Friends for Life

by Carol Smith

  “What happened to the original two?” persisted Sam. He knew he was overstepping the mark with all these questions but he just couldn’t help it. She was incorrigible, and he was fascinated as well as repelled by her lifestyle.

  “They got . . . mislaid,” she said. “I lost them in Cherbourg.”

  “How come?”

  She giggled, unable not to share the joke.

  “The customs men were waiting when we arrived,” she said. “And they picked them up. Isn’t that a riot? It’s a long story but I managed to lose myself in the crowd and luckily ran into Hector, who saved me by sweeping me off to Paris.”

  She really did think it was funny. Sam picked up the unread Independent and headed for his room. He didn’t even hope she would join him there tonight. There were times when Sally’s doings left him with a bad taste in the mouth. The sooner she settled down, the better. He’d have to give it some serious thought.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Georgy was in Harrods the same Saturday as Vivienne, and also in Bond Street, but she didn’t run into her again, which was probably just as well. She was shopping for a gift for Gus. She planned to surprise him with it later that night when she turned up at Orso’s at his regular table, something to commemorate the success of Autumn Crocus. It was hard to know what to get for the man who had everything but Georgy was ingenious, and also a stayer. The Fabergé exhibition had given her the idea of jeweled flowers, but that was wildly beyond her means and also perhaps a touch inappropriate for a woman to give to a man. She thought about an engraved cigarette case but he didn’t smoke, or an Edwardian snuff box, but he didn’t do that either. She really wished he would, now she thought of it, because it would rather suit his Edwardian style.

  She looked at cuff links but where on earth did you start? Antique ones, jeweled ones, sets with dress studs to match? Cartier, Tiffany, Calvin Klein? She had already trawled Camden Passage but all to no avail. There was no point in doing it at all unless they were exactly right and, now she came to think of it, Georgy had never actually seen Gus in sleeves that were not rolled up.

  Her mind flicked over his elegant house and she contemplated tasteful objets d’art that might complement his impeccable taste, but here again she drew a blank. A piece of porcelain, an exquisite glass bowl, Dresden egg coddlers for the breakfast table? Just the thought of the scowl on the face of Karl the Kraut was enough to put her off that one; so where else could she look? Whenever Georgy thought about gifts for Gus, in her mind it had a habit of turning into a wedding list. What she really wanted to buy was the beginnings of a dinner service, or a deluxe Cuisinart, or something tasteful for the bedroom, and she found herself beating her head in frustration and thinking if only, if only.

  In the end she settled for an arrangement of silk flowers—peonies and lilies in a plain glass bowl—which she arranged to have delivered to the house that afternoon, to avoid embarrassment at the restaurant. She hadn’t actually been invited but that was where he always ate after the show and tonight of all nights surely called for some sort of a celebration. Maybe she’d take a bottle of champagne—or should she phone Orso’s in advance and ask them to put some on ice?

  • • •

  That night Georgy dressed up for a change. She was so accustomed to wearing her working uniform of dungarees or jeans with a drab T-shirt or sweater that it was exciting to have a reason to rummage through her closet and choose something to make herself stand out and be appealing to Gus. Beth was no guideline at all, with her comfortable, frumpy clothes and flat shoes, but then she had been a back number all these years and Gus clearly preferred a more theatrical look.

  In the main, Georgy’s clothes were conservative. She had inherent good taste which led to cashmere and silk, with neat little Peter Pan collars and Chanel-style two-pieces, all suitable for a smart interview but not what she was seeking for tonight. She pulled out several outfits and laid them on the bed, then, in a flurry of agitated activity, tried each one on and gave it a negative vote. No, no, no. This was not the Georgy Kirsch she wished to project. She wanted to look smart and zippy and stylish; there was nothing here that would suit.

  By ten to five she was panicking so she grabbed her pocketbook and headed back west, desperate to find exactly the right thing before the stores closed at six. The King’s Road, she had discovered, was a real no-go area. Full of tat and easy chic—cheerful, bright, and inexpensive—but not what Georgy was searching for today. It had to be Harvey Nichols or Browns, but was there time? She was standing on the edge of the Fulham Road, dithering about taking a cab and if so, where to, when she spotted a small boutique that looked her sort of place, and headed blindly through the door.

  She still didn’t know, but the girls were nice and some of the stock was great fun. With your legs, they told her, you ought to wear something short, and, before she knew it, they had her into something minuscule and strapless, make of scarlet silk, but striking—no doubt of that—and actually rather becoming. Shoes? they asked her, as she proffered her card. There’s a boutique two doors up that does just the thing. So there she was, on the run again, with twenty minutes in hand, and ended up with Victorian satin ankle boots, high-heeled like a tart’s and tightly laced.

  There was time for a sit-down and a cup of tea when she got home, as well as a shower and a nap, since the show didn’t end till ten-thirty. But Georgy, being a fusser, had to get it all on long before time and then pace agitatedly up and down, trying to decide whether she dared wear it. Her shoulders were a bit bony but she could always cover them up. A shawl, maybe—but she didn’t have one.

  “Hello, darling!” said the cabbie, when she finally left, and that very nearly sent her scuttling back home.

  Orso’s were polite but oddly puzzled when she swept in and asked for Mr. Hardy’s table. She saw why the instant the waiter led her there; it was a table for ten and already fully occupied.

  “Hi, sweetie,” said Beth in surprise, sitting next to Gus with Imogen on his other side. “Nobody told me you were coming or we’d have picked you up.”

  There was silence. Several pairs of eyes, most notably Marla’s and Karl’s, glared hostility at Georgy, while Gus gazed helplessly in all directions and for once failed to come up with an answer.

  “Squeeze up, darling,” said Beth cheerfully, quick to the rescue. “Look, there’s plenty of room next to Imogen for another small one.”

  Georgy handed her sable jacket to the waiter and stood there revealed in all her satin splendor. Beth, she noted, was wearing a black linen smock over pants, and even Marla was more or less covered up. The rest of the gang were in workout clothes or jeans, as normal, and Gus wore his familiar denim. She had boobed—and in spades.

  “What a gorgeous dress!” shrieked Imogen, as diplomatic as her ma, and Georgy squeezed herself into the extra chair provided by a disapproving waiter and tried valiantly to make the best of it. But inside, once again, she was bleeding.

  • • •

  “What am I going to do about it?” asked Gus, sitting at Beth’s table the next day, head in hands. “I know it’s my fault, you don’t need to spell that out again, but what am I going to do?”

  It was almost funny. Beth suppressed her grin. He was such a dope, her husband, and so incorrigibly vain. She stirred the mushroom soup and added a little dill. It would do him no harm to have to face someone else’s feelings for a change. Maybe it would even help him to grow up.

  “Overkill, that’s probably the answer,” she said, after a moment’s thought. “Ever thought of pouncing on her and seeing what happens?”

  “You’re joking!” He was appalled.

  “Not entirely.” More crème fraîche, a touch more black pepper. Perhaps a little lemon juice.

  “Your problem is you’re always so much the gentleman. A touch of the old courtly love, that’s what gets to them every time. It could go on forever unless you stop it now. Assuming that’s what you want.”

  She stuck a teaspoon into he
r pot and waved it in front of his mouth. Like Imogen, Gus had grown to be an expert taster.

  “It’s hot,” she warned.

  “Mm,” he said. Then: “You can’t be serious. Pounce?”

  “Either that, or propose. Only I’m pretty certain she’d accept. Could you cope with that?”

  His eyes were anguished until he saw the laughter in hers, and they both collapsed on the table in a great guffaw of mirth.

  “Seriously,” he said, wiping his eyes. “It’s getting far beyond a joke. If she turns up one more time uninvited, I can’t be answerable for the consequences. I think Karl will kill her, I really do. He’s barely restrainable now.”

  “Maybe then they’d lock him up and you could get on with a more normal life.”

  She was only half joking. She still loved him a lot and grieved at times for his unconventional lifestyle. Gay, she could handle, just—though she thought it a shame, particularly after all the good times they’d had together—but Karl was a lot to stomach. What men like Gus—handsome, intelligent, educated, and fortyish—could see in these callow boys defeated her. Yes, he had a delectable bum, she would grant him that, but didn’t the initial lust wear off faster than this? And why couldn’t Gus find someone more worthy? It was an ancient debate but it still troubled Beth. Why not an equal, one of his peers? The theater was packed with really wonderful men of a similar persuasion, so why Karl? As soon ask me, Why Oliver? she thought. Only she didn’t think the two cases were at all comparable.

  “If you were straight, you’d be a dirty old man,” she commented as she stirred in the cream. Then they both screamed with laughter again until Imogen appeared accusingly to tell them to shut up and to remind Gus he’d promised to help her with her math.

  • • •

  “The thing is,” said Gus carefully, as they strolled along the bank of the canal, “things are not always as they seem.”

  One of the aspects of Georgy he particularly disliked was her tendency to stand too close, to crowd his space. She was doing it now, walking right up tight against him as if they were lovers. Any minute now she’d be taking his hand like Imogen.

  He tried again.

  “I mean, there they go”—he indicated ahead—“the two lovely ladies in my life, to whom I am devoted, but that’s not really the point.”

  This was awful. He was getting nowhere. Up close, her teeth were extraordinarily unattractive, small and pointed and feral, like a ferret at bay. She was staring at him intently, her mouth slightly open, and he felt like wading into the filthy water in order to make his escape. Beth and Imogen, deep in conversation, strolled on oblivious of his situation. He loved them both to distraction but he could use a bit of assistance right now. Should he whistle or what? On cue, Beth turned and waved but kept on walking. Damn her, she knew exactly what he was trying to do, and would she help him? Dream on!

  “What I’m trying to say,” he blundered on, “is that all is not as it might seem.”

  Georgy’s large gray eyes grew moist. This time she did take his hand and squeezed it with sudden understanding.

  “Gus, it’s okay,” she said. “I know what you’re trying to tell me and you don’t have to worry. I know about Beth and you, we’re friends after all and discuss these things.” Georgy was proud of her new, close relationship with Beth. It was a first for her, to have a female confidante. “Of course I’d never do anything to come between you but she tells me all that has been over for years. It’s okay. But it’s darling of you to be so considerate. Most men wouldn’t have given it a thought.”

  Cripes, this was even worse than he had feared. Beth, where are you when I need you?

  “Look,” he said, toughening up, stopping her in her tracks and turning her to face him. “There’s something I have to say.”

  The eyes were still misty, the mouth all moist, almost as if she expected to be kissed. Suppressing a slight shudder, Gus took the plunge before things could get any worse or more out of hand.

  “I am what I am and I can’t do anything about it. You are a wonderful person and I love you like a sister but that’s all there is. Or will ever be.”

  So help me, God.

  “You mean there’s somebody else?” The lip was beginning to tremble, any second now there’d be tears. He couldn’t believe this, not in one who was usually so smart.

  “Yes, if you like,” he said, defeated. No point laboring a point if she didn’t want to hear it. “And I’m sorry.”

  “You rat!”

  She virtually spat at him, her eyes now ablaze, then turned abruptly on her heel and flounced away, back along the towpath in the direction they had come.

  “What happened to Georgy?” asked Beth in genuine surprise when he caught them up.

  “She went home,” he said, linking both their arms in his and continuing with their afternoon stroll. Whew, but there were moments when he felt like giving it all up and entering a monastery.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The tractor was giving him trouble and he cursed as he cranked it up one more time, his hand wrapped in an oily rag, the sun beating down on the back of his neck. So much plowing still waiting to be done and the whole of the Long Meadow to be seeded. One of these days he was going to have to let up a little and hire some help to replace the heirs he no longer could count on. He paused to wipe his brow and tilt the battered straw hat lower over his eyes. He was not as old as he looked but had weathered enough trouble to have put many a younger man into the ground.

  Shimmering in the haze from the baking soil, a figure was approaching from the far end of the field, walking with a lightness of step and length of stride that were not familiar. He leaned against the hot metal bonnet of the tractor and shaded his eyes in an effort to see. The parched brown earth stretched for acres in all directions. Not a single other living thing was visible on the horizon. Now who was this, then, coming to make trouble?

  “Hi, it’s me.”

  For a full two minutes his mind was blank, so long had it been. The figure grew nearer.

  “You didn’t come to see me, so I thought I’d pay you a visit. Just for old times’ sake.”

  As recognition dawned, he could scarcely believe what he was hearing—the voice of the damned; a visitor straight out of hell. Instinctively, he straightened and stepped back, holding one gnarled hand in front of his face to shade his eyes and shield them.

  “You just stay away from here, do you hear me? You’ve caused enough damage already. I won’t have you on my land.”

  He was a simple man, a farmer, with a quiet faith that had kept him going through all these long, tortured years. Not educated or even particularly clever; he knew right from wrong and kept himself to himself. And recognized evil even when it came disguised as kin.

  “Oh, come on now, you can’t mean what you’re saying. Who have you got left now apart from me? Time to kiss and make up, don’t you think?”

  The smile was bright and mocking and the laughter light. He turned and stumbled away, back up the empty field away from this demon, the one being in the world he had sworn never to set eyes on again.

  “Won’t you even talk? I’m going away.”

  His ears were deaf to the voice of corruption and he didn’t even turn when he heard the sound of the tractor’s engine, reluctantly revving into life.

  “Can’t we just talk? One last time?” But he was having none of it.

  The tractor caught him fair and square in the middle of the back and rolled over him, leaving him to die—alone, as he had lived for so long—in the center of the land that was all that was left to him of a ruined life.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Beth was sharpening knives. She had the full armory spread across the kitchen table as she worked away with her worn steel, using skill and good honest sweat in place of something more modern. Gus had once offered to buy her an electric sharpener but Beth had pooh-poohed the suggestion. Professionals, she had pointed out, always did it the old-fashioned way.
>
  “You mean the hard way?”

  She had smiled. Gus was such a perfectionist himself, it was satisfying for once to be able to act superior. And the truth was, once you had the knack, it was really no effort at all. Probably that was true of most things; a secret well kept.

  The phone rang. It was Georgy again, this time with a long grouch against Gus. Beth listened silently, receiver tucked under her chin, and went on plying her steel. Oh, tell me the old, old story. There were times she was glad to be hors de combat, away from the exhausting business of love. A little hanky-panky on the side was quite enough for her, especially since she had gotten to know Vivienne slightly and seen the sad lines in her face and those haunted eyes. Great beauty could be an asset but it obviously wasn’t enough. Beth’s life might be patchy but at least she could say, with her hand on her heart, that it was satisfying. That was a woman who was clearly suffering, and it didn’t make Beth feel good.

  Imogen bounced into the kitchen, clutching her Snoopy pajamas and a toothbrush, anxious to get going with her own evening plans. She was growing so fast, they would soon be living separate lives. Tonight Beth had a date with Oliver, and Imogen was staying over with her friend Natalie. Imogen picked up the Chinese cleaver and waved it threateningly at her mother.

  “Put that down! It’s sharp!” warned Beth, then, “Sorry, Georgy, but I do have to go. I have this awful child capering around me, about to do herself or me some monstrous harm. I know, like father like daughter. Tell me about it! Talk to you soon.”

  She laughed at Georgy’s blunt reaction, then hung up.

  “Come along, pumpkin, let’s get this show on the road. Oliver will be here in less than an hour and I’m nowhere near finished yet. And Natalie’s mum will be expecting you.”

  “What are you doing?” asked Imogen curiously, surveying the warlike battery on the table.

  “What does it look like? I’ve got a Greek wedding and a party of Japanese businessmen this week so I thought it was time for a little honing and polishing—just in case they ask for sushi.”