged.

‘Oh my poor, poor baby,’ she said, rubbing her belly, ‘what have I done to you, you poor little thing?’

Tony brought her more water, then, to minimize her and her baby’s hangovers.

‘You know, Tony,’ she said, as her eyes struggled to remain open and she teetered on the edge of sleep. ‘I love being with you. You’re so strong and calm and kind. When I’m with you I just feel like everything’s going to be all right. You know?’

Tony nodded and smiled and watched her as her eyes slowly closed and her breathing patterns changed, and as he sat there looking at the contours of Millie’s face, the way her eyelashes brushed against her skin, the way her mouth puckered up as she breathed in
and out, the little whistley noises she made as she slept, he was suddenly overcome by a completely alien emotion.

He felt like a father watching over his little girl.

He felt
paternal.

That kiss, just now – it had been…
nice.
It had been soothing, comforting. But it hadn’t set his loins alight. And that, he suddenly realized, was exactly what his relationship with Millie was all about. They were comforting each other. He was making her feel better about the fact that her boyfriend was rejecting her and she was making him feel better about the fact that he’d lost his sense of identity.

It was all a game. The whole thing. It wasn’t going to go anywhere. Of course it wasn’t. Even if Millie and Sean did split up, did he honestly think he could plough in there and raise his brother’s child? It was ludicrous. He didn’t want to beat Sean any more. Sean was losing all by himself. The competition was over. His role here, he now realized, wasn’t to wrest Millie from Sean. It was to look after Millie until Sean got his act together and took responsibility.

He wasn’t the predator.

He wasn’t the lover.

He wasn’t the winner.

He was the big brother
.

After a few minutes, he stood up slowly, switched off the lamp and went to his bedroom.

Ness was awake and reading a book.

‘How is she?’ she whispered, folding down the corner of her page and putting it on the bedside table.

‘Sleeping,’ said Tony, unbuckling his belt.

‘Poor thing. How awful. The one time you need some harmony in your life and everything’s falling apart.’

‘Yeah. It’s a bastard.’

‘You were brilliant with her, Tony,’ she said, pulling herself half out of the bed and wrapping an arm around his torso.

He stopped, turned statue-still.

‘I can’t believe how sweet you’ve been with her. I was so proud of you tonight, Tony. So proud that you were my boyfriend.’

‘Well,’ he said tersely, ‘she’s pregnant. Someone needs to look after her.’

‘Come here,’ she said, ‘come here, my lovely big sensitive man.’ She hooked a finger into his belt loop and pulled him gently towards her.

‘What?’

‘Just come here. I’m feeling all overcome with love. I want a hug.’

‘Ness,’ he said, pulling away from her, ‘I…’

‘Just come here.’

And then he looked at Ness lying there, naked and full of love, and felt a sudden wave of desire overcome him. Not for Ness but for human contact, for intimacy. She pulled him down on to the bed with her, undressed him, caressed him, and Tony was so drunk and so confused and so full of emotion that he let her. His head was a dark, warm void. His body was a motherboard of
feelings and sensations. He kept his eyes closed and lost himself in the moment, lost himself in Ness’s body and Ness’s embrace. Thoughts flashed in and out of his voided head, like a subliminal slideshow – Millie, Sean, Ness. He had no idea how long it went on for but he’d never before experienced such intensity of emotion during sex. And when he eventually came, he came emotionally as well as physically, and, with tears in his eyes and a look of pure wonder on his face, he shouted out, ‘I love you, Ness, I love you so much, love you so much,
love you so much’
And then he grabbed hold of her and held her tighter than he’d ever held anyone in his life.

And Ness held him after and cried wet tears that seeped through his hair and on to his scalp.

A Love Story in Two Acts

By the time Ned got into work on Thursday morning, he was officially the world’s greatest press-pack assembler. He’d folded more than 1,000 folders, photocopied more than 500 press releases and emptied ten Kodak boxes of pictures. Even Hoxton Fin (whose name, apparently, was Marc – although Ned knew this only because he’d heard someone else calling it out across the office) was impressed by Ned’s productivity. ‘You’re making good progress,’ he’d said the night before, ‘I’m very pleased.’And Ned had felt ridiculously proud and gone home with a little spring in his step.

It was a lovely sunny morning as Ned strode across Soho Square towards his place of work, and as much as he was aware of the fact that he had one of the crappiest jobs in London, he couldn’t help feeling a little bit excited about having somewhere to go every day, about being part of the crowd thronging the pavements of the greatest city in the world. It gave him something to focus on and distanced him from his old life. It was good. It was healthy. It was right.

He tapped the security code into the office door and strode through reception, saying good morning to
Fabiola, the lovely Italian receptionist, as he went. He stopped briefly at the coffee machine on the landing and got himself a cup of tea. He poked his head around the press-office door and called out good morning to the few people milling around in there. And then he opened the door to his room and stopped in his tracks.

There was a girl in there.

A gorgeous girl in a pink puff-sleeved blouse and faded old jeans, with a Celtic band tattooed around her upper arm. She had streaky blonde hair that came down to her shoulders with a few strands pinned back, and about eight earrings in each ear, including little silver ones right at the top.

‘Nid?’

‘Er – yeah.’

‘Hi – I’m Bicky.’

‘Bicky?’

‘Yeah. I’m from the same timp agency as you?’

‘You’re from Dutch & Dewar?’

‘Yeah. Apparently, that guy, er…?’

‘Marc.’

‘Yeah. That’s the one. He wanted someone to give you a hand? So here I am.’

‘Cool,’ said Ned, rubbing his hands together, ‘that’s excellent. Has he shown you everything? You know, the folders and the photos…’

‘Yeah. Uh-huh.’

‘And the coffee machine? The toilets?’

‘Uh-huh. Yeah.’

‘Excellent.’ He put down his tea and grinned at Becky.

‘So,’ she said, ‘you’ve been locked in here all on your own all week?’

‘Yup.’

‘Jesus. I can’t believe they’re making us work in here. With
no windows.
On a day like today. It’s criminal!’

‘I know,’ said Ned, so relieved to have someone on his level who he could have a good moan with. ‘And it’s not as if there isn’t enough room for us in there,’ he indicated the PR office over the way. ‘Have you been in there? It’s
vast
.’

‘That Marc guy’s such a winker,’ she said, ‘and
what
is going on with his hair? He looks like Sonic the Hidgehog.’ She laughed and then stopped herself. ‘Shit – listen to me – I’ve picked up the whinging virus. I sound like a fucking Brit!’

‘So,’ he said, ‘Australia or New Zealand?’

‘Australia. Sydney.’

‘Oh. Really. Whereabouts in Sydney?’

‘Bronte Beach.’

‘No!’ said Ned. ‘Seriously?’

‘Yeah. Why? Do you know it?’

‘Know it,’ he said, ‘I lived there for three years.’

‘In Bronte? No way! How long ago was this?’

‘Just got back three weeks ago.’

‘Wow!’ said Becky, putting her hands in her jeans pockets. ‘That’s amazing.’

And Ned looked at Becky and thought that yes, it was extremely amazing. It was amazing that she was in his cupboard, it was amazing how pretty she was and it was amazing that now there’d be someone for him to
talk to all day. And not only that but someone he had so much in common with. As they talked and folded cardboard and drank rotten tea together it turned out that they knew people in common, that they’d been to the same bars and restaurants, had probably been in the same place at the same time on more than one occasion. Becky had been to the Internet café where Ned used to work, Ned had been to a party at Becky’s ex-boyfriend’s flat.

She was twenty-three years old and she’d been in London for nearly six months and was planning on spending another six months here, then going round Europe for a few weeks before she went home. She was living in a flat share in Wandsworth with four other Aussies and it was really weird for Ned to be having this conversation with someone who was in the same position as he’d been in for the past three years, except on the other side of the world.

At one o’clock they went out for lunch together to buy super-cheap sandwiches from Benjy’s, which they took into Soho Square and ate in the sunshine. Becky wore pink sunglasses and sat cross-legged and straight-backed, picking blades of grass and tying them into knots. Ned stretched himself out across the grass and felt its springtime dampness seeping through the denim of his jeans. The sun was hot but tempered by a cool breeze. All around were other people like them, young office workers enjoying their hour of freedom, soaking up the precious rays of sun as if they might preserve the moment for ever.

They talked about music and London and food and football. Becky liked curry, Chinese, pizza and lager, although if someone bought her champagne she wouldn’t say no. She went to see a band about once a week (the best thing about living in London was the live music) and supported Chelsea (because they were her local club and all her flatmates supported them, too). She missed her friends and her dog and her mum and dad. They talked about being away from home, about the bittersweetness of having the best time of your life while being so far away from the people who know you and love you the best.

At two o’clock they went back to work and chatted the afternoon away. They took the piss out of Marc, laughed at the photographs of the prepubescent pop star whose career they were assisting and drank hot chocolate from the machine down the corridor. By five o’clock they’d developed a rapport more in keeping with people who’d known each other since they were five, so when they left the building together and it was still sunny and they were still chatting it seemed only right to suggest that they go and get a drink together somewhere.

They went to the Coach and Horses on Greek Street and pulled torn-vinyl-topped stools out on to the pavement, which was heaving with sweaty post-work bodies: couriers, media types and craggy-faced alcoholics. There was a chill in the air as the sun started to sink behind the tall, thin buildings of Soho, but with a pint of lager
inside him and a pretty girl by his side Ned was barely aware of the goosebumps on his forearms.