The Friends We Keep

by Jane Green

  “Do you remember I used to have tennis lessons with Coach Patrick?” Given her admission that her memory was terrible, he had no idea if she would remember, but she lit up.

  “Of course! Twice a week. You were very good, darling. You should never have given it up.”

  “Do you remember that I became very quiet and I didn’t want to go?”

  “Oh, I do! You made such a fuss. You kept saying that you hated it, but I knew you’d thank me later. Tennis is such a wonderfully social sport. Everyone should learn to play, and aren’t you happy now that you had those lessons?”

  “Mother, the reason I wanted to stop the lessons was because Coach Patrick was abusing me.”

  There. He said it. The words were out. He watched his mother’s face as she took in what he said, but she didn’t understand.

  “What do you mean, Topher?”

  “I mean he was sexually abusing me. That’s why I didn’t want to see him anymore. I have been seeing a wonderful therapist because it’s clear that I have had PTSD for years, and I couldn’t get better until I dealt with it. And part of dealing with it is talking to you about it. I’ve never been able to tell you. I tried when I was young, but I always felt that you steamrolled me into continuing the lessons. I felt completely powerless, and I felt abandoned when you didn’t listen to me.”

  His mother said nothing, just looked at him blinking.

  “So I’ve harbored a lot of suppressed emotions. I’ve been pretty angry because I felt that you enabled it. I tried to have a voice and I wasn’t allowed to have a voice and I’d love to know what . . .” He stopped as a tear trickled down his mother’s cheek.

  “I had no idea,” she whispered, stricken. “Oh my God, Topher. I had no idea. I feel sick.”

  Her shock was genuine, and Topher reached out a hand, the vestiges of his resentment disappearing. “It’s okay, Mama,” he said, realizing that it was. “Look at me. I’m fifty and I’m fine. I’m better than fine. I have a wonderful life despite pushing all of that stuff down. I’ve spent the last little while dealing with it in therapy, and I needed to talk to you about it.”

  “Oh my God, Topher. Your father never liked him. He said he didn’t trust him, and I ignored both of you. I’m so sorry. I will never forgive myself.”

  His mother was in tears now, which was the last thing he expected. Several people were looking at them, the handsome middle-aged man and the elderly woman now in tears. “Please don’t say that. It’s fine. I just needed to . . .” Needed to what? he wondered. Punish her? Make her aware of her culpability? Guilt her? He didn’t know, but he did know that this was, just as his therapist suggested, closure. Her tears, her distress were all the proof he needed that she truly didn’t know, that she was doing the best she could, and he put his arms around her and gave her a hug.

  “Can I get you a brandy or something?” he said when they disengaged, but she shook her head and pulled out a bottle of pills from her bag.

  “These are better for me. Xanax. This will calm me down.”

  He remembered all the pills over the years, the uppers, the downers, the sleeping pills, the antianxiety medication, and he shook his head with a smile. “You haven’t changed. Still pill popping.”

  “Still pill popping.” She handed him the bottle to help with the lid, washing down a pill with lukewarm tea. “Darling boy.” She took his hand, staring at him with pure love in her eyes. “What is it we were just talking about?”

  thirty-six

  - 2019 -

  Back in New York, tired suddenly of the hustle and bustle, dreaming of a golden manor house in the country, Topher sat with his back against the wall in Sant Ambroeus, busy checking out all the young, beautiful people crowded in there for coffee, pastries, brunch.

  “I do love it here,” he said to Benedict, who leaned forward to try to hear him above the din of excited conversation. “Even though I can’t wait to be lord of the manor, it makes me feel young again, being around all these gorgeous things.” He gestured to the table next to them, five teenagers, each more beautiful than the next, the girls with long, shiny swinging hair, perfect pouts, in the kind of distressed sneakers and fur-collared bomber jackets that screamed wealth. Their Celine and Hermès bags were flung on the floor, their privilege, and comfort in that privilege, oozing from every pore. They sat, each of them on their phones as they stared at their individual screens and tapped quickly with their thumbs, occasionally reaching out an arm to pick at french fries in the middle of the table.

  “This is one of the places I’ll miss most when we leave New York. I can’t believe we’re leaving! Oh, Dickie, I’m so excited. I can’t believe things are happening so fast. We’ve already sold the apartment and it didn’t even go on MLS! And I loved that little apartment we just saw downtown. It’s busy, buzzy, and the perfect pied-à-terre for when we visit.”

  Benedict looked down and stirred his cappuccino. “What about the one on Sixty-Eighth that we saw first? I thought that was rather lovely.”

  “It was beautiful, but too big, honey. We only need something tiny. We’re not going to be here much, now that we’re moving to England, and we definitely don’t need a dining room!”

  Benedict said nothing, kept stirring his coffee. “The dining room would make a wonderful library, though, and I like having space. I think the other one is just too small.”

  “We can keep looking,” said Topher. “Just because we got an offer on our apartment so quickly doesn’t mean we have to rush and buy another immediately. I love the one we just saw, but we both have to love it. We can wait until spring if you want—I’m sure much more will come on the market then.”

  Benedict looked at his watch, an elegant Patek Philippe bought for him by his own father many years ago. “We ought not be too long,” he said. “Cookie is taking me to the theater this afternoon.”

  “Cookie again?” Topher was surprised. “You’ve been seeing so much of her lately! Don’t get me wrong, I adore Cookie, but I might start to get jealous.”

  Benedict smiled at Topher over the rim of his coffee cup. He and Cookie had been friends for forty years. She was married to a hedge fund manager who, one morning three years ago, didn’t wake up. She found herself with no children and more money than she knew what to do with. She bought a smaller apartment in New York, kept the apartment in Aspen, the house on Nantucket, and started producing theater. Her last show had been a huge hit, the kind of hit that comes along once or twice every decade. Now she often relied on Benedict as her walker, her chaperone to the various galas, shows, and dinners at which she found herself on a nightly basis.

  She had other walkers, but she and Benedict were longtime friends, and recently Benedict seemed to be seeing her more than usual, and not just as a chaperone. They were having lunch together fairly regularly, and sometimes afternoon tea.

  Topher adored Cookie. She was a character from a bygone era, tall and as thin as a rail. She only ever ate three mouthfuls before pushing the rest around her plate. Ironic, given her name. She was the most naturally elegant woman he had ever known, and that was saying something, given his own mother. Cookie had closets filled with couture clothes from the sixties and seventies, which she still wore, and that still looked fabulous. Her basic uniform had remained the same for forty years: straight pants and a thin cashmere sweater, in every muted color imaginable, with the same Manolo Blahnik d’orsay shoes (again, in a variety of colors). But her jackets, scarves, shawls, and cardigans were exquisite, and her jewelry had been written about in Vogue many, many times.

  And yet, despite her wealth, her beauty, her sophistication, Cookie was the most self-deprecating woman Topher had ever known, with a dirty sense of humor that always had Benedict wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. She had a huge heart and was known for her loyalty, doing anything for her friends.

  “I’m just a midwestern girl,” she always said. “And I believ
e in giving back.”

  Benedict put his coffee cup down and took a breath. “You love Cookie, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” said Topher. “I was only kidding when I said I was jealous. I’m thrilled you’re seeing so much of her.”

  “I’m glad. She’s a special woman, and she . . . cares about me very much.” Benedict paused as Topher felt a sliver of anxiety.

  “What are you not telling me?” Topher said quietly. “There’s something going on. What is it? Are you sick? Is Cookie sick? What is it?”

  Benedict looked back at him. “No one is sick. I am fine and Cookie is fine. But there is something we need to talk about. We need to talk about England.”

  “You don’t think we should go?” Topher’s heart sank.

  “It’s not quite that. I think you should go. I don’t think I should go.”

  Topher frowned. “But we’re a partnership. I live with you. If you don’t want to go, we won’t go.” Even as he said the words, he felt a pang of sadness. Being with those old friends after so many years, deciding to live together, had made Topher feel young again; it had given him something to look forward to. He wanted to be back in England, with the people who had known him so long, they felt like family. He wanted to be close to his mother. But he wouldn’t leave Benedict, not when he had made him a promise.

  Benedict reached out and took Topher’s hand. “Darling boy. You have been so very, very good to me. Far better than I had a right to expect. I watched you very carefully with your friends on the other side of the pond, and you light up when you are with them in a way I haven’t seen you light up with anyone here. There is an ease and a naturalness about you when you are together. It felt like I was seeing the true Topher. Not to mention the not-insignificant fact that your mother is there. It is quite clear to me that you belong there. Perhaps it hasn’t always been the case, but at this stage of your life, you need them just as much as they need you.”

  Topher swallowed the lump in his throat. Benedict was so good to him, but he couldn’t let him down, couldn’t leave him when Benedict relied on him so much.

  “Dickie, I adore you, and you know me well enough to know that I don’t break my promises. I have promised to look after you, and I won’t abandon you. We will find another apartment in New York, and I will not go to England. My friends will be fine without me, and my mother will carry on visiting New York just as she has always done.”

  Topher was saying all the words he knew he had to say. He was loyal, and he loved Benedict. He would do the right thing by him, even though there was a sense of real loss at the prospect of not living in that glorious house with his old friends. Topher had always been a committed Anglophile, and the very idea of living in Somerset made his heart sing with joy, not least because it would have been with people he truly adored.

  All those movies he watched when he was young, the Evelyn Waugh books he read, Nancy Mitford, Cecil Beaton, the days he spent salivating over Chatsworth and Debo, the Duchess of Devonshire. Ah well. In another lifetime he would perhaps be lord of the manor. Not this one. He wouldn’t leave Benedict. He couldn’t leave Benedict, even though his mother seemed to need him, even though he had promised her he would be seeing her all the time. The only good thing about her failing memory, he thought ironically, was that hopefully she would forget that he was ever planning to move.

  He would have to stop dreaming of the manor house, the garden that could be so beautiful again with some love and care. He had spent a good few hours browsing gardening books in Barnes & Noble, lingering over pictures of topiary yew, clipped box hedges with clouds of cranesbill and alchemilla tumbling behind. This city boy’s brain started bursting with ideas as soon as he saw the faded grandeur of Maggie’s overgrown garden.

  He had pictured all of them going for long walks through the fields. Maybe they would get a dog. The manor house would feel more like a home with a big shaggy dog running around. They would stride through those gorgeous English fields, climbing stiles, Topher in a tweed flat cap, carrying a silver-topped cane. Perhaps the cane was pushing it a little too far.

  Sitting here, looking at Benedict, the realization that he would not be fulfilling a lifelong dream of living in England, not as a student in a grotty student house, but in splendor as a fully formed adult, was almost enough to make him want to cry. But he would not let Dickie see how he felt.

  “I love you,” said Benedict. “You have been my family, but I don’t want you to stay here. Over there is where you are supposed to be. The manor house is exquisite, as are your friends. I love the idea of it, but I’m too old to change my life in this way. New York is my home, and it’s where I need to stay. Where I want to stay. But not you, darling boy, and who knows, maybe you will find a new love when you are there. You’ve come so far in therapy and I don’t want to hold you back any longer. I know you have dalliances now and again, but you deserve something more. It is selfish of me to expect you to devote your life to me. You are too young. You deserve to have a life filled with happiness. You deserve this, and you deserve to find love.”

  He put a hand up to silence Topher, who was about to speak. “Not lovers. I know you have those. But as long as you are looking after me, you will not be able to have an intimate relationship. Maybe you don’t want one, but you deserve to be able to have one. I won’t take no for an answer. I have Cookie, and she and I have discussed this many times. The penthouse apartment in her building is, privately, available. We are going to purchase it together. We will each be able to have our own living space, and there is plenty of room. It is time for us to move on, and it is time for me to let you go.”

  Topher stared at him, a storm of emotions inside him. Loss, sadness, gratitude, and relief. As much as he didn’t want to leave Benedict, he recognized the resolute look in Dickie’s eye and knew that Dickie had made up his mind. That Dickie wouldn’t be on his own, that he and Cookie had decided to buy something together, didn’t feel like a betrayal; it felt like Topher had been set free, and his whole body seemed to exhale with relief.

  “I don’t know what to say.” Topher’s eyes were filled with tears.

  “Don’t say anything. Just get the check and let’s go home. We’ve all got some packing to do.”

  As they walked out, Topher felt people staring at him, the odd whispering. It wasn’t unusual for him to be recognized, and he had learned to stare into the middle distance with a friendly smile on his face, always gracious should someone tap him on the arm and ask for an autograph.

  He turned as he felt a hand on his back, to see Alan, an actor he had worked with years ago on a commercial.

  “Alan!” He gave him a hug, about to introduce him to Dickie before realizing Dickie had already walked to the front of the restaurant. “I haven’t seen you in such a long time! What are you up to these days?”

  “The usual.” Alan smiled, but seemed awkward. “Auditions and summer stock in the Berkshires. I just . . . I just wanted to say I’m sorry about what’s happening. I hope you’re okay.”

  Topher stared at him. “What do you mean?”

  “The book drama. You don’t deserve this and it stinks. I hate that fucking website. I hope you know it will all blow over quickly and everyone will have forgotten about this bullshit soon.”

  Topher’s heart started beating so fast, he could hardly catch his breath. “Alan, what are you talking about?”

  Alan faltered. “Oh my God. You haven’t . . .”

  Topher frowned. “I haven’t seen . . . I don’t know . . .”

  “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t have said anything.”

  “Can you just tell me?”

  “Absolutely.” He was embarrassed, as if bearing the bad news somehow made it his fault. He stepped back to his table and grabbed his phone as the man he was sitting with caught Topher’s eye. His look, too, was one of pity. He knew as well, Topher realized. They were p
robably talking about it before Alan approached him. He turned to look around the restaurant, seeing people still staring, wondering what the hell he had been embroiled in now.

  He wasn’t unused to bad publicity, but God knew what they’d printed this time. A former lover giving an explicit tell-all to one of the gossip blogs? He tried to think of what it could be, but his mind was blank.

  Alan busied himself with his phone, eventually handing it to Topher with an apologetic expression. On the screen he saw the gossip blog that everyone in the business read. He read it, all his friends read it, everyone he knew read it (even if they wouldn’t admit it).

  The headline made him feel faint. Soap Star Revealed as Fraud! Author of Behind the Scenes accused of plagiarizing book!

  He didn’t read more. He felt dizzy and slightly sick.

  “Here,” Alan said, gesturing to their table. “Do you want to sit down? I am so sorry. You didn’t know about this?”

  “I . . . my phone has been switched off. I haven’t been online. I didn’t know.”

  “Can I do something for you? Call anyone?”

  “I’m fine,” he lied, forcing a smile. “Please don’t feel bad for telling me. I’m glad I know.” He rolled his eyes. “They’ll drag up any old garbage on you.”

  “I know,” Alan commiserated. “Sometimes I thank God I’ve never been successful.” They said goodbye as Topher headed toward Dickie, ignoring the feeling that every single person in the restaurant was staring at him and thinking he was a fraud and a liar.

  “Are you okay?” Dickie shot him a look as he approached.

  “No. I’ll tell you outside.”

  Topher showed him the story on the way home. It was worse than he thought when Alan showed him the headline. They had printed paragraphs from Topher’s book, and paragraphs from the self-published memoir Topher had picked up in Maine, lining up and highlighting the sentences that were the same. The beautiful sentences Topher had copied into his own manuscript to try to inspire him at a time when he had no idea what to write. Sentences, he realized now, he had forgotten to remove.