Between Friends

by Jenny Harper

  Suzy launched into a description of the chaos. Alcohol spilled everywhere, vomit on the new front-room carpet, syringes in the kitchen, the bathroom and behind the sofa. God knows what the mess was on one of the living-room chairs and the garden had been wrecked.

  ‘Mum’s in a right state about that. You know how she is about her garden.’

  ‘Yeah. So what’s happening?’

  ‘Nothing much. Dad’s stalking round with a clipboard, making notes for the insurance. Mum’s just dabbing her eyes with a boxful of hankies and wailing, “My precious begonias”.’

  Emily giggled. ‘Is she really mad?’

  ‘A bit. She’ll calm down. They’re like, “so long as you weren’t hurt, darling, it’s just things, nobody’s died.” I’ve got them around to thinking it was all their fault anyway. They shouldn’t have gone away for the night. What about you? What happened when you left here? I lost the plot about then.’

  ‘I went to Marta Davidson’s, you know? Mum’s friend. She lives not too far from you.’

  ‘Cool. So you stayed there?’

  ‘Yeah. Just got back. Haven’t heard from Robbie yet though.’

  ‘Where did he go?’

  Emily’s shoulders hunched. ‘Not sure.’

  ‘Didn’t he take you to Marta’s?’

  ‘No, he legged it with some of the other guys.’

  ‘What a jerk.’

  ‘Suzy! He’s so not a jerk.’

  ‘Why’d he run off then?’

  ‘You know,’ Emily said feebly. ‘Anyway, I’m going to call him now.’

  ‘Don’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, for a start, boys don’t like girls who do the running. Let him call you.’

  ‘Okay,’ Emily said dubiously, remembering Robbie’s broad shoulders and the slenderness of his hips in his low-slung jeans.

  ‘Trust me, Em. I know about these things.’

  Suzy, a veteran of half-a-dozen relationships, did know, reflected Emily. Smart, sassy, fearless, she drew boys to her like a scented flower attracted bees. She ended the call with the usual kisses and promises to phone again soon, set down her phone, and waited.

  She didn’t have to hold her breath too long. When her mobile launched into the Hayden cello concerto – her favourite – she managed to snatch it from the dresser just as Ross’s hand shot out to pick it up.

  ‘Get off, Ross, it’s mine.’

  ‘Just trying to be helpful.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ Emily said sarcastically then, seeing the name Robbie flashing on the screen, inhaled sharply and sped out of the kitchen. ‘Back in a minute.’

  ‘Supper’s ready, Emily,’ her father called after her.

  ‘Yeah, just coming.’ She pressed the green button as she ran and tried to sound nonchalant. ‘Hi.’

  ‘Ems? You okay?’

  ‘Yeah, sure. You?’

  ‘Cool. I was worried about you. I didn’t see you in that mob. What happened?’

  A clear vision flashed in front of Emily, of Andy, Robbie’s friend, scurrying to the window in the upstairs bedroom where they’d all been sprawled, looking out and saying in a shrill, scared voice, ‘Oh my God, oh my God, they’ve got baseball bats,’ as another bang reverberated round the room.

  There’d been a chorus of ‘Shit!’ and ‘Let’s get out of her, fast!’ and a mad rush for the door, during which she’d been knocked over and left doubled up on the floor, the imprint of a foot clear on her hand. But he hadn’t meant to leave her. Robbie wouldn’t have done that. He must’ve thought she’d been with him, that they’d meet up outside and head off safely together.

  ‘I don’t know. When I got out, I couldn’t see you,’ she said, her voice small.

  ‘I looked for you everywhere, babes. Didn’t know what had happened.’

  ‘I got knocked over. It took me a few minutes to get out. I made it just before the front door came down.’

  ‘You okay though? What did you do?’

  ‘I went to a friend of my mum’s. I stayed the night there. You?’

  ‘Oh, we headed back into town, ended up in some club.’

  Emily was shocked. He sounded so casual about it. He’d run off and left her – and then gone off clubbing as though nothing had happened!

  ‘Oh,’ she said, her voice little more than a whisper.

  ‘I’d’ve called but my battery’d gone flat.’

  ‘Emily! Supper’s on the table!’ Her father’s voice was sounding stern.

  ‘That your dad?’ Robbie asked.

  ‘Yeah. I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Thought we might hang out on Thursday. After orchestra?’

  With a bump and a jolt, her heart restarted. He still wanted to see her! He really liked her! Then she remembered her mother’s curfew. Bother.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, a smile creeping back into her voice. She’d work something out.

  ‘Emily!’ Cross now.

  ‘Coming!’ She turned back to her phone. ‘Cool,’ she said. ‘See you.’

  ‘See you, babes.’

  She sauntered back into the kitchen. Macaroni cheese, the way her mum made it, with a crispy cheese and cornflake topping. Yum.

  ‘I’m ravenous,’ she said appreciatively, and was surprised to find that it was true.

  Chapter Eighteen

  It was eleven o’clock on Saturday morning and Carrie Edwards, although aspiring to one of the two partner’s offices on the third floor of Ascher Frew that were currently standing empty, was still sitting at her corner desk in the open-plan office on the second. It had the merit, at least, of being near the window – she had won that much seniority. Frustratingly, though, she was now the most senior lawyer in the firm who still did not have a partnership.

  She willed herself to concentrate on the stack of closely typed papers in front of her and prayed that this was something that would be put right very soon. It was all very well having a smart, single, professional lifestyle but her ambition demanded status.

  Words jumped and jiggled in front of her eyes, their sense and order scrambling. ‘Put the remaining assets into ... assets put the ... ensure that the estate taxable bulk of does not ... fund trust set up for the marriage offspring of the first ... asset prudent for the purposes of management ...’

  Damn Tom Vallely. Carrie put a hand to her forehead, where she could feel the barely congealed line of the gash from her fall. Perhaps she should have gone to hospital? She took a small mirror out of her handbag and examined the damage. Her eye was swollen and turning a dark shade of blackcurrant. She could only half open it, but the cut wasn’t gaping. It looked tender, but not serious. With luck, there wouldn’t be any scarring. There were still two weeks to go till her partnership review and it would have healed by then. No doubt there’d be some ribbing on Monday, but she’d just have to put up with that. She had forty-eight hours to get her story sharpened up. Fall ... pavement ... no she had not been drunk, she’d merely been wearing an over-ambitious pair of Christian Louboutin gladiator heels. Enough. Back to Sir Edward Chalmers and his complex estate-management plans.

  On her desk, beneath the pile of papers, the office phone warbled. Not Tom, surely? She hesitated, reached out her hand then retracted it once more, undecided. It might be one of the partners, checking on some point for this job. Steeling herself, she picked up the receiver.

  ‘Carrie Edwards.’

  ‘Carrie? It’s Marta.’

  ‘Oh.’ Relief flooded through her like valium, bringing her heart rate down by several beats. Marta. Just Marta. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Uh, well – a “hello” would be nice.’

  ‘Hi, Marta. Sorry. You caught me on the hop.’

  ‘What are you doing in that place anyway? It’s Saturday.’

  ‘I’ve got an urgent job on. And a partnership review coming up. Got to be seen to be eager.’

  ‘Time for a coffee?’

  ‘Not really, no. Sorry.’

  ‘Oh.’

&
nbsp; She could hear the disappointment in Marta’s voice.

  ‘Why are you asking?’

  ‘I really need to talk’

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘Nothing. And everything. Please Carrie. Just half an hour. I’ll come to the café on the corner. I’m sure you could handle a short break.’

  Carrie hesitated. She really wasn’t achieving much and a coffee would do her no harm. On the other hand, how was she going to explain her bruising?

  ‘Okay Marta, a quick one. What time?’

  ‘Ten minutes? I’m in town.’

  ‘See you there.

  Everyone was looking at her – at least, that was how Carrie felt as she swayed into the café. Heads turned, people stared and Marta, rising from the corner table where she had already established herself, said with concern, ‘Jesus, Carrie, what happened?’

  No-one was looking really. Carrie slid into the empty chair next to Marta and tried to think rationally. Okay, so heads had perhaps turned for a second, but who cared about her face, for heaven’s sake? Be calm.

  ‘I knew I should never have bought those new sandals. You know, the Roman slave sandals with the five-inch heels?’

  Marta laughed. ‘Did you fall?’

  Carrie nodded. Pain flashed through her skull and she lifted her hand automatically towards the site of ignition, then put it on her lap and forced herself to be still. She tried a smile and when that worked turned it into a laugh.

  ‘It’s funny now,’ she lied, ‘but it was painful at the time. I got out of the car and simply fell up the pavement.’

  ‘You were driving in them?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘You didn’t twist your ankle?’

  ‘No, just banged my head. I’m going to get some comments on Monday.’

  ‘You certainly are. Were you on your own?’

  Over the years, Carrie had developed a skilful and harmless line of deviousness where Marta and Jane were concerned. Rather than suffer their endless efforts to match her up with some unsuitable male or other – Marta was particularly bad about this – she had cultivated a number of platonic escorts. Sometimes she really did go out with them – they were particularly useful for theatre outings or dinner engagements – but quite often she simply made up stories around them.

  ‘No, no,’ she said blithely, ‘I was with Jim Anderson. We were going to the cinema. Were going,’ she added, looking wry. ‘I ended up with a pack of cold peas on my head and a night in.’

  ‘Poor you.’ Marta was all sympathy. ‘Are you really okay?’

  ‘I am. Can we talk about something else, please? Like what’s bothering you? And what about that coffee you promised me?’

  ‘It’s Jane,’ Marta said, sliding without further persuasion into her own agenda as soon as Carrie’s coffee was on the table. ‘She’s mad at me. And I’m beginning to think she’s gone a bit ... well, you know ... she seems to have reverted ... Remember the old stutter? When she first came to our school? She was so shy, so unsure of herself. We got rid of it – at least, I don’t remember hearing it for years and years now – but it’s back.’

  ‘Whoa, hold on there. One thing at a time. Why is Jane mad at you?’

  Marta pushed back her hair and bent her head forward to take a sip of coffee. Carrie, studying her carefully, noticed tiny crow’s feet at the corners of her friend’s eyes and the beginnings of slight vertical lines above her mouth. We are getting older, she thought. Life around us is changing. Perhaps even our friendship is changing.

  Impulsively she leant forward and kissed Marta on the cheek, an awkward gesture in the confines of the café.

  Marta smiled. ‘What was that for?’

  ‘Just because.’ At Marta’s look of enquiry, she expanded, ‘Because you’re you. You’re lovely. And you’re my friend. Now tell all.’

  ‘It’s funny,’ Marta mused, with an expression that suggested she found it anything but. ‘Jane was just – well – Jane, until that night I had you all round for dinner. She’s been really weird ever since. And Jake and I were doing all right until Tom came to stay, but now Jake’s really snippy. I don’t suppose it’s Tom’s fault,’ she said, always reluctant to criticise, ‘just, well, it’s a bit difficult having someone in your house and he is staying longer than I expected him to.’

  Unable to hide the trembling of her hands from Marta, Carrie rested them on her knees, under the table. Tom Vallely was dangerous. In inviting him back into their lives, Marta had unwittingly unleashed a dark force. She made herself laugh.

  ‘Little Miss Do-Good. That’s what we always used to call you, isn’t it? Baa-aa. You’ve got such a big heart, sweetie, but sometimes it reaches out without thinking of the consequences. Go see Jane. Talk to her. She’s twitchy because Emily’s experimenting with adulthood. As for Jake – Tom’s away now, isn’t he?’

  ‘More or less. He’ll have to come back to collect his stuff, but he’s off south to see his agent.’

  ‘So relax. Support Jake, but don’t push him. Find your own space, the two of you. Everything will work out fine.’

  ‘You think?’ Marta said doubtfully.

  Carrie surveyed her. Simple blouse, pale blue cashmere cardi, neatly pressed black jeans, soft calf-length brown leather boots – Marta always had her own beautiful, fresh style. She looked barely a day older than when she left school. She was loving, well-meaning and sweet – how could you not love Marta?

  ‘Don’t beat yourself up, my love.’

  As she said the words, Carrie felt their irony. She lifted her fingers to the bruising on her forehead and touched the spot lightly.

  Don’t beat yourself up. There are others who will do that for you.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Tom spent the morning shopping in Glasgow. He had the best part of two hundred pounds in his pocket, ready cash. His credit card hit its limit when he had rung the tills for two shirts, a new alpaca sweater and a couple of pairs of chinos, so the notes came in handy for some new loafers and the Ellis Cashmore book on celebrity culture he’d been looking for. The expedition helped to improve his mood, which had not been sunny when he’d woken up to find Carrie had gone.

  He needed Carrie to be in his power. Sexually, she couldn’t resist him, that much was obvious – talk about a bitch on heat – but her overnight disappearance did not please him one bit.

  ‘Coffee please, black and very strong.’

  He made the effort to smile at the curvy waitress in the coffee shop in Sauchiehall Street and was rewarded with blushing admiration. If only it was a bit later and they had somewhere to go...

  ‘What’s your name, darling?’

  ‘Catriona, but everyone calls me Cat.’

  ‘Cat. Lovely. More like a sweet little kitten though.’

  Outside, it had started to rain. They said that Glasgow was four times wetter than Edinburgh and Tom could believe it. In all his visits to the city, he couldn’t ever remember it being completely dry. Still, the place did have some merits – the shopping was good, and the patter. And, of course, the crumpet.

  ‘Thanks, Cat.’

  He smiled again at the girl as she set down his coffee. He put his hand over hers for a moment and enjoyed the reappearance of the blush. Her backside, as she sashayed self-consciously back to the counter, was worth watching too.

  For a few minutes he sat, allowing the world to move around him, drifting through time and place – Jane; Carrie; Serena. Others. Dozens of others, their faces shadowy, their names forgotten, the memory of their bodies vague. He reached into his pocket, slid out a notebook and flipped through it. Names, numbers, notes – reminders of some great nights and some shocking ones. Coded encounters, pseudonyms, real names too. Take AN Other, for example. Code name for Anya Merton. Tom smiled broadly. He had ‘taken’ her, just about every way it was possible. What a night that had been, and Anya such a big star, too. Sadly, her long-term partner had arrived from the States and she’d been unable to give a repeat performance.


  He ran his finger down the page. Here was a name, Kate H. He shook his head fondly, his smile broadening. Kate H was a television presenter, the sweet-looking, wholesome girl on a breakfast show whose career had taken off largely because she was married to a ferociously ambitious director. The world would be very interested in what he had to say about Kate H. Very interested indeed.

  His mobile rang, interrupting the train of his thoughts. Angela.

  ‘Hi.’ Tom knew he was sounding tetchy. The audition for Emergency Admissions had been just twenty-four hours ago and he had no expectation of a decision yet. His agent’s call bordered on the tedious. ‘What’s cooking, darling?’

  Angela sounded breathy. ‘Tom.’

  ‘Yeah?’ He opened a sachet of sugar and absently emptied it into his coffee.

  ‘You’ll never guess.’

  ‘You’re right, I won’t.’

  Angela could be very irritating. He was not going to play her game.

  ‘Go on. Guess.’

  ‘Just tell me, Angela darling,’ Tom sighed, lifting his coffee for a sip with his free hand.

  ‘You’ve got the part.’

  Tom froze, the coffee an inch from his lips. ‘Say again?’

  ‘You’ve got the part. Mr Darling, the surgeon. In Emergency Admissions.’

  The cup clattered so loudly on the saucer as Tom dropped it that heads turned. His smile this time was genuine. ‘You’re kidding me? Already?’

  ‘They loved you, darling. Absolutely loved you. Left a message on my phone last night after the auditions finished, but I didn’t pick it up till right now. Isn’t it exciting? Gosh. This could be it, Tom. The biggest thing since After Eden. Shall I come up to Edinburgh? Go over everything? Celebrate?’

  ‘Christ, no. I’ll come down.’

  ‘Really? When?’

  He thought for a second. ‘Today. I’m still in Glasgow. I’ll head back to Edinburgh and pack up my things, get a train down. I’ll see you Monday, first thing.’

  ‘You could come round tonight. To my flat in town? Have just a teensy-weensy private celebration before we sign and seal the deal next week?’ Her voice was tentative with overtones of wistfulness.