Bookends

by Jane Green

  A week later and I could almost have believed that it really was over with Portia, because ever since that night at Julie’s, Josh and Lucy have been, well, they’ve been Josh and Lucy again. Even to the point where Lucy phoned this morning to say how about Sunday lunch, usual table, usual time? And without even thinking about it, without even checking to see if Si was coming too, I said yes.

  As soon as I walk in the discomfort, the unsettled feeling I’ve been carrying with me, disappears, because there, in the corner, are the usual gang, and the scene is so familiar it is as comforting as travelling back to the womb.

  A cafetière fights for space among the piles of papers, and I know exactly what papers will be there, and who brought what because the routine is the same every week, and even though we haven’t done our Sunday lunch for a few weeks, I know the routine will never change. I know that Josh will have brought the Sunday Times that they have delivered every week, and the Observer that he will have picked up on the way, and that Si will have brought the gossipy tabloids to gasp over with Lucy and I as Josh pretends to be reading the serious papers, although he will be unable to resist the gossip and feign exasperation with us, but he will, eventually, join in.

  A basket of croissants sits in the centre of the table, and Josh is buried in the Money section of the Sunday Times; Si is stuffing his face with croissant while simultaneously pointing out pictures in the News of the World magazine, and Lucy is sipping her coffee, laughing with Si at his outrageous comments.

  I pull off my jacket and scarf, rubbing my hands together to warm them up as they’re almost blue from the cold November air, and I drape everything over the back of the chair and sit down, helping myself to Si’s fresh orange juice as Lucy calls the waitress over and orders more coffee and an extra cup, then telling her we’re ready to order, although why they waited is beyond me because we always order the same thing.

  Si has fruit salad because it makes him feel virtuous, and I think he thinks it counterbalances the fried eggs and toast he has afterwards. Josh has a full English breakfast, Lucy has scrambled eggs with bacon, and I have scrambled eggs, runny if that’s okay, with bacon, sausages and copious amounts of toast.

  It’s not unusual to sit at this table, washing down all the food with gallons of fresh orange juice and coffee, for around three hours. Si’s perfected the art of shooting filthy looks at the people queuing patiently by the door, waiting for someone to leave, and it’s usually my guilt that eventually forces us up, magnanimously giving our table to the weary but grateful.

  ‘So,’ Si says when I’ve had some coffee. ‘Heard the latest gossip.’

  ‘Let me guess. Prime Minister run off with Meg Ryan? Queen pregnant again?’

  Si raises an eyebrow. ‘Real gossip, sweets. Ingrid, it seems, has a’ – and he pauses to roll his r’s significantly – ‘lurverrrr.’

  ‘Oh, Si!’ Lucy slaps him playfully. ‘You are so beastly about poor Ingrid. I shouldn’t have said anything.’

  ‘So what else is new?’ I shrug my shoulders. ‘She did say she had a hot date the night of the red catsuit, and she said she probably wouldn’t be coming home, so what’s the big deal?’

  ‘Okay, no big deal,’ Si says nonchalantly, ‘it’s just that it’s been confirmed now. She’s going away with him next weekend.’

  ‘Have you met him?’ I ask Lucy. ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘You know how private she is,’ Lucy says. ‘She hasn’t said a word, other than to say her new lover is taking her to the George V in Paris for the weekend, and would we mind if she were gone for four days.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘What could I say? Of course I said yes.’

  ‘But weren’t you positively dying to know?’ Si’s rubbing his hands together with glee. ‘The George V is the best hotel in Paris, for God’s sake! I bet it’s some incredibly wealthy businessman with a fetish for rubber. He’ll probably produce a bag of whips and chains once she gets there.’

  ‘So does this new lurrve,’ I pick up Si’s inflection, ‘mean that the dreaded Ingrid has become a nicer person?’

  Lucy laughs. ‘I’m not sure that nicer is the right word, but she’s certainly more amenable. Cath, my darling, I’m still completely terrified of her, and the only reason I keep her is because of Max, but at least she seems a bit happier, which certainly makes life easier for the rest of us.’

  ‘Oh well,’ I say, shrugging. ‘At least she’s not stealing from you.’

  ‘What?’ Si’s looking at me as if I’ve gone mad.

  ‘I’m serious. One of the girls at work was telling me about a nanny they had, and every night when her husband got home he’d empty all the loose change out of his pockets and put it in one of those huge ketchup jars.’

  ‘Yeuch,’ Si spits. ‘Sounds messy.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid, Si, it had been emptied and washed. Anway, they suddenly realized that all the pound coins and silver had gone, and the only thing left was a huge jar of coppers. She must have got hundreds.’

  ‘Didn’t they say anything?’ Si’s aghast.

  ‘Apparently they tried to ask very nicely, but she got terribly upset, so they just left it and a week later she told them she couldn’t work for them any more after being accused of something like that and she left.’

  Si smiles. ‘I suppose she took the kitchen sink with her?’

  ‘Don’t laugh.’ Josh lays down the Money section and leans forward. ‘Peter, one of the guys I work with, noticed that all his socks were disappearing. They couldn’t figure it out and he kept buying more and more of these Italian silk socks that cost a bomb and can only be found in Harrods or somewhere.

  ‘Then one day Peter’s wife went into the au pair’s room while she was out and her bottom drawer was slightly open and there were all the socks.’

  ‘Bitch,’ hisses Si, as Lucy and I start laughing, and Josh sits back petulantly.

  ‘It’s not the fact that it’s only socks,’ he justifies. ‘It’s the principle of the thing.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Si sneers. ‘Bloody sock thieves. They should all be hanged. Anyway, serves him right for spending such a fortune on socks in the first place.’

  ‘Christ, will you listen to us?’ I’m suddenly horrified by our conversation. ‘We sound so middle aged. Middle class. Talking about au pairs, for God’s sake. What’s happened to us?’

  There’s an awkward silence for a moment, and then the waitress arrives with our food. Lucy sits back and sighs with pleasure.

  ‘God,’ she says, sniffing, ‘I can’t tell you how lovely it is to be cooked for! Cath, I promise you I won’t dwell on the subject because you’re right, this conversation is just too awful, but I’ve just got one thing to add…

  ‘We should actually count our blessings with Ingrid. She is a bit peculiar, but at least she’s not dishonest, or a liar, or untrustworthy, and that’s really the important thing. That, and the fact that Max, as we all know, adores her.’

  ‘That boy really has no taste,’ Si says acidly, with no shadow of a smile. ‘Reminds me of his father.’

  ‘Si!’ Lucy and I exclaim at once, and Josh looks at Si in amazement, because there was more than a hint of viciousness in that remark, and although I know what he means, that he’s talking about Portia, he has no right to be that obvious in front of Lucy.

  ‘Si!’ Lucy says again. ‘Are you trying to say that Josh picked me in bad taste?’

  Si recovers masterfully. ‘My gorgeous Lucy,’ he says, kissing her on the cheek, ‘the one time in his life Josh has shown impeccable taste was in choosing you. No,’ he says, catching, and holding, Josh’s eye until Josh – almost imperceptibly – starts to squirm, ‘I was talking about his clothes.’

  I breathe a sigh of relief as Si reaches under the table and gives my leg a squeeze to reassure me.

  ‘I mean, look at that shirt, for God’s sake,’ he says. ‘Aren’t you a bit old to be doing that whole student rugby thing?’

  Lucy laughs and Josh
looks down at his shirt. ‘But I love this shirt,’ he says. ‘I’ve had this shirt for ever.’

  ‘I know,’ Si grunts. ‘Looks like it,’ and, as he picks up his fork and stabs a chunk of mango, I realize that Si is genuinely angry about this, and the only way he knows how to express it is to come out with these odd, vicious remarks.

  Just as long as Lucy doesn’t know.

  We wander up to the O2 centre on Finchley Road for a lazy afternoon film, our breath visible in the cold air, and it feels lovely, it feels normal. I love this time of year. Early November, just as everyone starts to feel lovely and cosy, getting ready for the full force of winter, and the perfect time to disguise yourself with layers of snuggly warm clothes.

  When Si walks me home I say goodbye knowing that this has been a perfect Sunday, and that it really doesn’t get much better than this. Si is off to see a friend up the road, although he says if he’s not there he’ll pop back and we can have supper together.

  Luckily for Si I have managed to go shopping this week. Unfortunately I went shopping at exactly the time they tell you never to go shopping, namely when you are completely starving. Starving in a supermarket completely obliterates reasonable thought, and instead of ending up with healthy, nourishing food that will last you a week, you end up with a basket of terrible fast food that is definitely bad for you and will probably be gone by the end of the night.

  But even I couldn’t have managed to polish off the contents of my fridge in one night, so Si can, if he comes back, look forward to a double cheese and pepperoni pizza, half a packet of onion bhajis, eight (I only ate two) pitta breads, the obligatory houmous and taramasalata, three quarters of a pack of pre-sliced Gouda cheese, a full and unopened packet of Chinese chicken wings, and a four-pack of white chocolate mousse.

  Not a bad feast for a Sunday night, I think you’ll agree.

  I open up the Culture section, grab an old biro and circle my evening’s viewing, and then, feeling absurdly decadent, start running a hot bath, even though it’s only six o’clock in the evening. I think a glass of wine is called for, and I pour myself a glass of chilled Chardonnay and pad back into the bathroom, scraping my hair off my face with an elastic band that I pulled off a wad of post a few days ago.

  And, soaking back into the hot water, I think how lovely today was. Even though we have spent our Sundays like this for years, it is only when you take a break, or when something threatens to disturb the routine, that you fully appreciate it when it is back to normal.

  I pull off the elastic band and soak my head under water, loving the warmth, the feeling of being completely cut off from the world, and, reaching for the shampoo bottle, I come up for breath and lather up my head.

  I dip under again and, as I emerge, shampoo still clinging to my hair, I keep very quiet because I’m sure I just heard the doorbell ring. A few seconds go by and there it is again. Definitely the doorbell.

  Oh Christ. I grab a towel from the bath rail and, shivering, jump out of the bath, frantically rubbing the shampoo now dripping into my eyes, almost blinding myself in the process. I stumble to the front door, clutching the towel around me tightly, squinting out of the left eye because the right is now too clogged with shampoo and days-old mascara to open properly.

  Now I know you should never open the door without asking who it is first, particularly not when you’re female, single and living in London.

  And even more particularly when you’re half naked and wrapped in a towel, even if, as in my case, that’s not a particularly appealing sight, given that the towel, for starters, is threadbare and not quite clean, and my face is streaked with mascara and my hair is still half covered in shampoo and is sticking up on the left side, but I was convinced it was going to be Si, so I didn’t think twice.

  Now I know you’re not stupid, even though I, quite obviously am, but there on the doorstep, surprise surprise, is James.

  Chapter twenty-four

  ‘Ah,’ I say, still squinting through the shampoo, slowly bringing James into focus.

  ‘Ah,’ he says, looking, it has to be said, slightly horrified by my appearance. ‘I suppose I ought not to just drop in like this.’

  ‘Actually I rather like people just dropping in. Except when I look like this of course. Do you want to come in and give me a few minutes?’

  ‘No, no, don’t worry.’ He starts backing off. ‘I’ll ring you later.’

  ‘James! Just come in, for God’s sake.’

  I practically pull him through the front door, push him on to the sofa and scurry along the corridor to the bedroom.

  Shit. It’s worse than I thought. No wonder he looked horrified, but, shoving the embarrassment aside, I run back into the bathroom, kneel by the bath and shove my head under water to quickly rinse my hair of the shampoo (I know it’s more hygienic to use the shower but quite frankly I just didn’t have the time).

  I wash the mascara off my face, grab a hairbrush and run back into the bedroom, frantically pulling my hair back into the elastic band. And finally, letting the towel drop, I shove on some leggings and a baggy old sweatshirt, pausing before I walk out serenely to dash to the cupboard and pull on a bra because I do not need to hoist my boobs up from around my kneecaps in James’s presence.

  And eventually I walk sheepishly into the kitchen, as I shout at James over my shoulder, asking whether he wants a cup of tea. I hear him close a magazine and get up to join me in the kitchen, saying he would love one.

  He comes in and sits down as I pick up the dirty plates that are covering almost every available inch of workspace and pile them in the sink, covering them with Fairy Liquid and hot water, then dig around for a bit until I find two mugs to wash up for us.

  ‘It feels like ages since I’ve seen you,’ I say brightly, as I open the fridge and tentatively smell the milk that, thank God, is still fine. ‘What have you been up to?’

  ‘Actually I’ve been incredibly busy painting,’ he says, grinning, lifting an arm up from the table and examining the honey stain now spreading on his sleeve.

  ‘Oh Christ! Sorry.’ I run over with a cloth and clean the table, but James just laughs.

  ‘Jesus, Cath. I remember that night you came over to the studio and it was a pigsty, you said you were worse than me, but I thought you were just joking to try to make me feel less embarrassed. But you really are more of a pig than I am, aren’t you?’

  ‘I can’t help it,’ I say, shrugging. ‘I try so hard to be clean and tidy, but the pig inside just won’t stay down. She’s too strong. At least the mugs are now clean.’ I grin, showing off the sparkling mugs, having scrubbed furiously to remove the week-old tea stains. ‘So… painting. What are you working on now?’

  ‘You probably won’t believe it. God, I can hardly believe it, but after you exhibited my stuff in the shop, North West magazine came over and did a feature on me, and suddenly I’ve got phone calls left, right and centre, asking where people can buy my work.’

  ‘Oh, James! That’s amazing!’ I sit opposite him, beaming, genuinely thrilled for him and completely filled with remorse, because I’ve been so wrapped up in Josh and Lucy that I haven’t even given his exhibition a second thought.

  ‘I mean, I’m not surprised,’ I add quickly, because I’m really not. ‘Your paintings are beautiful, but it’s still incredible to have such a lucky break. Does this mean you’ll be able to retire before forty?’

  He grins. ‘I don’t think I’ve reached quite that level of success yet, but you never know…’

  ‘Listen, today Bookends, tomorrow the Saatchi Gallery.’

  ‘God, don’t I bloody wish!’

  ‘Stranger things have happened,’ I laugh, ‘to people who create things a hell of a lot more strange than you do.’

  ‘Anyway, that’s enough about me, what about you? How’s everything with you?’

  ‘The same.’ I shrug, longing to be able to tell him exciting stories about my life, to make him laugh with witty tales of hanging out in glamorous pla
ces, but there’s very little to tell.

  ‘Had any more mad people in the bookshop lately?’

  ‘Nah, and I’m slightly worried about it. I’m sure every bookshop should have its token eccentric.’

  ‘I could always put an ad in the paper for you?’ James grins. ‘Wanted: true eccentric, sixty-plus, pink or blue hair, to add character and charm to local bookshop. No pay, but all the cappuccino you can drink. What d’you reckon?’

  ‘I reckon you’d have to hire coaches to bring in all the lonely old dears who’d answer the ad,’ I laugh.

  ‘You could always borrow my nan,’ he says. ‘She’s lonely.’

  ‘But is she eccentric?’

  ‘Not yet. But I’m sure she could learn. She could sit in the corner and screech at everyone in her thick Yorkshire accent.’

  ‘And she wouldn’t mind dyeing her hair pink?’

  ‘It would make a change from misty mauve.’

  ‘You are joking? Please tell me your grandmother doesn’t really have misty mauve hair.’

  ‘Okay, okay. She doesn’t. But she was born in Yorkshire, does talk with a thick Yorkshire accent, and lists screeching as a hobby. God knows I should know, she’s always telling me I don’t ring her enough.’

  I shake my head as I start to laugh. ‘James, you do paint the most extraordinary mental pictures.’

  ‘Thank you. That’s the best compliment I’ve had all year. Now, there was something else I’d been meaning to talk to you about.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘My grandad.’

  ‘You are joking?’

  ‘Yes, actually. I know it’s a bit of a pain in the arse, that I keep dropping in like this, but actually I hate the telephone…’

  ‘James, love, you’re an estate agent. You spend your life on the telephone, how can you hate it?’

  ‘But that’s work. That’s exactly it. Once I leave work I hate the bloody thing, and it’s much easier to talk to someone in person, particularly when you want to see them anyway, plus this is getting ridiculous now.