Brand New Friend

by Kate Vane

  Claire would be upset if Isabel left. He didn’t care about that. He was thinking, Isabel told me first!

  ‘Why –’ He wanted to say, Why me? But instead he said, ‘Why are you moving out?’

  She shrugged and shifted a little. He caught a glimpse of pale, smooth leg. Was she really naked under that – garment?

  ‘I just want to be by myself.’

  Of course she did. Beautiful, enigmatic Isabel, who could have any man in the world (well, him anyway) didn’t want any of them. She wanted to retire to her boudoir with her hand to her brow.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I’ve seen a place in Meanwood.’

  ‘Meanwood?’ Isabel was moving to Meanwood. ‘It’s over three miles!’

  ‘You can get there by bus.’

  ‘How?’ he wailed, conveying the full force of his despair.

  ‘Change at Headingley,’ she said, calmly.

  That was two buses away. They knew some people who lived in Woodhouse, which was the other side of Woodhouse Lane, the main road that led from the university to Headingley. They rarely crossed that line but at least if there was a party over there they could walk it. Headingley, further up Woodhouse Lane, was on the border of the known universe. But Meanwood?

  ‘I suppose Claire can visit,’ he said. Claire would have a bus timetable and a Ker-ching! multi-journey ticket that wasn’t bent out of shape so it no longer fitted the machine you had to insert it into each time you boarded the bus.

  Isabel had no comment to make on that.

  The vodka was having its effect. There was no way he’d be writing that essay now. The sense of shame and failure he’d felt before was also fading, displaced by this deeper sense of anguish.

  ‘What will happen to the house? To us?’ he asked.

  ‘You’ll find someone. Look at Graham.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’ He sipped his vodka, then sipped some more, then blurted out, ‘We’ll miss you.’

  Isabel said nothing for a long time. Her eyes looked a little watery. Must be the smoke. Then, ‘Sometimes I –’

  ‘Isabel –’

  They both smiled, awkward at having cut across each other, and then both said nothing. Isabel drew deeply on her cigarette then stubbed it out and he thought again of Fiona.

  Sex with Fiona had been like a fun aerobics workout, physically challenging, with multiple changes of position, blissfully uncomplicated by declarations of affection on either side. Whereas sex with Isabel would, he was sure, be slow, sensual and agonisingly intense.

  Isabel’s sleeve slipped back as she reached for the vodka and he saw the criss-cross marks on her arm and the scars on the pale, delicate skin of her inner wrist. He had never given them much thought before. They were part of her glamour, like her vodka breakfasts and her platinum hair. Suddenly he pictured her in her bedsit, alone, and wondered what it cost to be Isabel.

  He reached for her hand. She put down the vodka and her fingers gripped his. They were cold and he felt like he could feel every bone.

  He laughed awkwardly. ‘I have to finish this essay,’ he said. ‘I’ve had just enough vodka to help me write, if I have any more it will be gibberish.’

  Isabel stretched. ‘So glad we talked,’ she said, standing abruptly. She picked up her pack of cigarettes and the vodka bottle and swept from the room, leaving only two empty glasses and one dog-end behind.

  Bob was singing ‘You’re a Big Girl Now’.

  He fucking hated Dylan.

  51

  He thought Salma was in her study. The door was shut and it was an unwritten rule that they didn’t interrupt each other when they were working, unless it was urgent. The girls were asleep, the house was quiet but he wanted to see her, and that had an urgency of its own.

  When he opened the door and she wasn’t there he felt a momentary panic. He went downstairs and poured a glass of water (even that was a complex negotiation, they had one of those taps that switched between boiling, hot and cold, all to avoid the much simpler expedient of boiling a kettle).

  He looked out of the french windows and saw a figure silhouetted against the wall of the house.

  He opened the back door and slipped outside. The security light came on and she started, as if he were an intruder. She was wearing her old Cairo make-up – thick eyeliner, full red lips. Colourful and strong, the way he always pictured her when they were apart. He hoped that was a good sign.

  ‘I just wanted some air,’ she said.

  She didn’t need to explain. It happened sometimes. She would feel confined, hot, light-headed, close to panic. The cold helped, the fresh air.

  She was wearing her long coat and high heels, as if dressed for a day in the city, though the truth was, Salma always wore heels. This was her equivalent of throwing on a parka and a pair of wellies. He stood beside her, shivering, wishing he’d put a coat on but not wanting to leave.

  ‘There have been more arrests,’ she said.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I feel like I should be there.’

  ‘I know.’

  The security light went off and he could hear her slow, deliberate breathing.

  ‘It is so peaceful here at night.’

  He looked up at the stars, tried to think of something profound to say, but they were just dots of light spread across the dark sky. He was just a man, trying to reach his wife.

  The stars seemed closer.

  He woke in the night and heard Salma speaking on the phone in her study. He couldn’t make out the words but heard enough to know she was speaking Arabic. When she came back to bed he asked who was on the phone. She said it was her cousin in Canada, confused about the time zones again. But if her cousin had called her, why hadn’t he heard the phone ring?

  He thought of those days in Cairo when they hardly saw each other, when she was spending every minute she could at Tahrir Square. He had joked that he saw her more on TV than in the flesh. She would speak to any media outlet she could, in English, French or Arabic, believing, hoping, that if they could only get the word out the world would help.

  He had been equally busy in his work for the BBC. They shared contacts and useful information but his reports continued to be measured and neutral. He had to interview sources on all sides. Never mind that some from the regime were perhaps less keen to trust him, knowing he was married to Salma. The BBC name was enough to get him through.

  They had been physically apart but he had felt close to her. He shared her aims – insofar as any of them knew what the aims were, beyond getting rid of what was there now – even if he didn’t say so publicly. He even felt – irrationally of course – that he would know if she was in danger. So while she was away from him, they were united.

  Now? He knew exactly where she was all day – in this house, in her study, at that desk – but her mind was a mystery to him. He wasn’t possessive, he’d always liked the fact they had separate interests, other lives. Something to talk about in the evening. But now she didn’t talk. What did she do, think, all day? Was she really just writing her book? What happened in the spaces in between? He couldn’t ask, any more than he would steam open her letters – if they ever got any letters other than credit card bills. But he wished she would tell him.

  52

  Claire and Isabel were in the living room, pointedly not talking to each other over breakfast. Well, he was using the term breakfast loosely. Claire was attacking toast and Marmite. Isabel had a tiny espresso cup which she occasionally lifted to her lips and put down again, but like a child at a doll’s tea party, she didn’t appear to have taken a drink.

  It was unusual to see Isabel up at this time, much less dressed. She was wearing a long navy skirt and jumper. A gleaming white collar showed at the neck, one that had clearly never been in a mixed wash at the laundrette. She had a beret neatly positioned over her hair which was pinned up, and a slash of red lipstick. She was like a woman in a Parisian café in a French arthouse film. It appeared that leaving
them agreed with her.

  The atmosphere was glacial. Paolo thought he might just grab a coffee and drink it in his room. He was about to mumble something about an essay to finish when Claire spoke.

  ‘You’ll be back for Graham’s birthday party, won’t you?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Claire’s doing jelly and ice-cream,’ said Isabel.

  ‘Jelly’s got gelatine in it,’ said Claire and Paolo almost simultaneously.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Crushed pig’s head and testicles,’ said Paolo.

  ‘Actually,’ said Claire, ‘I thought I’d make a curry. Can you do bhajis? We’ve still got some gram flour left.’

  Paolo remembered the last time he and Claire had made bhajis. They’d made the batter too thin. It ran like paint all over the kitchen, leaving a turmeric-tinged stain that was only now beginning to fade. It was just another nail in the coffin of their deposit, along with the gloss and the muriel on the wall and the condemned gas fire.

  ‘Whose idea was this?’

  Isabel looked meaningfully at Claire.

  ‘You always say it’s pointless commemorating an arbitrary day,’ he said to Claire.

  She didn’t respond but continued to chew her toast assiduously.

  ‘You never did anything for my birthday.’

  ‘We like you,’ said Isabel.

  She looked at Claire, inviting her to share the joke, but Claire continued to stare at her plate. She got up abruptly and put her plate in the sink without washing it. Paolo felt inexplicably sorry for her.

  ‘It can be a leaving do for Isabel,’ said Paolo. Claire glared at him.

  ‘Isn’t Mark talking about moving on as well?’ asked Isabel.

  ‘No,’ said Claire. ‘He just said he might go to Faslane for a while.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Isabel, ‘for a while. My mistake.’

  ‘What’s this about him leaving?’ asked Paolo.

  ‘He’s not,’ said Claire.

  ‘But why would you be talking about him not leaving if you didn’t think he might be leaving?’

  Why hadn’t he heard? And why had Isabel? She barely spoke to Mark. He had a sense that she didn’t much like him, although she had never said anything bad either to him or about him.

  Claire picked up her bag and they heard the front door slam behind her.

  ‘What’s all that about?’ Paolo asked, although he had his suspicions. Claire’s eyes had been full of anger and reproach and heartbreak, but when he tried to meet them they were fixed on Isabel, not on him.

  ‘You’d better be there,’ Isabel said. ‘If I’ve got to suffer, so can you.’

  53

  Graham and Paolo were sitting on the sofa. Isabel was draped over a chair watching Claire who was standing at the cooker. Claire was trying to make her own chapattis.

  ‘To be honest I wasn’t that bothered,’ said Graham, his words belying the big grin on his face. ‘I’m meeting the lads down the Union for a pint. But you know girls.’

  Or even women, thought Paolo, but didn’t say anything. He’d bought Graham a bottle of Newcy Brown as a present but was hoping he wouldn’t have time to drink it. Claire had given him a tape of some of her favourite music, music Graham had apparently professed to like at some point, although Paolo had only ever heard him listen to Radio One. Each track was from a different album and it must have taken her ages. It was typical Claire, to lavish so much energy with so little joy to so little purpose.

  Graham had read the track listing she’d carefully written on the inside of the card. He was trying to find something positive to say about each song, and with each comment Claire’s irritation became more visible. She’s going to burn herself in a minute, he thought, watching her hold the rolled-out chapatti dough over the sputtering yellow flame from half a gas ring. Maybe the cooker needed condemning too. Or failing that, cleaning.

  Isabel hadn’t brought anything to the party, though she had offered Graham a glass of her vodka which was something she normally never did. And she had made a card. It was beautiful. A collage made from the pages of a magazine, shapes like cogs and spanners and hammers cut from pictures of grass and sky, set against a background of reds and blacks.

  She must have spent hours doing it, not to mention the thought that went into conceptualising the nature versus machinery conceit, the subtle balance of colour and texture, its complexity reflecting her own. It wasn’t something Graham would understand or appreciate, thought Paolo. Maybe if he got the chance Paolo would steal the card as well as reclaiming the Newcy Brown.

  Dudley arrived. He’d been home midweek, which was unusual, something to do with his upcoming engagement and choosing a venue.

  ‘Dhanesh,’ said Claire, ‘I need you.’

  Everyone involuntarily looked round to see who this stranger Dhanesh was, then realised, of course, it was Dudley. Dudley appeared not to have heard and had gone straight upstairs with the tote bag he always took home with him.

  He came back down, still in his coat, clutching a mug and a dirty plate in front of him, like a barrister presenting the murder weapon to the jury.

  ‘Sorry mate, I forgot to bring them down,’ said Graham. ‘I was watching the match.’

  Dudley looked furious. Something must have happened at home, thought Paolo, for him to react like that.

  ‘Claire wants you to help her in the kitchen,’ said Isabel. ‘She’s struggling to make chapattis.’

  ‘My mum does all the cooking,’ said Dudley, turning and heading out the front door, although Paolo had seen him make them once before, when Claire and Mark did a big curry before they all went home for Christmas.

  ‘I’ll have a go,’ said Graham, presumably just because he wanted to share a confined space with Claire.

  ‘I never knew they were so difficult,’ said Claire, stepping out of the kitchen to allow Graham prime position near the stove.

  Claire stood aside in the small kitchen and Graham approached the problem with the precision of an engineer. Paolo heard him explain something to Claire about the consistency of the dough.

  ‘You don’t have to hold them over a flame. You can just fry them in a dry frying pan.’

  Then Mark turned up with some vegan Indian sweets just as they were ready to serve the food. Dudley was heading out as he came in. Claire asked him if he was eating with them but he didn’t answer.

  It was a feast. Claire had made something sensational with okra and a tarka dal and a mushroom and spinach dish, as well as the chapattis and rice. Everyone had laughed good-humouredly when Graham had asked if he could have chips, and he’d been happy to play the class clown.

  They finished up their food – well, everyone except Isabel, who had taken a teaspoonful of everything and arranged it artfully on her plate.

  ‘Claire,’ said Mark, ‘that food was beautiful.’

  ‘Beautiful,’ whispered Graham, looking at her mistily.

  Claire beamed. Even when her glance landed on Graham you got the sense that she could bear to be in the same room with him.

  Dudley came back in with a couple of Morrisons bags. He looked like he wanted to head into the kitchen but they’d opened out the folding table and he couldn’t get by.

  ‘It’s okay, we’ll move,’ said Claire tipsily, but he had left the bags and gone upstairs.

  ‘Let him go,’ said Mark softly, and Claire carried on with a story she’d been telling involving an irate lecturer and an underdone meat pie in the Union bar. Mark was making attentive noises, Graham was gazing adoringly at Claire while sneaking glimpses at his watch, no doubt torn between his wish to be near her and his obligation to ‘the lads’.

  Paolo was thinking that once Graham left he’d have the perfect excuse to go too. Isabel was still moving food around her plate with a furious focus, as if she wouldn’t be happy till she had smeared every inch of its surface.

  Dudley came back down with a bin bag full of laundry, which was strange because he always took his washing hom
e. They took the piss out of him for it.

  ‘Present for you,’ said Dudley to Graham.

  Graham looked confused.

  ‘My sheets,’ said Dudley. ‘They need cleaning. After you wanked off all over them thinking of Claire.’

  There was a horrified silence.

  Paolo should say something. Of course it was him. He’d gone up there later, after the football was over and Graham was tucked up in bed. Watching some late-night Channel 4 thing, all tits and left-wing agitation, the kind of thing that Mary Whitehouse must stay up specially to watch just so she could complain about it in the Daily Mail. And one thing had led to another and –

  He just had to laugh it off. Everyone would make the usual jokes about what a tart he was and how he was even in love with himself and then he would go to the laundrette, take a book. But Dudley’s uncharacteristic fury made him hesitate and the moment passed. Graham’s face was bright red and he couldn’t look up. He didn’t say a word to defend himself. It was because of Claire.

  And then Mark spoke. ‘It was me,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll take your laundry.’

  He walked over and picked up the bin bag and was gone. Dudley looked deflated, as if this wasn’t the row he’d been hoping for.

  Claire got up and started clearing plates away. Graham left the room. Isabel looked at Paolo thoughtfully.

  Graham would still go out with the lads, because that was what people like Graham did. In time, he would speak to Claire again, in that awkward, cringey way of his. But his ears would burn and he wouldn’t meet her eyes.

  ‘The Last Supper,’ said Isabel. ‘Mark as Christ figure, washing away our sins.’

  54

  Paolo never saw Mark after that night. In his memory it seemed that Mark strode off with the laundry bag over his shoulder and never came back. Of course he must have (Dudley had clean sheets on his bed) and Paolo didn’t hear that he’d left until a few days later. Oddly, it wasn’t Claire who told him, but Ratman, who had heard it from someone from the city group. When he mentioned it to Claire she just nodded and said she already knew.