by Jane Fallon
I thought about it. Even though it had rained more or less non-stop for the past month, I still liked knowing I had my secret rooftop garden up there (and, to be honest, it was a bonus, because I was so busy I wouldn’t have had time to go up there and water every day). And if I stayed, I could maybe splash out on some new kitchen cupboards from Ikea or on tiling the bathroom. I knew Fiona was never going to stump up for any improvements but if I knew I was going to be somewhere where I could afford to pay the rent for a whole year, maybe I could.
‘Ten per cent is way too much, though,’ Kat was saying. ‘Tell her you’ll stay if it’s five.’
‘What if she says no?’
‘She won’t. She doesn’t want the hassle of having to find someone new.’
‘Oh God, I don’t know, Kat …’ Now I’d decided to stay, I really wanted it to work out.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Kat said. ‘Let me call her.’
In the end, Kat managed to get Fiona to agree to a four per cent rent increase and that the landlord would pay for any future structural repairs. I have no idea how. Some kind of Jedi powers or secret estate-agent code of honour, I assume.
‘Oh, and those two downstairs are moving out,’ she told me when she called back. ‘She let slip that the new tenant is paying more than she’s asking you for.’
Knowing I’m staying put for another year has galvanized me into action. On my days off, I have finished sanding and painting the woodwork and put up curtains. I’ve whitewashed the ceilings and tiled the bathroom. Oh, and I invested in some inexpensive wooden flooring for the whole flat and threw away the rug. It reminded me too much of Simon every time I looked at it and, the truth is, I’d never even liked it, it had just been a running joke between us that I no longer found funny. We put it in Kat and Greg’s car, hanging out of both back windows, across my lap, and drove around looking for a skip to put it in. Last seen in Hampstead Garden Suburb.
A woman called Celia has moved in downstairs. Forties, I would guess. Quiet. She seems nice. Friendly.
I’m home from work early today. I wasn’t in the final scene so I finished just after four and got back here just in time to make it to the little organic grocer’s around the corner before they close. It’s unexpectedly cold, the first nip of autumn in the air, even though it’s only August. I’m letting myself in through the street door, with my bag of asparagus and blackberries, when someone says, ‘Amy,’ right behind me and I jerk back and drop my keys. I know that voice. I’d know it anywhere.
I’m tempted not to turn around. To barge into the hall and slam the door behind me. But then she says, ‘Please …’ and, before I know it, I’m looking right at her.
She looks even thinner than usual. Her faded jean jacket swamps her. Underneath it, the bright neon-pink top confirms that this is definitely Mel.
‘What do you want?’ I bend down to pick up my keys.
‘To talk to you. Please.’
‘I don’t think we’ve got anything to talk about. I don’t know what you’re doing up here, but I don’t appreciate you hanging around outside my house.’
‘I’ve got no other way of getting in touch. Just let me come in for ten minutes. Please. I’ve been freezing my tits off for hours out here.’
There’s no way I’m going to let her into my flat. It’s become my sanctuary. ‘Ten minutes,’ I say, walking off. I don’t even wait to see if she follows. The café on the corner will be closing any minute now, but I head in and sit at a table by the window before they can tell me I’m too late.
‘Just a water, please,’ I say as the waitress heads over. ‘We won’t be long.’
‘Two,’ Mel says, as she sits down. ‘Thanks’.
She looks at me. I’m finding it hard to make eye contact. I’m still furious but, also, I’m terrified I might get sucked back into her world.
‘How are you?’
‘I’m fine. We don’t have time for the niceties. Why are you here?’
The waitress plonks two small bottles of water and two glasses on the table. She flips the sign on the door to ‘Closed’ and gives me a look as if to say, ‘You saw that, right?’ I give her a weak smile.
‘To apologize. I know you won’t believe a word of it, but I’m really sorry. For Jack. For the whole thing.’
I look up, finally, and I’m met with the full force of her green eyes. She wipes away an escaping tear.
‘Okay. Well, I appreciate that. Thank you.’
‘Amy, please,’ she says, too loudly. The waitress looks up from the counter she’s wiping down. ‘I need to know you forgive me. I’m not expecting you to want to be friends –’
I snort. ‘Huh.’
‘– but I need you to know I’m sorry. That I took you for granted. That I behaved like a bitch.’
‘Fine,’ I say. I just want her to finish saying her piece and go.
‘It’s not fine, though, is it? Of course it’s not fine.’
‘Mel, we don’t ever need to see each other again. We can just get on with our lives. It doesn’t matter what I think of you.’
‘It does, though,’ she says, and now she’s all-out crying. I glance over at the waitress, aware that she wants us out of there, and her expression has softened. She waves a hand as if to say, ‘It’s okay, take your time,’ and goes back to covering the food in the display case.
The thing is, I can’t just sit there and watch Mel cry. Despite everything, it’s still always going to tug at my heartstrings to see her upset.
‘Okay,’ I say, more gently. ‘I accept your apology. And I apologize, too, for the stuff that I did. I’m not proud of it –’
‘It was nothing compared to what I did to you. I’m a horrible person. I’ve always been a horrible person.’
I don’t contradict her. She’s right. We sit there in silence for a moment.
‘But I’m trying to be better,’ she says.
There are so many questions I want to ask her, but I force myself not to. I pour the last of my water into the glass. As if she can sense my curiosity, she says, ‘Jack says hello.’
I’m so taken aback I don’t know what to say.
‘We’re still together,’ she says, through tears. ‘We’re trying to make it work. It seemed as if that was important after … you know … that at least I didn’t just give up and move on to the next, as usual. I don’t know how long it’ll last – I think he still misses you, in all honesty – but I’m giving it a go. He knows I’m here. No more sneaking around.’
‘No,’ I say. I wait for a residual pang of jealousy or regret, and there’s nothing.
‘And I left my job. I couldn’t … after … not that I’m having a go at you for that, because I know I did a million times worse … and you know I hated it anyway and needed a kick up the arse to do something else. And I don’t think Jack would have even considered trying if I’d still been seeing John every day. Anyway, I’m going to use some of the money from the flat to train to be a massage therapist. Something completely different, you know.’
‘Good for you,’ I say. I down the last of my water as if to say, ‘It’s time to go.’ But Mel’s not finished.
‘Oh, and Jack got a new job. Colby Sachs. They called and asked if he wanted to apply because they suddenly had a position vacant and they’d met him before or something. Anyway, he got it.’
I’m surprised by how pleased I am. Pleased and relieved. I was never comfortable with the idea of ruining someone’s career.
‘Great. Tell him congratulations. I mean it. We should go.’
‘Oh. But I wanted to ask you how Chris was. And Kat. I’m sure they must both hate me –’
‘They’re fine. Everyone’s fine. We’ve all moved on.’ I don’t say, ‘Kat’s a really good friend, a proper friend who’s pleased when things go well for me and always there when they don’t,’ even though I’m tempted to. I put a fiver on the table. The waitress picks it up and goes off to retrieve change.
‘Could we … I mean, do you want to
go and have something to eat, or a proper drink or something?’ She looks at me pleadingly. I almost accept. Almost.
‘I don’t think so, Mel. I appreciate you coming all this way to apologize. I really do. And I accept. No hard feelings. I’m happy you’re sorting your life out. Happy for you and Jack. But let’s leave it there.’ I stand up, take the change and hand the waitress back a fifty-pence piece. ‘Thanks.’
‘And you’ve got this great new part, haven’t you?’ Mel says. ‘I was reading about the series somewhere and I saw your name. I’m so pleased for you. Genuinely. I hope it really takes off. I mean that, Amy. You have to believe me.’
‘I do. Really. It’s okay,’ I say, heading for the door. Outside, it’s cold and drizzly, far darker than it should be for the time of day.
Mel walks beside me in silence. I don’t know if she’s hoping I’ll change my mind and go out with her or invite her in. I stop when we reach my front door.
‘Bye, then. Don’t stress yourself about it. It’s all forgotten, I promise.’
She looks at me for a moment, mascara streaked down her cheeks. ‘I miss you.’
‘Mel, do me a favour. Don’t come up here again. Don’t get in touch. If you really want to show me you care about me, you’ll give me that.’
She nods, blinking back tears. Puffs her cheeks out and exhales slowly. ‘Of course. Okay.’
I lean forward, give her a quick hug. ‘I hope things work out.’
I wait for her to turn away and head across the road, presumably towards her car, before I let myself in.
59
By the beginning of July, we had moved in together. Me, Mel, Kat and Liz. I’d found the house in an ad in Loot and I’d taken it before Mel could see it and object to how shoddy it was and the fact that I’d had to conjure up two complete strangers to make up the rent. I wanted to live a real life, not one where her parents would rent a beautiful two-bedroom apartment in a nice part of London and let us both live there for free.
I did make sure she had the best bedroom though. I was afraid, otherwise, she’d take one look and walk straight out again. With the landlord’s permission, I painted both her and my bedrooms, and the communal kitchen and hallway, too. Not knowing Kat or Liz from Adam, I decided they were on their own with their little rooms.
Mel wanted to explore London while she waited for all the agents she’d contacted to snap her up. She had finally binned off Sylvia, telling her that her move to the city was the reason, and she’d sent out headshots, along with a letter listing her achievements. When she realized I wasn’t about to drop everything to keep her company, she went into a major sulk.
‘You’ve basically abandoned me,’ she whined when I came in late one afternoon after a shift at a local café.
‘I’ve got two jobs, Mel,’ I said, flopping down on to one of the kitchen chairs. ‘I can’t just bunk off.’
To be honest, if I could have, I would have. I hated knowing she was pissed off with me, but I also knew I had no indulgent parents waiting in the wings to pay my rent if I couldn’t afford it. And I was avoiding signing on, for fear they’d make me take a full-time job I didn’t want and which would prevent me from going to auditions.
I remember so clearly Kat coming in from her job in the office of a building firm – this was long before she decided what she really wanted to do with her life – just as Mel was saying:
‘I’m so bored all day.’ In a voice that would work well on a four-year-old.
‘What do you do, Mel?’ she asked innocently. Mel hadn’t exactly spent a lot of time making small talk with her by this point, despite Kat’s efforts to be friendly, and Kat was out at work all day, so I guess she just assumed Mel was, too.
Mel had looked at her imperiously ‘I’m an actress.’
‘Oh, like Amy,’ Kat had said, taking off her glasses and cleaning one lens on the hem of her skirt.
There was no way she could have known this was the wrong thing to say. I wanted to throw myself in front of her like a fire blanket to protect her from what was about to come.
Mel sniffed. ‘I actually went to drama school. And I model and sing as well.’
‘Oh, right.’ Kat said. ‘Which one are you doing at the moment?’
‘I’m in between jobs,’ Mel said. ‘I’m waiting for the right thing to come along.’
I looked between them like a dog watching a game of catch.
‘So, like Amy, then?’ Kat said. I couldn’t tell if she was trying to wind Mel up or not. Later, I realized that she was just getting the facts straight in a very Kat-like way.
‘Oh, I’d take anything at this point,’ I said, deciding to defuse the situation. ‘I don’t care if it’s the right thing or not.’
After a few weeks, Mel had heard nothing from any of the agents she’d written to and so she started ringing round, checking whether they’d received her details. One by one, they told her their books were full.
‘Will you introduce me to your agent?’ she said one night when we were sitting in my room, sharing a bottle of wine.
‘Of course,’ I said, although I didn’t really want to. I felt my own connection with them was hanging by a thread – I was sure they would suddenly realize they’d made an awful mistake taking me on and drop me at the first opportunity – and I knew what a wrecking ball Mel could be. But I couldn’t say no to her. I wanted her to be happy and I knew that she wouldn’t be until she could get her career underway. So I plucked up the courage and asked Christian to do me a favour and, probably because he wasn’t very experienced and had hardly any clients, he said yes.
Mel came back from the meeting beaming. She was sure he was going to offer to represent her; he had more or less said so. He just wanted to see her in action, so she was going to drop off a VHS she’d had made when she was with Sylvia, a compilation of some of her finest moments. And even though it made me uneasy, I was relieved.
And then two things happened on the same day. I got my first job (a new play in a tiny theatre above a pub in Shepherd’s Bush. It was a profit share, and I soon realized that ten per cent of nothing was nothing, but I didn’t care. It was a real part and, even though we played to only a handful of people a night and I still had to do my shifts in the café during the day, it was work) and Mel got a call from Christian saying that he was sorry but he didn’t think they had room for her on their books after all.
And then a week later, Mel’s mum rang in tears to say her father had been made redundant. They were going to be fine but they weren’t going to be able to pay her rent any more. For the first time in her life, Mel was going to have to stand on her own two feet. I expected her to pack up and move back home where she could live for free and keep on pursuing her dream and I was proud of her when she decided to stick it out in London. She took the first (decently paid) position that would have her, courtesy of a contact of her family’s. I wasn’t expecting her to give everything up so completely, but the life I was living – scrabbling around doing several badly paid jobs and performing to six people in a shithole – held no appeal for her. But she was never going to be content just being someone who worked in an office. She’d clung on to her gilded past, telling anyone who’d listen her exaggerated version of her many achievements.
I learned to play down any successes I had – even though most of them were things she wouldn’t have considered doing in a million years herself anyway, like Theatre in Education or unpaid roles in student films. To me, it was all experience in the bank. To her, it was a big waste of time – and she rarely asked for details about anything I was doing.
She never once came to see me perform after that first time at college. Not once in twenty years. But if I think back now, I can picture Kat sitting in tiny pub theatres or community centres or Soho basements, face beaming, hands clapping, gushing afterwards about how amazing I had been, even when I knew, on many occasions, that simply wasn’t true.
It’s taken me a long time to realize it, but I think I finally underst
and what a true friend is.
60
Who would have thought that my flat in the middle of nowhere would become the place we’d all agree to meet up, but it turns out Alistair and Siggy live in West Hampstead and Kieron and his other half, Jim, in Muswell Hill. Neither couple has a garden and the muggy late summer that’s emerged after all the rain makes sitting outside a huge plus, so Tom has volunteered my roof.
The summer of extreme sun and rain means that my plants are thriving, and I’ve filled the rest of the planters with lavender and honeysuckle, with a copious amount of ivy thrown in. I’ve strung coloured fairy lights across the three fenced sides and replaced the candles. I’ve even splashed out on two Adirondack chairs, painted sky blue, and Tom has agreed to help me lug the two kitchen chairs (now also sanded and painted by me, in white, with a stencilled flowery motif across the backs) up the ladder, so everyone has a seat. There will be eight of us. Kat and Greg are coming over. My best friends meeting my (now) oldest friends for the first time.
They get here early, helping me finish off the last bits and pieces to the pizzas I’ve made (everything from vegan to gluten-free, because I have no idea what anybody’s preference is). I’m so nervous I don’t know what to do with myself. What if they don’t like me? What if I don’t like them? I changed clothes at least three times until Kat finally told me to get a grip.
‘If they decide they don’t like you because you’re wearing khaki trousers instead of grey, then they really aren’t people you want to be friends with.’
‘I know. Love you,’ I say, making a grab for her and landing a kiss on the top of her head. She pushes me off. This has become my new favourite game. Hug Kat, tell her how much I love her and watch her squirm.
Tom arrives first, as he’s been instructed to. He’s been here once before, for a lazy evening of binge-watching Narcos on Netflix, because we discovered we were both obsessed and each had four episodes of the latest season left to watch. He greets Kat and Greg with a big grin and wraps his arms around them each in turn.