The Friends We Keep

by Jane Green

  She tried to find other ways to fill the silence. In the evenings they would often eat dinner with the radio on. She would scour the Radio Times to find a play, or a show she knew he would like. If there was something on the telly they would have a TV dinner, but Maggie hated that, didn’t want to get into that habit.

  After dinner she would go to her little office and check her e-mail, Ben going to his own office, coming to bed long after she was fast asleep.

  She could smell the alcohol on him when he came to bed. And she had never been lonelier in her life. She wished her mother’s words were true, but even if this passed, even if he got sober yet again, she had no doubt her life would always be this roller coaster.

  She would sometimes try to think of what they once had in common, but it was getting harder to remember. Most of the time, she thought they were hugely mismatched from the beginning. Had she not harbored such an enormous crush on him, had she not worn rose-tinted spectacles every time she looked at him, perhaps she would have seen it.

  “Where is that husband of yours, anyway?” said Pete. “He was good fun at the lock-in last Saturday.”

  “Oh, you should have been there,” said Karen. “We had Simon from the grocer’s on the piano all night. We didn’t leave until the early hours. Your Ben was the life and soul of the party!”

  Did he drink? Maggie wanted to ask, but of course he was drinking. He was only ever the life and soul when he was drinking.

  If she wasn’t so scared of being on her own, of the enormous changes divorce would bring, she would leave him. Instead, she harbored her resentments and wounds, and lay in bed dreaming of an easier, happier life.

  twenty-six

  - 2010 -

  Dickie always came along when Topher did the chat shows, particularly the morning shows, as there were always producers there that Dickie had known from way back when. He enjoyed the whole process, arriving early, sitting in the greenroom, hopefully running into a thespian or two that he had once worked with.

  They had arrived at the Today show early that morning, Dickie thrilled when Stephen Fry entered the greenroom, here to talk about a new movie. They had worked together years before, and Stephen generously offered to help Topher with his memoir in any way he could.

  Topher still couldn’t believe he had a memoir out today, a memoir in which he finally outed himself, mostly because the rumors online had been growing out of control. Perez Hilton had been dropping hints in blind items for months, which at first had terrified Topher—would he ever get work as a straight actor again if the world knew he was gay?—and then became tiring.

  His publicist had come up with a strategy involving Lori Lenone, a hot young female singer from Australia who was looking to build her profile in the US, and the two of them staged a “romance,” kicking off on the island of Nevis, where they were photographed with a long-lens camera while relaxing at the private and luxurious Montpelier Plantation, lying on sun beds and kissing, Lori straddling his back to rub sunblock into his shoulders, leaning down to plant a kiss.

  The paparazzi had been planted, as had the moves. They were photographed holding hands as they strolled along the sands at sunset, gazing into each other’s eyes over lunch at the Four Seasons, unable to keep their hands off each other as they waited for dinner at Bananas Bistro.

  Everyone picked up on the story, given that the gay rumors were at their height, but after a couple of months, Topher phoned his agent and said enough. He couldn’t stand the vacuous conversation with Lori anymore. Their lack of chemistry, even for a friendship, had gradually morphed into not being able to tolerate being around each other, and when his agent suggested a breakup followed by another staged romance, Topher said no.

  He was forty-two years old, and no longer interested in living a lie. So he was gay. So what? It mattered to him more when he was young, when he thought he might be interested in a Hollywood career, but as a soap star who was signed up to play Agador in La Cage aux Folles on Broadway for a six-month run during the sabbatical, he didn’t care anymore.

  His only stipulation was that he come out on his terms. It was his brilliant agent who not only suggested the memoir, but got a huge bidding war going, which, in itself, was an excellent publicity move.

  The publisher had offered a ghostwriter, but Topher’s ego wouldn’t hear of it. He fancied himself a writer, even though he hadn’t written anything since college. But the idea of being a writer appealed to him. He had taken to going to the New York Public Library after filming, settling down in a quiet corner to get his book written, breaking it down into chapters, going back as far as he could remember. He couldn’t remember much. And the words didn’t flow in the way they did when he had imagined writing. Most of the time he would sit and stare at the blank screen, sighing. He would jot down memories, but it was so hard to put the words together, and the memories he had were few and far between.

  In the evenings, when he wasn’t out with Dickie, he would read other memoirs, trying to figure out how other people managed to do it. Surely it couldn’t be as hard as it seemed.

  Writing, and remembering, were the hardest things he had ever done, far harder than acting. Dickie kept trying to persuade him to use a ghostwriter, but Topher was convinced he could do it, even when all the evidence was pointing otherwise.

  He was in a small bookstore in Maine when he stumbled upon a self-published memoir. At that point he was reading every memoir he could get his hands on, and even though he had never heard of the author, the writing was beautiful. Topher saw now what his book needed. Phrases as beautifully constructed as these. He wrote them down, peppering them throughout his book to remind himself, and suddenly it got easier.

  It wasn’t a long book, but he finished it, finally, and with much relief. The literary ambitions he had held when his agent first suggested a memoir had well and truly disappeared. He never wanted to write anything again as long as he lived.

  The book was out that morning, and the preorders were through the roof, thanks to the National Enquirer running a piece about Topher being gay.

  Topher was taking a sabbatical from the soap in order to do a thirty-city book tour before his theater engagement, kicking off with an interview with Ann Curry on the Today show. In truth, he suspected he wouldn’t return after the sabbatical. He had been on the show for years, and it was time for a new challenge, kicking off with the memoir. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to continue acting, but his publicist had made him swear he would never say this publicly.

  Three publicists, one from the publisher together with the two from the soap, were with him, everyone excited about this interview, knowing that an interview like this on a show like this could propel the book up to the top of the bestseller lists.

  Dickie and Stephen were still deep in conversation, both sharing stories that had everyone in the greenroom in stitches, Topher remaining quiet, leaving the room for hair and makeup (he was used to that, a bit of foundation to smooth his skin, concealer for the shadows, wax for his hair), worrying a little about what they would ask him.

  And then there was no time to worry, they called him in and sat him on the sofa, and Ann reached over and shook his hand, and was so warm, so gracious, he instantly relaxed, and it was clear that she hadn’t just read the producer’s notes, but had read the book, and he thanked her profusely right before the cameraman started counting down to the end of the ad break when they were both going live.

  “And with us today we have Topher Winthrop, who you will all recognize from one of my favorite soap operas, What Comes Around. He was in the news last year for his romance with Lori Lenone, and now he’s trying something completely different.” She reached next to her and held up a copy of his book. “Topher has written a memoir, Behind the Scenes, and Topher, I have to tell you, I could not put this book down. You talk about your first love, your mother, and your childhood in Greenwich, Connecticut, and what it was like go
ing into acting. We follow Topher through his early days acting in New York, and there’s lots of juicy gossip from, literally, behind the scenes of What Comes Around.”

  “Nothing I can be sued for though,” Topher interjected as she laughed.

  “I would hope not. But what is so fascinating for all of us is that you have used this memoir to come out as gay, which is incredibly brave, especially as you have been plagued by online rumors for some time now.”

  “Oh, we’re going there immediately?” Topher laughed.

  “We’re going there.” Ann laughed in return.

  “The truth is, I wanted to do this on my own terms, and I couldn’t write a memoir without writing about the one huge thing that everyone questions about me. I had reached an age where I thought, I want to be real. I want to be known for who I am, including my sexuality, and if it puts people off or they don’t like it, that’s okay with me. You can’t please all of the people all of the time.”

  “You must feel lighter, not keeping this secret anymore?”

  “I never really thought of it as a secret because it was only a secret in my professional life, but yes, it’s great to have been able to be as honest as I was in the book, and for it to be so well received.”

  “That’s right. People magazine called it ‘beautifully written and compelling from first page to last,’ and Lauren Weisberger of The Devil Wears Prada fame said, ‘It’s gossipy and fun, and I couldn’t put it down.’ That’s some high praise indeed, and well deserved. I was very interested in your childhood. You were born to some privilege in the tony town of Greenwich, and much of what you write sounds like you had an idyllic childhood.”

  “I really did,” said Topher, who found he was on high alert. This was exactly what he didn’t want to talk about. He had written it, of course, but had regretted this particular chapter, and wanted to remove it from the book completely, but his publisher wouldn’t allow it.

  A compromise was reached, where he kept a couple of paragraphs in the book, but didn’t go into as much detail, and he hoped, how he hoped, that it wouldn’t be a talking point when it came to publicity.

  “And yet in chapter four you mention you had a tennis coach who only gave private lessons to boys, and that you realized years later how inappropriate his behavior was.” Her face took on an expression of extreme empathy. “You don’t write much more about that, and I wondered whether that was a hard decision, to put that in the book.”

  Topher nodded. “It was a hard decision. Even years later it’s hard to think about. It’s hard to even talk about, and I didn’t want to dwell on that. It wasn’t a formative issue of my childhood, just a dark spot in what was otherwise pretty wonderful, and I have chosen to move on and live the life I have in spite of that.”

  “Which is so commendable. I wonder whether you ever thought of expanding on the issue of childhood sexual abuse? There are more and more adults who were victims of this kind of thing, and often it is helpful to read about what happened to others—it helps us realize that we’re not alone.”

  “I think in mentioning it at all, I have hopefully done that.” Topher said nothing else, and kept the smile on his face, but it was clear that he was done with that topic.

  “And I understand you will be appearing on Broadway at the end of the summer, which is a first for you. Can you tell us more about that?”

  Topher’s shoulders relaxed as he talked about the play, and then it was over, and he was back in the greenroom being congratulated on a great interview.

  “Come back anytime,” said the young producer who showed them out. “We’d love to have you back when your show is opening. Ann loved you. Really, you’re welcome to come on the show whenever.”

  They thanked him as they headed outside; back in the town car, Dickie looked at Topher with concern.

  “It was fine. She’s lovely.”

  “Were you okay about the question about your childhood? The . . . abuse?” Dickie’s voice softened as he said the word, knowing how reluctant Topher was to discuss it, even though he had finally admitted what Dickie had always suspected.

  “Of course I wasn’t,” said Topher, turning to look out the window. “I knew it was a mistake to keep that in. Now it’s going to be all that everyone focuses on.”

  “Maybe it’s you that could be focusing on it a little more? I know you don’t like talking about it, but maybe this is an opportunity for you to perhaps see a therapist? You were a young boy, and it wasn’t your fault, and there was nothing you could have done to stop it. It was about power, and although you think you are perfectly fine and you have moved on, I believe that what you have actually done is switch off your sexuality, because you are terrified of it. I have someone you could see, who I think would be of enormous help, and I say this because I love you, and because I want you to embrace all of yourself. I want you to be the fullest person you can be.”

  Topher turned from the window and looked at Dickie, before his face crumpled as he broke down in sobs.

  twenty-seven

  - 2015 -

  The bathroom light was flattering, casting a soft, dewy glow as Evvie turned around so her husband could fasten the catch at the back of her neck. As he did, he looked her slowly up and down and she resisted the urge to cover her body with her hands.

  There was absolutely no denying the weight gain anymore. This former model, once skinny and tall, was now insulated by a thick layer of flesh. Her thighs rubbed together when she walked, her stomach was rounded and full, her breasts had become large enough that she couldn’t wait to get home every night to take her bra off, her shoulders aching from the weight.

  She was both horrified and relieved by her changing figure. The more weight she gained, the more Lance left her alone—other than to point out, as he was surely about to do, how fat she was, how disgusting. The passive-aggressive barbs had stopped long ago, replaced with disdain. His words still stung, but the knowledge that he no longer wanted to sleep with her, the protection the weight afforded her, was ample compensation for any sting she may have felt.

  “You are enormous,” he whispered in disgust, shaking his head as she felt her breath catch in her throat.

  Evvie would lie in bed at night and rest her hands on her belly, stroking the curves. She would walk into the bathroom and lift her pajama top, cup her heavy boobs, rub her rounded stomach, and think that if she weren’t in her midforties, she might be mistaken for being pregnant. And as much as she hated it, she recognized that she needed it, even though she struggled with her reflection in the mirror.

  Her face had lost the sharp cheekbones of her youth, and although still exquisitely beautiful, she didn’t feel it; all she saw was her round face, her thick neck, the rolls of flesh around her back.

  None of her old clothes fit. For the gala that night, she had bought a dress in a size she had never thought she would wear. She had been praised and rewarded for her beauty for her entire life, for her slimness, how perfect she was. And now? Now she had to buy her clothes online.

  Once upon a time, men on trains would stop and stare at her, valets would rush to park her car, free gifts from beauty companies would arrive at the house. When she gained weight she became invisible, and the attention stopped, and when it stopped, as her marriage was disintegrating, Evvie’s confidence disappeared, leaving her quiet and withdrawn, a shadow of her former flirty, fun, sexy self.

  She missed her old self. She pined for her confidence, for who she used to be when she knew she was beautiful and understood the power that came with that beauty, but that beauty wasn’t worth the cost of giving up the only thing that brought solace to her loneliness, the only thing that protected her from Lance. Her excess weight kept him well away from her, and as a result, Evvie, who now both hated and feared her husband, would continue to eat for as long as she could.

  In the beginning Lance had insisted she diet, bringing in personal t
rainer after personal trainer, forcing her to work out in their home gym. She would lose a pound or two, but it always came back on, and she always found a way to get rid of the trainer. It was easier to blame hormones and early menopause rather than the cakes she had started buying and eating in secret.

  Her weight enraged Lance, but she couldn’t stop eating. In every other area she tried not to displease him. She would tiptoe around him trying to make him happy, terrified of setting off one of his rages.

  Over the years the rages became more and more frequent, more and more terrifying. Often, they started with derision, maybe teasing her size, poking a roll of flesh in her back. But they escalated quickly into verbal assault. At times like those, there was no shadow left of the man she had met. He became a completely different person.

  He didn’t hit her, but she always expected him to. He loomed in her face, his jaw clenched in fury, unrecognizable in his ferocity as he spat out terrible things, hateful things, found her weakest spot, and went in for the kill.

  Evvie had always thought she was strong. She had always been a fighter, and in the beginning, she had fought back. She screamed as loudly as Lance, got in his face, flounced out. But his rage was greater than hers, and eventually it wore her down—the never knowing what would set him off; the terrible, wounding things he said; the fear of saying or doing the wrong thing. As the years went by, she became more and more reserved. As the years went by, she withdrew so completely, she forgot who she had once been.

  Her real concern was Jack. Lance never went after Jack, but Evvie tried to protect her son from hearing, or seeing, how Lance treated her. She had done a good job, she thought. The rages almost always happened when Jack was at boarding school, and even when he was home, it was always behind their closed bedroom door. Jack didn’t know. She was sure he didn’t know.