I lose my nerve. It’s not that I don’t try, I do. For the last two weeks I’ve picked up the phone at least twice a day, Portia’s scribbled number on a scrap of paper, mocking me from the table next to the telephone. I’ve even got as far as dialling all seven digits, but as soon as the phone starts to ring, I slam it down, not knowing what to say, heart pounding and breath coming in short, sharp spasms.
It’s only Portia, I keep telling myself. It’s not like I’m ringing someone up to have a confrontation, which seems to be the only other time my heart pounds and my breath is used up by fear. I’m only ringing her to catch up. There’s nothing scary about Portia.
‘Well?’ Si asks, as he has now asked on a daily basis. ‘Have you done it yet?’
‘Yes,’ I say earnestly, slowly. ‘And I decided not to tell you that in fact I saw her last week, because I didn’t think you’d be interested.’
‘God, you’re being such a wimp,’ Si says. ‘If it were me, I’d just pick up the phone and call her.’
‘Go on, then,’ I push the phone towards him. ‘There’s the number. Do it.’
It’s a Thursday night, the night of Portia’s series, and though Si has been coming over to my place to watch it for months, since our new-found discovery these evenings have taken on a greater significance.
We have still, these last couple of weeks, kicked off our shoes, curled up on the sofa, and pigged out on takeaway Chinese for an hour before the show starts. But now, instead of laughing our way through, we are glued to the screen, desperately searching for clues to our own characters.
Earlier this evening we sat in silence, just the blue flickering screen lighting up the concentration on our faces.
‘I’d never say that,’ Si exclaimed indignantly, after Steen emerged with a particularly bitchy line.
‘No one’s saying you would.’ I rubbed his back gently, eyes still fixed on the show, waiting for Katy to come back in.
‘Jesus,’ I whistled a few minutes later. ‘I know it’s meant to be funny, but she is so selfish. I’m not like that, am I?’
‘Sssh,’ urged Si. ‘Here comes Steen again.’
And now it’s over, and Si grabs the phone and dials the number, giving away nothing, looking as if he’s just phoning Josh, just for a chat.
I watch his face intently, waiting for him to become animated, but he shakes his head after a few seconds and puts down the phone.
‘Answer phone.’
‘What? Didn’t you listen? What does her voice sound like? What does it say?’
I grab the phone from him and press redial, and, although I know what will happen, why I’m phoning, it is nevertheless a shock to hear Portia’s voice, and I would know that voice anywhere.
I’m so sorry neither of us can get to the phone. Leave a message and we’ll get back to you. Thanks for calling.
‘Neither of us?’ I look at Si. ‘Why didn’t you say she said “neither of us”? That means she’s married.’
‘And what decade are you living in?’ Si is horrified. ‘The fifties?’
‘Okay, not necessarily married, but living with someone, then.’
‘Could be her flatmate,’ Si says.
‘Right.’ I raise an eyebrow. ‘Because we do have flatmates when we’re thirty-one and earning packets of money.’
‘We do if we’re lonely,’ Si says seriously, and it shocks me that Portia might be lonely, and I want to step in and stop her loneliness. ‘Actually,’ Si says, looking pensive, ‘it could just be for security. There was an article in Cosmo about looking after yourself, and it said that if you lived on your own you should always refer to “we” or “us” on an answer phone to deter potential burglars.’
‘Cosmo!’ I shriek with laughter. ‘Jesus, Si, aren’t you a bit old for Cosmo?’
‘I didn’t buy it.’ Si looks shifty. ‘I just happened to pick it up at a friend’s house.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ I grin. ‘A likely story.’
‘Look,’ Si says, gesturing at the phone, ‘this is the perfect opportunity. You want to talk to her, but you don’t actually want to talk to her, and I know you’re terrified of how she’ll react. I am too. This way you can leave a message, and then it’s up to her. She may not call, but at least if she does you’ll know it’s because she wants to.’
I grab the phone, hit the redial button and listen to her message again, trying to smile so that I sound cheerful, happy, successful, and keeping a hand on my heart to try to calm down.
Beeeeeep.
‘Portia, hi. Umm. This is, umm, quite strange, hearing your voice on the machine.’ Si rolls his eyes at me. ‘I mean, it’s not strange, because it’s your machine, but we haven’t spoken for ages. Years. Your name came up the other night at dinner – we met Dan, umm, the guy who sold you his flat, and it’s just that we were wondering how you were, and it would be really nice to see you, to catch up. Anyway, umm, give me a call, if you want. Oh. It’s Cath, by the way… beeep.’
‘Shit!’
I redial, feeling like an idiot. ‘Sorry. Your machine cut me off, but do call me, it would be lovely to hear from you…’ I put the phone down, feeling incredibly pleased with myself.
‘There,’ says Si. ‘That’s done, then.’
‘Do you think she’ll call?’
‘If she hasn’t changed, she will.’
‘You’re right.’ I nod thoughtfully. ‘If she hasn’t changed, she’ll call.’
Ever since I can remember I have loved books. Not just loved, but been passionate about. I regularly spend hours at a time browsing in bookshops, losing track of time, losing myself in another world.
There’s a bookshop near my office, and a couple of times a week I go there in my lunchbreak, and spend a good hour wandering around, smiling softly to myself, sometimes just brushing the covers on the hardbacks grouped on tables in the centre of the floor, other times spending the full hour engrossed between the covers of a new release.
My dream has always been to own a bookshop. Actually, my dream has always been to own a bookshop that also encompasses a café. I envision it as the sort of place that would attract regulars, lovable eccentrics who would step in to make the cappuccinos if I needed a hand.
It would be a laid-back kind of place. There would be beaten-up old leather sofas, squashy armchairs, possibly a fireplace in winter. Of course when it’s summer, and I remember how much I love the sunshine, I envision it in a completely different light – my summer fantasies make it light, bright, breezy. It has stripped pine floors and slick chrome chairs, huge glass windows and Mediterranean-blue walls.
I indulge in this fantasy far more frequently as I get older. I used to think, in my early twenties, that I would work until I had enough money in the bank to open my bookshop, and that, as soon as I did, I would hand in my notice and get going.
But of course enough money is never quite enough, and now, although I seem to have amassed a fairly sizeable amount in the Abbey National (thanks largely to my lovely grandmother, who died and left me her flat in Wembley a couple of years ago), I know it will never be enough to allow me to jump ship, because actually it’s not about the money at all.
Si says I’m scared, and of course he’s right. Up until a year ago, I loved my job, I really did. I loved my clients, loved putting campaigns together, got a real buzz from it. But this last year it’s felt more and more like hard work. I seem to be less and less motivated, but every time I think about leaving, fear clutches my heart and I know I haven’t got the nerve.
What if the bookshop were a disaster? What if I lost all my money? What if I couldn’t afford my mortgage? How could I give up my PPP? My pension plan?
One day, I tell myself, I will do it. I will fulfil that dream. It’s just that I’m not sure when.
‘Cath, darling! We need to meet. When are you free?’ Lucy’s voice is bubbling over with excitement, making me smile.
‘Why? What’s happened? You’re not pregnant again, are you?’
Lucy shrieks. ‘God, no. Not yet.’ Then there’s a silence. ‘Bugger. I might be. When’s my blasted period due?’ she mutters. ‘Oh, anyway.’ Her voice is bright again. ‘This is much more important. I have a proposal to put to you.’
‘I can’t marry you, Lucy,’ I laugh. ‘I’d love to, but you’re already married.’
‘If I were a big strapping chap, I would certainly marry you, but this, Cath, is something else entirely.’
‘Go on, give me a clue.’
‘Can’t. Not on the phone. When can you meet me?’
‘How about Saturday morning?’
‘Saturday? I can’t wait until Saturday. How about this afternoon? Or early evening? But afternoon would be better.’
I flick open my work diary on the desk and check the rest of the day. Thankfully there are no more meetings, and, although I don’t do this often, I agree to scoot off early to go to meet Lucy. I shouldn’t feel guilty about this, considering the hours I’ve been working recently, but I do, and if it weren’t for her insistence, I wouldn’t be doing this.
‘Hoorah!’ she says, when I agree. ‘Come over to me, then, and we’ll have a coffee. See you later. Bye bye. Oh, Cath, wait. Did you speak to Portia? Was she there?’
‘I left a message, so now it’s up to her.’
‘Well done. Quite right. See you later.’
There’s something luxurious about being at home, in my neighbourhood, at three o’clock in the afternoon. It’s a completely different world at this time, the people so different from the ones I’m used to seeing at night or on the weekends, that I’m almost tempted to forgo Lucy and grab a window table in a coffee shop, just to people-watch for the rest of the day.
So many young mothers with their babies. Where do they all come from? Harassed-looking young men in dark suits, mobile phones glued to their ears, must be local estate agents, I decide.
But what astounds me most are the sheer numbers of people. Why are they not working? What are they all doing here, in West End Lane, in the middle of the afternoon?
My flat seems strangely quiet at this time of day. It’s not like the weekend, when the phone never stops, or there’s music playing, or Si’s round, as usual, tidying up after my mess. It’s absolutely still, so still I start to feel guilty, as if by being there I’m doing something I ought not to be doing, as if I have somehow disturbed the flat.
I dump my case, filled with research for me to look at over the weekend, pull off my right shoe by dragging the sole of my left down it, then use my bare right foot to do the same to the other side, thanking God that Si isn’t here to witness this, as it drives him mad.
‘Don’t do that,’ he’d say, wincing. ‘You’ll ruin your shoes, for God’s sake. You can’t just leave them there, haven’t you got any shoetrees?’
The shoes rest on their side on the floor, daring me to look at the scuff marks I just made, so I kick them under the bed and pull on some flat boots, sighing with relief at being able to stomp around again, and run out the door.
I pause briefly at the entrance to the kitchen, tempted to grab something from the fridge, a quick snack, but of course I am going to Lucy’s, and there is no better cook in London than Lucy, so why ruin a delicious pre-dinner snack with a piece of stale pitta from my own fridge?
‘Hello, Max. It looks like you’ve been eating something yummy.’ Max stands in the doorway, blocking my path, looking at me as if I’m about to start selling him dusters and dishcloths, a mixture of disdain and pity, which is quite extraordinary, bearing in mind he’s three years old and half his face is covered in chocolate.
I’m not, as you may have gathered, a natural with children. In fact I’d go so far as to say that when God created me, he seemed to have forgotten all about my maternal instinct.
That first time Si and I pitched up to see Lucy in hospital, the day after Max was born, Lucy sat up in bed, looking tired but radiant as usual, and gestured to this tiny, tiny, little baby, eyes squeezed shut, fast asleep in her arms.
‘He’s divine,’ whispered Si in awe. ‘Look,’ he said in amazement, ‘look at those tiny hands, tiny feet. God, have you ever seen fingernails that small?’ Si held his hands, his feet, while I lurked in the background, smiling awkwardly.
‘Don’t be frightened, Cath,’ Lucy smiled, gesturing me forward with a nod of her head. ‘Here,’ and she offered the bundle in her arms to me, ‘have a cuddle.’
Well, what could I say? I couldn’t refuse, so I took Max in my arms, hoping that I’d suddenly feel all warm and gooey, but I didn’t feel anything other than uncomfortable, and, just as I was about to start praying that the baby would keep quiet, Max opened his eyes.
He opened his eyes, looked at me and screamed. But screamed. His face was bright red, his eyes scrunched up, and he was screaming as if he’d seen the devil. I practically threw him back to Lucy, and of course the minute he was in her arms he shut up. I haven’t picked up a baby since.
Si thought this was hysterical. For a good few weeks afterwards he was calling me Scary Cathy, and whenever I touched him – laid a hand on his arm, gave him a hug – he’d screw up his eyes and start wailing, collapsing in giggles every time.
It made me laugh at first, but after the forty-seventh time he did it, I started to get ever so slightly pissed off. Even Lucy told him off, which was most uncharacteristic of her, although she didn’t actually mean it.
‘Oh, Si,’ she’d playfully berate him. ‘Don’t be so mean. Poor Cath. It wasn’t her fault. Maxy’s just nervous of strangers, aren’t you, Maxy?’
Si would then have to prove her wrong by smugly taking Max from her arms and making faces at him or bouncing him up and down while he gurgled with delight.
And now, at three years old, Max still makes me feel as uncomfortable as he did when a newborn baby. But now, instead of screaming, he just has this habit of looking at me, and I find myself trying to befriend him, being extra-specially nice to make him change his opinion of me.
‘If you’re a good boy, Cath will give you a present. Would you like that?’ I feel ridiculous, saying these things to him, but I don’t know how else to talk to a three-year-old.
I’ve watched Si with envy, because Si doesn’t treat Max like a child, he treats him like an adult. Si sits and has in-depth chats with Max about work. I know. Ridiculous. But it’s true. I’ve actually seen Si walk in, sit down next to Max and say, ‘God, what a terrible day. Do you want to hear about my day?’ And Max will nod very seriously, as Si proceeds to talk at him about film rushes and editing, and things being left on the cutting-room floor.
But what’s even more ridiculous, is that Max loves it. Adores it. He cannot take his eyes off Si during these conversations.
And then there was one time when Si sat down wearily next to Max, as Josh grabbed Lucy and enfolded her in his arms, covering her neck with kisses while she giggled and tried to push him away, and said, ‘I wish I could find someone who loved me like that.’
Do you know what Max did? He put his hand in Si’s and squeezed it, then very solemnly gave him a kiss on the cheek. Si said he nearly burst into tears.
But no matter what I say to Max, how large my bribes, he never seems to change with me.
I bring a lollipop out of my pocket and extend it to Max, who examines it for a few seconds without touching it, then takes it out of my hand, turns his back, and disappears down the hallway.
‘Max!’ Lucy shouts, running after him and sweeping him up. ‘I saw that! Don’t be so rude. You must say thank you when someone gives you something.’ She rolls her eyes at me, mouthing ‘sorry’, as she drops Max at my feet.
‘Fank you.’ He looks at the floor, lollipop already in his mouth.
‘You’re welcome,’ I say, as he trundles off again. I follow Lucy into the kitchen, the smell of freshly baked biscuits making me salivate. ‘He does hate me, you know,’ I say, pulling off my coat and throwing it on a chair.
‘Well, he obviously has terrible taste in women,’ she says, ‘and he doesn’t really hate you, he’s just at that difficult age.’
‘He’s been at that difficult age since he was born.’
‘Bloody men,’ she laughs. ‘They’re all the same. Now, how about some home-made, fresh-from-the-oven, apple-and-cinnamon biscuits?’
I rub my stomach in approval and take one from the plate Lucy sets on the table, not bothering to wait for the tea that ought to be the accompaniment.
‘Lucy,’ I mumble, mouth full, trying to catch the buttery crumbs that fall as I speak. ‘Sorry for speaking with my mouth full, but these are amazing.’
‘You’re so sweet.’ Lucy breaks into one of her dazzling smiles. ‘That’s why I adore having you over. So much nicer to enjoy what you’re eating. I just can’t bear all these sticklike girls who eat only lettuce, or have drinks filled with that ghastly sweetener stuff. Have some more.’
I happily comply, feeling only slightly guilty that I am not one of those sticklike girls who would wave the biscuits away, asking for a carrot instead, or perhaps a teaspoonful of cottage cheese. But even those girls would have trouble finding willpower if they had a friend who could cook like Lucy.
Lucy brings the teapot to the table and sits down. ‘Cath, are you happy?’
‘What? What do you mean?’
‘I mean at work. Do you enjoy what you’re doing?’
‘I love my work,’ I say, suddenly realizing that I am only saying this because, up until recently, it is what I have always said. Except there is no longer any conviction in my words, they sound hollow and empty, even to me.
I start again. ‘Well, I did love my work. I suppose I haven’t really thought about it lately. Sometimes I quite enjoy it, but not like I used to. What a strange question, what are you up to?’
Lucy sighs. ‘I’ve just been thinking an awful lot recently, about why we’re here, and what we should be doing, and for years I always thought I wanted to help people, which is why I’m doing this bloody counselling course, although thank God it’s practically over.’ She pauses to drink some tea.
‘But the thing is,’ she continues, ‘I haven’t done any proper illustrating for three years, since Max was born, and to be totally honest I don’t think I want to do it any more. This is going to sound awful.’ She looks at me sheepishly.
‘But,’ I prompt.
‘But,’ she smiles, ‘I feel like I’ve devoted these last few years to helping other people, looking after other people, being Josh’s wife and Max’s mother, and, although I adore looking after my boys, I think that now I need to do something for myself.’ There’s a long pause. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think that if that’s what you want to do, then that’s what you should do. Absolutely.’ Even as I say it I know I should be applying those rules to myself, but then I haven’t got a husband who would pick up the pieces if everything went horribly wrong. Who could afford to take on the entire mortgage if my money ran out. Who could, in short, be there for me.
‘So what are you thinking of doing?’ I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.
‘Ah,’ she says, breaking into a smile. ‘Now that’s where, hopefully, you come in.’ She stands up. ‘Grab your coat. We’re going for a walk.’
As we reach the bottom of the stairs, Lucy yells out to the au pair, ‘Ingriiiiiiiid? I’m going out. Won’t be long.’
Ingrid appears at the top of the stairs. ‘Okay, Lucy,’ she says stonily, ignoring the fact that Max appears to be wrapping a lasso around her left leg. ‘See you.’
‘She is a godsend,’ Lucy says, closing the front door, which slightly surprises me, as personally I think she’s a cow. ‘I honestly don’t know where we’d be without her.’
‘So where are we going?’ I walk alongside Lucy, up her road, on to West End Lane, smiling because it’s impossible not to feel good when the sun is shining and the pavements outside the cafés are crowded with tables and chairs, with people lingering over their coffees, just to enjoy the sunshine a bit longer.
‘Surprise,’ she says. ‘But you’ll see when we get there.’