Can We Still Be Friends (32 page)

‘Have you still got that jacket, the one you wore when you went to the council last year?’

Gioia fished around in a pile of clothes by the wall, holding up a creased pillar-box-red object. ‘This? No way. Look at the state of it.’

‘If we had a working iron it would help.’

‘Not now, Ken. I’m not wearing that bleedin’ Father Christmas
number. How’s this?’ She placed a safari-style jacket with big patch pockets against her.

It was nearly time to go. ‘Wear it with those trousers, the ones you don’t like but look kind of normal.’ The trousers in question had a conventional waistband and straight legs rather than Gioia’s favoured skintight shapes or dhoti pants. ‘I’m going to call Sal, just to check.’

‘Check on what?’

‘That everything’s still on for the picture.’ She hoped it wasn’t going to take for ever for someone to answer Sal’s line. Sometimes it could just ring and ring. By the time the phone was picked up she had almost forgotten to listen.

‘She’s not in today. Can I take a message?’

‘Isn’t she coming in at all?’

‘She’s called in sick.’ No surprise there. Kendra pictured Sal tottering off the previous evening. Her absence from the office had a depressing inevitability about it. How was she going to hold her job down if she carried on like this? Briefly, she considered how the compelling sprite of university had morphed into this character. The balance had shifted so that, whereas before, the pleasure and exhilaration of Sal’s company outweighed the problems, now it was too often the reverse. At what point had that happened? She got up and shook her hair to rid herself of the thought, aware that if she betrayed any anxiety right now Gioia would pull out. Her conviction that this article might help with the Chapel was the only reason Gioia was tugging up the recalcitrant trouser zip. It didn’t help that it was baking hot again. Not the kind of day Gioia would choose to be trussed up in a safari jacket.

Kendra then tried Sal at home, after a few moments debating whether to just leave her. ‘Hi … Yes, we’re leaving in a few minutes’ time. But what’s with you? Why aren’t you at work? Oh shit … a cast? No … she never said … yeah, yeah, of course you weren’t … Is it painful? Yeah. I know … But watch those pills. I remember Dad having them. He said he was poleaxed by them …’ She laughed, in response to Sal’s predictable enthusiasm for the escapist properties
of painkillers. ‘So the photographer’s a good guy? No, of course you can’t … call you after.’ She envisioned Sal’s jaunty lack of balance as she left the restaurant. Maybe it was Kendra’s fault. Another accident. If she’d stopped her going on after the pizza, it wouldn’t have happened. But then, how many things could you feel responsible for?

She went over to Gioia. ‘Surprise, surprise, she got totally smashed at Arturo’s and tripped up on the dance floor. She says someone stood on her ankle strap and wham! Naturally, it’s not about anything that she did. She’s got stitches in her cheek and her wrist in a cast … ya … di … ya … di … ya. After this, we’ve got to try and get her to see someone. We have to do something.’

‘She’s one sick girl, that Sal. She needs to clean up, elsewise she’s going to end up in one of those crazy farms.’ Gioia made her eyes exaggeratedly wide so that her dark-chocolate irises were surrounded completely by the white, and waved her arms like some voodoo queen. ‘Come on. Let’s get this thing over with. I’m ready for my close-up.’

The sink was filled with the mess of breakfast. After looking at the sodden cornflakes floating in milk, Sal decided to leave it all in there. It was a depressing place, this flat, and worse during the day when it was empty, with the dirty plates, the stained carpet, the windows that were painted shut in the sitting room. She felt like shit. She would have liked to have been at work when the photographs arrived but, when she’d called in yesterday and explained about her wrist, they’d told her to stay at home.

Andrea had, it was true, sounded exasperated but, all the same, she’d let her know that they were getting one of the guys on Business to run the figures on the ratio of new developments to council spend on housing, which must mean they were working on her idea. Being the
Herald
, they’d be on the side of the developments, but it would be good background for the Chapel item. Entrepreneurism was well and good, but you had to take into account the human cost. That was her point. It was a measure of Sal’s astounding lack of
either self-knowledge or empathy that she failed, for even a moment, to consider Charlie’s reaction to this idea – even though he was married to her best friend.

Her small bedroom looked on to the central well of the block, the frosted-glass window opposite offering a view only of shadowy shapes when they switched the lights on. With difficulty, she managed to pull her blue vest over the cast, adding a pair of pants, a toothbrush and a couple of paperbacks to a small nylon rucksack. Since she had fallen, a nasty bruise had come up on the bone above her ankle.

By the time she boarded the train it was really hurting. If she lucked out, Pete wouldn’t have finished off all the Black Pak – that would help with the pain. The depots and housing estates of west London soon gave way to small rivers and hay bales stacked in fields. Sal sat looking out, discomfited by both the itch under her cast and recent events which, although she had no wish to examine them, inconveniently kept coming to mind.

She probably shouldn’t have gone to Arturo’s, but she couldn’t be blamed for wanting to have a bit of fun after that dinner. She hated seeing Annie so low and, since Kendra had hooked up with Gioia, the part of her that had always been there, the critical and censorious part, appeared to Sal to have intensified. Of course, she’d been brilliant over the abortion, coming to that horrible clinic with her, but it was obvious that she was in a state about Sal having got into the situation in the first place. Didn’t they realize she was fine? This was just a bit of bad luck.

It wasn’t her fault that she’d fallen over. She was just dancing. It was all that idiot’s fault for stepping on her strap. OK, she admitted, she probably had had a bit too much to drink, but what would you expect when Jimmy was making moves on her? Anybody would. When she’d looked in the mirror, her cheek didn’t look as bad as it felt. It felt huge, and the stitches nagged tightly at her skin.

By the time she arrived at the flat it was mid-afternoon. Pete had given her a key, accompanied by a stern order not to arrive unannounced, otherwise he’d be taking it back, pronto. But, even so, she
got a buzz out of seeing it dangling on her keychain. The note on the table said ‘Back 7 x.’

It would have been lovely to go and hang out in the park, stripping down to a bra and feeling the sun on her skin and knowing that soon she would be making love with Pete and tasting the salt of him and feeling him move over her. But, with the cast, the sunshine held little appeal. She imagined her encased skin clammy like a blancmange. She pulled open the drawer under the two electric hobs. With only one hand, it was difficult to open the battered tin she found at the back, but what were teeth for? As she prised the lid open, she got the anticipated whiff of the Black Pak. It was frustrating, though, having to acknowledge that there was no way she could manage to roll a joint. Still, she could manage a drink. She took the miniature carton of orange juice and the small bottle of tequila she had wrapped in her knickers from her bag.

Her mum would have had something to say about the dust in this flat. Riffling through the cassettes on the floor, she debated the possibilities: ‘Let It Grow’ (definitely her favourite Clapton, even if guys thought it was a cop-out), Blue Öyster Cult – she and Pete used to listen to ‘(Don’t Fear) The Reaper’ years back. Funny to see he’d got it on cassette now. Now you’re talking – Neil Young. She clicked a tape into the small ghetto blaster. ‘You are like a hurricane …’ It doesn’t get much better. All the aches had disappeared. Just. Like. That.

The orange juice had run out, but she had just poured another tot of the golden tequila when Pete returned.

‘Well. What have we here? My injured bird …’ He gave Sal a long kiss. ‘Got to get this kit off … I’m shagged out. Bleeding hot out there today.’

‘Do you want some?’ Sal offered the tumbler. ‘I’ll pour you one – we’re out of orange, though. I’m on cocktails, you’re on the smokes.’

Pete walked across to the tiny bathroom, removing his black T-shirt as he walked. Only a minute later he reappeared, rubbing a
small dark purple towel across his chest. There was a reddening at his neck and across his arms from the day in the sun.

‘That’s better …’ He stood at the counter by the electric hob, crumbling the dark lump in the tin and rolling a huge joint. Sal loved to watch him. He made it appear a real craft. He took a drag and then another before passing it to her. As she smoked, he unzipped the back of her skirt, kneeling to remove her sandals one at a time. Running a long finger around the bruise on her ankle, he moved slowly up towards her thigh, the silver ring he always wore rubbing on her skin.

‘I think you could do with a bit of decoration.’ Pete sat on the old wicker chair near the window, pulling Sal on to his knee and reaching for a black felt-tip pen. He started to inscribe the cast silently with a mixture of intricate patterns and symbols. When he had finished on the cast, he started on her breasts as she passed the joint between their mouths. By the time she was covered, nothing else mattered.

It was seven o’clock and Kendra woke to discover there was no milk. She loved her morning tea and always heated the brown pot before adding the leaves and covering it with the Rasta-striped cosy. Unlike her girlfriend, she enjoyed the early morning and had learnt to tolerate Gioia’s endless fascination with her own sleeping pattern. Recounting its multiple failings could keep Gioia absorbed for ages. This was the crack of dawn for Gioia, thought Kendra as she reached the corner shop. Handing over the cash for the milk she picked up a
Herald
too, an act of loyalty to Sal, since Gioia thought it was nothing but a Conservative newsletter. In any case, now certainly wasn’t the time to knock it. Drastic situations called for drastic action and Gioia couldn’t be picky about which paper was going to help with her plight. After all, the future of the Chapel was hardly headline news.

Back at the flat, she sat at the table, pouring the tea, which, as usual, dripped down the pot. There was a slight chip in the spout. Kendra flicked through the
Herald
and was about to put it down when she saw the picture of Gioia, or somebody who looked like a version of her. The figure who stood there, hands on hips and staring straight at the reader from the page, was her lover at her most intimidating. The jacket Kendra had advised her to wear made her look the kind of Scout leader no one would choose to leave in charge of their kids. What had Sal done?

She looked for Sal’s name and at first couldn’t see it. Then she spotted it in small type at the bottom of the page among a long list of writers which included the poisonous Marsha. She scanned the page and saw Charlie’s name and that of Charterhouse in an article in a sidebar. As she started to read the story that accompanied the picture she knew immediately she wasn’t going to like it. And she
didn’t. The quotes from Gioia were inoffensive, even to the point of dullness, but the damage was elsewhere. It was vicious. It was implied, if not spelt out, that Gioia was gay, there was a damning accusation of neglect of the property, and some local busybody was shit-stirring about Gerassimos. The piece was a deft character assassination and completely killed off any chance of the Chapel surviving. She looked over at the mound under the blankets that was Gioia, blissfully unaware. Small popping sounds came from her lips. What was the point of waking her, to see this? She’d use the phone box down the road to call Sal. As she walked there, she imagined Sal’s voice. It would take on an accusatory tone: she would invariably, furiously, blame somebody other than herself. But how could this be somebody else? It was Sal’s story.

It took for ever before some bloke in Sal’s flat picked up the phone, and he said he hadn’t seen her in days. The air was muggy, the sky an oppressive grey that was exceptionally depressing for the end of summer.

When Gioia woke and read the piece, her silence was worse than any tirade, allowing no possibility of discussion or excuse. The barricades were up, her face set in a stony rage, everything about her body advised distance. Gioia would, Kendra knew, remain like that until Kendra could prove that she was worthy of redemption, which would only be when she had proven that she was united with Gioia against
them.
Gioia thought in terms of war.
Them
would be everybody else – Sal, Annie, the neighbours, the papers. Everybody would be declared the enemy. Not taking sides would not be an option.

What idiot would call so early on a Sunday? Charlie leant across Annie, who was curled at the edge of the bed, to reach the phone.

‘She’s asleep … if it’s that important.’ He rubbed his wife’s bare shoulder. ‘Annie. It’s Kendra.’ Under the sheet, Annie shifted but didn’t wake. ‘No go … she’s too heavily asleep. I’ll get her to ring when she wakes.’

He lay back on his large pile of pillows, stretching to see if it was true that sleeping on them was going to give him the stiff
neck Annie predicted, before sliding out of bed to collect a pile of newspapers from outside the front door. He was going to miss the block porter if they moved out of this place, and bought a house, like Annie wanted. Back in bed, he started to browse through them. It was obvious it was August. Even the business pages read as if they had been written weeks ago. His eye was briefly caught by an article in the fashion section about those leotard things – bodies. Come to think of it, they were right. Nipples did stick out in them. He’d bought Annie a black one by this guy Azzedine something or other, just before she was pregnant, which he considered pretty generous since, personally, he didn’t rate them in the sexy stakes, nipples or not. He found fiddling around with those poppers a real turn-off.