What My Best Friend Did

by Lucy Dawson

  We are both so frightened that, for the first time ever, we have nothing that we can say to each other. My teeth start to chatter and when I try to stop them, they won’t. Neither of us can bear to think about what might be happening down the corridor in that room. All I can see is that red, flat line on the monitor slicing through the centre of the screen; continuous, unarguable and definite. I’m trying to think of something, anything else – for some bizarre reason I imagine me, Fran and Phil as children playing on a roundabout, Phil is using his foot to push us faster and faster – but then the red line appears at the edge and crashes right through the middle of the picture, cutting us all in half.

  The door opens at that point and a very real nurse comes in. The line vanishes immediately and I scan her face desperately, looking for clues – is she smiling? Is her brow creased with empathy, ready to help us through the shock of hearing, ‘I’m so sorry, we did everything that we could but . . .’?

  She walks straight over to us and sits down. Then it’s actually happening before I have time to imagine the rest.

  ‘Gretchen has had a problem with her heart,’ she says. ‘She’s had a cardiac arrest.’

  Everything slows right down around me again, this time like I’ve been plunged into an ice bath. Her words feel unreal; I’m staring at her face but it sounds like she’s speaking underwater. I begin to squeeze Tom’s hand so fiercely it must hurt him.

  ‘It’s beating normally again,’ she continues, her voice becoming clearer in my ears, like I’m surfacing, ‘but it’s a concern that it happened at all. It shows how strong the drugs she took are, that they’ve had a very real effect on her body.’ Her eyebrows knit together in concern and she waits for us to digest what she’s saying. ‘She wasn’t aware of what was happening, though. It won’t have caused her any distress.’ She pauses again, as if that knowledge is somehow supposed to make a difference. It doesn’t.

  ‘Is she all right now?’ Tom asks the only thing that really matters.

  ‘We’ve managed to stabilise her.’

  He looks at the nurse bravely. ‘Could it happen again?’

  ‘It might, yes. She’s young and strong though, that’s very much in her favour. I’ll come and get you just as soon as they’re done in there, take you back through, OK?’ She smiles reassuringly, calm with experience and being older than us – all of about thirty-five, I’d say. ‘You know, this bit is actually harder for you than it is for her.’

  I want to laugh at that, albeit hysterically. I watch her enviously as she leaves the room; smoothing down her subtly highlighted hair, stepping neatly and nonchalantly out of the nightmare.

  Tom stands up, reaches into his pocket and pulls out some change. Then he walks over and slots it into the machine, placing a cup under a spout that dispenses not even enough brown liquid to half fill it. Then he empties three sachets of sugar and stirs it lightly with a plastic stick.

  ‘Try and drink this,’ he says, coming back and handing it to me, ‘it’ll help.’ The tea is the colour of watered-down tar and is giving off the bitter aroma of burnt tyres, but it’s warm, so I huddle over it and even take a small sip. He collapses down next to me, drained by the dissipating adrenalin.

  We sit in silence for a moment more, then he says, ‘You did tell them everything about Gretchen? Didn’t you?’ His mind is still circling.

  ‘What, that this isn’t the first time she’s tried to do this?’

  It’s like forcing a door marked Private. I feel invasive and voyeuristic discussing such intimate and painful secrets from Gretchen’s past like you might say, ‘Did you mention she’s allergic to aspirin?’ I know Tom doesn’t want to do it any more than I do.

  He nods, with difficulty. ‘So they know that . . .’

  ‘Tom,’ I say, my head swimming. ‘I told them everything I could.’ Which, strictly speaking, is true.

  ‘I’m not having a go, Al, I’m just trying to think of something, anything we can do that might help her.’

  Watching him desperately struggle with trying to make sense of this is breaking me. I put my cup down and reach for a magazine, setting it on my lap, but tears are welling up in my eyes again and the model’s smiley face goes all blurry. They threaten to splash over, down on to the ancient cover, which is undulating like sand dunes but is as crisp and brittle as old bone – a thousand different liquids having been spilled and dried on it.

  Tom’s hand gently appears and removes the magazine, as he reaches an arm round my shoulder and draws me to him. As I release a sob on his shoulder he says, ‘Shhhhh’ quietly, and, ‘It’s going to be all right, you’ll see.’

  But I don’t see. I don’t see how this can be all right in the slightest and him soothing me is almost more than I can bear. After everything I’ve put him through . . . as if that wasn’t enough, now this. What kind of person am I?

  ‘Her mum and dad,’ Tom says, obviously trying to think rationally, ‘they really should be here. Did Bailey . . .’ He says his name stiffly.

  ‘I expect so. I’m sure he would have done.’

  I can feel him tensing up, his arm tightening round me. ‘Well you say that, but—’

  ‘Tom!’ I exclaim bleakly, which he totally misinterprets.

  ‘Don’t “Tom” me!’ he bursts angrily. ‘If he’d just got to hers when he said he was going to –’ He releases me. ‘He might have found her earlier! Before she’d done anything – when she was just drunk!’

  ‘That’s not fair, Tom,’ I begin. ‘It’s not his fault that—’

  ‘Of course it fucking is!’ Tom explodes. ‘It’s absolutely his fault! He wasn’t there when he said he was going to be! He never thinks of anyone but himself, never stops to consider other people and the impact of his actions.’ He balls his fist up so tightly his knuckles go white. ‘This is fucking typical of him!’

  I wait and then I say quietly, ‘He just missed a plane, Tom. That’s all. You have every right to be angry with him for –’ I struggle to find the right words ‘– other stuff. But he’d never have let something like this happen to her. He was worried sick when I spoke to him earlier.’

  There is a silence and Tom clenches his jaw. ‘Other people manage to be reliable, do what they’re supposed to do, so why can’t he? What’s so fucking special about him?’

  He almost shouts that last bit, right there in the relatives’ room, and I look shamefacedly at the floor, because I’m not sure if that’s just a rhetorical question, or he’s actually asking me.

  Chapter Nine

  ‘Alice Johnston!’ Gretchen’s voice carried jauntily down the phone. ‘It’s me. So here’s the thing – are you around this morning?’

  ‘I can be.’ I turned over in bed, glancing at the space next to me that meant Tom had already left for football training. ‘All I had planned was a run. Why?’

  ‘A run?’ she said. ‘What on earth do you want to do something like that for?’

  ‘Because it’s March! I can only hide the effects of my mother’s annual Christmas force-feeding under baggy jumpers for so long – and next Saturday she’s going to stuff a load of Easter eggs down our necks too. Before you know it, it’ll be bikini weather and I’ll want to kill myself.’

  ‘Al, don’t be such a prat,’ Gretchen said dismissively. ‘Running sucks. Come and have a coffee and some cake instead. I’m meeting my brother in a bit and I want you to come too so you can talk to him about his contacts. It’s only taken four months for me to sort it, but your patience, my darling, has paid off.’

  ‘Finally,’ I said, ‘because it’s been a real hardship having to be friends with you in the meantime . . .’

  She laughed. ‘I know, I’m crap. Sorry. Still, better late than never.’

  ‘Gretch,’ I yawned, ‘I’ll happily come and have coffee with you because it’ll be fun to finally meet your brother, not for any other reason. D’you want to come into town with me afterwards? I’ve got something to pick up.’

  ‘A fun something or a boring
camera something?’ she asked suspiciously.

  I laughed. ‘A camera something, but we can have a poke around some nice shops too if you like?’

  ‘OK,’ she said happily. ‘Sounds fun. I’m hooking up with Bailey at about half twelve, does that give you enough time?’

  Actually, if it hadn’t been for my mother ringing and making me late because she was ranting on about how Frances had taken a family-run dry-cleaners’ to the small claims court over a rip on the hem of her wedding dress, which was very embarrassing because the dry-cleaner lady was in her slimming group on a Tuesday night and would I ring Fran to try and talk sense into her?, I’d have been slightly early.

  As it was, I emerged bang on time from the tube to make my way to the address Gretchen had given me. Pale sunshine was trying to break through indecisive cloud as the shop fronts I passed started to become smaller but more enticingly expensive. They all had glossy, confidently painted names and weren’t selling things you’d need, but things you’d want: handmade chocolates, hats, silky-rich bottles of wine, contemporary jewellery . . . It was one of those pockets of London that inhabitants claim feels cosy and village-like, but everyone reads about in the society pages of newspaper supplement magazines.

  I wasn’t feeling very cosy in the soggy, cold ballet pumps that had proven far from ideal footwear for the flash of rain I’d got caught in my side of the underground. I’d been aiming for a whole Springtime in Paris look, but was actually freezing in my silly, thin jacket. All in all it was a relief to arrive at the café, although I had to have a brief tussle with the stiff door, which seemed to have swollen in the damp air. I burst in with more energy than I’d intended to.

  The intoxicating smell of roasted coffee wrapped warmly round me. Caffeine-fuelled customers were busily peering at papers over piled plates of food, as hot, harassed waitresses tried to seat newcomers while balancing full trays of tipping and slipping cappuccinos. I scanned the room and saw Gretchen waving frantically at the back.

  She was wearing worn, artfully faded, stompy leather boots on bare, smooth brown legs and a sort of cotton, cream, ethnic-looking tunic thing under an oversized chunky knit cardigan that looked like it was about to slip off her slim shoulders. A long string of brightly coloured beads dangled round her neck and tangled with her loose hair. She had her hands wrapped tightly round a steaming mug of coffee and looked delighted to see me. As ever, both men and women were trying not to stare at her, but if she was aware, she didn’t let on.

  She set her coffee down unsteadily as she jumped up and wrapped me in an impulsive, enthusiastic hug. ‘Hello!’ she said. ‘Perfect timing, I was just about to succumb and order one of those incredible-looking almond croissants. Have you even seen the cakes over there?’ She pointed and I looked over curiously. She was right, they looked amazing. Big sugary wheels of glossed, flaky pastries, fatly snug blobs of cream bursting out of choux buns, delicate cupcakes adorned with cherries and angelica.

  I sat down opposite her, facing the door and commented, ‘You’re very bouncy today. Have you had good news about that American ice dance thing?’

  ‘Nooooo,’ she pulled a face. ‘Still nothing. I got asked to do a guest spot on Good Haunting yesterday though.’

  ‘Oh. Did you say yes?’

  ‘What, so I can stand in some dark, tumbledown shack in the back end of beyond with a crew filming in infrared while their “expert” deliberately throws himself over a table and then claims a ghost attacked him?’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s not come to that yet – although no one told me the switch between kids to adults would be this hard. Anyway, what do you want to drink and eat?’

  ‘Shouldn’t we wait for your brother?’ I said.

  She waved a hand dismissively. ‘He’s already here, he’s in the bog. Oh hang on – talk of the devil.’ She looked over my shoulder and grinned. ‘Bay, this is my friend Alice, the one I’ve nagged you about. Alice, this is my brother Bailey.’

  I turned and saw a tall man standing to my right, smiling a friendly smile. He had scruffy, sandy-coloured hair that was drifting into sleepy, green eyes. In fact he looked as if he’d just woken up and tumbled out of bed. He was wearing a white T-shirt with a very faded image of a wave on it and, when he extended his hand, I saw a pale scar running the length of his tanned forearm, which I imagined he’d got from rock climbing, white-water rafting or something equally as adrenalin junkie-fied – he looked the type. He saw me looking at his scar. ‘Gretchen pushed me off a space hopper because I wouldn’t let her have a go,’ he confided. ‘I cut it open on the rockery.’ Which wasn’t quite what I was expecting. Then he yawned and stretched like a cat.

  ‘Ouch,’ I said, embarrassed to have been caught staring. ‘It must have been really deep – how old were you?’

  ‘Twenty-six,’ he grinned disconcertingly. ‘Nice to meet you, Alice, excuse my impolite yawn.’ He leant over the table and kissed me briefly, stubble grazing my cheek as I caught a brief tang of expensive-smelling aftershave. ‘I’m a bit jet lagged.’

  ‘Just ignore him, Al,’ said Gretchen. ‘Sit down and stop showing off, Bay.’

  Bailey threw his arms open in easy protest as he scooched his chair round and asked, ‘So Grot tells me you’re a photographer?’ He reached across Gretchen and grabbed her coffee. ‘Nice of you to wait for me and Alice,’ he said pointedly. ‘Rude.’ He set the cup back down again, his eyes flickering interestedly back on to me for a moment and then moving away just as quickly. ‘Ah, is that our waiter?’ He looked over my shoulder.

  ‘Can you not call me that?’ Gretchen sighed. ‘What with me not being six any more? You were in the loo for ages, I thought you’d fallen in. I’ll get someone to come over now. Hang on.’

  She stood up abruptly and walked to the front of the café. A waiter looked up appreciatively as she approached, along with the entire table he was serving. I watched as one of the girls at the table covered her mouth and whispered something to her friend. The friend then stared unabashed at Gretchen, her eyes widening as she recognised her, and whispered delightedly back. I was beginning to get more used to people openly talking about Gretch as if she wasn’t there, but hadn’t got to the stage where I could completely ignore it – like Gretchen herself.

  ‘Shit, isn’t it?’ Bailey said, following my gaze. ‘Thank God she’s not Tom Cruise famous. I don’t know how it doesn’t bother her, but she claims it doesn’t. The first time I read some of the online comments people had made about her, people who have never even met her, I just wanted to track them all down and beat them to a fucking pulp, the bastards. You know it’s the women that write the most vitriolic things? Whatever happened to sisterhood?’

  I shrugged and smiled in what I hoped was an enigmatic way, because I couldn’t think of anything clever or insightful in response to that.

  ‘I think you chose the right side of the camera,’ he said lightly. ‘So what sort of stuff do you do?’

  ‘At the moment?’ I cleared my throat. ‘Pretty much everything: products, people, locations. I used to work for a large studio but I’ve recently gone out on my own.’

  ‘Hats off to you,’ he said. ‘Is it going well?’

  ‘Pretty well, thank you. Except I keep finding myself saying yes to work I’m not wild about because I’m worried about keeping the cash flow up, but then I don’t have as much time to chase the jobs I really want to do.’

  ‘The travel stuff? Yeah, Gretchen said. Well, I’ll gladly give you some names of editors I write for. How much use they’ll be I couldn’t say, but it’s a toe in the door, isn’t it?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I said gratefully. ‘That’s very kind of you.’

  He shrugged. ‘Not at all – I’m happy to help out.’

  Gretchen reappeared. ‘He’s coming over in a sec. I really need a wee. I’ll be right back.’

  Bailey glanced at her disappearing back. ‘So how long have you known my sis?’

  ‘Um, about four months-ish?’ I watched his long, slend
er fingers pick up a paper napkin absently and begin to play with the edges. He had surprisingly elegant hands. ‘We met on a shoot in LA . . . towards the end of November.’

  ‘Ahh.’ He sat back and draped his arm across the top of Gretchen’s empty chair, which made his T-shirt ride up a bit, exposing a strip of flat, brown stomach which he made no effort to hide, and saw me glance at. ‘Did you go up into the hills? There’s some good hiking up there.’

  ‘It was quite a tight time frame actually,’ I said quickly, thinking of us lounging around in the hotel hot tub drinking champagne. ‘I’ll have to do that next time. I suppose that’s one of the great things about being a travel writer, you must know all the best places to go and things to see?’

  ‘Kind of. It’s just given me an brilliant excuse to explore really.’ He smiled and looked directly at me. ‘It’s such a big, beautiful world out there. If I lived to be a hundred I’d never see everything I want to. I just came back from Tanzania. Have you been to Africa before?’

  I nodded. ‘Not Tanzania though. What’s it like?’

  ‘Incredible. I was up in the mountains for a couple of nights where it was just crystal clear and cold, sat round this campfire under the stars, and then the day after we were down in the Ngorongoro crater which is about 10k by 10k, it’s vast, just stuffed full with the most incredible animals – elephants, hippos, lions, you name it . . . totally wild, just going about their business.’

  ‘Wow,’ I said. ‘You lucky thing.’

  ‘I know!’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘I was in the back of this safari jeep at five in the morning clutching a pair of binoculars as we bombed around thinking, “And I’m getting paid for this?” Life is good. I’m a lucky man.’ He smiled again and then glanced away from me at an approaching waiter.

  I snuck another quick look. I could just see the edges of a tattoo on a very honed arm peeking out from the sleeve of his T-shirt. I wondered if, like Gretchen, he thought his was a mistake – I couldn’t really see what the design was. His arms were really strong. I lifted my gaze and realised he was watching me looking at him.