When Good Friends Go Bad (9 page)

'Nonsense!' The prima donna cut her short with a Red Queen chopping motion. 'Women have been sprogging rug rats since the Neanderthal days.
Carpe diem
– seize the day! Hire more people. Be ruthless. Let me tell you, when I was a mere understudy and suddenly the call came to take my place onstage with dear old Larry, well!' She allowed herself a dramatic pause, head turning to make sure all eyes were on her.

'Olivier?' Meg hissed in Beetlebaum's ear.

'None other.' He winked and topped up her glass. They'd been exchanging private snippets of conversation since Jen sat down, and by now Meg was practically on his lap.

'Don't you think I was terrified!' Every sentence of Bella Stringent's seemed to end in an exclamation mark. 'These are the moments on which success or failure is hinged! Of course, I got a standing ovation and never looked back!' she finished modestly.

Jen couldn't take it a moment longer: Starkey sitting by her, silent and brooding as Svengali; Georgina dwarfed by the operatic forcefulness of the theatrical star, their two contrasting perfumes clashing in Jen's suddenly hypersensitive nose; Meg practically sticking her tongue in Beetlebum's ear, flicking her hair and fluttering her spiderlike false eyelashes so persistently it looked as if she were having an epileptic flirting attack. And Beetlebum was lapping it all up, knowing that by all recognised Laws of Attraction he should be at the bottom of the gene pool, having nothing going for him except immense power, unattainable wealth and an open ticket to fame.

'I have to go outside,' she said, abruptly. Her face was almost mummified from trying to look cheerful. Although, frankly, everyone was so caught up in their mini-dramas she could probably have fallen weeping on the tabletop and announced her intention to slit her wrists without an eyebrow being raised. 'Pollute some fresh air,' she added, in case anyone cared. 'I'm gasping for a fag.'

'Dear old Quentin Crisp said exactly the same thing to me, last time we met,' Beetlebum remarked to all, Meg laughing the most, of course.

'Me too.' Starkey leapt up, his chair clattering back as he shoved his hands in his jacket. In a few long strides he was through the bar and across the lobby, so that suddenly Jen was in the awkward position of following him out.

Well, she could hardly have stayed, could she? What sort of a fool would she look announcing 'changed my mind, the urge passed' and sitting back down? Never mind the twinge of alarm that passed over Georgina's face, knowing she shouldn't join them because of the baby. And besides, old Bella would never let her escape.
And why shouldn't the great Giordani experience even a fraction of the jealousy and pain that is eating me alive?
Jen thought. She still wanted to know why Georgina had never told her, least of all not tonight.

A flash of foreboding accompanied her exit – did she honestly want to be alone with Starkey? Could she endure his proximity without breaking down? Meg smoked too. She could have saved her, provided an opportune buffer, but oh no, she was far too busy ingratiating herself with the squatty toad in there.

Standing out in the warm night air, she busied herself pulling a cigarette out of her pack, managing with a huge effort to keep her fingers steady as Starkey lit it, cupping his hand over hers and shielding the flame from the gentle July breeze.

'Cheers,' she said, as a memory tugged her painfully, a picture of the way he used to light both cigarettes then hand one to her.

'Quite the scene, eh?' He pulled a small pouch out of his pocket and busied himself rolling a joint. 'A bit too Restoration comedy for my taste. I kept expecting to see a footman rush in wearing a powdered wig.' He licked the top of the Rizla paper, twirled it expertly and stuck it in his mouth.

'Oh I don't know.' Bitterness leaked into her voice. 'It's not every evening you get to meet a star of stage and screen, a legendary impresario, your two long-lost best mates and a fink ex-boyfriend.'

Starkey inhaled deeply, held the smoke in his lungs for a long, long moment and then blew it out.

'Want this?' He held it towards her.

'No.' Her own cigarette was burning her throat. She stubbed it out and ground it under her heel.

'Still sweet,' he said softly, and she knew he was remembering that first kiss. She wanted to run but her feet had grown roots, clutching the gravel of the car park, the way she was clutching on to the last bit of strength that might get her through this. She couldn't see past this moment, only that the future seemed beyond bleak, all the old wounds torn open and freshly raw again.

In the dark, she could see a glowing tip of ash, casting a reddish light on his face as he brought it close.

'Listen, kid, I warned you I was no good.' His voice was pensive. 'I told you I couldn't make anyone happy, not even myself.'

'You also said you weren't the marrying kind,' she snapped, not in the mood for being patronised.

He made a mirthless sound that in no way resembled a chuckle. 'I'm sure Georgina would tell you I was right. Always knew I'd be a rotten husband.'

'Yes, but you still married her, didn't you?' Mae West had gone, just when she needed her most. Now she sounded more like the whining schoolkid she'd been when she first met him.

He shrugged. 'She wanted it.'

'And you didn't?'

He repeated the movement, which she could just see in silhouette, his tall figure outlined against the star-filled sky, broad shoulders, his expression hidden by the darkness. How often had she snuggled into those shoulders, buried her face in the warmth of his chest?

'Maybe by then it didn't matter that much, either way,' he rasped.

'Wow, that must make Georgina feel great.'

'I'm not a nice guy.' He rubbed his nose, sounding rueful. 'You had a lucky escape.'

'Oh yes.' A slight tremor threatened to give her away. 'I feel
so
lucky.'

There was a long silence as he took a few steps away from the dimly lit coaching lamps that hung outside the inn. The marijuana smell drifted back to her as he stood stock still again. Finally, when she could hardly stand it any longer, his voice came out of the darkness.

'I was a bastard to you, I know.' He paused again as if reflecting. 'If it's any consolation . . .'

'It isn't,' she cut in.

'I've never loved anyone the way I loved you.' He'd come back close to her, shoulders hunched, arms folded. She could now see the strain written on his face. 'Probably never will. But you were so young. I couldn't be responsible for myself back then, let alone anyone as bloody amazing as you.'

'Yeah, right,' she said bitterly. 'I was so bloody amazing that you had to do a runner.' Jen found herself shaking, despite the warm night. 'I suppose it'd have been just fine if I'd been a total slut.'

'Better, anyway.' He took another drag and exhaled thoughtfully. 'Sluts I could handle. I was used to them.'

He took a step towards her and then stopped, scuffing his heel on the ground.

'Look, my life's screwed up in more ways than I care to stand here and explain. I'm not asking you to understand. But if it means shit to anyone, I was heartbroken too.'

'You know what?' She pulled another cigarette out of the pack with shaking fingers, just to have something to do. 'It doesn't. Because you had a choice. I didn't.'

'If you believe that then you have no clue what I was going through. I was young too, and stupid with it. Things were getting intense, far too fast. Man, I was such a fuck-up, I couldn't imagine myself ever settling down.'

'Nor could I, for God's sake! I was only sodding sixteen!' Jen burst out incredulously. So much for her cool.

'Whatever. So I was an idiot.' He sent a plume of smoke into the air. 'I had this notion that all nice girls wanted commitment.'

'No, Starkey, what they really want is to be ditched after just over a year,' (fifteen months, two weeks, one day, four hours) 'without even a phone call.' She found she was crumbling the unlit cigarette, paper and tobacco falling to the ground. 'I suppose you thought it'd be
much
more amusing to let me wait for hours at a freezing railway station, watching all the passengers get off the train and the train after that and the train after that? Such a nice cinematic feel, especially since it was pissing down with rain. It may have looked cool in
Casablanca,
but in real life it honestly stinks.'

Starkey had been hooked on those old films. Didn't even care that they were in black and white. Robert Mitchum. Marlon Brando in
The Wild One,
James Dean . . . all the bad boys. Loners who were oh so tough with the dames but couldn't hide their aching hearts. Cuddling together on the single mattress in his dilapidated squat, propped up on pillows, eating pizza and watching their latest rental video on his nineteen-inch screen, she'd thought Starkey was more handsome, more romantic, more
everything
than any of the heroes they were watching.

'I was hurting too.' He muttered it hoarsely into the ground. 'I tried to make myself get on that train but I couldn't. And when I called your house, you'd already left. Yeah, I know I shouldn't have done it like that but why drag it out? I didn't want to see your face when I hurt you. Do you think I haven't gone back over it a million times, wishing it were different?'

'I've got to go, all this fresh air is making me sick.' She couldn't bear to hear one more word.

'You were the best, maybe the only great thing that ever happened to me and I wrecked it. And, brainless bastard that I was,' now his voice sounded as sour as hers as she fled to the porch, 'I managed to convince myself it was the kindest way.' His words followed as Jen tugged at the inn's brass door latch. 'I thought you'd get over me quicker if you knew I was a shit.'

The door flew open, propelled by a pull from inside.

'Fuck,' Starkey swore. Meg stood there, a fallen blossom of faded flower power, hanging on to the wall to support herself. She'd clearly been knocking back the brandy.

'Get over yourself, dude.' Her hair fell messily forward so that only her sharp little nose peeked out as her head rested on her raised arm. 'We always knew you were a shit, di'n' we, Jen?' Beidlebaum appeared behind her, shrugging on his sports jacket. 'Jen's way way happier without you dragging her down, man. Irwin and I are goin' to find a club or a bar to keep on partying. Whaddya think, kids? Are you in?'

'Where's Georgina?' Starkey sounded frustrated, though it was hard to tell whether it was remembering his wife or Meg's interruption that put the edge in his voice.

'Gone, girl, gone.' Meg wobbled as she brandished a brandy snifter, defeating Beidlebaum's attempts to remove it before she spilled the contents over herself or him. 'Bella Stringent took her home. Wants to bug her some more about her Tony rags. Old Georgie said she was feeling bad. Got the pregnancy blues.'

Carrying Starkey's child. The child that could – should, if dreams and prayers carried any weight – have been hers. Jen's hand went to her belly in an unconscious imitation of Georgina's earlier gesture and then froze in place.

God, how could she have been so thick? Her befuddled mind was battling the booze she'd swallowed earlier, doing sums, counting back, trying to remember exactly how much she'd drunk, almost choking on the memory of her cigarette. It was too early to be sure – but it was the most obvious explanation for the queasy lightheaded feeling that had dogged her this last week, her unusual tiredness and the trouble she was having stuffing her suddenly sensitive breasts into a bra that had mysteriously shrunk? It was ludicrous she hadn't realised earlier. But it hadn't even crossed her mind, probably because it was the last thing on earth she could deal with right now.

'I need to sleep.' She stumbled past Meg, tripping over the Indian rug on her way to the stairs. She felt sick, tired, headachy and outright wretched. Her feisty attitude and spunk had drained, leaving her legs and stomach like jelly. PMT, she tried to tell herself. A familiar misery, like a werewolf howling at the full moon. PMT caused aching breasts, raging hormones and bloating, didn't it? And the sight of Starkey and Georgina would make anyone want to puke.

Everyone had followed her into the lobby, and now she could sense all eyes watching her climb the stairs, Starkey's hot and blazing, she imagined, Meg's undoubtedly seeing double, ole Beetlebum's cool and mildly interested.

To hell with them all. What was the bleeding point in getting close to people? You only ended up regretting letting them in. That traitor Georgina had done well to skulk away, tail between her legs. Jen's head was whirling as she flopped down on the bed. Then moments later she ran to the bathroom to throw up, again.

Tossing and turning in bed that night, Jen replayed the evening's events again and again. Blue eyes popped into her vision, then orbs of a brown so deep they looked black. Ollie and Starkey. Starkey and Ollie. The dark angel. The golden youth.

Eventually, feeling too hyped up and agitated to sleep and in desperate need of someone she could talk to, she pulled on a jumper and padded down the hallway to room six.

Her hand was raised, fist ready, when she heard Meg's distinctive laugh. Then a low rumble, a man talking, the words muffled by the stout wooden door. Again that same flirty giggle.

Feeling like a peeping Thomasina, Jen slunk back to her room. For a long time she sat on the bed, cross-legged, holding her feet and gently rocking.

The clock said two a.m. So what if Meg had a man in there? None of her business if her friend chose to consolidate her exploitation of the spectacularly unattractive Beedle-Butt. Or if she'd picked up a complete stranger in whatever dingy pub or low-rent disco the two – or three if Starkey had gone with them – had stumbled into after Jen went to bed. Or . . . no, it didn't bear thinking about.

Some aspects to Meg would never change. She'd turned her back on her friends before. Why should Jen be surprised if tonight she was again ignoring Jen's pain for her own selfish interests? Heroine for life? She thought back to their first morning at school. Was she ever wrong there.

Betrayal dumped on betrayal, as if everything spinning in the blender of her mind was marshalling itself into one coherent argument for never ever trusting anyone, no matter how often you told yourself that there were good people in this world.

She was lying on her stomach, face pushed into the pillow, when she heard a knock. A sound so soft at first it barely registered, but quickly she was startled. Her heart was thumping so hard it almost drowned out the hoarse whisper that seeped through the door.

'Jen?'