Summer at Tiffany's (8 page)

Their flat was the shabbiest, as behoved the attic rooms really, but even at that the rent was exorbitant and more than they could afford; Henry had suggested numerous times that they buy somewhere together instead – ‘Rent money is dead money,' he was fond of saying – but they could never afford to buy somewhere like this, and Cassie so loved the central location and quiet street and, of course, the ancient and bowed crab apple by the rear window.

She saw the back of Henry's head first as she let herself in. The rugby was on the telly, and he was sitting with one foot on the coffee table, his other leg bent with one arm lolling on his knee, a beer in his hand, his head resting against the sofa cushions.

‘Hey,' she said softly, kissing his hair before she walked round the sofa, ready to snuggle into his lap. A bath and a glass of wine and they could—

‘Where have you been?'

The ice that veined his words brought her up short, stopping her feet and her heart simultaneously.

‘What?'

‘You heard me.'

She blinked in astonishment, unable to process the hostility she saw in his eyes. ‘I . . . I was at Zara's. We had to go over the last bits for the job this weekend.'

‘
All
day?'

‘No. Of course not.'

‘So where were you, then?'

‘Henry, what is this?' she asked in bafflement, dropping her bag to the floor and sinking onto the edge of the sofa beside him.

‘What is this?' he repeated with incredulity. ‘Mum's down, Archie's half dead, and you're nowhere to be found and you ask me, “What is this?” Christ, I can't believe you. You had every opportunity to be there. I needed you there. Suzy needed you.'

This was because she hadn't been to the hospital? ‘Henry, look, just calm down. I can explain.' She took a breath. ‘I wanted to be there, more than anything, but . . .' She didn't want to say it. It was like letting the genie out of the bottle.

‘But what?' he prompted impatiently. Had he slept at all today? He looked rough and worn out.

‘They wouldn't let me in, OK?' she said. ‘They said only family could go in. I explained to the nurse that I was your fiancée, but she said it didn't count.'

He blinked at her, sliding his lower jaw to the side and nodding in silence as he processed the words, his anger filling the room like smoke in a jar.

He didn't reply immediately, instead taking a deep swig from the beer bottle, draining it, and she wondered how many others he'd had. ‘Well, she's absolutely right, of course. It doesn't. Engagement isn't anything. It's just a nice idea, a promise you can make with your fingers crossed behind your back. It's only one level up from a suggestion of something you might possibly choose to do someday. Or maybe not.'

‘Henry, stop.' She could feel it beginning again.

‘Why? It's true, isn't it? A year and a half ago I gave you a ring and you said, “Yes,” but that doesn't
actually
commit us to anything. It certainly doesn't make us family. It certainly doesn't mean that you can be there at the moments that count! Either one of us could change our mind at any given point and the whole arrangement would just come down as easily as a house of cards. Poof! Gone.' He clicked his fingers hard, the gesture making her jump.

She blinked at him, feeling the first smarting of tears behind her eyes. There they were – back to their age-old argument, their only one. ‘This isn't about us.'

‘Of course it's about us!' he scoffed. ‘It's about you refusing to commit to anything beyond the next meal. We can't buy a flat together because that would mean using your divorce settlement, and that's your fallback, right? I mean, God knows after you caught Gil in the act, I might turn out to be just as big a bastard as him, and then where will you be?'

‘Henr—' It wasn't like that, and he knew it. How many times had she tried to explain that the divorce money felt tainted to her? How could she get across her fear to him that using the money would feel, somehow, like she was letting Gil back into their lives? But he wasn't listening.

‘You won't let us buy a flat, talk about having kids, set a date – all the great unmentionables that must never be brought up, the fucking elephants that fill this flat more than any of our junk.'

‘Just stop it!' she cried, standing up. ‘You have no right to throw these things back at me like they're not important!'

‘Of course they're important! But you won't ever discuss them. I'm the only one in this relationship who seems to have any kind of hope that there's a certain future in it.'

‘That's not true.'

‘No? Where do you see us living five years from now?'

She threw her hands up in the air in exasperation. ‘Well, how would
I
know?'

‘How about ten? What are we going to be doing?'

‘I don't know!' she cried, bringing her hands down into fists and stamping her foot on the floor. ‘That's not how I think anymore. I like just—'

‘Living in the moment. I know! My God, do I know!' Henry rolled his eyes, on his feet now. ‘The thing is, Cass, that doesn't work for me – not now. If what's happened to Arch proves anything, it's that we don't have a bloody clue what's round the corner, and I don't want to live with vague promises. I want you to be my wife, not my fiancée, not my girlfriend – my wife. I want us to belong to each other in every way possible. I don't want there to be grey areas when it comes to
us
. I want to know you're mine in good and bad, sickness and health. You may have been married for ten years, but
I
wasn't and I'm not going into it expecting it to fail. I fully believe I'm going to spend the rest of my life with you. There isn't a doubt in my mind.'

He stopped – so suddenly that she double-blinked as she realized he was waiting for her to respond. This was her cue to chime in that there were no doubts in her mind either.

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. His surety was a luxury she just couldn't afford. If they could just have a little more time without adding extra pressures on themselves, without needing contracts or titles . . .

He looked away, a mirthless laugh on his lips. ‘And there we have it. That old chestnut – once bitten, twice shy. I guess it's a cliché for a reason, right?'

‘Henry—'

‘Forget it. I'm staying at Suze's tonight with Mum.'

‘Henry, this is ridiculous!' she said, turning to watch as he crossed the room in two strides and picked up a small khaki duffel bag, already packed, from the foot of the sofa. ‘You can't just run out like this! We have to talk. Look, you're stressed about Arch. I get it—'

‘Oh, do you? Well, that's good to hear. Nice to know you're so
in tune
with how I feel.' She flinched at the scorn in his words. ‘Tell you what I don't understand, though – if you didn't want to marry me, why did you say, “Yes”?'

Words fled her yet again – her silence damning her – and Henry inhaled sharply, his hands on his hips as he stared up at the ceiling. Cassie reached for his arm, but he brushed past her, his head dropped low, and a moment later she heard the front door click shut, separating them like a sea.

She was just pulling the third batch of almond macaroons – Archie's favourite – from the oven when the doorbell buzzed. Cassie frowned as she took off her oven gloves and lay them on the counter beside the hot tray. Henry had a key, obviously, as did Suzy.

She peered through the spyhole. ‘Yes?' she called through the door, seeing two dark heads – one significantly higher up than the other, one distinctly glossier than the other. She gave a gasp, throwing open the door.

‘Oh my God! You came!' she cried as two of the faces she loved most in the world turned to her with pleased smiles.

‘Of course we did,' Anouk said, hugging her hard. As ever, she smelt of nappa leather, her beige linen jumpsuit and panama putting Cassie's pyjama ensemble of Henry's tartan baggies – rolled low on the hips – and a khaki vest in the shade. It was barely nine in the morning, meaning the two of them must have been up at five to make it here from Paris, and yet still Anouk looked box-fresh from the Isabel Marant store.

Bas, Cassie's best friend in New York, swooped down second. At six foot five, thin as a noodle and with skin the colour of a walnut, he was her sounding board and partner in crime, the man who'd understood the therapeutic effects of a head massage and a greasy fry-up when a girl was on a no-carbs diet and going through a divorce. Bas released her from his bear hug so that her toes touched the floor again. ‘How is he?'

‘Still critical, but stable, at least. I was just on my way over to Suzy's to get the latest.'

Bas looked her up and down. ‘You sure it's only Arch who's sick? You look like hell.'

‘Thanks!' she half laughed, half wailed. She had yet to look in a mirror, but she knew it wouldn't be pretty. ‘I'd like to see how good you look on three hours' sleep,' she said, hoping they wouldn't notice her puffy, reddened eyes. ‘Come in, come in.' She stepped back into the tiny hall, aware that Henry's sailing jacket – newly waxed – on the pegs behind, stank like burnt rubber and the coir matting, which had cost £99 per metre in the store, now looked like a cat basket. ‘Coffee?'

‘Like you need to ask,' Anouk replied, taking off her hat and tousling her hair lightly. Anouk was famously hard core about her drinks, only ever choosing knock-you-out black coffee, cognac or, at the other end of the spectrum, purer-than-thou mint tea; she refused to believe that water that came from taps was drinkable and would argue to the death that anything with milk in it was an abomination.

Cassie looked over at Bas. ‘Tea?'

‘Never change, baby.' He winked. ‘I don't suppose you've got some—'

‘Oh yes, I do. English breakfast or Earlers?'

‘Full English, definitely,' he sighed with an elaborate hand flourish.

She grinned. She had thoroughly converted him to English tea during her stint in New York and they had long ago moved on from bog-standard PG Tips to the more delicate and rarefied strains of boutique tea companies – Prince & Sons was their new favourite and Cassie sent regular batches over to him, as it wasn't yet available in the US.

They walked into the kitchen, her visitors staring in amazement at the racks of cakes – madeleines, eclairs, macaroons, millefeuilles – stacked high on the worktops.

‘So
someone
was up early,' Bas said with an arched eyebrow.

Cassie reached for the espresso caplet and dropped it into the coffee machine. ‘Just getting ahead for a big job we've got on Saturday,' she said, avoiding his eye. She knew that he knew she baked when she was stressed.

‘But these pastries won't keep,' Anouk argued, finger-pinching a flake of millefeuille.

‘They freeze well.'

Bas's hand reached for a warm macaroon.

‘Enough. Those are for Arch.'

‘Really?' Bas said. ‘You honestly think that's what the doctor's going to order for him after a major heart attack? Sugar and fats?'

‘Oh.' Cassie sagged dispiritedly. She hadn't thought of that. ‘Well, just a couple. I don't want anything happening to you too.'

‘To me? Ol' snake hips?' Bas grinned, biting into one of them and closing his eyes in pleasure. ‘Ugh! I'm
starving
.'

‘If I'd known you were coming, I'd have got in some bacon and black pudding.' Another acquired taste they had bonded over.

‘There's always elevenses,' he grinned, shrugging his eyebrows hopefully.

The kettle boiled and Cassie turned away, aware of looks being passed behind her back as she reached for the cups. ‘Stop that.'

‘We're worried about you,' Bas said, advancing with concern.

‘It's Arch you should be worried about.'

‘Of course! And we are. It's why we're here. But is that all that's really going on in your life right now?' His eyes flicked over to the half-empty bottle of vodka she'd forgotten to return to the freezer last night, the spoon still in the empty tub of Phish Food ice cream. ‘Where's Henry?'

Cassie's hand hovered above the kettle for a moment before she began to pour. ‘He's at Suzy's. Hattie's down looking after Velvet, so he's keeping her company, what with Suze staying overnight at the hospital.'

‘Why didn't you go too?' Anouk's voice was direct, as ever, and Cassie knew if she turned, she'd see that all-knowing look in her friend's eyes.

‘Because Hattie's in the spare room, so Henry was sleeping on the sofa. It doesn't seem right to sleep in Suze and Arch's room when . . .' Her voice trailed away as she tried not to remember the image of Archie wired up like a circuit board. She turned round with the cups in her hands, keeping her eyes down. ‘Anyway, it was only for the night, and I saw Hattie yesterday morning when she arrived.'

Her eyes met Anouk's fleetingly as she handed over the cup of coffee, but that was all it took for Cassie to know Anouk had already guessed at their fight. ‘Smells good,' was all she said.

‘You must have been up while it was still dark to get over here,' Cassie said, changing the subject and walking the four paces across the small, glossy white Ikea kitchen and heaving the recycling box of empties out of the way. She opened the back door, letting in the riotous birdsong that was only ten feet away, and they all settled themselves on the various steps of the fire escape, both Cassie and Bas automatically leaving the prized upturned bucket for Anouk. ‘I'm assuming you came in from Paris together?'

She looked at Bas, who had rested his head against the whitewashed wall and was enjoying the feel of the sun on his face – his favourite feeling, in fact. ‘Couture runthroughs. Finished yesterday. Almost killed me.' He looked at Cassie through one open eye. ‘
Plenty
of gossip. Want to hear it?'