Bookends

by Jane Green

  ‘Yeah. Good point.’

  Si makes a worried face at me. ‘God, I hope we weren’t wrong. I’d feel awful if we were. I mean, I was so rude to her when she phoned up that night we were babysitting.’

  ‘Oh, I shouldn’t worry,’ I say breezily. ‘I’m sure she’ll get her revenge on the show. Sssh, sssh, here it comes.’

  For the next fifteen minutes we sit there transfixed as Jacob makes a pass at Lena, the gorgeous Danish au pair, after they both find themselves in the kitchen in the middle of the night, both unable to sleep.

  ‘Jeeee-sus,’ Si whistles, as we watch them tumble to the floor in a fit of passion.

  ‘No way,’ I whisper. ‘Josh and Ingrid? It can’t be.’

  And Si raises an eyebrow.

  ‘Well, it could be,’ I mutter reluctantly.

  ‘Bugger,’ Si says, getting up to go to the loo during the next commercial break. ‘You know what this means, don’t you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘First of all that we’re going to have to start hating Josh again, and secondly’ – at this point he lets out a long sigh – ‘secondly I’m going to have to apologize to Portia. Oh God. What a total nightmare. Thank God there are only fifteen minutes left. I mean, what else could happen?’ And he disappears into the bathroom.

  When he comes back he sits down with a sigh. ‘Cath, I’ve had enough.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This is ridiculous now. You and I sit here speculating about the state of Josh’s love life, and the only person who seems to know what’s going on, other than Josh of course, who would never tell us, is Portia. You’ve got to confront her.’

  ‘Me? Why the hell must I do it?’

  ‘Because I’m not feeling well, and anyway you were always closer to Portia. I think you need to call her.’

  ‘Si, I’m sorry you’re not feeling well. Even though I don’t believe you, but there’s no way I’m doing this on my own. I’ll only confront her if you come too. The three of us could meet and talk about it. We could ask her straight out, because the one thing about Portia is she’s a crap liar, and your bullshit detector’s far better than mine.’

  ‘Oh shit,’ he suddenly whispers. ‘Do you think Josh and Lucy are watching? Because Lucy might be thinking what we’re thinking…’

  ‘Oh shit. I’ll call them.’

  I pick up the phone, praying they’re out, that they haven’t seen the programme, and Lucy picks up the phone, out of breath.

  ‘Lucy? It’s me.’

  ‘Cath, my sweet! Everything all right?’

  ‘Fine, fine. Did you see the show?’

  ‘The show?’

  ‘Portia’s show. Si’s here and we thought perhaps you’d be watching it.’

  ‘Oh bugger, damn and blast,’ Lucy says. ‘I completely forgot. Josh is out again tonight and put the strawberry jam down, there’s a darling. Sorry, Cath, I’ve been busy helping Max make jam tarts. Did I miss anything?’

  Thank God.

  ‘Nope. Just the usual. I’d better not keep you. It sounds messy.’

  ‘Oh God,’ Lucy groans. ‘My darling Cath, if you only knew.’

  I put down the phone and smile at Si. ‘Do you want the good news or the bad news?’

  ‘Good news.’

  ‘She didn’t see it.’

  ‘Bad news?’

  ‘Josh is out again.’

  ‘Oh shit. Where’s Ingrid?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t ask.’

  ‘Oh God. Cath? Do you really think that Josh and Ingrid have been having an affair?’

  ‘Well, hopefully Portia will be able to shed some light on the matter once and for all.’

  I ring Portia mid-afternoon, when Lucy’s furiously busy serving the rush of customers that always seems to appear from nowhere on a Friday afternoon. We arrange to get together for a drink on Monday evening, and I manage to make my voice sound as normal as possible. Even though I’m convinced she knows why I’m phoning, she doesn’t give anything away.

  We don’t mention the show. In fact, she doesn’t mention the fact that I’ve obviously been avoiding her, just sounds genuinely thrilled to hear from me, and as soon as I mention getting together she suggests Monday, which is rather keen, even for Portia.

  ‘Cath, can you come here a sec?’ I say goodbye to Portia and wander over to Rachel, who’s looking upset. On the counter in front of her is a dog-eared copy of a novel that’s currently number four in the bestseller charts.

  ‘What seems to be the problem?’

  A young woman in a black puffa jacket with a sour expression on her face gives a deep sigh. ‘As I was just explaining to your colleague here, I was given this book for my birthday and I already have it, so I’d like to exchange it.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ I pick up the book and examine the bent spine, the creased pages, the coffee mark on the cover. ‘Normally that wouldn’t be a problem, but it does appear to have been read, so I don’t think there’s anything we can do.’

  She looks up disdainfully. ‘Actually, it was like that when I got it.’

  I almost start to laugh. ‘What? Had a bent spine and coffee stains?’ My voice is as disbelieving as my face.

  ‘Yes,’ she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘I imagine that’s what happens when you open a bookshop that has a café in it.’

  ‘Right.’ I can see I’m getting nowhere, and quite frankly, although it’s quite clear she’s trying it on, I have to remember that the customer is always right, and that it’s far better to keep her happy than to refuse an exchange and have her tell all her friends.

  ‘No problem,’ I say, smiling. ‘Why don’t you have a look for something else?’

  ‘I’d rather have the money,’ she says, evidently amazed that it’s this simple, to which I nod, pull £5.99 out of the till and hand it to her.

  ‘Have a nice day,’ I say, as she turns on her heel and walks off.

  ‘Cath, did you see this?’ Rachel, who’s been standing next to me the whole time, opens the flyleaf of the book to reveal the following:

  2 November 1999

  Dear Caroline,

  Happy Birthday!

  Lots of Love,

  Emily xxx

  ‘I can’t believe that!’ Rachel gasps. ‘I can’t believe she brought it back when it’s not only been read, but also inscribed! Jesus Christ! What a nerve!’

  ‘Rachel.’ I turn to her with a shrug, knowing that it’s yet another book we’ll just have to write off. ‘The customer, unfortunately, is always right.’

  At the end of the day Lucy brings me over a pile of books that have been left in the café. ‘Cath, my love, are you going to be around the weekend of the twenty-seventh? You and Si, actually. It’s just that’s the weekend Ingrid’s off to Paris with the grand passion, and bloody Josh has just announced that he’s got to go to Manchester for a meeting, and normally I wouldn’t mind but you know how I can’t bear being on my own, and I thought the three of us could have a lovely cosy evening on the Saturday and maybe you’d stay?’ She pauses to take a breath, and my blood runs cold.

  I think back to last night. To Jacob and Lena grappling on the kitchen floor in the TV series. Ingrid and Josh. It can’t just be a coincidence, that they’re both away at the same time. Oh God. Oh no.

  But how would Portia know? How does she know all this stuff about our lives? And then I remember the time I came in and found Portia sitting in the kitchen with Ingrid. They’d obviously been chatting, had evidently become friends, and Ingrid must have confided in her, must have told her what was going on.

  ‘Cath? Are you listening to me?’ Lucy’s voice filters through as I try to collect my thoughts, and I manage to tell her that the twenty-seventh sounds fine, and I’d have to check with Si, but even if he couldn’t make it I’d definitely be there.

  And she walks off back to the café as I stand there feeling sick. I don’t understand. How could we not have seen this? How could we have thought that Josh’s affair was ov
er just because he and Lucy are having conversations again?

  I can’t understand what’s going on. I sit there feeling confused – first Portia, now Ingrid – confused and hurt, so I do what I always do when life throws these obstacles in my path – I go home and ring Si.

  He picks up the phone sounding morose, and I start by telling him about Portia, that we’re meeting her at the Groucho on Monday at seven, and then I tell him about Josh being away on the twenty-seventh, when he interrupts.

  ‘I couldn’t actually give a fuck about Josh being away,’ he starts, the coldness in his voice almost making me jump. ‘I’ve got AIDS, Cath.’

  I am about to interrupt and tell him that he hasn’t got AIDS, that he is HIV positive, which is a very different story, when I realize that he has been drinking, and that now would perhaps not be the time to say anything at all.

  ‘And before you say the usual shit about me not having AIDS, you know and I know that it is just a matter of time. All I ever wanted from life was to be happy, and what bloody chance do I have of meeting Mr Right now? No bloody chance, that’s what, and there’s no point in you saying anything because you don’t know the first bloody thing about it.

  ‘You have no idea how it feels to be me right now. You don’t know what it’s like to have this death sentence hanging over you. God,’ he snorts with drunken laughter, as I wonder whether I should just put down the phone, because Si in vindictive drinking mood is not a good thing.

  But no, I am a friend, I will be here for him and I will listen so he knows that he is not alone in this.

  ‘At least you, Cath,’ he continues, laughing out loud, ‘don’t have to worry about AIDS. Jesus, it’s the least of your concerns. Your legs are stuck so tightly together it would take a man a lot stronger than that bloody James to prise them apart.

  ‘And relationship? You don’t know the meaning of the word. You’re so fucking frightened of getting hurt you attach yourself to me, Josh and Lucy, like a fucking limpet, just so you don’t actually have to put yourself out there in the big bad world and risk finding love.

  ‘You’re like a bloody robot. You don’t have a clue, and then you tell me I’m not going to die and I’m expected to believe that? Coming from you?’

  I have had enough. The tears have already started to drip down my face, but Si doesn’t need to know that. He just needs to know that I won’t take this abuse. Not from my best friend. Not even when I know he’s going through hell.

  ‘I’m not going to listen to you any more, Si,’ I say gently.

  ‘Why? Because the truth hurts?’

  ‘I’m putting the phone down now,’ I say, and, as I gently place the phone back in the cradle, I can hear Si shouting, ‘Cath? Cath?’ but I then unplug the phone, together with the answering machine, from the wall.

  And I curl up on the sofa, hugging my knees to my chest, and I let the tears stream down my face, because I know that Si would never have said those things if he wasn’t drunk, and frightened, and filled with rage at the injustices of the world, but I also know that everything he said he believed.

  He’s just never told me before because he didn’t want to hurt me, and the only way he would ever dare tell me was when he had the false courage that alcohol had given him.

  And the worst part is that I know he’s right. He’s right about me closing off from the world. Running away from anything that isn’t safe and familiar. Running away from James.

  After a while I get up, splash cold water on my face and pick up the phone to ring James. I listen to his answer phone, and then, after the bleep goes, I still haven’t formulated anything to say, so I gently put the phone down.

  Si was right. The truth does hurt. But sometimes hearing the truth can inspire you to do things differently. I am going to get hold of James, invite him over for dinner and seduce him.

  And just because I put it off until tomorrow because I suddenly realize that the emotions of the day have severely taken their toll, doesn’t mean that I’m not going to do it.

  Trust me.

  Chapter twenty-eight

  At half past four on Monday a woman walks into the shop with a large bunch of flowers and asks for me by name before handing me the flowers. This is vaguely cheering because today has been the day from hell.

  I just feel that everything is going wrong in my life. Too much is changing too quickly. I can’t blame Portia for that, but her return has damaged the equilibrium far more than I could ever have anticipated.

  Which I suppose is ridiculous, because whether Portia had come back or not, Si would still have met Will and would still have contracted the virus, but nothing feels safe any more, and I seem to spend most of my time waiting for the next bomb to fall.

  And can it really be simply coincidence that everything seems to have changed since she first turned up at the party at Bookends? If it were only one thing, I could handle it. If, say, Si had been diagnosed, and everything else was fine, I could cope. But Si’s diagnosis, and Josh’s affair, and then to have Si turn on me, is just too much.

  Just for a change I didn’t sleep well over the weekend. I spent the entire two days on my own, unable to face anyone, and at night everything that Si had said kept going through my mind, and I kept telling myself that I would feel better about it in the morning, but each morning, as soon as I awoke, I knew that the black cloud was still there.

  And I haven’t called him. Perhaps I should have done, because he, after all, is the one who is truly going through hell, whereas I am just experiencing it second hand, but I need some time and space to forgive him, and I’m hoping that a few days will be enough.

  He won’t be coming tonight. Won’t turn up after the conversation the other night, if, that is, he remembers anything at all, because God knows how much alcohol he had, in fact, consumed.

  And now I have to deal with Portia myself, which is fine, especially given that she was clearly not the object of Josh’s affections. I am only slightly astonished at how quickly I have managed to forgive her that alleged infidelity, although quite how quickly I will forgive her for disrupting my life, our lives, beyond all measure is another story indeed.

  I drop the flowers off at home, waiting until I’m in a cab on the way to Soho before opening the card, although I already know they’ll be from Si. Sure enough: ‘For Cath. I’m so, so sorry and I’m too frightened to call. You’re a far better friend than I could ever hope for, and I need you. Please forgive me. Will explain when you call. Will you? Soon? Love you, sweets. S.’

  It doesn’t even bring a smile to my face, not yet, not when the hurt is so raw, but I tuck the card safely in my diary, knowing that it will be something I will keep.

  I am shown into the bar at the Groucho, and I see Portia instantly, because at this hour the bar is not yet crowded. She is sitting in a corner, sipping a gin and tonic, looking stunning.

  I walk over and she stands to greet me, her face lighting up when she first sees me, the smile fading as she realizes I am not smiling in return, or not, at least, with quite the same brilliance.

  ‘Cath.’ She opts for the double kiss on the cheek, her voice warm but businesslike. ‘You’re looking great. It feels like ages. What can I get you?’

  A gin and tonic arrives and I sip it slowly, thinking how easy it would be to fall into the arms of alcohol when under stress, how I may not be able to forgive Si for what he said, but I can certainly understand how he came to say it.

  We make small talk for a while. I talk about the shop and how busy we’ve been, and she tells me she has also been travelling for work. Last weekend to New York, this weekend Europe.

  We talk about New York. About where she stays, what she does. I say that it is somewhere I have always wanted to go, but I am quite sure that if I went, I would never return, because my love for the city would be so strong.

  ‘How do you know that?’ she laughs.

  ‘Because of Woody Allen and NYPD Blue,’ I reply, in all seriousness, and even as she’s laughing
I wonder whether she is mentally filing this away, only for the phrase to pop up in a future episode of the series.

  The series. How can I sit here and pretend that I am here merely on a social call, a catch-up, an innocent girls’ night out? How can we talk about New York, and Woody Allen films, and work, when she is exposing all our secrets in her series, when we don’t even know what some of those secrets are?

  ‘Portia,’ I interrupt her gently, mid-flow. ‘There’s something I need to talk to you about.’

  ‘Ah,’ she sits back. ‘I thought there was something,’ and she shrugs. ‘I thought, when you phoned, that perhaps I had been going mad, that perhaps you hadn’t been avoiding me all these weeks.

  ‘I wasn’t going mad was I?’

  I shake my head. ‘No, but that’s not what I want to talk to you about, that was Si and I thinking that you and Josh were having an affair, because I saw you in Barnes one night, in a restaurant, and I was so furious with you, but now, obviously, we know that’s not true, and anyway, that’s irrelevant, that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.’

  ‘Hang on, hang on. You saw us in that restaurant?’

  ‘Yes, but it doesn’t matter now,’ and I’m about to continue but I see that I have truly thrown Portia, and I stop, astonished, and curious to hear what she is about to say.

  ‘Oh, Cath, I didn’t know. No wonder you and Si had been so awful to me. I can’t blame you. But you know we didn’t have an affair, Josh and I, although not for want of trying, on my part, anyway.’

  I stop, astonished at Portia giving away so much information. ‘What do you mean?’

  She sighs. ‘I mean that for years I had always thought that Josh was the one to get away. You know how they say there’s always one? A lost love? I convinced myself it was Josh, and that if Josh and I were together, then I would live happily ever after.’

  Aha. Her happy ending. Despite myself I’m amazed that Si was right, that there was an ulterior motive behind it all.

  ‘I managed to persuade him to come to that restaurant that night, and I only managed it because he was tired, and lonely, and things, as you probably know, weren’t going that well with Lucy, and I thought it would be the perfect window of opportunity.