We all troop through to the sitting room, which is spacious, but just as comfy as the kitchen. The fire is roaring away, flames licking up the chimney and giving the room a soft glow. There are three sofas, all of them ancient and covered with a pretty, floral print that is nothing like Ella’s taste, but somehow they suit the room. I wonder how much of this stuff she will get rid of and how much she will keep for sentimental reasons. I get the impression that she loves it just the way it is and I can’t say that I blame her.
The brandy is open and Art, Harry and Flick have already started without us. Harry and Flick are on one of the sofas together. Flick is laughing outrageously. Her earthy cackle splits the air.
‘Your husband is a rogue,’ she cries out as we appear.
But she doesn’t make a move and stays settled where she is. She and Harry have always been good drinking buddies. It’s only when they’re both sober that she gets on his nerves.
Ella curls up next to Art, who picks up his guitar again and starts to pluck it.
Noah sits on the remaining sofa, which leaves me no choice but to sit down next to him. So I do. I fold in my clothes so that they’re not touching him. This is a stupid crush, I admonish myself, and I should just get a grip now. He’s a bloke. A nice one. Nothing more. All this waves-crashing, sparks-flying nonsense is a product of my imagination.
‘We should drink a toast,’ Flick says effusively. ‘I’ve got champagne in the boot of the car, but I can’t be bothered to go outside for it now. We’ll have that tomorrow instead. Charge your glasses!’
I’m not sure that another glass of wine is a good idea, but I have one anyway. Noah seems to drink nothing stronger than orange juice and Ella, again, refuses a drink. I’m not sure that she’s had anything alcoholic all night.
‘To us,’ Flick proposes. ‘To friendships old and new.’ A suggestive glance at Noah.
‘To friendships old and new,’ we all echo.
‘Here’s to a lovely holiday,’ Ella proposes.
‘To the holiday!’ More drinking.
When the toasting is done, I sink back into the sofa. All attention is on Art who’s softly singing Coldplay songs. Noah turns towards me. We’re very close. I can feel his breath on my neck, as warm as a caress. I resist the urge to fan myself in the style of a woman having a hot flush.
‘So how do you know Flick?’ he asks quietly so as not to interrupt Art’s playing. ‘I think she said you were all at university together?’
‘Yes. Many moons ago.’ I toy with my glass, then realise I’m being coquettish and stop. ‘We were all on different courses. I was studying accountancy, Ella was at the art school and Flick was doing media studies. We were in the same halls and we all used to work in the same dodgy bar to earn some extra cash. At the end of the first year, we decided to rent a flat together.’
‘And you’ve been friends ever since?’
‘Sounds corny, doesn’t it?’
‘No. I think it’s nice that you’ve stayed so close.’
The others are laughing loudly and I try not to lean my head in towards his so that I can hear him better.
‘You seem like very different people.’
I’m sure he means that Flick is a total drama queen whereas Ella and I are not.
‘I don’t know. We’re not so different really.’
We’re all women who have been successful in business, yet seem to have totally messed up our love lives. With the latter, Flick has certainly done it in greater quantity than the two of us.
She was a nightmare at university. We never knew who we were going to wake up to find in the flat. Going into the kitchen in pyjamas was a definite no-no. There’d always be some strange man at the table, nursing a cup of coffee. Occasionally, there were even two. They always looked the most sheepish. At one point we considered making her split the rent four ways, with her paying two parts, as she was rarely without an overnight guest. It was exhausting – even as a casual observer. There was a constant parade of college lecturers, minor popstars, footballers. We used to call them the Breakfast Club. Even the postman didn’t escape her attentions. He was a nice enough man, but it was always disconcerting to find him in his regulation uniform in the kitchen, eating toast. Still, after that we’d always get more than our fair share of free samples of soap powder or hot chocolate or shampoo when he was delivering them.
We used to tolerate her excesses more than we perhaps would have done those of another flatmate. She’d arrived at university a very messed-up young woman and, frankly, Ella and I were left trying to put the pieces back together. Sometimes, I look at Flick and wonder whether we could have done a better job. She’s a year older than both of us and is still showing no signs of giving up her wild child ways. The things you can get away with as high jinks in your twenties start to become slightly more difficult to accept as normal behaviour as you hit your mid-thirties. By forty, it leaves you generally out of step with your peers, who have all grown up, settled down, started families. If you’re the one still dancing on the tables at parties and taking home random men, people start to pity you. I don’t want that for Flick. I want her to be loved.
The summer that Flick finished her A levels, her plans – to backpack around South America, or volunteer to work with elephant conservation in Thailand, like everyone else – suddenly changed. Out of the blue, she packed a bag and ran away to Las Vegas to marry her music teacher, a friend of her father’s, a middle-aged stalwart of the Rotary Club who drove a top-of-the-range Mercedes and played golf every weekend. By all accounts it sent shock waves of scandal through the small and highly affluent village where she lived. The teacher, Mr Tavistock, or Brian if you knew him intimately, left his long-term partner and two very confused teenage children for her.
It transpired that the affair with Flick had been going on throughout the sixth form, right under everyone’s noses. It didn’t last. Of course. Before the ink was dry on the marriage certificate, they’d split up. As soon as he could, Brian Tavistock filed for divorce, citing her adultery with a person or persons unknown. Perhaps Flick had started another breakfast club. Perhaps he was just being bitter and twisted. Perhaps it was the pot calling the kettle black. Who knows? But it was like a pebble being dropped from a great height into a still pond. The story didn’t end there and the ripples continue to spread out, exerting their influence, even now.
Her parents, who have barely spoken to her since, packed her off to university in disgrace. She became estranged from her only sister and has never seen her to this day. It seemed as if it was easier for them to get Flick out of the way, sweep it all under the carpet and pretend it never existed, rather than examine in cold, hard daylight what had really gone on. Every few years Flick might get a Christmas card from her family, but that’s pretty much it. Her younger sister is now the golden child – married with two toddlers and a husband in data management. So Ella and I have pretty much stepped into the void left by her abandonment. We’re all the family she has now.
She arrived at university already completely off the rails – a hard-drinking, hard-partying, good-time girl. Ella and I spent a lot of time trying to protect her from herself. We were the ones who made sure she got home safely, didn’t get into cars with strangers, didn’t wander off into the night with men she’d just picked up. We were the ones who wiped away her tears when it all went horribly wrong with yet another man. We recognised the build-up to each emotional fall-out – from our many all-night conversations round a bottle of Jack Daniel’s – but didn’t have the tools to deal with it.
Ella came from a stable and very happy background. My own was pretty good too, if a little repressive. I was a Good Daughter, who always strove to please others. My parents weren’t exactly progressive in their parenting style. When Flick was having sex on a daily basis with her teacher in the back of his Ford Escort, I wasn’t officially allowed to date boys or even wear eyeshadow.
But along with the self-destructive tendencies, she was such fun too. The o
nly scrapes I have ever got into in my life were with Flick. The times I’ve cried so hard with laughter that my face hurt have all been with Flick. I need her in my life to show me how to enjoy myself. She taught me how to let my hair down, kick off my shoes – something that I seem to have forgotten again. She could get us into any nightclub free and rounds of drinks would always miraculously appear. How she ever managed to complete a degree is a mystery. It pains me to see that Flick still bears the scars of her emotional crises, but she’s just better at hiding them now. Mostly.
Since university her relationships have all been very much short-term. The ones that last longer than a few nights are, more often than not, with married men. I don’t think that I can remember a single one who has been appropriate for Flick. Ella and I have long stopped bothering to remember their names and, to be honest, Flick rarely remembers them herself. I don’t know what she’s searching for, but she hasn’t so far been able to find it.
Noah seems different. As far as I know he’s actually single. Though I can hardly at this juncture ask him if he’s married, can I? Or even if there’s a significant other. There isn’t any evidence of a wedding band, though, or the tell-tale pale skin where one might have resided until recently. And sometimes you can just tell if a man is married, can’t you? Just by looking at him you know. You know that his wife has chosen his tie, his suit, whether his watch was a birthday gift. If men have children too, they bear that permanently harried look. I glance at him again. Noah looks like a down-to-earth, what-you-see-is-what-you-get, honest chap. No subterfuge lurking behind his countenance as far as I can tell. There’s an openness to his face, a clarity in his eye that says it doesn’t wander. I don’t think he’s the sort of man who’d cheat on his wife. But what do I know? Men always have been, and remain, a total enigma to me.
Flick’s flirting outrageously, as always, monopolising Harry – who doesn’t seem to mind – but I can still feel her eyes constantly straying this way. Is Noah more of a challenge than her usual flings? I don’t know. He certainly doesn’t seem to be hanging on her every word as her normal conquests do. Perhaps this guy knows how to handle himself. Maybe that’s what Flick sees in him. This time she might be having to do all the running.
Or that could just be sour grapes on my part, I think. And I’m not being fair on Flick. She may have had more than her fair share of men in the past, but she’s a beautiful and bright lady, who’s a lot of fun to be around. Why shouldn’t she make the most of that? I really hate to admit this but there are times – more of them recently – when I wonder why I was happy to settle down with the first man who asked me to. If I’d had more experience of men, would I have married Harry? Should I have played the field more, like Flick? Except that I’m not like Flick. Never have been, never will be. I’m a one-man woman and I’ve always rolled that way.
Starting with Ella, a Mexican yawn goes round the room. I slide down into the sofa, contented.
‘No way are we all falling asleep this early!’ Flick declares. ‘There’s no one going to bed before dawn on the first night!’
I can’t see me lasting past midnight.
‘We need to do something to get this party started!’
It makes me smile. In some ways, Flick is still that crazy, mixed-up kid.
Chapter Eleven
‘Art, crank up the music,’ Flick instructs. ‘You’re sending us all to sleep with that “meaning of life” stuff. Play us some songs that we can sing to.’
‘Name your poison,’ Art says.
‘Have you got any Abba in that old guitar of yours?’
‘I think there’s a cheese setting here somewhere,’ Art counters and pretends to fiddle with the tuning keys.
‘Well, turn the dial to Full Cheese then!’
‘What about “Dancing Queen”?’ he suggests.
‘It’s our anthem,’ Flick assures him. ‘That right, girls?’
I haven’t had nearly enough to drink to be doing this, but Flick pulls me up from the sofa, nevertheless. Our drunken get-togethers nearly always end up with a karaoke session. Except we never need a Singstar as we always have Art to supply the music.
Flick isn’t a great singer, but she makes up for it by being loud and enthusiastic. She also has all the moves down.
‘Come on, you.’ Now Ella is yanked up unceremoniously. ‘You’re looking far too comfortable sitting there.’
Flick grabs three bananas from the fruit bowl and hands us one each to use as our microphones.
So in the middle of the living room, we join Art and belt out our very favourite Abba number. We are the girls who have watched Mamma Mia! together ten times. On one occasion, three times in the same day. If you are tired of Abba, then you’re tired of life.
We sing and dance, kicking up our heels and using our bananas to full effect. Flick does a Freddie Mercury circle with hers.
It makes me realise how long it is since I’ve sung. I used to be in a choir, but could never keep up with rehearsals because of work commitments. Another part of me that I’ve let slip away.
Art slides seamlessly into Kylie’s ‘Can’t Get You out of my Head’ and we follow. Flick swishes all the newspapers off the coffee table with her arm. She kicks off her shoes to mount it and then pulls us both up with her. Thank goodness our impromptu stage is made of solid pine with tiles on top, so it has a chance of holding our weight. We sway together, giggling.
I remember Flick having a tiny pair of gold hot pants just like Kylie’s that she’d bought from Topshop or somewhere. We were always inundated with free drinks on the nights she wore them. The bar where we worked might have been horrible, but we used to select a few of our favourite customers for a lock-in afterwards. The manager would turn a blind eye while we lined up the shots, put our favourite tunes on the sound system and danced on the bar counter. It makes me smile to think about it. But for Flick, my life would have been a lot more grey.
Now we dance on the coffee table, ‘la-la-la-ing’ our hearts out into our bananas, and I feel as if I’m right back there. Our bottoms might hang lower, our midriffs thicker slightly, our clothing less revealing, but, underneath it all, those girls are still inside us.
‘This takes me right back to Honkers!’ Flick cries, giving voice to my thoughts. ‘Those were the best days of my life.’
I wonder if that’s why she’s still like she is, trying to hang on to her youth, her wild child days. While Ella and I are moving on, is Flick still stuck firmly in the past? Maybe she thinks that if she relives it enough times, one day she’ll get it right. Part of me can see the attraction of living in the past. Perhaps it’s the passage of time or the fact that memories viewed from a distance are always more golden, but it seems that they were simpler times then.
Harry and Noah clap their appreciation as we work our way steadily through the cheesy song catalogue of the eighties. We throw in a bit of Britney Spears and the Pussycat Dolls. I’m always amazed at the range of Art’s skills and how he’s just as happy playing our karaoke favourites as he is Black Sabbath numbers.
To redress the balance, Art sings Eminem’s ‘Slim Shady’ and the Libertines’ ‘Can’t Stand Me Now’ with aplomb.
‘Come on, you two,’ Flick urges. ‘Sing something.’
‘You know that I’m completely tone deaf,’ Harry laughs. ‘My talent lies more in providing applause. I’ll leave the performing to you lovely ladies. You should audition for The X Factor.’
‘We would storm it,’ Flick says.
‘I’ll sing,’ Noah says quietly, surprising us all.
Flick’s eyes widen. ‘You can sing?’
He shrugs. ‘A bit.’
‘Name your tune, man.’ Art readies his guitar.
‘What about Will Young’s “Leave Right Now”?’
‘One of my favourite songs,’ I say, even though no one asks me.
‘I don’t have to stand on the table or use the banana, do I?’ Noah looks worried.
‘No,’ Flick says. ‘Not as
you’ve asked so nicely.’
So Art plucks the introductory chords and Noah starts to sing. His voice is strong and clear. He’s hesitant at first, but soon gains his confidence. The lyrics are heartbreaking, poignant, and I feel as if he’s singing them just for me. I try to tell myself I’m being ridiculous, but I can’t help feeling as if all the air has been sucked out of the room. When he finishes, my heart is pounding.
Flick flops back in her seat and says, ‘Wow. What a voice. You’re not just a pretty face.’
Noah sits down, smiling shyly. His eyes meet mine.
‘How are we going to top that, ladies?’
Ella yawns. ‘I don’t want to break up the party, but I’m going to call it a day.’
‘It’s all the sea air,’ I offer, suddenly stifling a yawn myself.
‘You are all such lightweights,’ Flick complains. ‘Just one more song.’
A Cottage by the Sea Page 7