Can We Still Be Friends (3 page)

As Sal chatted vivaciously, Kendra could see Alexei, the loser of
the game, being drawn into Sal’s compelling orbit. Kendra had witnessed Sal on form before. She could laugh one minute in an utterly dismissive way that would bruise the
amour propre
of her would-be suitors and then instantly, in a glance, or a small movement, bathe them in warm, sexy appreciation. The ashtrays filled up and Kosti bought another round of drinks. Sal draped her arm around him, turning her gaze away from Alexei, fiddling with the piles of backgammon counters. Alexei, suddenly unsure of whether he had pulled or not, looked confused. As she downed another glass of lethal rough brandy, Sal became ever more garrulous and all-embracing.

‘Come to London. Yeah – come and stay with us.’

Kendra looked at Sal, who she knew had no permanent bed in the capital, let alone somewhere for three boys to stay. ‘We’ll take you around – there are fantastic clubs now. Great music.’

‘“Ninety-nine luftballons.”’ Sal sang along cheerfully to the summer’s Euro hit.

‘It’s sad, but we’re going back tomorrow,’ Kendra told them.

‘Yeah, it’s our last night, so it has to be fun.’ Sal smiled warmly at Kendra. ‘One to remember.’ Kendra rubbed her arms, a little cold now, as she watched Sal disappear on to the small dance floor behind the bar with Alexei, his dark-blond curls a contrast to her neat, dark head.

Without Sal, the table felt empty, and the remaining three shifted uncomfortably, unsure what move to make next. Kosti stood up and stretched. ‘I’m going to check out Athene’s, just along the street,’ he said. As an afterthought, he offered, ‘Coming?’ to Kendra, who accepted the invitation, glad of an opportunity to move from where she had sat for far too long. She scooped up her bag, weighty with the book she was reading.

‘You can leave it here, I’m staying. Or I’ll give it to your friend,’ suggested Marcus.

‘Great, thanks. I’ll be back soon,’ replied Kendra, walking quickly to catch up with Kosti, who had exited the crowded bar area and was striding away. It was a relief to be outside, and walking, and
when she returned she could pick up Sal and leave for home.

Kosti was a friendly enough companion, explaining that the three of them came from Athens and were taking business courses in the States. ‘We love Corfu – it’s party time.’ He gestured at the bustling harbour. ‘We head here every summer before we’re into lockdown with our families. Greek mums want their boys with them, especially ones like us who’ve managed to escape across the Atlantic for half the year.’

‘It’s a beautiful island,’ said Kendra. Even with the lights of the noisy town, she could see the stars above clearly. ‘These are the last stars I’ll be seeing for some time,’ she continued. ‘West London’s not exactly renowned for its clear skies. Is that the Plough or the Sickle?’ She was still struggling to keep up with Kosti. It was obvious that he had little interest in her, or in stargazing.

After a quick look at Athene’s, where Kosti found nothing to keep him, they walked in near-silence back to Yanni’s. The tables they had occupied were now empty, the ashtrays clean, the glasses removed. There was no sign of Marcus.

‘My bag,’ gasped Kendra, with a rush of relief when she saw the white key pattern in the tangle of cane chair legs. ‘Thank God.’ She pulled it up, immediately sensing its unfamiliar weightlessness. There was nothing inside apart from a tube of lipsalve and some cigarettes. ‘Shit, it’s Sal’s. Where’s mine? Where’s Sal?’ Kendra remembered that she had offered to carry the room key in hers and, of course, Sal had spent the last of her cash.

She looked towards the bar and ran into the dark room where the cheap fluorescent light picked up the figures on the dance floor shifting to the synthesized beat. Even as she scanned for the bright red of Sal’s T-shirt, she knew she wouldn’t be there. How could she? Idiot. And how could she, Kendra, have left her bag with some Greek college boy and trusted Sal to stick around? She had seen the third metaxa downed, witnessed the transition from friendly sobriety to taunting recklessness that Sal displayed when drunk. She might have guessed she would disappear. She would simply have forgotten about Kendra. The bell tower chimed two.

‘She’ll turn up later. Don’t worry. She’s with Alexei,’ said Kosti as they stood in the still-busy harbour. ‘I can give you this for a taxi home.’ It would be worth the drachma to get rid of this tall, serious girl. He saw her into a battered white Nissan and watched it move off creakily on to the coastal road. Kendra leant back on the plastic seats clutching Sal’s useless bag. The road was dark and unfamiliar, lined with pines and gorse and lit only by the occasional headlight speeding in their direction. The air was still warm, but she was chilly.

After ten minutes, the taxi drew to a halt by a white sign with the Greek lettering for ‘Kanariki’ above the English version. The driver gestured down the dusty, winding road.

‘Please, can you drive me?’ asked Kendra, pointing in the direction of the road. ‘It’s so dark.’ She mimicked blindness, putting her hands across her eyes.

‘
Ochi
.’ The driver shrugged and delivered a stream of words which Kendra understood to mean that he wasn’t going to risk his tyres. Pointing at the meter, which was at 3,000 drachma, he put out his hands to show five fingers then jabbed at his watch to indicate late-night rates. Kendra climbed out, shoved the 3,000 drachma Kosti had given her into the driver’s hands and started to run down the hill, the noise of her shoes on the pebbles and dried pine cones amplified by the silence of the night. As she rounded a corner a shaft of moonlight appeared and she could see to the end of the road and the shimmer of water. Something ran across her path – a fox, a wild dog? Jesus, what kind of things lived in these woods? She increased her speed.

The hamlet lay in darkness as she climbed up the outside stairs to their room. She would have to sleep on the terrace. During the day, the wash of the sea sounded so delightful, but now, in the night, it felt threatening. This was it, finally. Sal had pushed it too far this time. She was selfish. No – more than selfish. Kendra thought back to the last incident with Sal, where Kendra had been left stranded at a party in a suburban mansion off the A1 to which she had agreed, against her wishes, to go as Sal’s ‘date’. Each time, though, her fury
with Sal was tempered by a greater feeling of annoyance for allowing herself to become the victim. Why did she do it? She wasn’t a helpless person with no control over events. Why on earth had she left Sal on the dance floor? What had she been thinking to leave her bag? She lay on the floor, Sal’s thin cotton bag under her head and the red towel, hung out to dry in the early evening on the railings, as her blanket and closed her eyes, hoping in a childish way that, if she could not see anything, it would not see her. No fox, no rapist, no fucking coyotes … did they have coyotes in Greece? Or was it wolves?

‘Hmm, well, the flight back was bad,’ Sal explained to Annie as they sat in the window of a wine bar around the corner from Cranbourne Terrace. ‘She was furious. I felt terrible when I came back and found her there curled up outside our room. I didn’t know I’d taken her bag. Not even then. I hadn’t even thought about who had the keys. Bit too much to drink, I guess.’

‘Oh, surely not, Sal?’ mocked Annie, who had already had a version of the evening related to her at length by Kendra. ‘Well, you’re both back now. She’ll forgive you. We always do. I suppose it would be easier for Ken if she had a boyfriend. It seems like ages since that last one, Misha. Not that he lasted very long. She was twice his height and, anyway, he must have been gay. Or maybe …’ Annie stretched her arms to reposition her long blonde hair in the pile on her head, held firm with an engraved chopstick. She leant back on the thin bentwood chair to look at the bustling street outside. ‘So what do you think of the flat? Do you want to share? Twenty pounds a week and bills on top is what I’ve worked out I need to pay Joanna.’

‘Annie, of course I want to. But I’m jobless right now. Tell you what. I’ve got enough to pay a month’s rent, and I’m sure I can get something sorted out soon. Give me a chance at it. We’ll have such a great time. I’m already planning barbies on that terrace.’

‘Oh, sure. Which one of us is the barbie queen? I’ve never seen the point of barbecues. They were invented to make boys feel good.’ Annie continued, ‘Joanna wants me there next week. I’d love to have you to help with the move.’

Sal knew what would be involved. Annie was the homemaker of the three and, wherever she travelled, so too came a startling quantity of clutter. At university, her rooms, no matter how small, were havens of colour and prettiness. There would be embroidered shawls
to throw over grubby chairs, scarves to dim lampshades, vases of all shapes and sizes collected from market stalls, an array of plants in painted cachepots and stacks of bowls to be filled with fruits, pens, flower petals … Where Sal’s bedside table, if she had one, would house old batteries, loose change, a dirty ashtray and bus tickets, Annie’s would have a neat pile of books, a pretty glass and some kind of decorative box to conceal anything unattractive. Sal admired Annie’s taste and homebody skills, while not envying them. Annie enjoyed Sal’s insouciance and careless approach, content herself to play mother.

‘I’ll move when you do. I can’t wait.’ Sal looked happily at her friend. ‘I don’t expect I’ll be bringing that much, but you can rely on me as a Sherpa. Have you told Kendra about this?’

‘About what?’

‘About us living together.’

‘I didn’t know that we were, until now. Not for certain,’ said Annie flatly, upset that Sal should have raised this tricky point. ‘It’s difficult. I wish we could all live there, but Joanna has insisted that I can only have one “pal”, as she put it, and I thought you probably needed the room more than Ken. She can always stay in that huge house of hers.’

‘With Morticia Addams?’ queried Sal, referring to Kendra’s mother. ‘You forget with Ken – that she’s rolling in it. Well, not her, but her mum and dad. In fact – you know what? – maybe she could buy somewhere for us all to live?’

‘I’m not sure I’d suggest that to her just now, Sal. She’s still feeling bruised by Corfu. Living with you is not ambition number one. “I could have been savaged, Annie, while I slept, while Sal was doing God knows what with Adonis.”’ Annie mimicked Kendra’s soft, measured voice.

‘Wish I could remember exactly what I
was
doing – but the bits I do remember were pretty good!’ Sal emptied her glass. ‘He looked just like a Greek statue, a beautiful boy, but not so
piccolo
, if you get me – not one of those weird small acorns they always have.’

‘Well, Kendra has a different memory of that night,’ laughed
Annie, gesturing for the bill, aware that she had to catch the train back home. But not for much longer. Soon she’d be able to spend the nights in her own flat.

The marble counter that ran the length of one wall of the kitchen was empty, except for the white mug Kendra had just put down. From a nearby room she could hear the jangle of jazz, dissonant sounds that filled the high ceilings and conjured the same comforting recognition in her that others might feel on hearing the theme tune to
The Archers
or
Coronation Street
. Wandering across the parquet floor towards the source of the sound, Kendra entered the study at the back of the house. Her father, Art Rootstein, was seated in his black leather recliner, immersed in a thick folder of papers. There always seemed to be another deal on the table, thought Kendra, of her father’s music publishing career.

‘Hi, doll,’ he said, without looking up. ‘What’s new?’

Not for the first time, Kendra wondered how many black turtlenecks her father possessed. She stood beside him and ruffled the greying waves of his hair, the scent of his skin sweet and familiar.

‘I’m going to go for an interview, at this place called the Chapel.’

‘Jesus, what is it? You taking religious orders?’

‘Dad, I told you and Mum about it at dinner last week. Don’t you remember anything I tell you?’

‘OK, so tell me again. I’m all ears now.’ Art put his papers down on the floor and cupped both his ears, giving Kendra a big smile. She moved away from him to stand against the white wall and look out into the paved garden.

‘It’s this community centre in Kentish Town where they work with young people who have problems at home. They give them a place to be, a kind of retreat. They get them involved with art, music, dance, that kind of thing.’

‘Ah. They pay?’

‘I s’pose so.’ Kendra’s voice adopted the sullen quality induced by explaining anything to her parents.

‘Darling, are you sure this is right for you?’ Art leant back in his
chair. ‘Jim McKenzie over at Britannia has said he can fit you into one of his departments. You know he and Jill go way back with me and Marisa, and I helped their eldest boy – God knows what he was called; now what was it? Ryan, or something. Anyways, I got him started, and now I gather
he’s
doing great.’

‘Dad, you
know
I don’t want to work in the music business. I’d rather
die
than do that. I’ve told you and Mum I don’t want your help. Christ. The music biz – with all those creeps.’

Art surveyed his only daughter and wondered how it was, with him and Marisa as parents, she had turned out the way she had. Neither nature nor nurture appeared to have exerted much influence. Physically, she was expansive – her hair was a riot of curls, her body possessed a rangy physicality, in contrast to her mother’s tautly controlled frame and his own wiry build. Emotionally, she had always, even as a small child, identified with the underdog.

It had frustrated them, the way in which, at school, she would make friends with the kids whom, obviously – to them – nobody else
wanted
as friends. They had sent her to places that were bursting with the children of clever, interesting people, children who would go some place, achieve something. But Kendra would bring home the runts of the class, silent little things often literally dwarfed by their tall daughter. They would be unmoving, petrified, whenever he or Marisa appeared in her room, where Kendra would be presiding over one of these pathetic chicks like a mother hen. Art had a strong feeling that his wife was not going to like the sound of this Chapel fandango.