The nights are not good. Si seems to get far more frightened at night, and among the many books he’s bought are first-person stories of people living with AIDS, or people who have lost loved ones to AIDS.
He reads, nightly, about watching people you love die a horrible, painful death. He reads about people who go blind, contract tuberculosis, Kaposi’s sarcoma. And when he reads these stories, although he says it helps him to feel not quite so alone, he cannot help the terror striking.
During the daytime I’m there, on the end of the phone, to keep him sane, to remind him of what the doctor told him at the clinic: that at last there are effective treatments, that the average prognosis, before people became ill, used to be ten to twelve years, but that now, with these new treatments, that has been significantly extended.
You, I say repeatedly to Si, will be around for years. Twenty or thirty at least. And I don’t just say this to make him feel better, I say it because I genuinely believe it. I say it because if Si refuses to be positive about this, then someone else will have to do it for him and that someone will be me.
So, as I say, the daytimes are not quite so bad. During the day we even manage to have occasional conversations in which the words HIV or AIDS don’t even figure. But it’s during the night that he gets the fear. During the night when he phones me up, either crying softly, or the weight of the fear pressing down on him so much he can hardly speak, just needing to know that someone is there for him.
Lucy asked me yesterday if everything was okay with Si, because he hasn’t returned her calls. What could I say? I told her that he was fine, very busy, and that I hadn’t spoken to him much either, and then I busied myself with ringing a wholesaler to stop her asking any more questions.
And I ring Si when I get home and ask him whether he’s thought any more about telling Josh and Lucy. This, apparently, is one of the issues the doctor brought up in his first counselling session. Whom he should tell, and how.
Si has decided, he tells me, that he does want Josh and Lucy to know because we, after all (and at this point he puts on a cheesy American accent), are his family of choice. He hasn’t, on the other hand, decided quite how to tell them, but is thinking of throwing some kind of dinner party, a miniature version of the film Peter’s Friends, to break the news. Except, he says, right now he can’t think of anything more terrifying.
His real family, he says, do not need to know. They live far away, they wouldn’t understand, and it took them years to come to terms with the fact that he’s gay, never mind being diagnosed as having HIV to boot. ‘What would be the point?’ he says. ‘If I’m not ill, what’s to tell?’ And I believe him when he says he is doing the right thing.
He has not taken drastic steps to change his life, not yet. He has not done any of the courses, or started regular counselling, but he has been to the clinic, had his CD4 count checked to measure the strength of his immune system, and had his first Viral Load Test to measure the amount of virus in the blood.
At the moment his Viral Load is huge, but apparently that is to be expected, given that he has contracted the virus so recently, or at least any time between July and October. It will take a while for his immune system to settle down. But, all in all, so far, so good. He is fine.
After the tests at the clinic, walking up the street, he told me he saw Portia. Another time he would have spoken to her, another time when he had not been leaving the HIV clinic, had forgiven her the affair with Josh.
That day, he said, he couldn’t face her. He didn’t have the patience or the will to pretend to be nice, to be normal, and he didn’t want her asking what he was doing there.
Was it definitely her, I asked? Yes, he laughed. There’s no mistaking Portia, so he ducked into a doorway at the hospital and turned his back until she had passed, praying he didn’t feel a tap on his shoulder; praying he hadn’t been spotted.
‘I suppose, at some point,’ he says wearily, ‘everyone will have to know. How do you explain sudden rigorous hygiene, washing your hands every time you touch an animal, or washing fruit and vegetables scrupulously?’
‘You could always try telling them you’re pregnant,’ I offer, grateful for the laughter that ensues.
It is a Thursday night and Si has come over to watch Portia’s series. We have ordered a Chinese takeaway, as we have always done, and Si is bemoaning the fact that we’ve slipped these last few weeks and have, you might say, somewhat lost the plot.
‘How much do you want to bet,’ Si smirks, just as the titles start, ‘there’s a new character called John, or Joe, or Jason, something like that, and he’s a local estate agent with a crush on Katy? Oh, and he’s a fabulously talented artist on the side.’
‘Oh fuck off.’ I throw a cushion at him and he ducks, chuckling, but it’s true, the thought has occurred to me, particularly because I have managed successfully to avoid Portia for quite a few weeks now, not returning her calls, pretending to be out when I listen to her voice on my answer machine. She may well take her revenge via the television programme.
And then we both settle down to watch. Jacob and Lisa are having marriage problems, but, astoundingly, Jacob hasn’t turned to Mercedes’s arms for comfort.
‘Well, he couldn’t in the TV series, could he?’ Si sniffs. ‘Mercedes is an angel who could never do anything as evil as split up a marriage.’
No, in the series Mercedes is there to offer support to Jacob, a shoulder to lean on, although naturally everyone gets the wrong impression.
‘Oh shit.’ I turn to Si in the commercial break. ‘Have we got it horribly wrong? Do you think we’ve completely misinterpreted everything?’
‘Jesus,’ Si says, turning to me. ‘I don’t know. I mean, Portia would never portray herself as the marriage wrecker on TV, but…’ he says, tailing off.
‘Then again,’ he says, ‘what was she doing at Josh and Lucy’s all the time? Remember all those times you pitched up to see Lucy, and Portia was sitting at the kitchen table, being all smug?’
‘Yeah. Good point.’
Si makes a worried face at me. ‘God, I hope we weren’t wrong. I’d feel awful if we were. I mean, I was so rude to her when she phoned up that night we were babysitting.’
‘Oh, I shouldn’t worry,’ I say breezily. ‘I’m sure she’ll get her revenge on the show. Sssh, sssh, here it comes.’
For the next fifteen minutes we sit there transfixed as Jacob makes a pass at Lena, the gorgeous Danish au pair, after they both find themselves in the kitchen in the middle of the night, both unable to sleep.
‘Jeeee-sus,’ Si whistles, as we watch them tumble to the floor in a fit of passion.
‘No way,’ I whisper. ‘Josh and Ingrid? It can’t be.’
And Si raises an eyebrow.
‘Well, it could be,’ I mutter reluctantly.
‘Bugger,’ Si says, getting up to go to the loo during the next commercial break. ‘You know what this means, don’t you?’
‘What?’
‘First of all that we’re going to have to start hating Josh again, and secondly’ – at this point he lets out a long sigh – ‘secondly I’m going to have to apologize to Portia. Oh God. What a total nightmare. Thank God there are only fifteen minutes left. I mean, what else could happen?’ And he disappears into the bathroom.
When he comes back he sits down with a sigh. ‘Cath, I’ve had enough.’
‘What?’
‘This is ridiculous now. You and I sit here speculating about the state of Josh’s love life, and the only person who seems to know what’s going on, other than Josh of course, who would never tell us, is Portia. You’ve got to confront her.’
‘Me? Why the hell must I do it?’
‘Because I’m not feeling well, and anyway you were always closer to Portia. I think you need to call her.’
‘Si, I’m sorry you’re not feeling well. Even though I don’t believe you, but there’s no way I’m doing this on my own. I’ll only confront her if you come too. The three of us could meet and talk about it. We could ask her straight out, because the one thing about Portia is she’s a crap liar, and your bullshit detector’s far better than mine.’
‘Oh shit,’ he suddenly whispers. ‘Do you think Josh and Lucy are watching? Because Lucy might be thinking what we’re thinking…’
‘Oh shit. I’ll call them.’
I pick up the phone, praying they’re out, that they haven’t seen the programme, and Lucy picks up the phone, out of breath.
‘Lucy? It’s me.’
‘Cath, my sweet! Everything all right?’
‘Fine, fine. Did you see the show?’
‘The show?’
‘Portia’s show. Si’s here and we thought perhaps you’d be watching it.’
‘Oh bugger, damn and blast,’ Lucy says. ‘I completely forgot. Josh is out again tonight and put the strawberry jam down, there’s a darling. Sorry, Cath, I’ve been busy helping Max make jam tarts. Did I miss anything?’
Thank God.
‘Nope. Just the usual. I’d better not keep you. It sounds messy.’
‘Oh God,’ Lucy groans. ‘My darling Cath, if you only knew.’
I put down the phone and smile at Si. ‘Do you want the good news or the bad news?’
‘Good news.’
‘She didn’t see it.’
‘Bad news?’
‘Josh is out again.’
‘Oh shit. Where’s Ingrid?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t ask.’
‘Oh God. Cath? Do you really think that Josh and Ingrid have been having an affair?’
‘Well, hopefully Portia will be able to shed some light on the matter once and for all.’
I ring Portia mid-afternoon, when Lucy’s furiously busy serving the rush of customers that always seems to appear from nowhere on a Friday afternoon. We arrange to get together for a drink on Monday evening, and I manage to make my voice sound as normal as possible. Even though I’m convinced she knows why I’m phoning, she doesn’t give anything away.
We don’t mention the show. In fact, she doesn’t mention the fact that I’ve obviously been avoiding her, just sounds genuinely thrilled to hear from me, and as soon as I mention getting together she suggests Monday, which is rather keen, even for Portia.
‘Cath, can you come here a sec?’ I say goodbye to Portia and wander over to Rachel, who’s looking upset. On the counter in front of her is a dog-eared copy of a novel that’s currently number four in the bestseller charts.
‘What seems to be the problem?’
A young woman in a black puffa jacket with a sour expression on her face gives a deep sigh. ‘As I was just explaining to your colleague here, I was given this book for my birthday and I already have it, so I’d like to exchange it.’
‘Oh, I see.’ I pick up the book and examine the bent spine, the creased pages, the coffee mark on the cover. ‘Normally that wouldn’t be a problem, but it does appear to have been read, so I don’t think there’s anything we can do.’
She looks up disdainfully. ‘Actually, it was like that when I got it.’
I almost start to laugh. ‘What? Had a bent spine and coffee stains?’ My voice is as disbelieving as my face.
‘Yes,’ she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘I imagine that’s what happens when you open a bookshop that has a café in it.’
‘Right.’ I can see I’m getting nowhere, and quite frankly, although it’s quite clear she’s trying it on, I have to remember that the customer is always right, and that it’s far better to keep her happy than to refuse an exchange and have her tell all her friends.
‘No problem,’ I say, smiling. ‘Why don’t you have a look for something else?’
‘I’d rather have the money,’ she says, evidently amazed that it’s this simple, to which I nod, pull £5.99 out of the till and hand it to her.
‘Have a nice day,’ I say, as she turns on her heel and walks off.
‘Cath, did you see this?’ Rachel, who’s been standing next to me the whole time, opens the flyleaf of the book to reveal the following:
2 November 1999
Dear Caroline ,
Happy Birthday!
Lots of Love,
Emily xxx
‘I can’t believe that!’ Rachel gasps. ‘I can’t believe she brought it back when it’s not only been read, but also inscribed! Jesus Christ! What a nerve!’
‘Rachel.’ I turn to her with a shrug, knowing that it’s yet another book we’ll just have to write off. ‘The customer, unfortunately, is always right.’
At the end of the day Lucy brings me over a pile of books that have been left in the café. ‘Cath, my love, are you going to be around the weekend of the twenty-seventh? You and Si, actually. It’s just that’s the weekend Ingrid’s off to Paris with the grand passion, and bloody Josh has just announced that he’s got to go to Manchester for a meeting, and normally I wouldn’t mind but you know how I can’t bear being on my own, and I thought the three of us could have a lovely cosy evening on the Saturday and maybe you’d stay?’ She pauses to take a breath, and my blood runs cold.
I think back to last night. To Jacob and Lena grappling on the kitchen floor in the TV series. Ingrid and Josh. It can’t just be a coincidence, that they’re both away at the same time. Oh God. Oh no.
But how would Portia know? How does she know all this stuff about our lives? And then I remember the time I came in and found Portia sitting in the kitchen with Ingrid. They’d obviously been chatting, had evidently become friends, and Ingrid must have confided in her, must have told her what was going on.
‘Cath? Are you listening to me?’ Lucy’s voice filters through as I try to collect my thoughts, and I manage to tell her that the twenty-seventh sounds fine, and I’d have to check with Si, but even if he couldn’t make it I’d definitely be there.
And she walks off back to the café as I stand there feeling sick. I don’t understand. How could we not have seen this? How could we have thought that Josh’s affair was over just because he and Lucy are having conversations again?
I can’t understand what’s going on. I sit there feeling confused – first Portia, now Ingrid – confused and hurt, so I do what I always do when life throws these obstacles in my path – I go home and ring Si.
He picks up the phone sounding morose, and I start by telling him about Portia, that we’re meeting her at the Groucho on Monday at seven, and then I tell him about Josh being away on the twenty-seventh, when he interrupts.
‘I couldn’t actually give a fuck about Josh being away,’ he starts, the coldness in his voice almost making me jump. ‘I’ve got AIDS, Cath.’
I am about to interrupt and tell him that he hasn’t got AIDS, that he is HIV positive, which is a very different story, when I realize that he has been drinking, and that now would perhaps not be the time to say anything at all.
‘And before you say the usual shit about me not having AIDS, you know and I know that it is just a matter of time. All I ever wanted from life was to be happy, and what bloody chance do I have of meeting Mr Right now? No bloody chance, that’s what, and there’s no point in you saying anything because you don’t know the first bloody thing about it.
‘You have no idea how it feels to be me right now. You don’t know what it’s like to have this death sentence hanging over you. God,’ he snorts with drunken laughter, as I wonder whether I should just put down the phone, because Si in vindictive drinking mood is not a good thing.
But no, I am a friend, I will be here for him and I will listen so he knows that he is not alone in this.
‘At least you, Cath,’ he continues, laughing out loud, ‘don’t have to worry about AIDS. Jesus, it’s the least of your concerns. Your legs are stuck so tightly together it would take a man a lot stronger than that bloody James to prise them apart.
‘And relationship? You don’t know the meaning of the word. You’re so fucking frightened of getting hurt you attach yourself to me, Josh and Lucy, like a fucking limpet, just so you don’t actually have to put yourself out there in the big bad world and risk finding love.
‘You’re like a bloody robot. You don’t have a clue, and then you tell me I’m not going to die and I’m expected to believe that? Coming from you?’
I have had enough. The tears have already started to drip down my face, but Si doesn’t need to know that. He just needs to know that I won’t take this abuse. Not from my best friend. Not even when I know he’s going through hell.
‘I’m not going to listen to you any more, Si,’ I say gently.
‘Why? Because the truth hurts?’
‘I’m putting the phone down now,’ I say, and, as I gently place the phone back in the cradle, I can hear Si shouting, ‘Cath? Cath?’ but I then unplug the phone, together with the answering machine, from the wall.
And I curl up on the sofa, hugging my knees to my chest, and I let the tears stream down my face, because I know that Si would never have said those things if he wasn’t drunk, and frightened, and filled with rage at the injustices of the world, but I also know that everything he said he believed.
He’s just never told me before because he didn’t want to hurt me, and the only way he would ever dare tell me was when he had the false courage that alcohol had given him.
And the worst part is that I know he’s right. He’s right about me closing off from the world. Running away from anything that isn’t safe and familiar. Running away from James.
After a while I get up, splash cold water on my face and pick up the phone to ring James. I listen to his answer phone, and then, after the bleep goes, I still haven’t formulated anything to say, so I gently put the phone down.
Si was right. The truth does hurt. But sometimes hearing the truth can inspire you to do things differently. I am going to get hold of James, invite him over for dinner and seduce him.
And just because I put it off until tomorrow because I suddenly realize that the emotions of the day have severely taken their toll, doesn’t mean that I’m not going to do it.
Trust me.