Friends for Life

by Carol Smith

  “Georgy and I,” she explained, “are setting up in business together. To begin with, we are going to provide portraits of pets and children for people of discerning taste with expansive pockets; after that, who knows. We have all sorts of plans for conquering the world and taking on the mighty business of international charities, beginning with Cancer Research and leading on to who knows what.”

  “There’s Jerry Hall just come in,” said Beth, nudging her. “Pop over and give her your card, if you have one. She’s got those Jagger kids, plus the loot to pay your no doubt exorbitant fees. I’m sure she’d be delighted. And then you’ll have to track down Paula Yates.”

  “I’ve never actually done portrait photography,” admitted Georgy. “She’s forcing me into it. Help!”

  “It’s a pity Catherine’s not still with us,” said Sally. “She could have stuck a poster up in the waiting room. Snared all those Kensington ladies with their pampered pets.”

  “Great idea!” said Beth, beaming. “I’ll talk to Duncan and see what he says. It’s a lovely concept and I wish you both loads of luck. We small business persons have to stick together, so do feel free to pick my brains if ever you need to. I’ve survived twelve years so I must be doing something right. They say if you can make it for seven, you’re more or less home and dry.”

  She thought for a second. “Hey, why not do Imogen? That’s a great idea. They grow so quickly at this age and I’d love to have a permanent record of her. She’s not exactly an animal but close. Certainly as rowdy. I’ll speak to Gus.”

  Now she was talking; maybe he’d come to the sitting. Georgy visibly brightened. It had all seemed rather absurd at first, when Vivienne first broached the idea, but now it was beginning to take shape and these women, her friends, were certainly not scoffing.

  “I’ve already made one connection,” said Vivienne, beaming. “A friend has put me in touch with the World Wide Fund for Nature, formerly the World Wildlife Fund, and they are interested in seeing some of Georgy’s work with a view to perhaps using her in some of their propaganda campaigns.”

  Georgy looked stunned. This woman was too much.

  “The cat pictures, I thought,” said Vivienne to Georgy. “Those are a natural.”

  “What does Oliver have to say about all this?” inquired Sally, and Beth was fascinated to see Vivienne’s face harden and her eyes lose some of their sparkle.

  “He doesn’t actually know yet. After all, it’s my house too and he’s hardly ever home.”

  Interesting, thought Beth. Obviously things haven’t exactly improved.

  The food arrived and they ate. Tucking into her lobster pasta, Georgy thought she had never been happier. Viv was a dear, yet who would possibly have thought it a few weeks ago? She remembered the chilly, supercilious hospital patient who didn’t want to know them, and the peremptory brush-off in Harrods. Now Vivienne was revealing her real self; rich maybe but sensitive as well as beautiful, with feelings as delicate and easily bruised as her own. And not as well off as the world might perceive; childless and rudderless in that great barn of a house, married to a womanizing bastard who clearly didn’t appreciate her worth.

  She glanced across at Beth, sitting serenely chatting to Sally and spearing ravioli with an expert fork. Georgy still didn’t know the details but she had her suspicions about Beth and Oliver. A bit of hanky-panky going on there, if she read it correctly; she wondered if Vivienne had any suspicion of the viper she was nurturing so generously in her bosom? Should she, she agonized, drop her a hint, now that they were to be partners and were fast becoming friends? Probably not. Loyalty was all very well but it worked two ways. Georgy was not an expert on female friendship but she was beginning to learn. And, to give her credit, most of what she had learned she owed to Beth.

  At twenty to four they were still there drinking and the fourth bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé was being uncorked.

  “To Catherine!” said Beth suddenly, on a more sober note, and they raised their glasses in silence.

  They were all in tremendous form by now but the management didn’t seem at all concerned. That’s what money and clout can do, thought Sally tipsily, and Beth reached out a restraining hand to prevent her chair from toppling backward. Albert Finney and Snowdon were long since gone, and so was Jerry Hall, but two thin young things in huge dark glasses, who looked tantalizingly familiar, had arrived in the last half-hour and were canoodling in the corner, so it was obviously all right for them to linger on.

  Vivienne was glowing and Georgy had slipped the band from her hair, so that it flowed over her shoulders like Botticelli’s Venus. Beth had left the table twice to make discreet phone calls but seemed at ease about leaving her business to run itself.

  “Deirdre can cope,” she explained. “In fact, it does her good to have some responsibility for a change.”

  The waiter topped up their glasses and Beth proposed a second toast.

  “To friendship!”

  “Friendship!”

  Georgy still hadn’t told them her real news, so now she did. Looking prettier than they had ever known her, with flushed cheeks and tumbling curls, she made the announcement she had been hanging on to for so long.

  “Guess what, my dad’s going to be here next week! And I’d love for you all to meet him, if there’s time.”

  He’d be so pleased to find she was settling in well, and all these women, in their separate ways, would impress him. Even Eleanor, if she could persuade her out one night. Fancy Dad meeting a singer of that standing; that would really knock him for the count. He loved the opera, though rarely found time to indulge himself.

  “It’s on then?” said Beth with a warm smile. “That’s really terrific.”

  She was ashamed to realize that Catherine’s death had driven this important occasion clean out of her mind.

  “Now this guy,” she said, turning to the others, “we simply have to meet. I read all about him in Newsweek the other day and he really does sound like something else.”

  Georgy squirmed with pleasure while Sally studied her with curiosity. How odd folks were, to be sure. All this excitement about a parent, and an elderly geezer at that, if what she remembered from the hospital were true. White hair and a stern expression; his face had lingered in her memory since she saw his photograph, like some half-submerged memory. And he wasn’t even married to her mother anymore, so why was Georgy wetting her pants at the prospect of seeing him?

  “He’s staying at Claridge’s,” said Georgy, “though I’m not quite sure how long for, but I do want him to meet my friends, so I hope you’ll all be free.” She beamed at Vivienne, who patted her hand.

  “And Viv says we can do it in the studio.” She laughed. “Well, it won’t really be a studio by then but I do want him to see where I’m gonna be working.”

  Beth found it quite touching. In reality, Georgy was all vulnerability, with the softest underbelly imaginable. What a pity she didn’t let it show more often.

  “If you need help with the canapés,” she said impulsively, “you know you can count on me.”

  But Vivienne wouldn’t hear of it. This was her protégée and her party.

  “Dorabella would never allow it,” she said firmly, widening her brilliant eyes in horror.

  “Let’s hear more about your dad,” persisted Sally. She now had his face fixed clearly in her mind, as handsome as hell. “What does he do?”

  “Psychologist,” said Georgy proudly. “One of the best. He’s always on the go, all over the world, which is why none of us ever gets to see him anymore. Even my stepmother, Sylvia, says she wishes she’d married an astronaut.”

  “Does he specialize?” asked Vivienne politely, picking up the bill and signaling for a pen.

  She was having the best time ever, slightly tipsy in her favorite restaurant, celebrating new beginnings with her closest friends. Yes, her friends. Against all odds they had bonded, this disparate gang, and Vivienne felt life had taken on a whole new meaning. As far as O
liver was concerned, he’d blown it the other night; from this point on, they’d go their separate ways. She had a suspicion he’d been seeing someone else but suddenly that no longer mattered. Let him do as he damn well liked. She certainly intended to.

  Georgy was talking and Vivienne hadn’t caught a word she’d said.

  “I’m sorry, ma chère,” she said, passing the plate with her check back to the waiter, “what did you say he does, your father?”

  “Oh, didn’t I mention? He’s an expert in criminal psychology. I suppose you might say he specializes in psychopaths.”

  Chapter Forty

  Georgy wanted to tell Gus about her studio and see if she could persuade him to meet her father. Karl answered the phone. Gus was out. She tried again later but he was still not home so, on an impulse, she hopped on a bus to King’s Cross and trudged up the Caledonian Road to Ripplevale Grove. It was ten past six; he was bound to be home soon. Karl opened the door in T-shirt and jeans and the powerful smell of cooking wafted past him from the rear of the house. When he saw Georgy on the doorstep his handsome features twisted into a snarl and he moved as if to close the door in her face.

  “He’s not here,” he said.

  “I’ll wait.”

  “I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

  “Soon, I’d guess. You’re getting his meal.”

  She virtually pushed past him and, ignoring the sullen looks, walked boldly down the hall and into the spacious drawing room. There was no chance Karl would offer her a drink or anything but she felt she’d scored a tiny victory against the bully even by getting this far. With an air of calm she was far from feeling, she browsed casually through the pile of expensive art books on the minimalist glass table, affecting to be unaware of him watching her. She settled for a massive volume of Leonardo’s drawings, which she then lugged to the window in order to be able to study it in proper light. For a while Karl hovered, uncertain what to do, then, with a muttered German oath, headed back to the kitchen.

  Georgy’s heart was beating fast and her palms were damp. Though she would never show it, she found Karl really quite scary; there was something dark and threatening about him, even when Gus was around. He was the sort of man who really hated women and made little attempt to disguise it. Physically, too, he was quite frightening, with his smooth, well-developed dancer’s muscles. He clearly kept himself in peak condition. She knew he belonged to a gym where he worked out regularly and there was a rowing machine in one of the bedrooms which she had spotted while snooping on an earlier visit.

  To her relief, it was not too long before she heard the steady thrumming of a taxi engine outside and light footsteps hurrying along the path. She was in time to see Gus, chic in well-cut jeans and a black leather bomber jacket, bending his silver head as he fumbled for his keys. She hurried to meet him but Karl had got there first, so she stayed in the room and hovered behind the half-open door. She could hear rapid conversation in lowered voices, punctuated by a number of stabbing interjections that sounded like Teutonic curses. She went quickly back to the window and her book.

  After a pause, Gus swept in, jacket removed to display a white cashmere polo neck, a bottle of something chilled in his hand.

  “Georgy Kirsch!” he exclaimed, kissing her cheeks three times. “What a marvelous surprise.”

  Georgy carefully replaced her book while Gus searched for glasses on the drinks table. Karl was clearly not intending to join them; she could hear him in the kitchen at the rear, angrily banging about. When she was with Gus, everything in Georgy’s world made sense. He was sympathetic and attentive and paid her the compliment of always giving her one hundred percent of his concentration. Gus made her feel clever, even pretty, and, better still, important. She laughed more when she was with him and all the time fell deeper and deeper in love.

  He was enthusiastic about the studio.

  “Let me help,” he said, opening the bottle. “I have no doubt la belle Vivienne has the most exquisite taste but it might be fun to create a really contemporary setting for your work. How about a couple of Hans Wegner chairs to throw around? I’m pretty certain we’ve still got some stashed in the attic, left over from the last time we revamped the decor. And we must make sure you get the lighting exactly right, though who am I to be lecturing an expert!”

  Georgy preened. She told him about the partnership and Vivienne’s ambition to make her into the best animal portrait photographer in London. Gus was far too well mannered to let it show if he felt a twinge of dismay, but his enthusiasm when she went on to tell him about Cancer Research and the World Wide Fund for Nature was entirely unfeigned.

  “Now you’re talking,” he said. “Saving whales and dissuading rich bitches from flaunting their furs is really worthwhile, not to mention what it should do to your reputation as a quality photographer.”

  Karl stuck his head round the door to tell Gus that the stroganoff was almost ready, and naturally Gus invited her to join them. Georgy, however, knew her limits.

  “I have to go,” she said regretfully. “I have a dinner date on the other side of town.”

  But she did tell him about her father’s impending visit and that Vivienne was hosting a small drinks party in his honor, to which she hoped Gus would come.

  “Such a distinguished man,” said Gus, after he had checked his diary. “These days you can’t pick up a paper without seeing his name.”

  He said he’d come if he could and Georgy went off in a warm glow of happiness. It wasn’t a lot but it was something. Despite what he’d said to her that afternoon on the edge of the canal, she still had hope. She felt certain even her father would approve of Gus.

  • • •

  Her hopes were dashed, however, later that night when Emmanuel called from Amsterdam just as she was getting into bed.

  “Sorry, sweets,” he said. “I’m desolate but I have to fly right back to LA because they need me in court the day after tomorrow. So I’m afraid I’m gonna have to take a rain check on London for a while.”

  She was shattered. It had been so long and she had so much wanted to see him, to show him her work and introduce him to her friends. She’d even fixed tickets for the ballet and arranged to get her hair thinned and tinted. It wasn’t fair. But then it never had been.

  “Are you still there?” inquired her father, who knew his daughter well. “Look, how’s about popping out and buying yourself something you really want on my Amex card.”

  But this time it wasn’t going to work. She was grown-up now and could no longer be fobbed off with toys and trinkets in place of love.

  “There’s nothing I need,” she said stiffly, twisting the phone wire tightly round her fingers and chewing a strand of her hair. And, for once, it was she who ended the call.

  One of these days, thought Emmanuel regretfully, he’d really have to take a break in London, maybe even bring along Sylvia and the kid, and try to catch up with this daughter of his who so much resembled him in everything but charm.

  • • •

  It was a shame about the party but Vivienne suggested they do it anyhow but shift the date to a Sunday morning and turn it into a working party so that everyone could contribute to the transformation of nursery into studio. She was pretty certain Oliver would be away—she hardly ever saw him these days—so they had a clear day for scraping and painting and changing the rather twee drapes into something a little more sophisticated. She had wanted to call in a decorator but Georgy wouldn’t hear of it.

  “This is business, remember,” she said sternly. “You’ve been marvelously generous already but if it’s going to work on a professional level and not just as a hobby, it’s got to be self-supporting right from the start.”

  Sunday morning was bright and sunny and The Boltons resounded with the pealing of church bells. It could have been part of the Riviera, with its immaculate white villas and a riot of trees in full blossom. You certainly got what you paid for, thought Beth, as she parked beside the magnolia. She ha
uled a basket of homemade goodies from the backseat, her contribution to the picnic, and gave it to Imogen to hold while she locked up. Or did she mean you paid for what you got?

  There was a sharp blast from a horn directly behind her and she turned in time to see her ex-husband leap nimbly off his motorbike. Imogen dumped the basket and rushed to give him a hug. The joy about Gus was that he was Peter Pan incarnate, as lithe and boyish now as when they’d first met at RADA. He was pushing forty yet showed no signs of it. Only the silver hair added a note of gravitas, but that was distinctly a plus.

  “No Karl?” she said as they kissed. She had nothing tangible against the taciturn German, just preferred it when he wasn’t there. And at least it meant they’d get the best of Georgy.

  “Sulking at home,” said Gus cheerfully. “I told him that if he was going to behave like a child, he could stay in and turn out his room. Either that or move out altogether. I can’t be doing anymore with all his tantrums. Life is simply too short.”

  What a waste, thought Beth, not for the first time, as he hugged her. Such a lovely man, throwing away his life on someone like that. Then she saw the dusty bonnet of Duncan’s black Range Rover, parked on the corner, and her heart gave a little hop and a skip of joy.

  As a concession to the working party, Vivienne wore designer dungarees but nonetheless managed to look a million dollars. How she had improved, thought Beth, as they kissy-kissed in the hall. In just a few months her whole personality seemed to have altered and she was revealing a zest that had not been apparent before.

  “Everyone’s here,” said Vivienne gaily, taking the basket through to the kitchen. “Sally’s up a ladder, painting hard, and Duncan’s giving her stalwart backup by opening beers.”

  “Then we’d best get our skates on,” said Gus. “Lay on, Macduff!”

  These are my friends, thought Georgy, as they lolled around over a late lunch devouring the contents of Beth’s basket, backed up by Dorabella’s huge salad and washed down with white wine and chilled lager. The windows were open wide to let in the sunshine and what had been a rather sterile nursery was now dramatically transformed by clean white paint and a row of new shelves in plain varnished pine, erected with professional skill by Gus and Duncan. Imogen had lent her portable cassette player, just to keep them on their toes she said, and they had scraped and varnished and rollered their way through the morning to a background of Meat Loaf and the Pogues.