I think it would be just lovely.
CHAPTER SIXTY
Love cannot be defined in one single term,
It cannot be taught and cannot be measured.
…
You cannot help who you love,
Nor can you make one love another.
‘Love’, Reddy Fox
We deserve a drink after all that prodding and poking, we’ve decided. Not that we need an excuse. Fiona is joining us. I told her she needed a night out. She’s been working so hard for the shop opening she hasn’t been out in weeks.
Matt is away at a stag do so we’re all staying with Katie.
We’re already quite merry by the time Fi arrives at nine o’clock – thanks to the glass of wine we had on our way home (okay, two) and the three quarters of a bottle we had with our dinner (spaghetti bolognaise with garlic bread – good job none of us are on the pull.)
I slosh the rest of the bottle into a glass for Fiona and thrust it into her hand as she walks through the door, urging her to catch us up. I’m a bad person. I encourage my friends to drink. Quickly. She does what I tell her – good girl – and then we all pile into a taxi.
“Evening ladies,” the driver says. It’s probably the only time this evening that we’ll be worthy of such a title, I imagine. A few glasses of wine followed by several spirits and finished off with a couple of shots, doesn’t generally give rise to particularly lady-like behaviour, I find.
“Evening,” we all chime in unison.
“Where to?”
“Tiger Tiger,” I say, as Emma lets out a little growl. See what I mean?
“What time is it?” Emma asks as we tumble out of the taxi the other end and join the queue to get into the club.
I look at my watch.
“Ten o'clock.”
“What time did you say you’d meet him?” Fiona asks.
We are meeting Emma’s new chap tonight.
“He said he’d phone me when he gets here. Ooh, ooh, that could be him,” she says, grabbing her phone which is playing ‘Is This The Way to Amarillo’. A couple of guys in the queue snigger. I glare at them. So does Katie. And Fiona. (Not Emma, who’s too busy whispering sweet nothings down the phone.)
We are on the verge of an out-staring victory when Emma snaps her phone shut dramatically.
“He’ll be here in twenty minutes,” she says, beaming.
He’s started well. He’s brought us all drinks. Doubles too. He gets my vote.
“What do you think?” Emma mouths at us as he collects his change at the bar.
We quickly give her the thumbs up before he turns around.
He’s cute. Actually, he’s very cute. He looks a bit like Jude Law, only a bit shorter. And he’s got great dress sense. I think that’s a Paul Smith shirt he’s wearing. And he’s showing an interest in her friends, which is always a good sign.
“Emma tells me you’re getting married Katie – congratulations,” he says, and “Emma tells me you’re opening your own shop Fiona – that must be exciting,” and “Emma tells me you’re writing a feature for a magazine Becky.” Actually, he doesn’t say that – he says “Emma tells me you two grew up together Becky – that you used to pretend you were roller-booting champions and made paperweights out of pebbles”. Yeah. Thanks, Em.
He’ll probably be glad when James gets here and evens things up a bit. I think he’s a bit overwhelmed by all the boob tubes and glitter.
He casually slips his arm around Emma’s waist and we all drink our drinks.
And then it all goes downhill.
Very downhill.
After dropping our jackets off at the cloakroom we head back to the bar for another round of drinks.
Fiona spots a friend and goes over to say hello. And Emma goes off to the loo, leaving Daniel with Katie and I.
“We should dance,” I say, waving my glass at them in time to Club Tropicana.
“Great idea,” Katie says. “You up for a dance Danny?”
He laughs. Poor guy – he probably hates Wham. And being called Danny, for that matter.
“Sure.”
“That’s seddled then,” Katie slurs. “As soon as Emma and Fi get back we’ll hit the dance floor.”
But when Emma gets back she’s not really in the mood for a boogie. She’s verging on hysterical, actually.
She grabs my arm – very nearly pulling it out of its socket, I might add – and drags me away from the bar. She obviously doesn’t want Daniel to hear.
“He’s here,” she whispers, evidently panic-stricken.
“Who’s here?” I ask, sipping my vodka and tonic.
“Jim!” she says, as if I’ve just asked a really stupid question.
“Where?” I ask, swinging around for a look and nearly falling over, which was a bit pointless anyway given that I have absolutely no idea what he looks like.
“I just saw him going into the men’s toilets.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“No. He didn’t see me. Oh, B, what am I going to do?”
“Do you want to go somewhere else?” I ask.
“Yes. No. I mean don’t know. I want to see him. But I don’t want to see him. If you know what I mean.”
“Maybe we should go somewhere else,” I say, glancing over at Daniel, who is understandably wondering what the hell is going on.
“No, no, I’ll be fine,” she says, taking my glass and finishing my drink for me. She gives me back the empty glass. How kind.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
I’m not convinced.
“No,” she says, changing her mind as two big fat tears wobble just inside her eyes for a moment before spilling out onto her cheeks – first one, and then the other.
She wipes them away with the back of her hand as I pull her just a little further away from the others. It’s never a good thing for your new man to see you crying over your old one.
“We’re just going to the loos,” I shout over to Katie and Daniel, in my brightest nothing-to-worry-about-everything-in-the-garden-is-rosy voice. They don’t look in the least bit convinced.
So, where is the toilet woman when you actually need her?
Just when we could really do with a face cloth and a blob of foundation, she’s nowhere to be seen. Not to mention some mascara to replace the remnants that are currently rolling down Emma’s face.
“You really must invest in some waterproof mascara,” I tell her, dabbing at the black smudges under her eyes with a bit of soggy toilet paper.
“Am I getting on your nerves?” she sobs.
“Don’t be silly. I just want you to be happy. And I think you are. You’ve got a really great guy waiting for you out there – who’s probably wondering what the hell is going on. He was even willing to dance to Club Tropicana!”
She laughs at this.
“You’re just drunk,” I say, rubbing at a stubborn blob of mascara that’s welded itself to her cheek. “If you were sober you’d probably have walked up to Jim, said hello, and asked how he was.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Well, no, maybe that was a bit optimistic. But I don’t think you’d have got quite so upset. You’ve been so much happier lately. And now you’ve met Daniel. He seems lovely. And he’s very cute,” I add, raising my eyebrows. “Good catch! Although…”
“What?”
“I do wish you’d stop telling your new boyfriends that we pretended we were roller-booting champions and that we gave our Girls Worlds mohicans. It’s not really the first impression I want them to have of me!”
She laughs and then turns to look in the mirror.
“God, I look a mess.”
“Nothing a quick comb and a bit of lippy won’t fix.”
“You go,” she says, rummaging in her handbag for her lipstick. “I’ll be fine. Tell them I feel sick or something. Blame Katie’s cooking.”
“She’ll love that,” I laugh, giving her a quick hug before leaving her to it.
I sneak up behind him and wrap my arms around his waist. He turns round, grins and kisses me on the lips. He tastes of lager.
“Hello you,” he says. “Do you want a drink?”
“Ooh yes please. A vodka and tonic would be lovely. Emma finished off my last one!”
Katie looks at me and I nod. Translation: Is she okay? Yes, she’s fine, she’s just sorting her face out.
“Where is she?” James asks.
“She’s just in the ladies. She’ll be out in a minute. Dicky tummy,” I add. “Must have been Katie’s spaghetti bolognaise,” I laugh, looking at Katie, who scowls at me, because she knows she can’t argue.
James gets my drink – and one for everyone else – and then I spot Emma across the bar on her way back over. I wave at her and slide my arm around James. I can’t wait to introduce him to her.
But I don’t get the chance. Seconds later Emma slaps me across the face. Hard.
“You bitch,” she spits.
I’m not sure who’s more shocked – Emma that she can slap so hard, or me that I’ve been slapped at all.
I’ve never been slapped before. It hurts.
Remember how your mother used to pull your pants down and smack you on the backside when you were really naughty? (I’m assuming I’m not alone here – sometimes in the middle of the supermarket if I was being particularly bad.) Well, imagine that, on your face. It’s sharp. It stings. And it hurts that little bit more when you’re not expecting it. When you don’t know what the hell you’ve done to deserve it.
Katie rushes forward and grabs Emma to stop her coming in for an encore, while I clutch my cheek, open-mouthed.
Daniel looks horrified. Fiona looks as confused as me. James has his head in his hands…
A crowd quickly forms, people clutching their drinks looking over in our direction. They want to know what’s going on. So do I.
A couple of lads in the corner are clearly hoping for a catfight. I’m assuming they won’t be getting one.
“What the…” is all I manage before I’m drowned out by Emma.
“How could you do this to me?” she screams.
Do what?
“You’re supposed to be my best friend.”
What the hell is she on about?
“You had someone who loved you. You had Alex. Why did you have to have Jim?”
“What?”
Jim?
Oh God.
It’s Jim.
James – is Jim.
CHAPTER SIXTY ONE
“You don’t honestly believe I would do that to you Em?” I say. I think I’m almost laughing, despite myself. She can’t possibly think that. Can she?
“I had no idea that James was Jim. How could I? He and I met months after you two split up. And I’d never met him before. I’d never even seen any photos of him.”
James goes to say something – to confirm what I’m saying, presumably – but Katie holds him back.
“That’s rubbish,” Emma shouts. “I talked about him all the time. Christ, he was the first person I did talk about all the time. I loved him.”
At this point Daniel decides he’s heard enough. He quietly puts his glass down and slides away from the bar. I think we can safely say we won’t be seeing him again in a hurry.
Emma doesn’t even try to stop him. She has bigger things to deal with right now.
“You must have seen photos,” she continues – trying to convince herself as well as me, perhaps. “You must have known it was him.”
“I never saw any photos Emma. You never showed us any – me or Katie.” I look at Katie for confirmation, which I get.
“We knew very little about him full stop, other than that you really liked him. But that was no different to anybody else you’d been out with, to be fair. I swear to you Em, I didn’t know.”
We’re both crying now.
“I don’t believe you,” Emma says. “You just thought you’d have him for yourself. You dumped Alex and moved to London and then you thought, ‘I know, Emma’s Jim is available. He’ll do. I’ll have him.’”
I stare at her, stunned.
“Emma, how could you think that? You’re my best friend. I’ve known you my whole life. I would never set out to hurt you deliberately. You know that. You must know that,” I add, when it’s clear she doesn’t appear to.
“You’re not my friend,” she says, angrily brushing the tears from her face with her hand. “A friend would never do this. Never.”
I look around the bar. Is anyone going to help me out here, I wonder?
“She didn’t know, Emma,” Katie says softly. She’s holding James’ arm. He looks like I feel. He looks crushed. He looks like his whole world has just come crashing down around him. He had no idea, I know that. I know him. He’s honest and kind. He would never deliberately hurt someone.
I look at Emma and silently plead with her to believe me. But instead she just looks away. She can’t even look at me now. We’ve been friends our whole lives and she can’t even look at me.
I look down and realise I’m still holding my drink. I down it in one before tossing the empty glass on the bar and looking at Jim. James. My James. My Mr Right.
He looks so sad. He wants to come to me, but Katie stops him. It’s the right thing to do. She knows how I’m feeling. She knows because Emma is her friend too. And she wouldn’t want to make that choice either.
I look at Emma and shake my head, defeated. She doesn’t even look up.
“I didn’t know, Em,” I say. And then I turn and walk away.
CHAPTER SIXTY TWO
The fountains mingle with the river
And the rivers with the ocean,
The winds of heaven mix for ever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single.
All things by a law divine
In one spirit meet and mingle –
Why not I with thine?
‘Love’s Philosophy’, Percy Bysshe Shelley
“James is on the phone,” Fiona says, removing a cold cup of tea from my bedside table and replacing it with a fresh one.
It’s the third time he’s called. The third mug of tea gone cold. Such a waste of tea. Such a waste of a great boyfriend.
My eyes feel like I’ve been in ten rounds with Mike Tyson. Or Frank Bruno. Who was the better boxer?
No, she didn’t punch me – not that I’m sure she wouldn’t have done if I’d hung around long enough. But it only takes a few minutes of crying to make your eyes puff up like a frog’s. Imagine what a whole night of it can do.
Poor Fiona was on tissue duty last night. There are still a few soggy ones on the floor by my bed where she couldn’t keep up.
She followed me out of the club and we caught a taxi back to my flat. She must have drawn the short straw. Although, I guess Katie’s straw was pretty short too – having had to console Emma for the night.
I didn’t say anything on the way home. I just cried. And they weren’t quiet, controlled tears – the sort that slide gently down your cheeks into a waiting handy-sized four-ply pocket Kleenex, barely noticed by your friends and anyone else who happens to be in the vicinity. No, they were the emotional equivalent of a loud guffaw, you might say – sobs that lurch out of you like giant hiccups. At one point I expected the taxi driver to turn around and attempt to make me jump.
But at least the stinging in my eyes has replaced the stinging on my cheek. When I looked in the mirror last night I had a big handprint on my face. I hope it’s gone. I’m not sure how I’d explain it to the kids at Potty Wotty Doodah tomorrow. I spend half my time telling them to draw on the pottery, not each other. One argument in a night club and I could have undone all my good work.
“Tell him I’m out,” I say to Fiona.
“He knows you’re not.”
“Then just tell him I can’t talk to him.” I pull the duvet
over my head before she tries to talk me round.
She leaves the room to deliver the news and returns a few minutes later with a plate of toast to go with my tea.
Why do we always try to feed people in times of distress when they couldn’t possibly feel less like eating?
“Why won’t you speak to him, Becky?” she asks, sitting on the edge of my bed and pulling the duvet off my head.
“I can’t, Fi. You heard Emma. She thinks I deliberately set out to steal him. If I see James I’ll lose her.”
“And if you don’t, you’ll lose him. Is that what you want?”
“No. I can’t bear the thought of losing him. But I can’t have both, can I? Emma will never speak to me again if I stay with James, Fi. She loved him. She probably still does. I think he was the first guy she’s ever loved.”
“But you didn’t know it was him. You never set out to hurt her.”
“That doesn’t matter. As far as Emma’s concerned, her best friend is with her ex-boyfriend. And she’s hurting. She won’t understand if I stay with James.”
I sit up and pull my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. If I make myself really small, maybe all this will just disappear.
“But you shouldn’t have to choose. Do you really want to be friends with someone who would make you choose?”
“It isn’t that simple, Fi. Emma and I have been friends our whole lives. She means a lot to me.”
“But so does James.”
“I’ll meet someone else. There are plenty of other guys out there.”
“But you said he was the one. You said he was Mr Right.”
“I know I did. And he was. But he isn’t anymore. He can’t be.”
Fiona stays with me all day. She must be a glutton for punishment.
Katie phones in the afternoon. I make Fiona tell her I’m asleep. When she phones again an hour later, I make her say I’m still asleep.
“Your friends are going to think I’m keeping you hostage,” Fiona says, after telling Katie for the third time that I’m still asleep (although, what she actually says is ‘she said she’s still asleep’, which is not really the idea.)
“I can’t speak to anyone right now,” I say.
The Little Shop of Afternoon Delights Page 153