Can We Still Be Friends (6 page)

Last night, she had been in the flat alone. Sunday had passed slowly, and she had spent it lying on the terrace, hearing the squeals and bickering in the gardens below. Flick had made occasional appearances, padding along the parapet wall with feline ease and then scampering down the stepladder on seemingly irrational whims. At around four o’clock, Sal had climbed down from the terrace to consult the contents of the fridge. A tub of hummus crusting along the edge and a small chunk of dry Cheddar was all that was on offer. There was a basket of rotting peaches sitting on the kitchen table. It wasn’t that Sal expected Annie to organize the food, it was simply that Sal always forgot about it. The effort of walking down to the local shop was more than it was worth. It was too hot to be hungry anyway. She carried a glass of water back up
to the roof. It was August, and the city was in the usual disarray of that month. Kendra had told her that London was a crazy place in August, that anything could happen, because all the shrinks took the month off.

‘Mum can’t deal with it because Laila always goes back to Lisbon for the whole month too. No cleaners, no sanity. A bad scene,’ she concluded.

Sal didn’t think she knew anyone that visited a shrink, and they certainly didn’t employ a cleaner, but it was true, there was something different about the city. With families away on holiday, the streets were emptier, windows open, everywhere music and shouting. At night the air was thick with the smells of the city, the heat that had bounced back off the dirty pavements.

The sound of the telephone beside the sofa pierced the long silence of the day. It was Stuart Jeffries, immediately obvious from the strident tones she had heard the previous day, as he gave the West Berlin stringer a rocket for filing late.

‘I’m just round the corner from you. Fancy a drink?’ Sal envisaged Stuart’s lanky frame and unremarkable face. She certainly didn’t fancy him, but a drink and some company she could do with.

‘Sure, that’d be great. When? OK. See you in fifteen.’

Fifteen minutes to the second, and the doorbell buzzed. Sal ran down the three flights of stairs to the front door, where Stuart stood, looking up at the top-floor windows.

‘I thought it would be quicker if I just came down,’ Sal said, giving him the slightest peck on the cheek she could manage without being rude. He smelt of popcorn.

‘So where shall we go? Do you have a favourite place?’ he asked, opening the passenger door of his car.

Sal immediately regretted her decision to meet him. She didn’t mind having a drink with him if she didn’t have to think about it, but she didn’t want to invest any thought in the proceedings. That would look like she was keen, which she most certainly wasn’t.

‘Oh, anywhere will be fine. There’s a pub at the end of the road.’

‘I think we can do better than that. Trader Vic’s sound good?’

The famous bar at the Hilton Hotel in the centre of London was a more exciting choice than Sal had anticipated from Stuart. She had never been there but she knew its reputation: it was an impersonal rendezvous, convenient, and particularly appealing to transient Middle Easterners who would abandon their abstinence from alcohol in favour of a substantial supply of bourbon and the company of compliant women towards the latter end of the evening. It would certainly be more interesting than the Builder’s Arms.

The car travelled quickly through the empty Sunday streets, and Stuart chatted away. ‘I’m not normally in London at this time. I’m usually with Jenny and the kids in Walberswick. They spend August there with her mum and I generally jump on the last train on Saturday. But I’ve got an early meeting tomorrow so it didn’t seem worth it. Anyway, it means I get to do something like this.’

‘Doesn’t Jenny mind being stuck out there without you?’ Sal couldn’t think of anything worse than a bucket and spade holiday with children and her mother.

‘She’s happy as Larry.’ Stuart shrugged, as if it were nothing to do with him. ‘Bloody hot, isn’t it? I went to see
Heat and Dust
this afternoon, just to be somewhere cool. It might have been better to see
Ice Station Zebra
. That Greta Scacchi, she’s gorgeous. Come to think of it, she looks a bit like you.’

‘Oh, thanks. That’s very flattering, but you must be blind – she’s blonde, for a start.’

‘No.’ Stuart turned to look at her, smiling. ‘There’s something about the mouth.’

Sal lit a cigarette, winding down the car window to throw out the dead match, and to allow her to turn her face away from him. She supposed he was on autopilot – he probably flirted with all the young female journalists.

By ten o’clock there was a pile of coloured paper cocktail umbrellas on the round table. Sal had surprised herself by her interest in Stuart’s conversation. In his late thirties, he was a passionate newspaperman, concerned about the direction his industry was taking, the likely confrontation with the unions.

‘It’s all changing now. It’s going to be a bloodbath. With Murdoch in the frame – you don’t know what he’s capable of. I’ve not got much time for the NUJ, but you know us scribblers are thought of as dispensable if we don’t fight our own front. Now it’s the printers who are manning the front line.’

Like many journalists, he was enthralled by the sound of his own anecdotes, and as the evening went on told them with practised, theatrical gusto, accessorized with endless Silk Cuts. Sal’s initial lack of enthusiasm for her date had been replaced by something approaching admiration, and she was flattered to be thought of as a worthy recipient of his indiscreet gossip about what went on in the office.

The bar’s famous Mai Tais, which had kicked off the evening, had been replaced by Tequila Sunrises for her and weighty glasses of bourbon on the rocks for him. He asked about her family as she stirred in the grenadine, turning the orange drink crimson.

‘I’ve got a brother, Jonathan. He’s ten years older. My mum and dad are ancient and I think I was a bit of an accident,’ Sal replied. ‘I love them, but I don’t see them that much now. I should go home more often, I know. Dad teaches, and my mum does research. They’re not that pleased that I’ve gone into journalism. They would have preferred me to be like my brother. He’s a solicitor. At least they got one of us where they wanted.’

‘Ah, well, there’s a lot that have that opinion of journalism, you’ll discover. We of the fourth estate have our detractors.’

‘I suppose so.’ Sal was flattered again at being included in the journalistic tribe. ‘Well, at home, they only take the
Observer
on weekends, though Mum will buy the
Herald
if I’ve told her I’ve got something in.’ She paused momentarily. ‘Not that I do that often – tell her, I mean.’

Checking his watch, Stuart asked for the bill and paid with a £50 note from a folded pile of banknotes. ‘Collected my expenses yesterday,’ he explained as he picked up the receipt and stuffed the notes back into his wallet. ‘Let’s have a breather.’

Outside the air-conditioned cocoon of the hotel, the city enveloped them. Sal felt a rush as the alcohol which had lain dormant
in her system kicked in, triggered by the heat and the sounds of the city. It was much too early to go home, what with Monday being a day off, so Sunday night, well, that was their Saturday, really. Stuart was OK. And he was obviously enjoying being with her, even if he was old. Too old to want anything more. Anyway, he’d been married for years. She was enjoying the chat, and surely it was a good idea to hang out with one of your bosses?

‘Let’s walk to the Serpentine – the park is still open.’ Sal clung on to Stuart’s arm as they laughingly dodged the lanes of traffic outside the hotel. Horns honked as they ran. Breathless, they entered the park, where the sounds of the traffic soon faded. The lampposts were lit at intervals, picking out the odd passing couple – shadowy, indistinct figures. In front, a small woman in a fur coat, despite the heat, walked slowly, holding on to a chihuahua by its lead. The grass was scorched by the sun and the broad paths were vivid white scars, even in the dimness. Stuart’s jacket was now slung over his shoulder, his arm bumping against hers as they headed towards the still lake. Sal’s trilling laugh punctuated their conversation; her body was next to his, relaxed into familiarity. At a boathouse, they paused.

‘It’s a bit different from the beach in Suffolk, isn’t it?’ Sal said, gabbling. ‘Now, let’s think. What would you be doing now? A nice bit of telly? No, you’d probably be all tucked up in bed.’

Her voice, since she had entered the park, had taken on an increasingly raucous tinge, words slurred over several syllables. She smiled at Stuart, her eyes catlike as he stood in front of her. The path was empty and the only sound the slap of water against the boathouse.

‘Would I now? And what would that be like?’ he questioned, his vowels overlaid with the sickly husk of desire, and turned to her, firmly grasping her bare arms. He pulled her up towards him and bent his face down to hers. As his mouth landed sloppily on her lips, one hand moved behind to grab her bottom, pulling up the thin dress, clamping her to him, his belt buckle cutting into her hips. His tongue slid into her, large and unwelcome. Sal felt a rush of
nausea … the smell of the bourbon, the cocktails, the ghastly proximity of the man. Her unresponsive mouth didn’t seem to deter him. Instead, her lack of movement appeared to encourage him to let go of her arm and move on to her breasts. She pulled away, thinking she might be sick.

‘God. No. I didn’t mean this,’ she muttered, looking down at her feet.

‘Yes, you did, my lovely lass.’ He lunged at her again, his large hand pressing her chin upwards to receive another kiss. She could see the slack skin around his throat, lizard-like. The water splashed against the tethered boats, but there was no other movement. His hand was stroking the inside of her thigh and moving up. In a fury, she freed herself and kicked him, again and again, wildly. His hand lashed out at her face, his ring clipping the ridge of her cheekbone.

‘Salome, huh? What kind of a scalp hunter are you? Cock-teaser more like.’ His voice had changed, the momentum of desire now replaced with that of humiliation. Sal looked briefly at his disappointed face, the slump in his gait, and she ran, too tired, too embarrassed, too confused to try to make things all right. She could hear his shouts, but she didn’t look back or halt, heading for the lights of the bridge over the Serpentine where the cars sliced through the park. She couldn’t think about what had happened. She focused on moving away from Stuart, the park, the mess of the evening. Seeing the welcome yellow light of a free taxi, she raised her arm to hail it and slumped into its dark cabin as the streets slid by.

Annie’s drive back to Cranbourne Terrace had been unpleasantly long – slowed by the interminable stream of cars returning from the weekend exodus. As the traffic halted outside Richmond she looked across into the next lane, where a couple sat in an open-topped MG, snatching kisses as the jam stopped and started. Had Jackson called? After all, she’d been away since Friday. But then he couldn’t call,
obviously
, as she hadn’t given him her home
number. Although, come to think of it, he could have got it from Tania. Maybe. Honestly, telephones could be hell. If only they had one of those answering services. Maybe Sal had been there? She hoped she was in when she got back so she could find out. If you ask someone to dinner like that, send them an amazing present, how long would you wait to call? Maybe he’d changed his mind.

Annie knew the flat was empty as soon as she walked in the front door. She dumped her bags in her bedroom and ran a bath to rid herself of the fumes and stickiness of the drive. In the bath, with her hair piled up, she squeezed water from the natural sponge Sal had brought back from Corfu. The door to the tiny bathroom was open to let in light from the hallway and avoid the necessity of using the light cord attached to the ugly rumble of an extractor fan. She couldn’t be bothered to light the stub of a candle on the narrow bath surround and watched Flick pad in, clawing the floral embroidery of the silk dressing gown lying on the floor.

‘Poor old thing. Have you been lonely? Bet she forgot to feed you.’

The countryside had been a relief from the dusty heat of town. Her mother had cheerfully taken care of the huge bag of laundry she had deposited on the kitchen table and plied her with delicious salads.

‘I hope you’re eating properly, Annie. Not just Pot Noodles. I’m sending you back with supplies – though I don’t suppose Joanna has a freezer in that flat.’ Letty was obviously enjoying slipping on the mantle of motherhood.

‘You look very cheerful,’ Letty remarked, unwilling to risk a more direct probe as they had supper in the garden, assuming Annie had met a man. Letty Brenham firmly believed that a suitable marriage was the wisest course of action for her two daughters. Annie and Beth knew that it was their father who had always intended that his girls go to university; he would have insisted on it had he lived. Left to their mum, things would have been different. She made it clear that she didn’t really see the point.

‘It’s not as if you two are going to be doctors or scientists or anything like that’ was her position, ‘in which case, why not do something more useful? I’ve always regretted I never got a foreign language.’ She made it sound as if you could buy one, like a new handbag. ‘Why not go to live in Paris for a year? Or I gather there’s a very respectable art course in Florence. You’ll make some nice friends. Get a bit of culture, and then there are all kinds of places where you could get a job.’

One day during university holidays Annie had heard her mother standing in the hall talking on the phone to a friend as she fiddled with a flower arrangement:

‘Thank God she doesn’t want to be one of those banker types, not like Freddie and Julia’s youngest, who’s gone on this milk train – or is it the gravy train? Anyway, something like that, where the banks pick out their favourites … Mmm. Yes, terrible hours they have to work.’ Annie knew that implicit in Letty’s critique of banking as a career was her belief that you couldn’t expect a man to want a banker for a wife. He’d surely prefer a girl who worked in something more feminine. Annie didn’t want to be a banker, or have ‘a career’ anyway. It was a different kind of a life she was after, but that didn’t mean Letty was right.