Bad Friends (4 page)

I was in bed when the flowers came. Two days after the show and I was still smarting from the shame, still hiding from the world. Sally had tried to reassure me that it had been fine, that I’d been fine, honestly – but then she would. That was her job.

I knew it really wasn’t fine when Alex rang. I hadn’t heard from him for months. He didn’t speak but I recognised his silence. His silence that made me almost breathless.

‘Alex,’ I said urgently to the air, to the static on the phone, ‘I know it’s you.’ But he didn’t speak. He didn’t ever speak, but I felt his presence down the phone, solid, tangible. After a while, after I’d just sat there clutching the phone and hoping, he’d hung up.

I hadn’t been out of the house since the cab had dropped me back from the studio. My father had left for a three-day teaching conference on the morning of the show, so I’d hardly even bothered to get dressed since I’d slammed the front door safely shut behind me. I knew I should see Gar, I must see her, but I couldn’t quite bear to go. Not yet. I felt too vulnerable myself.

‘You’re not dealing with this, Mag,’ chided Bel when she called, but then fortunately Hannah had decorated the kitchen wall with Bel’s new bright pink lipstick and Bel needed to go and shout at her, so I escaped yet more psychoanalysis by a whisker. For the time being, at least.

I did realise that I must get up sometime. Digby kept nipping at the duvet, desperate to escape our four walls. I ignored him as he ran in rings round the bed, gazing at the dinosaur-shaped stain on the ceiling, the stain that had existed for as long as I could remember. But even I was getting bored now.
Woman’s
Hour
was wittering on about inequality in the workplace and then Jenni Murray announced that next up was the inimitable Renee Owen to talk about growing up in the valleys with nothing but an alcoholic father and seventeen siblings, her amazing success against all the odds – and I groaned with disgust and threw a pillow at the radio. It missed, sending my latest mug of cold tea splashing all over the pale carpet. And then the doorbell rang.

I thumped down the stairs in my mum’s old frilly dressing-gown that I’d never had the heart to throw out, and the spotty youth at the front door blushed as bright as one of my father’s prize tomatoes. I wondered if I still had it, if I’d ever had it, and then I saw the flowers and nearly gagged. Lilies again.

‘For me? Are you sure?’

‘Maggie Warren, it says here. That you?’ He couldn’t quite drag his eyes from the gaping dressing-gown.

‘Yes, that’s me. Do you know who they’re from?’

He drew his hood closer round his chilly crew-cut and gave his clipboard a cursory glance. He shrugged. ‘No name, man. I just deliver ’em. Look at the card, why don’t you?’

Frowning, I leaned my crutch against the door and fumbled with the flimsy little envelope. It was speared amid the blooms that strained out to the light, that made me think only of death. A gust of wind sent a flurry of raindrops from the withered creeper above me pattering down on my head. I couldn’t extract the card until the envelope ripped clean in two, exposing the bald text.

‘
To Maggie, with dying gratitude
.’ My skin prickled. I turned the card over, but there was no name anywhere. I shivered as
the hoody shoved the flowers at me, kept my arms clamped by my side, the card still between my cold fingers. ‘Are you sure you don’t know who they’re from?’

‘I tol’ you already.’ He was surly with offence. ‘I’m not lying. Do you wan’ ’em or not?’

‘I suppose.’ Reluctantly, I took the waxy flowers. Pollen from the swollen stamen speckled my naked arm. ‘Thanks.’ I licked my finger but I couldn’t get the pollen stain off.

Hoody leered. ‘I ’spect they’re from a secret admirer.’

I’d just spent ten minutes easing my tracksuit bottoms over my bad foot only to realise I’d put them on the wrong way round when the doorbell pealed again. I scraped my frankly filthy hair back off my face as someone insistently held the bell down.

‘Have patience for the cripple,’ I muttered, reaching for the banister, Digby nearly unbalancing me as he went scurrying between my feet. I plucked the door back before the bell could sound again.

‘Did you find out who the flowers were from?’

My heart jolted painfully in my chest. ‘Oh!’

It was Fay, swaddled in glossy fake fur.

‘Surprise!’ she breezed. ‘I just came to see how you are,’ and then she was in, dipping under my arm, into my father’s house. Uninvited. Digby skittered behind my legs. ‘Coward,’ I muttered at him.

‘Amazing flowers,’ she called, already in the kitchen where I’d earlier shoved the bouquet into the sink. ‘New boyfriend?’

‘No.’ I hobbled after her, trying to keep up. ‘No. I haven’t got a – look, actually, Fay –’

‘Are you
still
single?’ she breathed, swinging round, her big eyes all compassion. ‘Oh well. We’ll have to do something about that, won’t we?’

‘Will we?’ I asked foolishly.

She smiled patiently.

‘Fay,’ I was as polite as I could be, ‘it’s just – I’m just wondering, how did you know where I lived?’

‘Oh, you know.’

‘Well, no, I don’t really.’

She affected thought, one small finger resting childlike on her pointy chin. ‘Do you know, I can’t remember now. From the hospital I think.’

I frowned. ‘What, they just gave out my address? Just like that?’

‘Oh no, maybe not.’ A shrug of her delicate little shoulders. Her coat fell open to reveal a rather inappropriate dress. Lacy. A lot of flesh. I looked away. ‘Maybe from
Renee Reveals
.’

‘I mean – I don’t even live here normally. I live –’ It suddenly seemed unimportant. ‘I did live near Borough Market,’ I trailed off miserably. ‘This is my dad’s house.’

‘Oh, Borough Market’s fabulous, isn’t it? So olde-worlde.’ She pronounced the ‘e’s like ‘y’s. ‘Lucky you. They’ve asked me back, you know.’

I gazed at her.

‘The show.’ Her eyes were gleaming.

My heart sank further. ‘Oh, have they?’ I leaned heavily against the table. My foot was really hurting now. ‘Great. Good for you.’

Fay was pacing round the kitchen, picking everything up and giving it a quick but thorough examination. ‘I know – brilliant, isn’t it? Told you it was the start of something huge.’ She had my mother’s picture in her hand now, the photo of her pregnant with me, ripe as a peach, her titian hair tumbling over her smocked paisley shoulders, serene and smiling fit to burst.

‘Sorry, Fay, would you mind –’

‘Who’s this? Your mum? Lovely, isn’t she? You’re very similar.’ She picked up another photo of me and my grandmother. ‘And this? Must be your grandma, is it? Got the same blue eyes as you.’

‘Yes, Gar. She’s called Gar.’

‘Still alive? Lucky you. All mine are either dead or on the other side of the world.’

‘She’s – she’s in a home near here.’ I felt utterly steam-rollered, aware I didn’t want to share anything with this stranger but helpless to resist.

‘Lovely.’ She rammed the picture back onto the dresser so hard that the mugs beneath swayed in the ensuing breeze. ‘You know, a few people commented on how alike we looked on the TV.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really. Despite the obvious differences!’ She held up one of her dark ringlets, giggling. ‘And you’re so tall, of course – lucky thing! I think it might be our eyes. Although yours are more – more of a cornflower-blue than mine.’

I looked away, deeply perturbed now. ‘Maybe.’

‘Anyway, look, I expect you’re wondering why I came?’

I felt a great rush of relief. At least she realised this wasn’t
entirely
orthodox. ‘Well, yes, I was actually.’ For the first time I managed a genuine smile.

‘I mean,’ she giggled again, ‘it’s not just a social call.’

‘Oh, right.’

‘Sorry! No, look, I brought you this.’ She delved into her shoulder-bag and produced a brown A4 envelope, which she held out to me with reverence. I had a flash of my grandmother’s favourite priest, of the wine and wafer being offered at the altar. ‘I think it will really help, actually.’

I had a bad feeling about the envelope, an extreme feeling that pervaded my bones. I turned it over in my hands. I really didn’t want to open it. But it seemed I had no choice.

‘God, Fay.’ The photo I’d just extracted slipped from my clammy hand, spiralled down onto the tiled floor. Nausea mounted in me until I had to physically force it down. ‘What the hell is that?’

‘Oh Maggie,’ she peered at me, ‘you’re upset?’

‘Of course I’m bloody upset.’ I moved away from her. ‘Sorry, but I mean, what did you expect?’

I thought she was going to cry; I couldn’t look at her. ‘Honestly, Fay. I just – I don’t get it. Why would you give me that?’

She picked up the photo and proffered it again, with less certainty this time. I flinched.

‘Fay, for God’s sake!’

But it was too late. I’d seen what it was: a photo of the crash’s aftermath. A tangle of mutilated metal, suitcases and bags littering the dark and shiny road. Someone’s shoes, a high-heeled pair of shoes right in the forefront, as if the owner had just slipped them off to dance barefoot in the rain. The edge of an ambulance, its fluorescent lights flashing. Two firemen walking out of shot, one behind the other, both with heads bowed. And there in the corner of the photo, unmistakable, jutting out as if in a horror film, a pair of stockinged feet, belonging to a body. A body under a blanket, but a body nonetheless.

‘I think you should go now.’ I slumped down at the table. ‘I really don’t want to look at that. I don’t understand why you brought it round. Where did you get it?’ I glanced up at her. ‘Is it some kind of joke? Some kind of sick joke?’

‘No, really, Maggie, it’s not.’ She held her coat tight around her now. ‘I’m sorry, you know? I just thought – my group that I’ve been meeting with, they said it would bring closure. It’s, like, dealing with the reality. Like that man said on the show.’

‘That man?’

‘That doctor. He gave me his book.’

‘Fernandez? That quack, you mean?’

‘Look, I’m sorry. I really am. I didn’t think you’d get upset.’

I bit my tongue. She looked so genuinely downcast, so terribly young and naïve, that my heart softened a fraction. ‘Fay, it’s fine. It’s just – it’s not for me, okay? If it helps you, well, that’s – that’s great, I guess.’

‘It’s just – well, you helped me. So I wanted to help
you
.’ She gazed at me with those eyes.

I tried not to squirm. ‘Well, thanks for the thought.’

‘That’s a nice little cottage.’ She pointed to the photo on the wall behind me. ‘Very pretty.’

‘Look, Fay –’

‘Where is it? Somewhere by the sea, I’ll bet.’

‘North Cornwall. It was my grandmother’s.’

‘The one in the home?’

‘Yes. She – I sort of own it now.’

‘Wow. Lucky you.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘I think I’d better go now anyway. Troy’s waiting for me.’

‘That’s nice.’

She put the picture carefully back in the envelope, smoothing the flap down. ‘Though we are – well, there are still problems, you know. With me and Troy. I’m not sure we can – what’s the word? –
surmount
them.’

Dr Fernandez’s voice echoed through the room again. I smiled despite myself. ‘I’m sorry, Fay. I’m sure you’ll do the right thing.’

‘Are you?’ She was suddenly enthused, stepping nearer to me now. ‘What do you think that is, Maggie? The right thing?’

I thought of Alex.

‘Oh, Fay. I wish I knew, honestly.’

‘Please, just tell me what you think.’

‘I just think – you have to trust your instincts.’

‘Your instincts,’ she repeated slowly. ‘Yes, my instinct.’ She shoved the envelope back into her bag and headed towards the door. ‘You know what, Maggie, you’re quite right. I’ll let myself out, okay? See you soon,’ she called from the hall.

‘I really hope not,’ I muttered as the front door slammed. As I hunted for the
Yellow
Pages
to track down the florist who’d sent the stinking lilies, I heard a car start up outside, and Digby barking in agreement. He never liked strangers on his patch.

While I was still recuperating from the crash, Bel finally plucked up the courage to tell me Johnno wanted her and Hannah to move back to Australia with him after their wedding. I cried, though I tried not to let her know. She said it was temporary, just to try out ‘Down Under’ – but it was yet another final straw; the same one that broke the camel’s back, you know. Bel and I had been inseparable since her mad family had moved in next door to my quiet one when she was eight. We’d soon found a loose board in the back fence to clamber through and we lived in and out of each other’s houses. She became the sister I’d never had, her brothers like mine too. The idea of her not being around was truly painful.

Eventually I pulled myself together and offered to help her sort things out, to look after her house when it was let, to mind Hannah while they packed up, that kind of thing. But Bel said that all she wanted, all her and Johnno wanted (such a very close couple now, inextricable), was for me to help sort the wedding and the goodbye party. For me to be there too. She knew I’d say I wouldn’t come to the party. I couldn’t. Of course Bel took no notice, deep down I guess she knew I’d be there – but the very thought made me feel a bit ill.

I didn’t do parties any more. Not since Alex; not since the summer. But your best friend doesn’t get married and go across the world to live every day. And I’d hidden away as long as I
dared, concealed behind my injuries, wallowing in my pain and misery, trying not to remember things best forgotten. Now Charlie had started to lose patience; he was on the phone almost daily. If I didn’t go back to work soon, I’d have no job to go to – whatever deal we’d made.

The truth was, I had to start facing up to a whole load of things. How long could I stay in Greenwich, staring up at the ceiling of my father’s house, cocooned by his presence? What I really wanted to do was run away to Cornwall, take Digby and disappear to my haven at Pendarlin, but this was real life. I had to get on with living.

I was staring glumly at the peaked and shiny mountains of perfection in Bel’s wedding-cake book and realising I’d probably bitten off more than all the dried fruit I could ever chew with my rash offer, when the phone rang. I thought it might provide escape, but it was Charlie.

‘I need to see you,’ he purred.

‘I’m about to attempt Bel’s wedding cake,’ I demurred, but the slice of steel through his tone told me I had little choice.

‘Order yourself a car and meet me at the club at five,’ he said, and hung up before I could protest again. I had a quick slug of the cooking brandy and relinquished my still-pristine apron, admittedly with a flicker of relief.

It was already dark by the time my cab pulled up in Greek Street. As I hauled myself onto the pavement outside Soho House, a Lycra-clad courier whizzed by, frantically ringing his bell at a young girl stumbling, half-dressed, across the road. A man very much like a woman, resplendent in white fur, was redoing his cherry lipstick in the shop window next to me. Signing the driver’s docket, my crutch slipped from my grasp; the she-man bowed down to retrieve it for me. As I reached to take it, to thank him for his kindness, a huge silver four-by-four slowed behind him. For one tiny moment the tinted passenger window
became transparent beneath the bright lights of the shops. A pale face, turning slowly, all ghostly behind the glass.

Alex. I thought that it was Alex.

I staggered. The she-man thrust the crutch into my outstretched hand – but she wasn’t quick enough. I’d lost my balance now, whacking my foot so hard against the kerb as I flailed that tears of pain sprang to my eyes. The she-man caught me before I fell. He smelled of something I recognised; something like my mother. Chanel. For one brief moment I relaxed against this stranger’s soft chest. It was the first time a man’s arms, any arms, in fact, had encircled me since my father’s anxious hug at the hospital, since my days of recovery, and I savoured the warmth. Then I remembered myself.

‘Thank you.’ I pulled away, embarrassed. He winked one beady spider-lashed eye at me. ‘Don’t mention it, ducks. I love a cuddle in the afternoon.’

By the time I found Charlie in the room they called The Library (no books that I could see, but a few very drunk actors attempting to read the over-priced wine list), I was thoroughly unnerved. With every hobble, Alex’s shadow stepped beside me, until I was almost pleased to see the very real Charlie. He was looking kinglike  though hardly regal in a great leather armchair, his hooded eyes half-shut against the smoke from his inevitable cigar as he browsed through the latest issue of
Broadcast
. Only his man-tan gave him away. Just the wrong side of classy.

‘Fantastic pic, don’t you think, darling?’ He flicked open the industry paper to show off a photo of himself and Renee smiling sickeningly at one another.

‘
DOUBLE-DECKER PAIR CELEBRATE RECOMMISSION OF
RATINGS WINNER
’, the headline declared.

‘It’d be funny if they found out her name was really Enid, wouldn’t it?’ I mused, reaching for the glass of Krug Charlie had just poured.

He frowned. ‘Would it?’

I met his eye. ‘
I
think so.’ Images of Alex still floated through my mind. I tried to concentrate. ‘So, what are we celebrating?’

‘I’d say that was obvious, darling, wouldn’t you?’ Charlie really was looking spectacularly orange today. He must have bumped up his shares in St Tropez. ‘So, when can we expect you in the office?’

‘Soon.’ I took such an enormous sip the bubbles shot straight up my nose.

‘Fantastic.’ He ran a hand through his hair, his signet ring glinting under the light. ‘How soon? It has been almost five months now, my darling.’

The champagne hit the spot. I forgot Alex for a moment; I smiled. ‘Oh, you know. Very soon.’

‘Soon enough for this?’ He flung a folder into my lap.
Doing
Me Wrong: You’re Dumped
, heralded the title page.

‘What’s this?’

‘Fantastic idea, darling. You’ll love it. It can be your victorious return to form.’ He relit his cigar. ‘The idea is the opposite of the “Proposal on-air” show. This is the “You’re Dumped on-air” show.’

I stared at him. ‘You’re joking, right?’

He toasted me, then knocked the drink back in one and poured again. ‘Darling, I don’t joke, you know that. It’s a fantastic idea. If it takes off, it’ll be the talk of the town.’

‘Charlie, this is not what we agreed.’ An icy sweat broke out across my forehead; the champagne and cigar smoke combining to make me feel suddenly quite sick. ‘You said that if I –’

‘I know what I said, darling. But look, I’m sure it was one of your ideas anyway. From the summer. You knew the deal then.’

Confused, I stood up – rather too suddenly. Charlie caught my crutch neatly in his orange hand.

‘For God’s sake, Charlie.’ I grabbed it from him. ‘You’re completely reneging on –’

‘Such passion, darling.’ Charlie smirked. ‘That’s what I love about you. That’s why you’ve got to do this programme. Sit down, there’s a good girl.’

‘Charlie, I can’t do it. It’s utter crap. You know that.’

‘Just this once.’ His eyes were wolf-like now, slits behind the cloud of sweet and sickening smoke. ‘You still owe me.’

‘But it won’t be just this once. And I did the trauma show because I owed you.’

‘You did the trauma show because it gave you closure, darling. Remember?’

‘Did I?’ I gazed at him.

‘Absolutely. It was your idea to do it, my darling.’

‘Was it?’ Why did my brain ache so much every time I grappled with memories of recent events?

‘And you have my promise.’

‘I already had your promise, I’m sure.’ I glared at him.

‘Please do it, Maggie.’ He stopped smiling and checked his vulgar watch. ‘Or maybe we should talk about the show you
really
don’t want to do.’

I went limp with misery. ‘You can’t do this, Charlie.’

‘Can’t do what, darling? I’m just giving your career a little helping-hand. God knows you need it after your most recent fuck-up. Work with me, Maggie.’

‘You’re playing games,’ I whispered miserably.

His face was closing down. I tried a different tack, fighting to keep my voice level. ‘Look, I know I did something stupid’ (I just wished I could remember exactly what it was) ‘but it was only the one mistake, wasn’t it? You know you can rely on me.’

‘Perhaps I could – once.’ Charlie studied the end of his cigar intently. ‘But you let me down so badly.’

We gazed at one another, the memories I’d blotted out shifting slightly in the sands of time, reshaping, struggling to the surface. I could feel the anger driving through my bones. ‘But I’ve been waiting all this time for the
True Lives
docs –’

But Charlie had already switched off.

‘You know, you’re quite beautiful when you’re cross,’ he mused. ‘Though that mop needs a thoroughly good cut. Why don’t you get it seen to?’ His mobile rang. ‘John Frieda’s not bad.’ He stubbed out the cigar and picked something out of a back tooth, snapping open the phone.

Before I could respond, an obsequious waiter had ushered him to the landing where it wasn’t quite so hallowed: media-whores milling, fat-cats in suits who spoke too loudly and under-dressed girls who simpered, fingers in ears against all the other loud and self-important chat.

Numbly I stared at
Broadcast
. I was sure Renee’s eye-bags had been doctored. Then Charlie was back, swinging his cashmere camel coat from the back of the chair, draping it over his shoulders like he was in
The
bloody
Godfather
. Well. He was a bloody hood, for all his supposed charm.

‘As soon as that cast is off, back in the office, okay, darling?’ It wasn’t an invitation. Charlie raised one perfectly manicured finger and slowly, slowly stroked my cheek. ‘You know I need you, Maggie. I miss you. You’re the best, despite your little balls-up. But it could be your final chance, darling. Crosswell would see to that in one fell swoop. You do remember Sam, don’t you? I’ll see you at work.’

When I dragged myself outside again, I searched for Alex everywhere – but there were just early revellers, beautiful toned gay men, excited theatre-goers. My ghost was gone.