by Isabel Wolff
‘But that’s made it no easier to live with, because it was an error of judgement that led to the death of my friend.’ She drew in her breath then slowly released it. ‘And that’s been so hard to bear.’
I picked up the hatbox and held it on my lap. ‘I do … understand that – only too well. It’s as though you’re staggering around with this huge rock in your arms, and no one but you can carry it and you can’t see anywhere to put it down …’ A sudden silence enveloped us. I was aware of the soft gasp of the fire.
‘Phoebe,’ Mrs Bell murmured. ‘What really happened to your friend? To Emma?’ I stared at the little bouquets of flowers on the hatbox; the design was semi-abstract but I could see tulips and bluebells.
‘You said she was ill …’
I nodded, aware now of the light tick of the carriage clock. ‘It started almost a year ago, in early October.’
‘Emma’s illness?’
I shook my head. ‘The events that led up to it – that, in a way, caused it.’ Now I told Mrs Bell about Guy.
‘So Emma must have been hurt by that.’
I nodded. ‘I didn’t realise quite how much. She insisted that she’d be okay about it, but it became clear that she wasn’t okay – she was suffering.’
‘And you feel you’re to blame?’
My mouth had dried. ‘Yes. Emma and I had been close friends for almost twenty-five years. But after I started seeing Guy her almost daily phone calls just… stopped: when I tried to phone her she either didn’t call me back or was distant with me. She simply withdrew from my life.’
‘But your relationship with Guy went on?’
‘Yes, you see, we couldn’t help it – we’d fallen in love. Guy’s view was that we’d done nothing wrong. It wasn’t our fault, he said, if Emma had read too much into his friendship with her. He said that she’d come round in time. He added that if she were a real friend she’d have accepted the situation and tried to be happy for me.’
Mrs Bell nodded. ‘Do you think there’s some truth in that?’
‘Yes – of course. But it’s easier said than done when your feelings have been hurt. And I knew, from what Emma did next, how badly hers had been.’
‘What did she do?’
‘After Christmas Guy and I went skiing. On New Year’s Eve we went out to dinner, and to start with we had a glass of champagne. And as Guy handed my glass to me I could see that there was something in it.’
‘Ah,’ said Mrs Bell. ‘A ring.’
I nodded. ‘A beautiful solitaire. I was elated – and also amazed because we’d only known each other three months. But even as I accepted, and we kissed, I was already in knots about how Emma would take it. I was to find out soon enough, because the next morning, to my surprise, she phoned to wish me a Happy New Year. We chatted for a while and she asked me where I was. So I told her that I was in Val d’Isère. She asked me if I was there with Guy, so I said yes. Then I blurted out that we’d just got engaged. There was this… stunned silence.’
‘La pauvre fille,’ Mrs Bell murmured.
‘Then, in this thin, shaky voice Emma said she hoped we’d be very happy. I told her that I’d love to see her and that I’d phone her on my return.’
‘So you were trying to keep your relationship with her going?’
‘Yes – I thought that if she could just get used to seeing Guy with me then she’d come to view him in a different way. I also believed that she’d soon fall in love with someone else and that our friendship would return to normal.’
‘But that’s not what happened.’
‘No.’ I threaded the string of the hatbox through my fingers. ‘She’d clearly had very intense feelings for Guy and had convinced herself that their friendship would have developed into something more, if only… he…’
‘Hadn’t fallen for you.’
I nodded. ‘Anyway when I got back to London on January 6th I phoned Emma, but she didn’t pick up. I rang her mobile but she didn’t answer. I sent her texts and e-mails but she didn’t reply. Her assistant, Sian, was away so I couldn’t find out from her where Emma was, so then I rang Emma’s mother, Daphne. She told me that Emma had decided, just three days before, to go to South Africa to visit old friends and that where she was, in Transvaal, the phone signal was poor. Then Daphne asked me if I thought that Emma was okay because she’d seemed upset recently but had refused to say why. I pretended not to know what the problem might be. Daphne added that Emma could be moody at times and one just had to let it pass. Feeling an utter hypocrite, I agreed.’
‘Did you hear from Emma while she was in South Africa?’
‘No. But by the third week of January I knew she was back because I got her written RSVP to the engagement party that Guy and I were having on the following Saturday. She sent her regrets.’
‘That must have hurt you.’
‘Yes,’ I murmured. ‘I can’t tell you how much. Then came Valentine’s Day…’ I hesitated. ‘Guy had booked a table at the Bluebird Café in Chelsea, not far from his flat. And we were just getting ready to leave when, to my surprise, Emma phoned me – it was the first time she’d called me since New Year’s Day. I thought her voice sounded a bit strange – as though she was short of breath – so I asked her if she was okay. She said that she was feeling “dreadful”. She sounded weak and shivery, as though she had ’flu. I asked her if she’d taken anything, and she said she’d had some paracetamol. She added that she felt “so bad” that she “wanted to die”. That set alarm bells ringing, so I said that I wanted to come round. And I heard Emma whisper, “Will you? Will you come, Phoebe? Please come.” So I said I’d be there in half an hour.
‘As I shut my phone I could see that Guy was very upset. He said he’d booked a nice Valentine’s Day dinner for us and wanted to enjoy it – plus he didn’t believe that Emma was in such a bad way. “You know how she exaggerates things,” he said. “It’s probably attention seeking.” I insisted that Emma had sounded ill, and pointed out that a lot of people had ’flu. Guy said that, knowing Emma, it was probably just a bad cold. He added that I was over-reacting out of misplaced guilt, when it was Emma who should feel guilty. She’d sulked for three months and had even shunned my engagement party. Now here I was proposing to rush round the second she deigned to call. I told Guy that Emma was a slightly fragile person who needed careful handling. He said he’d had enough of the “mad milliner”, as he’d taken to calling her. We were going to have dinner. He put on his coat.
‘Every instinct told me that I should go and see Emma, but I couldn’t bear the thought of conflict with Guy. I remember standing there, twisting my engagement ring back and forth, saying, “I just don’t know what to do …” Then … as a compromise …’ I cast my mind back ‘… Guy suggested that we have dinner and that I ring Emma when we got back. As we wouldn’t be out for very long, I agreed. So we went to the Bluebird. I remember we discussed our wedding, which was to have been this month. It’s weird to think of it now,’ I added.
‘Do you feel sad about it?’
I looked at Mrs Bell. ‘It’s strange, but I feel … almost nothing. Anyway … when we got back to Guy’s flat at ten thirty I phoned Emma again. At the sound of my voice she started crying. She said she was sorry that she hadn’t been nicer about Guy and me. She said she’d been a poor friend. I told her that it didn’t matter and she wasn’t to worry about anything because I was going to look after her.’ I felt tears prickle my lower lashes. ‘Then I heard her mumble, “Tonight, Phoebe?” “Tonight,” I repeated. I looked at Guy, but he was shaking his head and making drink-driving gestures, and I realised I probably was over the limit, so I told her…’ I tried to swallow but it was as though my throat was crammed with rags. ‘I told her… that I’d be there in the morning.’ I paused. ‘At first Emma didn’t respond, then I heard her whisper, “… sleep now.” So I said, “Yes, you go to sleep now – I’ll see you first thing. Have a lovely sleep, Em.”’ I looked at the hatbox. The tulips and bluebells had blurr
ed.
‘I woke at six with a churning feeling in my stomach. I wondered about phoning Emma but I didn’t want to wake her. So I drove to Marylebone and parked close to the house she rented on Nottingham Street. I knew where she kept her spare key, so I discreetly fished it out of its hiding place and let myself in. The house looked very unkempt. There was loads of mail on the mat. The kitchen sink was piled high with unwashed plates.
‘It was the first time I’d been to Emma’s house since the fateful dinner party. As I stood there I remembered the dismay I’d felt when Emma had first introduced me to Guy, then my euphoria when he’d phoned me. Our friendship had been tested to destruction, I reflected, but now everything was going to be all right. Then I went into the sitting room and that was a mess too, with towels on the sofa and the wastepaper basket overflowing with used tissues and empty water bottles. Emma had obviously been in a bad way. Then I went up the narrow stairs, past photos of models wearing her lovely hats, and stood outside her bedroom door. There was silence from the other side, and I remember feeling relieved, because it meant that Emma was in a deep sleep which would be the best thing for her.
‘I pushed on the door and crept in. As I went a little closer to the bed I realised that Emma was sleeping so deeply that I couldn’t hear her breathing. Then I remembered that she’d always been good at holding her breath, because she was a strong swimmer. When we were children she used to scare me by falling down and holding it for ages. Then I thought, But why would Emma be doing that now, when we’re both thirty-three? As I stood there, I could suddenly hear in my head that piano piece she played when we were at school – “Träumerei”. She’s dreaming, I thought to myself.
‘“Emma,” I said gently. “It’s me.” There was no movement. “Emma,” I whispered, “wake up.” She didn’t stir. “Wake up, Emma,” I said, my heart pounding now. “Please. I need to see how you are. Come on, Em.” She didn’t reply. “Emma, would you please wake up,” I said, panicking now. I clapped my hands, twice, by her head. And this brought back to me how once, when we were playing hide and seek she’d played dead so convincingly that I’d thought she was dead and I’d been distraught; but then she’d suddenly jumped to her feet, roaring with laughter. I was so upset and angry I’d cried.
‘I half expected Emma to jump up now, laughing and shouting, “Fooled you, Phoebe! You thought I was dead, didn’t you!” until I remembered that she’d sworn never to do that again. But still she wasn’t moving. “Don’t do this to me, Em,” I moaned. “Please.” I put out my hand and touched her …’ I stared at the hatbox, and now I could see lupins – or were they foxgloves? ‘I pulled back the duvet. Emma was lying on her side, in jeans and a tee-shirt, her eyes half open, just staring ahead. Her skin was grey. Her fingers were curled round the phone.
‘I remember letting out a cry, then fumbling for my mobile. My hand was shaking so much that I kept missing the “9” button and had to try three or four times. I saw a bottle of paracetamol on the floor and picked it up – it was empty. Now I could hear the 999 woman asking me what emergency service I required. I was hyper ventilating and could hardly speak, but I managed to say that my friend needed an ambulance straight away, this very minute, so would they please send one now, right now …’ I tried to swallow. ‘But even as I said it, I knew that it was … that Em … that Emma had …’
A tear fell on to the hatbox with a tiny ‘splash’.
‘Oh, Phoebe,’ I heard Mrs Bell whisper.
I lifted my head and looked out of the window. ‘They told me afterwards that she’d died about three hours before I got there.’
I sat in silence for a few moments, still cradling the hatbox, running the pale green string back and forth through my fingers.
‘But how terrible to do that,’ said Mrs Bell quietly. ‘Whatever her sadness … to commit …’
I looked at her. ‘But that’s not what it was – although that’s how it seemed at first. For a while there was confusion about what had actually happened to Emma … about what had caused her …’ Mrs Bell’s face had blurred. I felt my head drop.
‘I’m sorry, Phoebe. It’s too upsetting for you to talk about.’
‘Yes – it is. Because I feel to blame.’
‘But it wasn’t your fault that Guy fell in love with you, rather than Emma.’
‘But I knew how much she liked him. Some people would say I shouldn’t have pursued the relationship, knowing that.’
‘But it might have been your one chance in life at love.’
‘That’s what I told myself. I told myself that I might never feel this way about anyone ever again. And I consoled myself that Emma would get over Guy, and fall in love with someone else, because that’s what she’d always done with men before. But this time she didn’t.’ I heaved a sigh. ‘And I can understand her hating the thought of having to see him with me when she’d so hoped to be with him herself.’
‘You can’t blame yourself that that hope of hers was misguided, Phoebe.’
‘No. But I can and do blame myself for not going to see her that night, when every instinct told me I should.’
‘Well …’ Mrs Bell shook her head. ‘Perhaps it might have made no difference.’
‘That’s what my GP said. She said that by then Emma would have been slipping into the coma from which she would never …’ I drew in my breath in a juddery gasp. ‘I’ll never know. But I believe that if I had gone when she’d first called me, rather than twelve hours later, then Emma would still be alive.’
I put down the hatbox then went to the window. I gazed down at the deserted garden.
‘So that’s why you’ve felt an affinity with me, Mrs Bell. We both had friends who waited for us to come.’
SEVEN
On my way to meet Miles for dinner I thought about how there are some people who say they’re able to ‘compartmentalise’ things, as though it’s possible to put negative or distressing thoughts into neat mental drawers to be taken out only at a psychologically convenient time. It’s a beguiling idea, but I’ve never bought it. In my experience sadness and regret seep into one’s consciousness willy-nilly, or they suddenly leap out at you with a cosh. The only real remedy is time, though even the best part of a lifetime, as Mrs Bell’s story proved, may still not be time enough. Work is also an antidote to unhappiness of course, as is distraction. Miles was a welcome distraction, I decided as I went to meet him on Thursday, just after eight.
I’d dressed up a little, in a sixties cocktail dress in pale pink sari silk. Over it I’d put an antique gold pashmina.
‘Mr Archant is already here,’ said the maître d’ of the Oxo Tower restaurant. As I followed him across the floor, I saw Miles sitting at a table by the vast window, studying the menu. With a sinking heart I registered his grey hair and his half-moon reading glasses. Then as he looked up and saw me his face broke into a delighted but anxious smile that dispelled my disappointment. He got to his feet, slotting his spectacles back into his top pocket and holding his yellow silk tie to stop it from flapping. It was endearing to see such a sophisticated man behaving so awkwardly.
‘Phoebe.’ He kissed me on both cheeks, placing his hand on my shoulder, as though to draw me towards him. Seeing now how attractive Miles was I felt a sudden surge of interest in him that took me aback.
‘Would you like a glass of champagne?’ he asked.
‘That would be lovely.’
‘Is Dom Pérignon okay?’
‘If there’s nothing better,’ I joked.
‘They’re out of Vintage Krug – I did ask.’ I laughed, then realised that Miles hadn’t been joking.
As we chatted, enjoying the views across the sunlit river to the Temple and St Paul’s, I was touched by how much Miles was trying to impress me, and by how happy he seemed to be in my company. I asked him about his work, and he explained that he was the founder partner of the law firm that he now consulted for three days a week.
‘I’m semi-retired now.’ He sipped his champa
gne. ‘But I like to keep my hand in, and I help get in new business by entertaining clients. Now tell me about your shop, Phoebe – what made you decide to open it?’ I briefly told Miles about my time at Sotheby’s. His eyes widened. ‘So I was up against a professional then.’
‘You were,’ I said as he handed the wine list back to the waiter. ‘But I behaved like a rank amateur. I got all emotional about it.’
‘I must say, you were rather intense. But what’s so wonderful about – sorry, what was the name of that designer again?’
‘Madame Grès,’ I said patiently. ‘She was the greatest couturière in the world. She draped and pleated vast amounts of cloth, pinning it directly on to the body to form an amazing gown that turned the woman into a beautiful statue almost – like the Spirit of Ecstasy on a Rolls Royce. Madame Grès was a sculptor, who carved in cloth. She was also very brave.’
Miles folded his hands. ‘In what way?’
‘When she opened the House of Grès in Paris in 1942 she hung a huge French flag out of her windows in defiance of the Occupation. Each time the Germans ripped it down she’d put out another one. They knew she was Jewish, but left her alone because they hoped she’d dress their officers’ wives. When she refused to do so, they shut her down. She died in obscurity and poverty sadly, but she was a genius.’
‘And what will you do with the dress?’
I gave a little shrug. ‘I don’t know.’
He smiled. ‘Keep it for your wedding.’
‘That has been suggested to me, but I doubt it will ever be worn for that purpose.’
‘Have you been married?’ I shook my head. ‘Ever come close?’ I nodded. ‘Were you engaged?’ I nodded again.
‘Am I allowed to ask you about it?’
‘Sorry – I’d rather not talk about it.’ I pushed Guy from my thoughts. ‘What about you?’ I asked as our starters arrived. ‘You’ve been on your own for ten years – why haven’t you …?’
‘Married again?’ Miles shrugged. ‘There’ve been a few girlfriends.’ He picked up his soup spoon. ‘They were all very nice, but … it just hasn’t happened.’ Now the conversation naturally turned to Miles’ wife. ‘Ellen was a lovely person. In fact I adored her,’ he added. She was American – a successful portrait painter, of children mostly. She died ten years ago, in June.’ He drew in his breath then held it as though he were considering a difficult question. ‘She just collapsed one afternoon.’