by Nina Manning
‘Yes, Hackett, birthday. Do you know what that means?’ Caitlin continued.
Hackett furrowed his brow as he looked down at Caitlin. ‘Both your birthdays.’ He pointed to me and then Caitlin. He looked confused and I could see his lips moving as he tried to think of the words he needed to say, but no more came.
I felt an urge to say, ‘It’s okay, I struggle to say what I need to say sometimes.’ But instead, I concentrated on the sensation of my arms prickling with heat and a swirl of sweat clinging to my lower back. I wanted to lift my hand up my vest to wipe it away, but I kept it pressed against my leg. I wondered if Caitlin was toying with him, making him suffer for his ignorance; his inability to understand the social situation he found himself in. Caitlin lifted her finger and had it pressed against her cheek.
‘No, silly Hackett. Just my birthday.’
‘But—’ Hackett went to speak, and this time I knew he had something else to say, but Caitlin interrupted him.
‘A birthday kiss for the birthday girl?’ She held her finger to her cheek.
Hackett made a sort of contented snorting sound as he registered what he was expected to do. He bent down, politely, and delicately planted a small peck on Caitlin’s cheek. I was rather surprised; due to his height and stature, I imagined he would be more forceful and clumsier with it. Once the deed had been done, Caitlin sat back down next to me.
‘Birthday kiss?’ Hackett moved towards me and sat on the grass as though he were about to re-enact the same kiss. I spurted out a loud laugh and jerked away.
‘No, Hackett, it’s just my birthday. Sasha’s birthday is in April.’ Caitlin laughed, and I felt a swell of pride that she had remembered.
Hackett grunted and walked away.
‘He tried to kiss me too! He thought it was my birthday as well,’ I said, looking at Caitlin through a breathless laugh, a combination of nerves and joy at her telling Hackett when my birthday was.
But she had a hard look on her face; she wasn’t laughing, and she didn’t seem to think it was funny.
I took a brief look back at Hackett as he walked away through the gate. Caitlin kicked her heels into the grass. I didn’t know why there was suddenly this tension between us. But I would find a way to make it right. I couldn’t bear the thought of Caitlin not wanting to be my friend. I was already learning that I could find a way to make her smile again and everything would be okay.
Even though Caitlin had been warned not to wander off too far, I thought half an hour couldn’t hurt.
‘Let’s go to the den and try and make fire by rubbing two sticks together!’
I saw Caitlin’s eye sparkle as she flung the towel to the ground. It was something her parents would almost certainly be against, and I knew she wouldn’t turn me down.
As we got up to move, something made me look up at the house, an intuition. My eyes were drawn to a window on the second floor where I saw a figure move backwards and I was almost certain it was Ava.
9
London, July 2009
Two months until the wedding
* * *
Things are looking up and I am once again thriving in full bridesmaid mode. I make sure I keep in contact with Caitlin every day because I firmly believe that the more contact we have, the less likely she is to pull away again. I knew that visiting Caitlin at her office had been the right thing to do. It was a journey that was long enough to show my dedication to our friendship, and Caitlin would know that. I can’t remember the last time she made it over to Fulham.
But that doesn’t matter because I am going to be the perfect bridesmaid and I am going to do my best to give Caitlin the best wedding. There will be affirmation from family members that it was indeed a beautiful day, but it’s Caitlin’s approval I seek. It always has been.
My phone lets out a loud trill and I jump at the noise. I slide the phone to answer on the second ring.
‘Hi,’ I say breathlessly.
The voice on the other end is endearing as ever.
‘Of course now is a good time to talk – anything for you,’ I say.
Five minutes later, I end the call. It’s always me ending the call; after a few minutes of talking, I always get a flash of Caitlin in the forefront of my mind and then the guilt kicks in. I end the call with a promise of a rendezvous. I am careful never to write anything down, no dates or locations. Aside from there being little evidence to prove where I was or with whom, for me it’s about out of sight, out of mind. I don’t need to remind myself that what I am doing is fundamentally wrong.
I look at the time and curse out loud. There is a chance I will now be late for my one and only appointment of the day, which I had cleared my diary for. A newly landed contract, collaborating with a model-turned-TV-presenter Roxy Tyrrell, who said she had found me on Twitter, but had emailed me directly. She wanted me to document her moving into her new home with video content for YouTube, a blog and images – she and her reality-TV-star boyfriend have just moved into a Grade II listed mansion in Notting Hill.
If traffic is kind to me, I will just about make it on time.
There is a removal truck outside when I pull up at the Victorian townhouse with two minutes to spare. Four men are navigating multi-coloured soft-play equipment in through the front door.
Roxy is out the front, and I recognise her immediately but suddenly I’m worried she won’t recognise me and won’t know who I am. But her eager wave assures me she probably had a good look at my image on my website.
Roxy is dressed impeccably in white yoga pants and a tight black vest, her blonde hair tied back in a sleek bun. She has a full face of natural make-up, the sort of thing only fellow make-up wearers can usually clock as not being the real thing.
‘Oh my God, come in.’ Her Essex accent is strong. ‘Sorry about these guys, they’re just bringing in all this equipment. The boys will have their own soft-play in the basement – honestly, they don’t even know they’re born.’
Roxy refers to her two sons, Jenson and Casper, who are three and five. And even though I do not have children myself, I feel an immense sense of envy on behalf of some mothers I know who would find this house their idea of a dream. The five-storey double-fronted detached house is modern, spacious and immaculately white – I imagine it had a new lick of paint before Roxy moved in.
I follow Roxy into a vast hallway with a black and white chequered floor so shiny I can see my reflection. A large oval table positioned centrally boasts a huge clear vase of white lilies and hanging from the ceiling are three rose-gold chandeliers. Beyond the table, I can see double shutter-style doors, standing wide open, that lead to a perfectly manicured lawn.
‘Let’s get you a coffee.’ Roxy walks on and ducks into a room to the left. ‘This is one of the lounges.’ I follow Roxy into a vast monochrome space of plush grey sofas and more chandeliers.
‘May I?’ I say, pulling out my Nikon camera from its case.
‘Shoot away – I can’t wait to see the blog. Your writing is so good. I love the way you describe people’s houses.’
‘Thanks.’ I zoom in on a chandelier and make a mental note to take a photo of the hallway on the way out.
‘This room was easy.’ Roxy looks around as I snap. ‘Karl and I don’t ’ave much furniture, so I could manage slottin’ in the sofas and tables – there’s so much space! – but the wardrobe situ is not so simple. I don’t know where to begin.’
I follow Roxy out of the room and through into a large kitchen and dining area. A glossy silver-grey kitchenette to the right and a couple of beige sofas with bright coloured cushions to the left.
‘I see all these people online who can make their rooms and spaces look so simplified and organised, not me,’ she continues. ‘I just throw it all in the room and ’ope for the best.’
‘It’s all good content for your fans. I’ll get some photos of you amongst the mess and I can come back next week when you’re all sorted and do a before-and-after post.’
‘Oh my Go
d, that sounds brilliant – I’ve got a walk-in wardrobe and I need to order some more storage units. But I ’ave to warn you, it really is a mess. The clothes ’ave their own room. It’s hilarious. A whole room just for my clothes. I can’t believe it! It wouldn’t work having them in the bedroom in a wardrobe. I mean, I did when I was a kid and I lived on the Harts Lane estate. I shared a room with my three sisters in a two-bedroom flat. Can you imagine it?’
‘Yes,’ I said, but I didn’t want to think about Hackney. I had tried to make something of myself since then. Nothing like Roxy or Caitlin, of course, but I just want to get to the point where I can say I have arrived.
Roxy walks behind the kitchen counter. I take a seat in a high woven chair with a fluffy cushion. Roxy turns and clocks me looking around, wondering where to point the camera next.
‘It’s all a bit overwhelming, innit? I can’t believe it myself sometimes – I ’ave to literally keep pinching myself. Not too ’ard, mind, as I’ll look like a beaten wife, but I do, look!’ Roxy’s arm, just above her wrist does indeed have a small red mark on it. ‘I did it this morning when they started bringing in all the kids’ stuff. I thought, I’d better check I’m not dreaming, cos I used to have loads of dreams about livin’ in a big fancy mansion when I was a kid. Did you too? I suppose all little girls do.’
‘I… Yes, I suppose they do.’ And that was true. I had spent so many rainy days sat in our Hackney flat wondering what children in massive houses were doing at the same time as I was cooped up in my tiny bedroom. And my parents had wished the same, which was why they got us out of there in the best way they could. But I often wonder what my life would have been like if Dad hadn’t got the job at Saxby and we had stayed living in Hackney. Would I have been as lucky as Roxy? What kind of friendships would I have established and with whom? Would there have been another Caitlin in my life? Somehow, I don’t think that would have happened. I knew I wouldn’t have met her under any other circumstances. It’s that thought that shocks me, and I try not let myself think about the last two decades as wasted emotions.
My phone lets out an invasive trill. I keep meaning to change the ringtone. I look down into my bag and see the name flashing on the screen.
‘Do you need to take that?’ Roxy gestures to my bag.
I ignore the call. ‘No. No they can wait.’ I bring my focus back to the task I am here to do, but all I can see is the face of the caller.
‘How do you take yours?’ Roxy says, taking two cups out from a cupboard and placing them next to a machine. I request mine black. We exchange more pleasantries over our beverages and discuss the size of the coffee machine, which is like something out of Starbucks, and then I get straight to it. I ask her to show me the damage and we laugh all the way upstairs, with her telling me it’s an absolute nightmare and I’ll be a flipping miracle worker if I can sort it out. I bat away all her negativity and tell her I’m sure I’ve seen much worse.
Only when we turn the corner onto the first landing, I can already see clothes and shoes spilling out of a door to the right. And then when we reach the doorway to the room allocated for her clothes, I can see that, in actual fact, this is the biggest display of untidiness and disorganisation I have ever seen. There are hundreds of boxes of shoes stacked against the walls of a huge room, piles of clothes just thrown on the floor – if I ran and jumped, I could land in the middle of them and be guaranteed a soft landing. It gives me an idea. I propose it to Roxy, who is all for it, and after a moment of moving a few shoe boxes onto the pile of clothes and setting her up with a tiara on her head, she dives into the clothes and lands comically in the middle. I begin shooting straight away. She has arranged herself and starts pulling pose after pose. But I already know the first couple of natural shots are the ones I will want to use, and I hope she will be happy with them too.
‘I’m sorry it’s such a mess.’ Roxy climbs down from the pile of clothes. ‘You must think I’m a right bloody hoarder.’
‘No,’ I say, slinging my camera over my shoulder. ‘Just a girl who loves her clothes.’ And as I say it, I already know the tagline for the blog.
I leave the house – not before taking a quick snap of the hallway with the beautiful flower display – and realise I am bang on time. Just like clockwork, my phone pings a text message and I feel a familiar fizzle of joy.
I’m on the corner. Meet me over the road.
And just like that, across the street, I see a flash of someone disappear around the corner. Once on the other side of the road, I step around the end of the street and instantly I’m grabbed by my arm and I have to stifle a scream.
‘Chuck,’ I say and we fall into an easy embrace.
He looks flushed and tense. He is wearing a blue pinstripe shirt, sleeves rolled up, blue jeans and boat shoes – a look he sported so often when he was younger, it is as though no time has passed. Except the flawless appearance is marred by the fact he’s perspiring quite heavily.
‘Are you okay?’ I ask him.
‘Sasha, I’m going out of my mind here, you need to answer my calls.’ He breaks free from the embrace and runs a hand frantically through his strawberry blonde hair.
‘I do, Chuck!’
‘Yes, but all the time, not just when you can. I called you earlier.’
‘I was with a client!’
‘Yes, yes, I just presumed you’d be done earlier. Look what you’ve driven me to, old girl – I’m following you halfway around London. Was that Roxy Tyrrell’s place?’ Chuck is trying to look past me and around the corner.
I glance back over my shoulder to check I can’t be seen from where I’ve come from and pull him away along the path, away from the corner.
‘Yes, she needs blogs and video stuff, I’m helping her… Anyway… Chuck, why did you want to meet again? Haven’t you had enough of me?’ I laugh a little. ‘This is risky – someone could see us.’
‘Who? Who could see us? I don’t know anyone in Notting Hill – far too hipster for my lot. Besides, we’re not actually doing anything wrong right now, are we?’ Chuck grabs hold of my arm and slips his through it. We begin strolling slowly. ‘Anyway, I could never get sick of you.’
‘But you needed to see me?’ I stop walking and place my hand on Chuck’s arm.
He takes a big breath in and looks at me, his soft hazel eyes have always been easy to look into. ‘You know as well as I do that we can’t keep pretending any more – we have to do something about this. I can’t keep this to myself any longer – I’m going out of my mind. Every time I look at Caitlin, I think of you and us, and I want to be able to focus on my marriage, but all I can think is I’m betraying her. What are we going to do?’ Chuck clears his throat and looks down at his feet and scuffs his shoes a little. ‘More to the point, what are you going to do? I feel as though the ball is forever in your court. It was you who instigated this whole thing.’
‘Oh, come on, Chuck, you were in from the start as much as I was.’ I start us walking again. ‘I really think you need to calm down – you’re going to give yourself a stroke at this rate,’ I say softly.
‘I know, I know. I’m sorry.’
I look at poor Chuck and see the young boy in the man I now know.
‘You see, there’s nothing to worry about.’
‘But we really are in an almighty pickle, aren’t we?’
‘Not really, Chuck.’ I stop to pull my hair into a loose bun; the afternoon air is thick and it is sticking to my neck. I see Chuck watching me from the corner of my eye.
I slip my arm into his this time and carry on walking. ‘You see, the difference between me and you is that I am very good at keeping secrets and maybe you just need to get a little bit better at keeping them too? I know Caitlin so well and the one thing she told me when we were kids is that she wanted to remain ignorant to whatever was going on around her. She has put up this almighty wall around her over the years, which I feel by now is almost impenetrable. We are basically good for life. Even if she suspected anyth
ing, she wouldn’t allow herself to pursue it or consider it for too long – it’s part of her protective mechanism.’
‘So, you think I should just go ahead and walk into this marriage and not think about all this stuff between us too much?’ Chuck sounds as though he were calming down a little.
We both stop and Chuck looks deep into my eyes, I can hear the strain in his voice. Suddenly I doubt myself. Everything I have been sure of up until now is slipping away. It isn’t an alien feeling; my life is a series of questions and doubts. But this, what I am doing now, is it acceptable? I have a history with Caitlin, regardless of the pure miracle that has allowed us to reach over two decades of friendship. Is it wrong of me to allow Chuck to get wrapped up with me in this way? He is so easy to be around, and when we are together doing our thing, I don’t feel guilt. Or didn’t, up until now.
Chuck’s eyes are boring into me, waiting for me to tell him what to do.
I only know one thing, and that is I cannot stop any of this now. It is out of my control. And I can’t allow Chuck’s guilt to come between what I have planned.
‘Definitely. You don’t need to worry. What we’re doing is perfectly natural.’ I put my hand on Chuck’s cheek and lean in and kiss the other cheek. It is soft and warm. He takes both of my hands and looks at them for a second before he squeezes them and then brings one up to his mouth and kisses it the way he had the very first time I had dinner with him at Saxby House.
‘You are so old school.’ I shove him a little.
‘Yes, but that is why you love me.’ He puts his arm around me, and I let myself sink into his sturdy torso. ‘Look, there’s a delightful café around the corner that sells the prettiest little Portuguese tarts. I know because I’ve walked past it seven times today waiting for you.’
I laugh loud and long and again I am reminded of why I love being with Chuck so much. He always makes me feel like the most upgraded version of myself. And that is worth something very special to me because it is the very thing that I don’t get from Caitlin. She is my addiction, the friend I think I can never live without. But Chuck fills in all the gaps, the bits that Caitlin can’t fulfil. I try not to think about how losing our friendship would also mean losing Chuck too. Chuck always makes me feel safe. With Caitlin, I feel we are always teetering on the edge, waiting for the other one to jump overboard. But neither of us do. It feels like a game we have been playing for over twenty years. But I know it is a game that we can’t play forever. All games come to an end and eventually one of us will have to declare the other the winner.