Friends for Life

by Carol Smith

  Joe watched appreciatively, polishing a glass. This one would do, no doubt about it. Not only was she one cool chick but she had the attitude for a popular pub like this. No need to check references or tedious things like that, she would be a definite asset behind the bar and the punters would love her. They were all the same, these Kiwis, hard drinkers, good mates, easy come, easy go. Plus they all knew each other and spent their lives crisscrossing the world, sleeping on each other’s floors and swapping connections, which in this trade was definitely an asset. He made a mental note to order in more Foster’s and Four X. Joe knew women, and he also knew the local lads. On Wednesday nights, when Chelsea was playing at home, they’d be lined up out the door and round the corner once they got an eyeful of this babe.

  “Here, I’ll help you with that,” said Sally. She reached for a cloth and started polishing with an efficiency that surprised him. She looked a mess with all that hair and those patched jeans and broken-down boots, but the hair was squeaky clean and the smile . . . well, the smile just took his breath away.

  “You’ve done this before,” he said, unlocking the till and emptying rolls of coins into the drawer.

  She smiled. “Guess you could say that. In Singapore, Bangkok, Cairo—you name it. And that’s just the ones I remember.”

  She finished the last glass, then gave the bar a rubdown and folded the cloth neatly on the edge of the sink. Joe was impressed. She looked too young and strangely unsullied to have traveled so far and seen so much. But that was Kiwis all over. They hit the ground running as soon as they fell out of the womb.

  “How long you been traveling?”

  “Long enough.”

  She grinned, and Joe wanted to grab hold of her and do something he oughtn’t. Back off, boy, he told himself. At least let her settle in.

  “So now you’re ready to slow down and put down a few roots, I hope?”

  “For a while, I guess. I kinda like it here.”

  Sally liked it all: the sunny day outside, the pleasant aftertaste of that zinging cocktail, and the general ambience of this friendly well-kept pub right in the heart of Chelsea where the action reputedly was. Joe seemed nice enough, with his neat bum and persistent smile, though the gleam in his eye and the bulge in his skin-tight jeans foretold trouble. Ah well, she could handle that if and when. God knows, she had had plenty of practice.

  Sally wandered home through Brompton Cemetery, stopping at the garden center to buy a pot of geraniums for the kitchen table. It wasn’t really her style to pretty up the places she passed through, but the boys had made her so welcome they were beginning to feel like family. Now she had this new job, she might as well linger on awhile. She liked the look of Joe, thought they might have fun together, and winter was nearly here. Once she had the cash for a new pair of boots, London was as good a place as any to hang out in, so she’d leave moving on until the spring. The great thing about these days was that nowhere was more than a plane ride away. A thought Sally found comforting.

  • • •

  Family. Even the unspoken word tensed her up and brought her out in a clammy sweat. Sally lay in the bath, her hair pinned up on top of her head and a cooling beer within easy reach. She stopped the memories coming. Being alone was a way of life; she traveled fast and she traveled light. Bar work suited her because of its very transience. It was straightforward labor, requiring very little specialist knowledge and easy to catch on to, and no one was likely to ask uncomfortable questions or expect you to fill in forms. Because she was paid direct from the till, she did not have to bother with tax or National Insurance, though lately Sam had suggested she ought really to be buying her own stamps, just in case she were ever sick and needed to go to a doctor. One of the great things about Britain, he explained, was its marvelous health care, second in the world to none. Sally had scarcely had a day’s illness in her life but you could never be entirely sure, accidents did happen. Sam was inclined to talk good sense; just occasionally she even listened.

  Sally had never had any trouble going places alone or making friends, and she moved on as and when the whim overtook her. She had quit the last job because the landlord had shown signs of becoming heavy and she really couldn’t be doing with that. And this job had fallen into her lap the way things had a habit of doing. She stopped by to use the lav in the pub on her way back from Chelsea Harbor one day and saw the card propped up on the corner of the bar. That was the way life happened to Sally. It suited her capricious nature.

  Downstairs a door banged and footsteps approached up the stairs.

  “Sal? Is that you?” called Sam’s voice from the landing. Sally smiled and slipped down into the scented water.

  “I’m in the bath. Bring us another cold one from the fridge, there’s a fellow.”

  “Would you like me to scrub your back?”

  He stood in the doorway in his City suit, beer in hand, tie loosened, eyes alight—scarcely able to believe his luck. Sally stretched her arms above her head and rose like Venus from the foam.

  “That,” she said softly, with her catlike smile, “is the best offer I’ve had all day.”

  • • •

  “You’ve got to be out of your mind,” said Joe, stretching back on the grubby pillows and inhaling slowly with closed eyes. It was midafternoon and the windows were closed, reducing the traffic and street sounds of All Saints Road to a distant roar. He passed the joint to Sally and she took a long pull. An ancient bedspread with a faded terra-cotta design was pinned across the window and the light that shafted through it was laden with dust. The room was untidy and practically unfurnished. Piles of newspapers and cardboard boxes littered the floor and Sally and Joe lay on a mattress in the middle. The only other item in the room, apart from a broken-legged chair, was a brand-new drum kit in the corner. Joe, it turned out, was only an occasional barman. He had aspirations.

  “No one signs up, are you crazy? What’s the point of hanging loose, man, if you go and toe the line like any wet honky?”

  “The thing is,” said Sally, rolling on to her tummy and pushing the heavy hair away from her face, “Sam says it works out in the long run if you get sick and want free medical care.”

  “But you’re not sick,” said Joe, drawing in the heavenly smoke.

  “Are you?” he asked after a long pause, opening one jet eye to give her a wary sideways look.

  “No, of course not.” She punched his well-muscled arm affectionately and sank her teeth playfully into his bicep. “But just in case I ever am, I thought I should make sure. What’s the point of being here if you don’t take advantage of the facilities? I thought you’d tell me what I have to do.”

  Joe responded by stubbing out his toke and rolling over on top of her. His hairless chest was slick with sweat and he gave off a powerful animal smell that kept her permanently aroused. It was just after four and soon they would have to get going.

  “All you need to do,” he said lazily into her hair as his fingers probed her most intimate regions, “is go to the nearest doctor and sign on so that you get a number, then never bother to buy your stamps. It’s simple. Every illegal immigrant can tell you that. It’s one of the great rip-offs that make this country so spectacularly badly run. You don’t pay tax, don’t have a permanent address or even a steady job. It’ll be years before they catch up with you, even if they bother, which I doubt.”

  Sally gave him a slow smile of satisfaction, flexing her spine and raising her pelvis.

  • • •

  She chose a man because she liked them better and kept remembering those nuns with their icy fingers and cold, searching eyes. A woman might have been more sympathetic to her particular requirements but she wasn’t ready to risk that yet. After a bit of asking around, she chose the youngest member of a local practice—Chinese, newly qualified and fairly devastatingly beautiful, though this was hardly the time or place to be thinking along such lines.

  He asked a few questions and wrote inscrutable notes, then got her to hop u
p on to the bed for an internal examination. It was unusual, he said, though not impossible and when she was ready he would give her the appropriate reference. Sally reappeared from behind the screen, buttoning her shirt, appeared to give it some thought and came to a sudden decision.

  “Let’s go for it,” she said. “Why not? Do it now and get it over with. God knows when I’ll need it but I might as well be prepared, doncha think?”

  “Oh, it’s not nearly as easy as that,” the doctor said, alarmed. “There’s a waiting list for anything non-urgent of up to two years.”

  “You’re kidding! I thought this was the country of opportunity and free medical treatment?”

  “That’s the reason. Everybody comes here.” He went on writing. “To jump the queue and be admitted out of turn you’d have to have some sort of emergency. It’s the only way. Either that, or go private.”

  “Oh, I reckon I can arrange that,” she said, winking.

  Then she slid into her battered boots, slung her canvas bag over her shoulder, looked him up and down with a cool appraising eye, and went off whistling into the late afternoon.

  • • •

  “What in hell’s name were you doing?” gasped Joe in horror when he heard her faint cry and ran to see what was going on. Sally stood in the small, cramped kitchen, blood pouring all over the Scotch eggs as she clutched ineffectually at her streaming left hand. It was a really nasty gash, right across her palm. The bloodied bread knife lay in front of her on the table.

  “My Lord, you’d better do something about that,” said Joe, grabbing a towel and wrapping it tightly round the wound. “Reckon you’ll need stitches. Best get you to the hospital.” Then, recollecting himself: “How do you feel?”

  “All right.”

  She was a little pale but entirely composed. She was some cool chick, this babe. He still couldn’t quite get the measure of her. He thought quickly and made a decision.

  “I’ll call a cab to take you over to St. Anthony’s. I can’t leave the bar so will you be all right alone? I can ask the driver to help you, if you like.”

  “No sweat.” Sally smiled bravely and clutched her bulky hand under one armpit as if to ease the pain.

  “Funny,” she said cockily, as he helped her into the cab and gave her a tenner to cover the fare, “I’m usually quite good with knives.”

  • • •

  When Jeremy got home, Sally was sitting at the table, pale but valiant, one hand heavily bandaged and fairly useless.

  “Do me a favor, mate,” she said, “and rub some marmalade on that bread for me.”

  Her color was returning a little but he could see she was more upset than she was letting on. He made her a sandwich and a mug of tea, examined the dressing, then made her go and sit quietly in the other room.

  “You’re probably suffering from shock,” he said, remembering his Boy Scout days. “Better take things quietly for an hour or so, just to be on the safe side.”

  It was probably that, her wan little waiflike face glimpsed unawares over the edge of the TV Times, that caused him to make his big mistake.

  “Say,” he said, slumping down beside her, with the paper and a can of beer, “my mater’s just sent me tickets for a show next week. Some charity do she’s sponsoring in Drury Lane. Care to come with me?”

  Sally brightened. She still had a bit of a thing about Jeremy, found his aloofness hard to fathom and refused to give up on a challenge.

  “Great!” she said. “I’d love to. Haven’t been to a show since I got here.”

  Jeremy looked at her carefully, cautious about his next words, anxious not to offend.

  “Just one thing,” he said, eyeing her general disarray, with the fat white bandage that would soon be as grubby as the rest of her. “It’s black tie.”

  She stared at him uncomprehending, then laughed.

  “No sweat, cobber,” she said. “I’ll borrow one from one of the others!”

  Chapter Eleven

  Wafts of stale sweat and dust and the all-pervading smell of greasepaint swept over Georgy whenever she went backstage, rocketing her back to her childhood days at Juilliard, when she was still the apple of her father’s eye and determinedly set on a career in ballet. Camera in hand, she threaded her way behind the flats, careful not to trip over the ropes, and took up a new position directly left of center stage, from where she had an uninterrupted view of the leading lady still trying to perfect her main solo dance number.

  Marla Henderson—all curves, curls, and baby-blue eyes—was trouble in the Monroe tradition and a bitch on wheels to boot. Autumn Crocus was due to open in just six days, yet Marla’s performance still left a lot to be desired, certainly in the eyes of the perfectionist director.

  “Again, Marla,” shouted Gus from the third row of the stalls, “and this time try to put some feeling into it. She is, after all, awakening to the one great love of her life, not facing a visit to the orthodontist. Get some zip into it and try to smile. Make the audience fall in love with you the way it’s happening to Vic. What’s the matter with you? You were never this wooden on Broadway.”

  Marla flounced across the stage, a dark pout on her face, wiping her neck with a towel.

  “It’s this goddamn theater, that’s what,” she complained. “The stage is all splintery and there’s nowhere in my dressing room that I can unwind. I feel like a hamster in a cage with no air-conditioning. It’s an insult.”

  “Okay. Take five.”

  Gus vaulted lightly onto the stage and put a consoling arm around his star. Marla Henderson was a monumental pain in the butt but he had known that from the start. It had been a gamble bringing her to London but she had that extra magic which made the constant sparring worthwhile.

  Georgy clipped the lens cap back onto her Leica and slung the camera resignedly round her neck. She hated it when Marla played up, stupid cow; even more so when Gus fell for her histrionics and went to such lengths to pacify her. She simply wasn’t worth it, no actress was, but even though Georgy had tried to insinuate this fact into Gus’s ear, he never seemed to listen. Now he was pacing the boards slowly with Marla, his arm still slung protectively around her fleshy shoulders, while Georgy gritted her teeth and turned away, furious with a mixture of envy and frustration to see her idol so obviously in thrall to the older woman.

  One good thing, though, it made time for a smoke break. Georgy fished through her camera bag for her Marlboros and stepped outside into the alley for a quick hit of nicotine. On the whole, she was enjoying her time in London, even though, in almost five weeks, she had made no real friends, just nodding acquaintances among the company. Her mother, Myra, sensing her loneliness, had made threatening noises about coming over for a while but Georgy had managed to hold her off. London at this time of year was cold and dank, she explained, and besides, all her time was taken up at the theater. This assignment was the most challenging of her career so far and she was determined to make it work for her. Having failed once, as a dancer, she felt time was running out. At twenty-six, another change of direction was out of the question, and even though photography was by no means a cushy number, it was a challenge that suited Georgy’s fiercely competitive nature. More to the point, it enabled her to stay close to Gus Hardy, though she wasn’t telling Myra that. No, the last thing she needed at this particular time was a fussy mother in tow. Her father might have been a different matter but, needless to say, he hadn’t offered.

  Even without a busy social life, Georgy’s days were kept pretty full. Each morning she was up early, as rigorously punctual as if she were punching a time clock, to wash her long hair, get in groceries and things like that, and be in Covent Garden by midmorning to watch the cast go through their paces. She took this assignment very seriously. New York Life was a notoriously hard market to crack, prestigious and overly choosy about who they used, and if she got it right, this could be her break into the big time. Georgy’s contract was open-ended but once Autumn Crocus had premiered and her pictures
had been dispatched all over the world, there was little else she could do with the company or, indeed, in London unless she was lucky enough to get more work while she was still on the spot.

  So, just in case, she was using every second of her time as profitably as she could. Nights that Gus told her he didn’t want her hanging around backstage, she took herself off to other West End theaters and managed to cram in, over the weeks, practically every show that was running in London, even the hard-to-get-into ones like Les Miserables and Phantom. Her coffee table was strewn with programs and she played the soundtracks incessantly on her personal stereo as she worked on her portfolio or whiled away cramped hours in the chilly space behind the stage while the cast was warming up and photography was banned.

  On weekends she rose even earlier, sometimes at five or six, in order to visit the famous street markets and indulge in her second passion, shopping. She scoured Brick Lane and Bermondsey as well as the more expensive Portobello Road and Camden Passage, and her money just leaked away as she amassed china and porcelain and hallmarked silver, all of which she carried lovingly back to Fulham to stash in boxes in the room she used as a darkroom, ready for transportation back to New York, if and when that time ever came. Georgy’s family was well heeled and from somewhere she had inherited an unerring eye for quality. Compared with Myra’s opulent clutter on Long Island and Emmanuel’s more gracious but starkly modern style in Newport Beach, Georgy’s own studio apartment on East Seventy-eighth Street was a model of enduring taste, one in which both her grandmothers, rest their souls, might well have felt in harmony and at home.

  Every now and again, on a Sunday, when the church bells rang and the world stayed home and read the papers, Georgy would unpack her booty and spread it carefully about the Hunters’ tidy living room, reveling in her purchases and wishing this were her permanent home so that she could display her own things all the time and build a proper nest. She would make some basic alterations, of course. She would change the wall color from pristine white to apricot, buy Oriental rugs for the rush-matted floors, and insert some Victorian stained-glass panels, from a shop she had discovered in the Portobello Road, into the fanlight over the front door and the bedroom windows.