Between Friends

by Jenny Harper

  Marta was aware that she was curled in a tight ball, yet it felt as though she was scaling a cliff – a sheer black cliff with no edge and no base. Her fingertips ached with the effort of hanging on, her legs screamed with the agony of retaining a grip on the fragile footholds. She longed to get to the top, yet when she got there she knew that there would be something terrible waiting for her. If she didn’t get there, she would surely die, but if she did, she might be thrown back into the black abyss. There was no escape from the dilemma.

  The cliff blurred and dissolved. Now she was in the garden, looking at her roses. This was more pleasant. But wait – one rose had withered. Marta, spiralling slowly towards the place where the subconscious mind met with wakefulness, could see the petals, pale, pale pink like a baby’s skin, yet brown round the edges.

  Dead.

  Like her baby.

  She must get Jake to dig it out. The bush is getting old.

  There is no Jake.

  The petals are brown.

  The rose has withered. You have to cut the dead heads off.

  Marta’s stomach ached with emptiness. Her eyelids fluttered as the pale winter sun edged low across the horizon and fell across her face.

  My baby is dead.

  As she floated nearer to consciousness, the thought turned itself into a bright, sharp thing. Someone was speaking. Who was it? The voice was familiar. The speaker stopped and a strange, other-earthly moan filled the silence. That sounded familiar too, in a curious way. Her mouth was dry. She closed it and the mewling stopped. Could it have been her?

  ‘She’s waking up.’

  She recognised Jane’s voice.

  ‘Here, Marta. Drink this sweetie.’

  Carrie?

  ‘Where—?’ Her eyes were open now. The sunlight hurt. Everything hurt..

  My baby is dead.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, as though closing them might make reality disappear.

  ‘You’re at home, Marta. We’re here. Jane and I. Look, I’ve brought you some tea. Sit up love. Drink. It’ll do you good.’

  ‘You sound like my gran,’ Marta smiled weakly. ‘I bet you’ve even put sugar in it.’ She rolled herself into a sitting position.

  ‘A spoonful,’ Carrie admitted.

  Marta could see the relief in Carrie’s eyes. Marta’s sounding more human, they were thinking, thank God.

  It had been three days since Carrie had brought her back from the hospital. Three days of unspeakable heartache. She had lost the baby. All these years of trying, then the miracle. But now there was no baby.

  ‘What did Jake say,’ she asked, ‘when you told him?’

  She’d been sipping the tea, but as she lifted her head she caught the look that flashed between Jane and Carrie.

  ‘No-one’s told him,’ she observed flatly.

  ‘Marta, love, we’ve been so concerned about you, we didn’t think—’

  ‘Christ, Marta, I’m sorry—’

  Marta’s gaze travelled to the clock on the far wall. Three thirty.

  ‘What day is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Saturday.’

  There was a moment’s silence.

  ‘Saturday. Oh shit,’ Carrie said.

  ‘Do you think—?’ Jane started, but the sweet chime of the doorbell cut her short.

  Jake picked up the glass ornament, its severed tail in his left hand, the heavy bird in his right. A gleam of sunlight caught the broken edge of its body and sent a sparkling cascade of light up and down the far wall. The red glass inside the bird looked like a fractured heart.

  Marta stared at it dully. A few months ago she had spiritedly rejected the crass symbolism of the accident. I’ll mend my broken friendships, she had vowed, I’ll fight to save my marriage.

  Where was that spirit now?

  ‘What happened?’ he asked, waving the broken glass.

  The light bounced off the edge again and this time dazzled her. She held up a hand to shield herself from its reproachful glare.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Jake. I meant to tell you. It was an accident.’

  ‘Why didn’t you chuck it?’

  ‘I couldn’t do that!’

  ‘Why not? What’s the point of keeping it? You can’t mend a thing like this, you’d see the crack.’

  The symbolism swamped her.

  ‘I know you loved that bird,’ she said mournfully.

  ‘Loved it?’ he said, turning round and replacing it on the mantelpiece. ‘I loathed the damn thing.’

  ‘Really? It was your grandmother’s.’

  ‘I loved her. But the bird was a really naff bit of 1960s design. I only kept it ’cos she used to look for it when she came – what’s wrong?’

  Marta realised she was staring at him, eyes wide, mouth agape. She said slowly, ‘You loved her ... but you hated the bird.’

  ‘Yeah.’ He sounded puzzled. ‘So?’

  ‘There was no connection between the broken bird and your love for your grandmother.’

  ‘Of course not. What are you talking about, Marta?’

  Marta started to laugh. The noise erupted from deep within her, bubbling up in a small giggle, then turning to an unstoppable wave. It proved contagious. Jake’s mouth twitched, the corners turned up into a smile, and he joined in, puzzled but infected by her mirth.

  ‘What? What is it?’ Jake kept asking, before lapsing back into chortles of amusement.

  At length they subsided.

  ‘Now can you tell me?’

  ‘It’s not really funny,’ Marta said, which set them both off once more. When it finally struck her that her laughter was more hysterical than healthy, she stopped abruptly, blew her nose and wiped her eyes, and explained. ‘I got hung up on it as a metaphor. Remember Tom Vallely’s play? The Glass Ornament? It was about broken friendships and not being able to mend them.’

  ‘But that’s bollocks.’

  ‘Up to a point. I did finally realise that I could do something about my friendship with Carrie and Jane – and I have done. But ridiculously, I still felt – probably because it was your ornament – that I’d been responsible for breaking our marriage. The symbol became reality. Then when you said that, you know, about your grandmother ... I began to wonder whether—’

  Marta broke off awkwardly and bit her lips fretfully.

  ‘When I lost the baby, Jake—’ she said in a low voice. ‘—how can I say this so that you understand? I would never blackmail you, I hope you believe that, but all the same, I couldn’t stop hoping that you would come back to me when your child was born. And now it’s gone.’

  Jake crossed the room and sank down onto the sofa beside her. He took her hands in his.

  ‘Listen to me. I’m so sorry about the baby. I’m gutted. Truly. But you have to know that I never saw the baby as a pawn in our relationship.’

  Marta had thought her heart could not possibly be any more painful than it had been, but now she discovered that she was wrong. Grief overwhelmed her. She could hardly hear Jake’s words.

  ‘Like I said before, I don’t believe children can mend broken relationships. If I do come back, it will be because of you.’

  She was twisting her hands, concentrating on not wailing with anguish.

  ‘I’m loving London, Marta, that’s the thing. I’m enjoying working again, doing what I’m good at, filling my head with good stuff, using my experience and my skills. I’m not great at living on my own, but I’m not keen on getting back into a relationship where I can’t be an equal decision maker.’

  Marta hardly dared breathe. ‘What does Jenny think of that?’

  ‘Who? Oh, Jenny. I stopped dating her. Lovely lady, but we agreed it wasn’t working out.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  She wasn’t sorry though. Not one bit.

  ‘The main reason was that a big part of my heart was still here,’ he squeezed her hands, ‘with you.’

  Now it was not a question of not daring to breathe, she actually couldn’t breathe. He let go of her
hands and sat back.

  ‘I don’t know what the hell to think, Marta. Could we start again? Would it be a good idea? Or have we just grown out of each other? I’ve changed. Or at least, maybe I haven’t changed, I’ve just discovered what I want to be – and maybe I’m not the man you want any more.’

  There was so much Marta wanted to say...

  Eventually, Jake had to prompt her.

  ‘Marta? Have we messed everything up completely? What do you think?’

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Exercise releases endorphins. It is a proven and effective way of combating depression – more effective, many would argue, than swallowing pills. Carrie Edwards had hated all forms of exercise at school. Marta had been the sporty one. Athletic and tall, she had easily commanded the netball court. With her long legs, she had covered the ground on the track. In the gym, she had thrown herself wholeheartedly into vaulting and performing handstands and cartwheels. And all the while, Carrie and Jane had contented themselves with eternal excuses.

  Carrie discovered running after the debacle with Tom, back in London. The headlines had been predictably corny.

  ‘SWIFT WEDDING!’

  ‘AFTER EDEN STAR WEDS SOAP’S SWIFT’

  ‘SWIFT BITE AT EDEN’S APPLE’

  Carrie had spotted the first one in the Tube one hellish Monday morning, when the teeming London rain had begrimed everything with a sooty dankness. As she swung belligerently from a strap, cursing commuter hell, she absently scanned the back of a newspaper held by another passenger a few uncomfortable inches from her nose.

  She knew of Serena Swift – who didn’t? The daughter of a wealthy gadget inventor, she was clawing her way up the celebrity ladder in a cloud of (alleged) marijuana smoke and white powder, starting with a role as a bitchy and slightly scandalous gold digger in one of the popular weekly television soaps. Close to life, the gossip sheets said – except that Serena had a fortune of her own.

  Now Serena Swift had married ... Tom Vallely?

  A stray elbow jabbed Carrie in the face as she peered at the paper. She pulled back sharply.

  ‘Sorry.’ A man in a pin-striped suit breathed a garlic-laden apology. She nodded an acknowledgement as her brain raced. Tom? Her Tom? The Tom she was having a hugely passionate affair with, on the serious understanding that he was leaving Jane because he loved her?

  Leaving the Underground station she bought a couple of redtops and ducked into a café to scan their contents. There had been nothing wrong with her eyesight, despite the jiggling of the train – the facts appeared incontrovertible. Tom Vallely had dashed into the Chelsea Registry Office on Saturday and married soap star Serena Swift.

  Something in Carrie hardened at that moment. Instead of moping, she settled into a deep and dark anger that translated as resolve and became characterised by energy. The energy was unleashed as a storm at work – in one case after another she applied herself unstintingly to complexities and detail. At leisure (when she had any) she became relentless and determinedly pleasure-seeking, gracing one party after another, bedding one man after another.

  All of this activity was distinguished by one thing – control. Carrie did not turn to drink or to drugs, that would have been to relinquish power and Carrie had no intention of ever letting anyone have dominance over her emotions again. Instead, she had found solace, unexpectedly, through exercise, mostly running.

  In the years that followed, the running remained a constant. Wherever she was in the world, it was usually in good hotels and there was usually a gym. Where she could escape safely into the countryside and weather permitted, she ran out of doors, savouring the freedom and the fresh air. Since Drew had jetted back to the States, she had increased her mileage dramatically, pounding the streets of Edinburgh obsessively.

  It was the only answer. The company of men didn’t interest her. Drew haunted her. She heard his voice call her name as she walked along the street. In her flat, she saw his big, graceful frame at the window, on the balcony, making coffee – the way he liked it – in her kitchen. Even at work, though she had withdrawn from handling his business, there were so many meetings where the McGraw estate was mentioned that she felt like crawling under the desk.

  On Sunday morning her run began as a routine five miler and turned into a mega fifteen miles plus. From her penthouse on the edge of the Meadows it was a short jog into the Queen’s Park and thence down to Portobello and the sea. The route took her not a stone’s throw from Marta’s cottage.

  Jake would still be there.

  Carrie, breathing evenly but fast, directed heartfelt wishes in Marta’s direction, still ashamed that somehow, in the midst of the drama and tragedy, she had forgotten to brief Jake when Marta miscarried.

  Please God, she prayed as she took the hill and her breathing quickened, bring those two souls back together again.

  And then it was back into the park and up Arthur’s Seat, taking the punishment to her slight frame willingly. The second time around, she diverted off the road and scrambled breathlessly up the final steep slope to the summit. The cold of the past week had eased as a warm front arrived from the west and Carrie found herself in the company of half a dozen walkers as she bounded up the rocky path.

  ‘Brilliant views today.’ A short man, his black microfibre hat pulled down snugly over his ears, was speaking to her.

  ‘Yes, fabulous,’ Carrie acknowledged, scanning the distant horizon. It was indeed a clear day. Along the sweeping blue waters of the estuary, the Forth bridges stood out like a child’s drawing, etched against the skyline while sixty miles to the north, the mountains of the Highlands could be seen in shadowy outline.

  She paused to take it all in.

  ‘You look fit,’ said the man, gesturing at her slight running vest and Lycra leggings. ‘Not cold?’

  She shook her head. Weirdo. Move on. But the man’s eyes were friendly, neutral; one lover of the outdoors saluting another, that was all.

  She scrambled the last few feet to the trig point, held out her hand and touched the top. Drew was here. Drew touched this stone. The memory caught her throat and she felt her eyes prick with hot, salty tears. Stop. Ridiculous. And yet the recollections crowded in. They had climbed here together one afternoon.

  ‘I could be happy here,’ Drew had said. ‘My kinda place.’

  And then he had looked at her, smiled with his eyes and added softly, ‘My kinda girl.’

  Carrie’s heart had stopped pumping, her breathing was back to normal and the whole point was to run from memories, not to relive them.

  The early promise of the day was turning into disappointment as she stepped out of the mini market in Simpson Loan with fruit juice and the Sunday papers.

  Carrie shivered. Already she was cooling down and the disappearance of the sun behind thick cloud was not helping. Home for a shower, then coffee, juice and the week’s news.

  The luxury of living alone is that you can choose. Had it really only been months since she’d thought that? It was still true, of course, but how hollow it seemed, how spectacularly meaningless. Even the full-on luxury of her beloved bathroom afforded her no comfort today. She emerged, a towel round her head, a soft robe round her body. At least the coffee smelled good. She padded barefoot across to the kitchen to pour herself a cup. As she passed the phone, it began to ring and without thinking, she picked it up.

  ‘Carrie here, hi.’

  ‘Hi honey.’

  Drew! Carrie’s heart, which had recovered from its running rate twenty minutes ago, resumed pumping at full speed. Her first instinct was to drop the phone, but she counted to five and summoned all her courage.

  ‘Hello Drew.’ What now? Leave me alone, this hurts too much? Grovel again about my past? She stood rooted to the spot, transfixed by indecision.

  ‘Don’t hang up on me, honey,’ he said urgently, as if he could see her hand already moving the phone back to its cradle. ‘We gotta talk.’

  Carrie sighed. ‘Drew, please,’ she pleaded
. ‘I’ve done the confessional. I’ve scoured my insides till they’re bleeding and I can’t go over this ground again. I—’

  ‘Honey, listen, will ya?’

  Carrie sank to the carpet and leaned weakly against the sofa. The towel, unwinding, fell down over her eyes and she pulled it off and tossed it to the floor, where it lay damply.

  ‘All right,’ she conceded, her voice little more than a mumble.

  ‘Great.’ Drew sounded purposeful, but without warning he broke off and exhaled sharply. ‘Gee, I had it all planned out, and now I can’t find the words.’

  ‘Let me say them for you,’ Carrie said dully. ‘You’re shocked at my behaviour. I’m not the person you thought I was. I misled you cruelly. You had believed that—’

  ‘Stop right there.’ The command was back in his voice. ‘And get this into that little head of yours. We do not drop bombshells then run away. We talk about things, even if they are difficult things. You got that?’

  Carrie gulped but found she couldn’t speak. Who was this ‘we’?

  ‘Got that?’ Drew said again, demanding an answer.

  ‘Yes,’ Carrie muttered.

  ‘And one thing you gotta understand about me – I like to get to the bottom of things, get the whole story and not some jumbled up part-truth. I don’t allow my employees to get away with that kinda behaviour and I don’t expect it in my personal relationships either. Understood?’

  ‘But I know you, Drew,’ Carrie protested. ‘I know your values. You’re a great guy, an honourable guy, I could tell that from the way you treated me, like a real gentleman—’

  Drew burst out laughing. ‘A gentleman? You mean like some old-fashioned Victorian guy with a top hat and cane?’

  ‘No, I mean—’

  ‘You mean because I didn’t jump into bed with you on our first date?’

  ‘Or our second or third or twentieth.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean I didn’t want to.’

  Surprise made Carrie’s voice uncharacteristically shrill. ‘Did you?’

  ‘Honey, do grizzlies eat fish?’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Baby, I took you seriously. You weren’t just some nice piece of ass I wanted to lay. I wanted to get to know you, I respected you, and there’s something about delayed gratification ... you know? Makes it all the sweeter.’