Frozen (17 page)

I buried my spinning head in my hands, feebly hoping that perhaps he would go away. A woman down the road opened her window and yelled at us to shut up. All three of us ignored her.

“This is Karel Whatshisface, is it?” Adam asked me coolly.

I tried to nod. Failed. I looked blearily up at Adam, who seemed as sharp as ever.

“Novak!” Karel screamed at him. “Not Whatface, Novak. Karel Novak.” He thumped his chest in time to his name and jerked his head forwards aggressively.

Then he made a foolish mistake. He spat at Adam's shoes. Worse, his aim was bad. The spit smeared across Adam's trousers. Karel stood glaring at him.

Adam stared at his trousers. “You dirty fucking snake...” he said wonderingly. Then he stepped forward, and buried his fist in Karel's stomach. Karel's eyes nearly popped out. He made a slow, retching noise and doubled over. Adam kicked his knee, and he slumped on to the pavement. I was still sitting propped against the door, struggling to follow what was going on. Too much, too fast.

“There's a couple of things you might like to think about, Karel.” Adam spoke quietly, although he was breathing hard. “First, watch your language. Second...” Adam paused just long enough to kick him. “... Do
not
break into other people's flats.”

“Not me,” Karel rasped. “I not—”

“Bullshit the police if you want, Novak,” Adam snarled, “But
don't—bullshit—us
.” The last three words were accompanied by kicks. Karel was past talking. He lay in a ball, gasping out little spasms of air. Adam stood back and took a deep breath. “Now fuck off.”

He turned away from Karel, dragged me upright, took the key from me and shoved me inside ahead of him. I think I must have mumbled something, but I'm not sure. Adam just growled, “Up.”

There were heavy breaths behind me on the stairs.

When we reached my flat, he helped himself to a whisky, without asking or offering, and slumped on the sofa. His hands were shaking, and his eyes were damp—whether from the whisky or for some other reason I didn't know. We sat and waited for his taxi.

It arrived and he left, without saying a word. I tottered to the window and leaned out unsteadily to watch him go. Through the branches of the trees that lined the street I saw him sweep outside and into the car before the front door had slammed behind him.

The empty pavement was glossy with heat and streetlights. The trees hung motionless, their leaves limp and yellow. There was no sign of Karel Novak. I wondered where he had gone. Then I wondered if Sam had stayed, or if she had lost patience with me and left. Then I wondered how I was going to get to my bedroom. Then I realised I was going to throw up. But I was too tired for that; I flopped back on to the sofa, and let the humid warmth wash over me—the flickering orange of streetlights on the ceiling, light glimpsed through a cage of leaves, a neon, pavement-hard echo of one soft summer, long ago.

I WAS WOKEN from a dream. Someone knocking.

I rolled over and grunted. Sam was next to me and I was in bed. I must have made my way to the bedroom some time during the night; I didn't remember it. She had stayed. Her skin was warm and smooth, and I had an instant erection. I peeled myself away from her while I could. The alarm clock said six-twenty-five. I had no idea how long the knocking had been going on. I padded out of the bedroom, grabbing a towel; I didn't own a dressing-gown.

Birdsong drifted through the living-room windows, the cool air of a summer dawn. Amazingly, I didn't have a hangover—at least, not yet. Perhaps I was still drunk. I wasn't particularly alert, but I did feel fairly good, which was a change. No, I didn't just feel fairly good. I felt
good
. I could smell Sam on me.

The knocking was getting louder.

“Okay, okay,” I muttered. I didn't want to call out because of the neighbours. But whoever was knocking had no inhibitions about that.

I had help opening the door; I did the first couple of inches, and whoever was on the other side did the rest, and then strode briskly past me. I had an impression of jeans and a rolled top, a waft of soaped skin; I smelt that it was a woman before I saw her. She turned smartly round to face me.

“Well? Where is he?” she snapped.

You know how it is when something unexpected happens? You see the event or the person, but it doesn't filter through to the bits of your brain that make sense of the world. I was freewheeling. Of all the people it might have been (neighbours complaining about my car, the police, Sam's granny, the Spanish Inquisition) the last person I'd have expected was Sarah Yates.

I rubbed my face and tried to focus my thoughts. “Um. Sarah. Hi. How—”

“
Where is he
, Harry?”

“You mean Adam? Where's Adam?” Daft question. It
would
be Adam, wouldn't it? She was his wife, after all.

I should tell you now that I'm not very good at mornings. It's a bit of a disability in a photographer, because dawn is the best light of the day. It's also a disadvantage when your best friend's wife comes barging in at six-thirty demanding to know where said best friend is—and when you haven't a clue, because he should have been at home, and anyway you were looking forward to a lazy morning doing something altogether more pleasant. I heard a gentle snore from the bedroom. At least Sam hadn't woken yet. Maybe we could do the pleasant bit later.

I slowly came round to wondering why Sarah was asking me about Adam—in fact, why she was here at all. Obviously he hadn't gone home when he'd left me. But, surely, if anyone knew where he was, it would be her. I yawned and shook my head to clear it. Sarah was still staring at me, and I was staring fuzzily back at her. Eventually her frown dissolved.

“Oh, for—wake up, Harry!” She glared at me as though I was self-evidently an idiot. “Where's the kitchen?”

I pointed feebly.

She marched in and I heard her rummaging around. Then she poked her head out.

“Where's the coffee? Harry?
Harry
? The coffee?”

She said it very slowly the second time. She had clearly decided I wasn't awake yet, and she wasn't wrong. But I was blearily aware that my doziness wasn't going to save me from answering her for much longer, and I had no idea what to say. The coffee might buy me a bit more time. And, after all, Sam's thoughts on my coffee skills aside, it really wasn't as though I didn't know how to do it for myself. I elbowed in beside her and she stood back. I put on the kettle and rummaged for cups. I made myself as busy as I could. Sarah Yates stood and watched me, her brown eyes brooding. Any moment now she would run out of patience. Obviously she thought I knew where Adam was, which meant he must have told her I would know. What was I supposed to do? Lie for him? And what was the lie supposed to be?

I rarely saw Sarah, except for occasional dinner invitations, when she would feed me over-rich food from her cordon bleu chalet-girl days, and quiz me endlessly and chirpily about my work, my love life, and what Adam and I got up to on our boys' nights out. She was gregarious, occasionally sexy, a little vague. But I felt uncomfortable in her company, and I had never been able to pin down why.

It had taken me years, but I'd finally decided that Adam and Sarah were perfect for each other. For Sarah there was Adam's charm, his powerful energy for work and play, his intelligence and the comfort of being with someone who knew exactly where he was going. For Adam there was Sarah's family wealth to support his political ambitions, her contacts, her manner. Sarah stayed contentedly, and busily, in Adam's shadow, the creator of the perfect dinner party, the chooser of Adam's ties and suits.

I mustn't sound too cynical. Of course, there was more to it than that. There was surely love, sex, and respect, too. But neither of them was the type to talk about it. Even while he was trying hard to pretend he was still a bachelor out for a night with the lads, Adam had shone with something new from the moment he met her. Perhaps the best way I can put it is that they looked good together. They were confident, glossy, stable.

But she and I lived in different compartments of Adam's life. In truth, I was the last relic of Adam's past—perhaps the only person with whom he did not have to
be
anyone. Our time together was in a realm set aside from the rest of his life, and in it, we still shared our silences and our memories. I think that, in a way, Sarah was jealous of us—and perhaps she was right to be. But whatever the reason, the truth was that she and I rarely spoke. I hadn't seen her for over a year.

Over time, she had lost the fluffiness that had seemed to surround her when we first met, and gained a kind of simplicity. Her features were strong, her skin bronzed and clear, her eyes fiery and full of intelligence—and, now, anger. She stood with her legs neatly together and her arms crossed a little too tightly. Her posture and the brisk frown left no doubt about who was in charge; but for all the confidence of her stance I sensed insecurity in it also. Perhaps that was just my imagination, I can't tell. There was strength of purpose too, and over it all, the scratchy, impatient kind of fury that never comes out as cleanly as you'd like.

I made coffee and gestured for us both to go into the sitting room. Just like Sam, Sarah grimaced when she tasted it. In other circumstances I might have laughed. Just now, though, that didn't seem like a good idea.

It would have to be the truth, I decided. If Adam hadn't gone home, I had no idea where he was. How could I lie convincingly when I had no idea what was going on? In any case, Sarah looked as though even my best attempt at a lie wouldn't wash. But before I could tell her anything, she saved me the bother and, simultaneously, gave me one hell of a shock.

“It's that Hadley woman again, isn't it?” she said. “Verity bloody Hadley.”

She snorted, a soft little laugh, and stood staring out into the street.

For a surreal moment, I had absolutely no idea what she meant. I knew what she
couldn't
mean, so my sleep-befuddled thoughts struggled to make some other sense of what she'd said.
It's that Hadley woman
... But Verity was—was... and, anyway, how the hell could Sarah know Verity? And was she really saying that
Adam
, that Verity and Adam, that...

My thoughts stumbled to a halt.

“Verity's dead,” I said—and then went instantly back into my funk. Because she wasn't dead, was she? She was...

Sarah looked at me, cool and assessing. Then her gaze slid back to the window. “Shame,” she said. She didn't sound like she meant it.

“Yes it is, actually,” I snapped. “She was my friend, and now she's in a coma. She's gone. Gone. Full stop. And it's more than a shame, it's… it's...”

What was it? A smile and broad white teeth, large eyes full of care and insecurity. A summer day long ago in a treehouse. Gone.

Sam defused the moment by padding out of the bedroom in the middle of a prodigious yawn. She'd put on one of my shirts, and nothing else. She glanced at Sarah without a sign of curiosity, yawned again, and drifted into the kitchen.

Sarah watched the performance disinterestedly, and then turned to face me again. She sat opposite me, tight and composed, her face unreadable.

“You don't even know, do you, Harry?” I must have looked blank. Sam sloped out of the kitchen and slumped on to a chair, sipping coffee, still looking half-asleep.

“Sam, Sarah. Sarah, Sam,” I muttered. “Adam's wife.”

Sam yawned again. Sarah turned to look out of the window. Having ensured that they were definitely going to be the best of friends, I went back to Sarah.

“
What
don't I know, Sarah? And how do you know Verity?”

She swirled her coffee cup in both hands, put it down wearily. “Well, you must be the last person in London to hear the news,” she said, lightly, bitterly. “They're screwing each other, Harry. Adam and Verity Hadley are having an affair.” Sarah frowned again. “At least,” she added, “they
were
... but even Adam's not going to fuck a girl in a coma. So where is he, Harry? Where's my shit of a husband?”

SAM AND I WALKED along the riverbank. The silence between us seemed more natural in the open air than it had in the flat. Battersea Park was full of people walking, playing with children, clambering over the golden pagoda on the riverbank, all somehow distant from us, muted but companionable.

It was windy and cool. Crows tumbled in the air like dusty scraps, rising in eddies against the embankment wall, folding and dropping again to skim the river. The wind carried the scent of water and bruised leaves.

We held hands for a while, and then we didn't; I needed to clean my glasses with my handkerchief and when I had finished, Sam's hands were in her pockets. Sam leaned against the rail, with the wind tugging back her hair, and flicking the ends around her cheeks. I turned to face the river too, and smelt cool mud, and tried not to let the moment mean anything. I was somewhere else, though, and there was no point in hiding it. I couldn't let go of what Sarah had said. It was unreal.

Adam and Verity
? Impossible—and impossible to ignore.
Adam and Verity
,
Adam and Verity
.

I picked up a leaf and released it into the wind. It flicked straight up towards the canopies of the trees, hovered uncertainly, and then fluttered down and outwards towards the water. The wind caught it again and whipped it once more towards the embankment's high stone wall.

“Sorry, Sam,” I said quietly.

We both looked out to where the boats tipped and tugged at their moorings. Tiny clouds of thin grey spray rose where the water slapped at them. Sam moved closer, and rubbed her shoulder against mine.

“I'll go home,” she said gently. “Get the bus.” There was no bitterness in her tone, just understanding.

I pressed back against her, until our thighs were touching also, and I slipped my hand round her waist. It was warm and soft, sheltered under her jacket from the wind.

“Unfinished business,” she said finally.

“Unfinished business,” I agreed.

We pushed ourselves up from the river rail, my arm still round her. She reached up and kissed me, quick and hard and hot.

“Call,” she whispered, into my half-open mouth.

As she walked away, I watched the play of muscles in her legs, the loose swing of her arms, the lick of her hair in the wind—and the soft sounds of play and laughter from the other people in the park who had shared the moment and who hadn't even known we were there.

*

“He's in a meeting. I'm sorry, Mr. Waddell, but he just can't see you.”

I had tracked Adam down to the town hall. As usual, he was busy. Rita Patava's protests were becoming increasingly shrill. Of course, it was her job to make sure that Adam wasn't disturbed, but she knew me, I was his friend, and as far as I was concerned that meant I shouldn't have to put up with all this “meeting” stuff.

“Rita, I need to see him.” I did my best to sound weary and patient. In fact, I was mostly pissed off. “Just tell him I'm here, Rita, okay?”

She had been unhelpful on the phone too, which was why I had come in person. Even then, I'd had to con my way through the reception area. The guard was Malcolm, the same man who had watched Adam lead me out of the building in a daze a few days before. I walked straight over to him. He stood by a small rope cordon in front of the lifts, checking everyone's passes. “Hi, Malcolm. Any sign of Adam yet?” I'd said casually. “Adam? Councillor Yates?” We had shaken our heads companionably, and sucked our teeth together at the poor organisation of Malcolm's favourite councillor, who couldn't even keep a diary engagement—but he had a heart of gold, didn't he? Oh, yes, absolutely—and Malcolm had let me through on a nod. So now I just had Rita Patava to get through, and I wasn't having much success.

“Mr. Waddell, there's no
point
telling him you're here,” she said tartly. “He's busy, I told you.” She bent to flick through her diary, licking a sharp finger and adjusting her half-moon glasses on their cord. “He does have a window this afternoon—”

I gave up on her and burst through the door into Adam's office.

Now, I've seen the movies. You burst in and they're not in a meeting at all, they're alone, poring over a few papers on a gleaming desk. As the guards scramble to catch up with you, he looks up calmly and waves at them to leave you both alone. That's how it goes, isn't it? Every time.

Adam really was in a meeting.

The room was full of cigarette smoke, biscuit crumbs and the milky stench of weak tea. Three faces looked at me blankly. I stared back, unsure what to do next. Rita fussed around me. She pulled me from the room, apologising to them.

I waited in Adam's outer office. Rita busied herself, although it was clear she had nothing much to do. Every few minutes she would look at me, smug and stern all at once, before sumptuously licking her finger and flicking through sheets of paper. She never moved any of them from their piles, just flicked through them, and then glanced sideways at me again with lips pursed as though she was sipping acid. Needless to say, the conversation was a little thin. After a half an hour or so, the door to Adam's office opened, and the sound of goodbyes floated out in a smoky cloud, closely followed by two councillors. The door closed again. I looked across at Rita, my mouth half open to ask the question. She looked back, silently inviting me to try it. I didn't. More paper was flicked; the finger was licked so much that I imagined it slowly becoming as gummy and bitter as the back of a stamp. Perhaps one day when she put it to her tongue it would stick. I hoped so.

Another quarter of an hour later, the door opened again and Adam strode out. “C'mon, Harry. Now or never.” He whisked past without looking at me. I got up and followed in his wake, leaving Rita behind me, her eyes widening and one finger pressed to her tongue, her jaw dropping with surprise.

*

We went to a meeting room on the floor below. We didn't speak as we walked. Adam slapped the door closed behind him and sat heavily in a chair opposite me. He glanced at his watch and glared. He looked tired. “I get the strong impression you wanted to see me.”

“Yes. Look, I'm sorry about barging in—”

“Cut to the chase, Harry. I've got a hell of a day.”

If he wanted blunt, then blunt he would get. I was hardly in the mood for social niceties. “Sarah came to see me this morning. Wanted to know where you were.”

He looked startled, then thoughtful. The fatigue lines in his face creased deeper and he blinked once, very slowly. He shoved his face in his hands, pushing his glasses up on to his forehead.

“I see,” he said. “Oh,
fuck
.” He dragged his hands slackly back down his cheeks, accompanied by a low groan. He smiled, and I glimpsed a flash of the Adam I was accustomed to. “Sorry. Knackered. Okay. So, Sarah came round. Should have warned you. What did you tell her?”

I didn't bother answering. He studied the room bleakly—peeling grey wallpaper, school-style tables topped with brown Formica and set in a horseshoe, a trolley for an absent overhead projector, a whiteboard covered with dim traces of red and green marker, no windows.

“Oh, sod it, let's go for a coffee,” he muttered.

As we left the building, Malcolm the security guard gave me a thumbs-up and a conspiratorial grin.

We settled on the third coffee shop we passed. Adam had glanced inside the first two and shaken his head. One had people in it I recognised from the town hall. The third cafe was almost empty, and I could see why. We took a table against the back wall and hunched over cups of coffee. The place smelt of toast. I waited for Adam to speak.

“I didn't go home last night,” he said eventually.

I knew that. I waited for more.

“And, yes, I told Sarah I was with you. Should have warned you. Stupid of me.” He looked up at me for the first time. “What did you tell her, Harry?”

Again, I didn't reply. He got the message, and nodded wearily. His face was saggy and drawn. His shoulders were humped and crumpled, and his eyes had a defeated stare. He traced the curve of a dried coffee spill on the plastic table mat.

“Things with Sarah... they're not going well,” he mumbled. “Haven't been for a while, to be honest.” He paused for a slurp of coffee. “We had a row when I rang and told her I was seeing you last night—
another
row... I just couldn't face going home. I walked out. Just for the night, understand, not forever. Told her I'd be staying with you. But—well, I didn't.”

“She told me about you and Verity,” I said coldly.

Well, I wanted to sound cold; whether I did or not, I'm not sure. I doubt I managed to hide the hurt or the uncertainty.

“About me and Verity? Told you what?” Adam talked slowly and absently, as though he was past caring. And at that moment I knew that Sarah had been telling the truth.

“That you were seeing each other. You bloody were, weren't you? How could—”

Adam raised a hand to stop me, and then stared thoughtfully at his cup. He dipped a finger into his coffee and sucked it. Then he slumped forwards a little further and stared at the tablecloth. The silence stretched.

“Adam,” I growled.

He snapped forward, then immediately sank back morosely. “Listen,
back off
, Harry! Oh... shit, sorry. This is... just give me a minute. Oh,
God
...” I thought there was a hint of tears at the corners of his eyes. He groaned. “Okay, confession time. Yes, Harry, I was seeing Verity.”

I had thought I would be speechless when—I had still hoped for
if
—he admitted it. I was anything but. I was furious. “You fucking bastard!” I snarled.

The one who was silent was Adam. Then he buried his face in his hands again and muttered, “Fuck fuck fuck” under his breath.

“You could at least have told me,” I added.

“Oh,
could
I?” he spat back. “Want to think that through for a moment, Harry?”

I didn't want to think anything through. I just wanted it not to be true—but it was.

Adam shook his head. “It's been so hard, Harry.” His voice was a sigh. “Lying to you. All the pretence. Keeping secrets. Harry, I'm so sorry.”

“Not sorry enough to fucking tell me,” I muttered.

Adam pinched his nose. He spoke carefully. I had the impression that
he
was irritated with
me
, the bastard, but was trying to stifle it. “I did try to tell you, Harry. I wanted to last night in the pub. But you were so absorbed in your own troubles, you didn't have the slightest—oh, forget it...”

His hand strayed up to his forehead. He took a handful of hair, clenched it and twisted. When he sighed, it sounded as though someone had punched him. “I should never have let it happen in the first place. It was only a bit of fun anyway. And I admit I should have told you.
We
should have told you.”

“
We
,” I echoed bitterly. But the anger in my voice was a lie. What I was feeling was more like... grief.

Adam met my gaze. His eyes were glassy, his face was sad and... puzzled, I think; as though my reaction had bewildered him. “You're supposed to be my friend,” I hissed.

“I am,” he said. I snorted mockingly. “Listen, Harry,” he went on, “I wish I could turn back the clock and not do it but I can't. I did it. And I can't make that okay for you. I can't even ask you to forgive, because how could you? I did it. We did it. It's over. I'm sorry.”

We.

Adam's betrayal was only part of the cold fury that was creeping over me. We did it, we lied; that was the real agony. And now Verity would never be able to explain or beg forgiveness, or comfort me through the pain of learning what she had done. I would not have the reassurance of her guilt, of her sadness at my hurt. There would be no attempt to deny the intolerable truth that was searing through me: that I had lost Verity long before she fell.

“Why, Adam?” I moaned. “Just—why?” Tears were burning in my eyes, and in his.

“It was just fun, Harry. We both knew it wasn't going to last.” He gazed at me mildly.

I glowered back.

“Okay, the truth. The truth is, Harry, we didn't want to hurt you.” He held up a weary hand to forestall any response. “I know, it's the oldest cliché in the book, but it's the truth, Harry, I swear. We knew how you felt about her. If you knew we were... you know... it would have torn you apart. It didn't mean enough to risk that.”

I wanted to laugh. It was so bloody ironic. Adam nodded. He knew what I was thinking. “And now here we are,” he murmured. “And you
do
know. And look what it's doing to you. Harry, I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say.”

“Don't even try,” I grated.

He couldn't help himself, though. This was his opportunity for confession. I wished he would shut up—but I listened.

“I was so close to telling you, Harry, I swear. But it wasn't love or anything. It was completely casual. It was never going to last long. Verity swore there was no point coming clean.”

“So you kept quiet,” I said coldly.