A Friend of the Family

by Lisa Jewell

  He stopped, turned statue-still.

  ‘I can’t believe how sweet you’ve been with her. I was so proud of you tonight, Tony. So proud that you were my boyfriend.’

  ‘Well,’ he said tersely, ‘she’s pregnant. Someone needs to look after her.’

  ‘Come here,’ she said, ‘come here, my lovely big sensitive man.’ She hooked a finger into his belt loop and pulled him gently towards her.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just come here. I’m feeling all overcome with love. I want a hug.’

  ‘Ness,’ he said, pulling away from her, ‘I…’

  ‘Just come here.’

  And then he looked at Ness lying there, naked and full of love, and felt a sudden wave of desire overcome him. Not for Ness but for human contact, for intimacy. She pulled him down on to the bed with her, undressed him, caressed him, and Tony was so drunk and so confused and so full of emotion that he let her. His head was a dark, warm void. His body was a motherboard of feelings and sensations. He kept his eyes closed and lost himself in the moment, lost himself in Ness’s body and Ness’s embrace. Thoughts flashed in and out of his voided head, like a subliminal slideshow – Millie, Sean, Ness. He had no idea how long it went on for but he’d never before experienced such intensity of emotion during sex. And when he eventually came, he came emotionally as well as physically, and, with tears in his eyes and a look of pure wonder on his face, he shouted out, ‘I love you, Ness, I love you so much, love you so much, love you so much’ And then he grabbed hold of her and held her tighter than he’d ever held anyone in his life.

  And Ness held him after and cried wet tears that seeped through his hair and on to his scalp.

  A Love Story in Two Acts

  By the time Ned got into work on Thursday morning, he was officially the world’s greatest press-pack assembler. He’d folded more than 1,000 folders, photocopied more than 500 press releases and emptied ten Kodak boxes of pictures. Even Hoxton Fin (whose name, apparently, was Marc – although Ned knew this only because he’d heard someone else calling it out across the office) was impressed by Ned’s productivity. ‘You’re making good progress,’ he’d said the night before, ‘I’m very pleased.’And Ned had felt ridiculously proud and gone home with a little spring in his step.

  It was a lovely sunny morning as Ned strode across Soho Square towards his place of work, and as much as he was aware of the fact that he had one of the crappiest jobs in London, he couldn’t help feeling a little bit excited about having somewhere to go every day, about being part of the crowd thronging the pavements of the greatest city in the world. It gave him something to focus on and distanced him from his old life. It was good. It was healthy. It was right.

  He tapped the security code into the office door and strode through reception, saying good morning to Fabiola, the lovely Italian receptionist, as he went. He stopped briefly at the coffee machine on the landing and got himself a cup of tea. He poked his head around the press-office door and called out good morning to the few people milling around in there. And then he opened the door to his room and stopped in his tracks.

  There was a girl in there.

  A gorgeous girl in a pink puff-sleeved blouse and faded old jeans, with a Celtic band tattooed around her upper arm. She had streaky blonde hair that came down to her shoulders with a few strands pinned back, and about eight earrings in each ear, including little silver ones right at the top.

  ‘Nid?’

  ‘Er – yeah.’

  ‘Hi – I’m Bicky.’

  ‘Bicky?’

  ‘Yeah. I’m from the same timp agency as you?’

  ‘You’re from Dutch & Dewar?’

  ‘Yeah. Apparently, that guy, er…?’

  ‘Marc.’

  ‘Yeah. That’s the one. He wanted someone to give you a hand? So here I am.’

  ‘Cool,’ said Ned, rubbing his hands together, ‘that’s excellent. Has he shown you everything? You know, the folders and the photos…’

  ‘Yeah. Uh-huh.’

  ‘And the coffee machine? The toilets?’

  ‘Uh-huh. Yeah.’

  ‘Excellent.’ He put down his tea and grinned at Becky.

  ‘So,’ she said, ‘you’ve been locked in here all on your own all week?’

  ‘Yup.’

  ‘Jesus. I can’t believe they’re making us work in here. With no windows. On a day like today. It’s criminal!’

  ‘I know,’ said Ned, so relieved to have someone on his level who he could have a good moan with. ‘And it’s not as if there isn’t enough room for us in there,’ he indicated the PR office over the way. ‘Have you been in there? It’s vast.’

  ‘That Marc guy’s such a winker,’ she said, ‘and what is going on with his hair? He looks like Sonic the Hidgehog.’ She laughed and then stopped herself. ‘Shit – listen to me – I’ve picked up the whinging virus. I sound like a fucking Brit!’

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘Australia or New Zealand?’

  ‘Australia. Sydney.’

  ‘Oh. Really. Whereabouts in Sydney?’

  ‘Bronte Beach.’

  ‘No!’ said Ned. ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yeah. Why? Do you know it?’

  ‘Know it,’ he said, ‘I lived there for three years.’

  ‘In Bronte? No way! How long ago was this?’

  ‘Just got back three weeks ago.’

  ‘Wow!’ said Becky, putting her hands in her jeans pockets. ‘That’s amazing.’

  And Ned looked at Becky and thought that yes, it was extremely amazing. It was amazing that she was in his cupboard, it was amazing how pretty she was and it was amazing that now there’d be someone for him to talk to all day. And not only that but someone he had so much in common with. As they talked and folded cardboard and drank rotten tea together it turned out that they knew people in common, that they’d been to the same bars and restaurants, had probably been in the same place at the same time on more than one occasion. Becky had been to the Internet café where Ned used to work, Ned had been to a party at Becky’s ex-boyfriend’s flat.

  She was twenty-three years old and she’d been in London for nearly six months and was planning on spending another six months here, then going round Europe for a few weeks before she went home. She was living in a flat share in Wandsworth with four other Aussies and it was really weird for Ned to be having this conversation with someone who was in the same position as he’d been in for the past three years, except on the other side of the world.

  At one o’clock they went out for lunch together to buy super-cheap sandwiches from Benjy’s, which they took into Soho Square and ate in the sunshine. Becky wore pink sunglasses and sat cross-legged and straight-backed, picking blades of grass and tying them into knots. Ned stretched himself out across the grass and felt its springtime dampness seeping through the denim of his jeans. The sun was hot but tempered by a cool breeze. All around were other people like them, young office workers enjoying their hour of freedom, soaking up the precious rays of sun as if they might preserve the moment for ever.

  They talked about music and London and food and football. Becky liked curry, Chinese, pizza and lager, although if someone bought her champagne she wouldn’t say no. She went to see a band about once a week (the best thing about living in London was the live music) and supported Chelsea (because they were her local club and all her flatmates supported them, too). She missed her friends and her dog and her mum and dad. They talked about being away from home, about the bittersweetness of having the best time of your life while being so far away from the people who know you and love you the best.

  At two o’clock they went back to work and chatted the afternoon away. They took the piss out of Marc, laughed at the photographs of the prepubescent pop star whose career they were assisting and drank hot chocolate from the machine down the corridor. By five o’clock they’d developed a rapport more in keeping with people who’d known each other since they were five, so when they left the building together and it was still
sunny and they were still chatting it seemed only right to suggest that they go and get a drink together somewhere.

  They went to the Coach and Horses on Greek Street and pulled torn-vinyl-topped stools out on to the pavement, which was heaving with sweaty post-work bodies: couriers, media types and craggy-faced alcoholics. There was a chill in the air as the sun started to sink behind the tall, thin buildings of Soho, but with a pint of lager inside him and a pretty girl by his side Ned was barely aware of the goosebumps on his forearms.

  This is it, he thought as he watched Becky walking into the pub to get another round in, this is my perfect sort of night. Unplanned and spontaneous, a mild spring night, cold lager, a lively pub and a gorgeous, funny, sweet-natured girl. This was what being young, free and single in the city was all about. And this was exactly what Gervase must have meant when he’d talked about life’s ‘pattern’. Ned had been good and good things had come to him. And about bloody time too. He felt the lager gently suffuse through his body, loosening up his limbs and his mind, and he felt himself swell up with pure potential. Summer was just beginning, he was home, he was free from Monica, free from everything. It was all out there, he thought, looking around him at the restaurants, clubs and people, everything he wanted was out there and it was beautiful. He just had to be brave, grab it, have it, look after it.

  ‘There you go, ducks,’ said Becky, walking out of the pub and plonking two dewy pints of lager on the table in front of them. Ned smiled at her and she smiled back. She had lovely teeth and her eyes crinkled up when she smiled. This was so nice and normal, he mused, so healthy compared to running away with Mad Monica or fantasizing about his brother’s girlfriend. Being with Becky made him feel like a proper human being, not some scrag-end of humanity left out for the bin men, someone who was only fit for weirdoes, psychos and other people’s women.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said, picking up his pint and clinking it against the side of Becky’s. ‘Here’s to… possibilities.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Becky, ‘I can’t think of a better toast. To possibilities. Cheers.’

  Ned looked at Becky and she looked at him. Neither of them looked away. This was it, thought Ned, this was it. New job, new girlfriend. His new life started here.

  Bring it on…

  Ned walked Becky to Tottenham Court Road after the pub closed. It was properly cold now and they walked down Oxford Street close together, their bare arms touching, to keep warm. They were both nicely drunk and in high spirits as they walked, still chatting and laughing and getting on like old mates.

  ‘So,’ said Becky, ‘which is your favourite Oxford Street?’

  ‘Shit,’ said Ned, ‘that’s a tough one. I think Sydney Oxford Street – it’s less tacky. What about you?’

  ‘This Oxford Street – definitely.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘’Cause it’s longer. Got more shops on it. And it’s in London.’

  ‘So d’you prefer London to Sydney then?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say I prefer it. Sydney’s such a great place, all my friends are there, the food, the weather – it’s a fantastic city – but being in London, it’s like being in a bit of history. It’s like everywhere you walk, you know that someone important’s probably walked on the same paving stone as you. Like this one,’ she stopped and pointed at the paving stone she was standing on. ‘Anyone could have walked on this – Jimi Hendrix, John Lennon, Laurence Olivier, Princess Di – and for centuries before that, too – kings and queens and discoverers and explorers. And just the sense of recognition here. The red buses, the registration plates, the road signs, the policeman – they’re all so familiar, you know, you’ve seen these things a million times in films and on the TV. That’s what I love about London; it’s that sense of being in the epicentre of something, not on the periphery. I love it. I love London, I really do.’

  She grinned at him and he thought to himself that he wanted to kiss her more than he’d ever wanted to kiss anyone in his life.

  ‘My surname’s London, you know,’ he said, smiling proudly at her.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Uh-huh. If you married me you could be Mrs London.’

  ‘Cool,’ she laughed. ‘Rebecca London – I like that.’

  Ned smiled to himself and they carried on walking.

  They stopped at the top of the steps down to Tottenham Court Road Tube.

  ‘How are you getting home?’ said Becky.

  ‘I’ll walk up to Holborn. Get the bus.’

  ‘You’re not getting the Tube?’

  ‘Er – no,’ he laughed. ‘I live in Crystal Palace. There is no Tube. Bus takes me straight to my door.’

  ‘Well, thanks for walking me – that’s really sweet of you.’

  ‘It was my pleasure.’

  ‘And see you tomorrow, yeah?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Have a safe journey,’ said Becky. ‘N’ night.’ And then she leant in towards him and at first Ned thought she was going to kiss him on the cheek, so he tried to turn his cheek towards her, and then her face moved a bit and he felt his lips brushing against hers and it felt so good, and he wanted to do it so badly, had wanted to do it all night, that he moved his mouth directly on to hers and started kissing her. It was all so confusing that for a second he didn’t even notice her trying to pull her arms from his grip or the fact that she was wriggling like a worm.

  By the time he did, it was too late.

  ‘Nid!’ she said when she’d finally managed to pull herself free from his embrace. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Shit, Becky. I don’t know. I thought… I thought you were trying to kiss me…’

  ‘On the cheek, mate – on the cheek!’

  ‘I’m really sorry, Becky. It’s just I’ve been wanting to do that all night and I’ve had a few drinks and I thought… Christ – I’m really sorry. I’ve really blown it, haven’t I?’

  ‘Nid,’ she said, resting her hands on his forearms, ‘there was nothing to blow.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I mean, I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression and everything, but I don’t fancy you.’

  ‘You don’t?’

  ‘No. I think you’re absolutely adorable. You really are a lovely bloke. But – you’re not my type.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yeah. Look. I’m really sorry. I really am. It’s nothing personal, honestly. It’s just, you’re a bit young for me.’

  ‘Young? But I’m four years older than you!’

  ‘Yes. It’s not your age – it’s you. I like my men a bit more… manly.’

  ‘You don’t think I’m manly?’

  ‘Well, you look manly – well, sort of manly. But it’s just the whole living-at-home, temping thing. I’m looking for someone with a bit more of a life going on? You know? Like with their own place, maybe, and a proper job? Does that make me sound shallow?’

  ‘No,’ said Ned, bowing his head and staring into the pavement waiting for a large hole to form and take him away from here. ‘It’s fair enough.’

  ‘God, Nid. I’m so sorry. I really hope it wasn’t anything I said or did. I hope I didn’t give you the wrong impression.’

  ‘No,’ said Ned, wanting just to start walking now and not stop until he’d purged himself of this hideous feeling of humiliation growing inside him like a tumour. ‘No. It wasn’t your fault. It was me. I… er… Look, I’m really, really embarrassed, so I’m going to go now. OK?’

  Becky nodded and threw him a look of such pity that Ned wanted to be sick.

  ‘Thanks, anyway. Thanks for a lovely evening.’

  ‘You, too, Nid.’

  Ned turned and started to walk away, conscious of the fact that Becky was still standing at the top of the steps, watching him leave.

  ‘Nid.’

  He turned around.

  ‘I just wanted to say. You’re a really great bloke. One of the nicest I’ve met since I’ve been in London. You’ll find someone great. I know you will.’
>
  Ned forced a smile and a nod and then turned and walked slowly and heavily towards High Holborn and the number 68 bus stop, cursing Gervase and his fucking ‘pattern’all the way.

  Tony Has a Good Week

  ‘Ninety-five kilos, Tony. Well done! You’ve lost two kilos!’

  Everyone in the group looked at him proudly and gave him a heartfelt round of applause.

  ‘How much is that in pounds?’ he whispered into Jan’s ear.

  ‘That’s about four and a half pounds.’

  ‘Is that good?’

  ‘It’s excellent, Tony – it means you’re under fifteen stone. Well done!’

  Under fifteen stone, thought Tony, a smile playing on his lips. Fourteen stone something. Fantastic! He took his seat in the circle and smiled around the group. Everyone looked like they were really pleased for him and he felt himself swelling up with pride. He was a winner!

  Not that his weightloss had anything to do with following Jan’s notes, counting calories or pounding away at the gym. No – his weightloss was due entirely to the emotional maelstrom that was whipping through his life at the moment. After spending so many years in an emotional wilderness, Tony could barely cope with the variety and strength of his feelings since Wednesday night.

  The first and most overwhelming emotion had been his hangover the next morning when his alarm had gone off at six-thirty. Quite the most revolting sensation of his life. His tongue had been covered in what felt like a thick layer of garlic-infused brandy and his head felt like a family of oversized beetles with pick-axes had moved in and were slowly chipping away at his brain. The other emotions had had to queue in line waiting for his hangover to dissipate before they could make themselves known. Once he’d showered and had some coffee he was aware of a strange sense of elation. He felt lighter and younger and full of some kind of burning energy.

  Ness had come downstairs in his dressing-gown and wrapped him up in a sleepy embrace, then she’d taken the Nurofen from the kitchen cabinet and popped four little capsules out of the blister pack – two for her and two for him – and passed his to him silently with a glass of water. He’d watched her moving around the kitchen, graceful and willowy, her ringleted hair hanging down her back, and had had to control another surge of desire.