Virtual Strangers (24 page)

Things could be worse, I suppose. When I pack my case to go to Rose’s it is at least with the knowledge that I am getting ever closer to fulfilling my Everest ambition, because the last call I take before leaving work on the Friday, is one to let me know that the Habibs - hurrah, hurrah - have had a full asking price offer for their house from a corporate couple with nothing to sell. Which means they can make an offer for Cherry Ditchling. Though why they would want to is way beyond me.

When I arrive in Canterbury later that evening, it is to find my friend tired and sore and a little bit tipsy, and exuding a palpably false air of jollity.

‘Gross!’ she reports (with a laugh and a flourish). ‘Gross is what it is, Charlie. I feel like a bloody combine harvester’s been up there. Let me tell you, childbirth has
nothing
on this.’

We sit and drink some more while she outlines the gruesome details. Incontinence, bleeding, bizarre sounding packing, plus nightmarish crises with catheter leads. Rose never seems to tire of the blood and guts re-runs. I don’t mind. They’re just her way, I think, of purging her brain of the fear that will lodge there till the pathology is finally known. Which should be sometime this week.

‘But it will all have been worth it,’ I remind her. ‘Whatever the pathology, at least the op’s over. At least you can get on with your life now.’

She gulps back her wine - the second since I arrived, and judging by the bottle, her fifth, at least - and suddenly her expression becomes serious.

‘But the funny thing,’ she says, ‘is that I have this huge, horrible,
nagging
sense of loss, you know? Of myself. Of myself as a
woman
. It’s as if they’ve pulled a big shutter down on a whole chunk of my life. And I want to get back there. You know?’ Her brows knit as she says this.

We are side by side on the sofa, so I put my arm around her.

‘Of
course
you do,’ I soothe. ‘That’s quite natural, isn’t it?’

‘Is it?’ She sounds mournful. ‘I’m not so sure. I certainly didn’t
expect
to feel like this. I was all gung ho with me. It was all “whip it all out!”, “toss those tampons out of the window with a merry whoop!” etc. I thought I’d feel free. Liberated. Up for it. You know? But I don’t. I feel sad.’

‘But Rose, you’ve just had a major -’

She swivels to face me and silences me with a finger.

‘It’s not
about
that, Charlie. It’s not about cancer and stress and being ill and all that. It’s about the finiteness of life. It’s about stages and phases and looking back and regrets.’ She pulls on a curl that’s come loose from my scrunchie, pulls it straight and then winds it carefully around my ear. ‘It’s about being dragged on to the next bit when you don’t feel ready. It’s scary. It’s bloody miserable. ’

I take her hand. ‘But it’s not as if you want any more children, is it?’ She shakes her head. ‘So it’s just a reaction. To everything. All perfectly understandable.’ As if I’d know.

Rose sighs, then rests her head in the crook of my shoulder and snuggles up beside me.

‘This isn’t about having children,’ she tells me.

‘Then what?’ I feel her shrug. There is something quietly desolate in her manner, and there isn’t, I realise, a thing I can do about it.

‘Your life. My life. You and Adam, maybe. Fuck knows. I’m just sad and I need lots of hugs.’

So I hug her, and she is asleep mere moments later, snoring extravagantly, and warm and heavy against my chest. Matt, who has been ‘leaving us to it’ now enters, and beckons me silently.

‘Come and join me outside,’ he says. ‘Come commune with a fag.’

There is little in the garden but grey-green rows of flaccid cabbage and root tops plus the wizened pre-blizzard breakfast debris from the bird table. I flick a nugget of bacon fat from the bench and sit down.

Matt lights a cigarette and sends blue smoke curling skywards.

‘It’s been a bugger, this snow,’ he says. ‘Put my cauliflowers back by weeks. And God only knows when the onions will sprout.’ He flicks his ash off and stares mournfully skywards. Then sighs.

‘You will keep an eye on things, won’t you?’

I know what he means, but I stick with the garden. Matt has never been one for the baring of souls.

‘Of course,’ I reassure him. ‘You just say what needs doing and I’ll do it. Precisely, mind you. I haven’t the first clue about vegetables. You can do me a timetable before you leave.’

‘No sweat,’ he says. ‘I’ve already done it.’ And we find ourselves laughing. Because we both know the only reason we’re fussing about the garden is because it’s infinitely better than discussing the real thing we’re worrying about now.

I
am glad to be sterilised, at least, as I am reminded daily that small children are knackering. Have taken to eating tea with the kids as I cannot be fagged to cook twice and would anyway rather flollop around in state of undress discussing weighty philosophical/esoteric matters over a similarly weighty quantity of wine. I’ve had a seriously bad hangover every morning this week. Possible iodine overload too, as I have rediscovered fishfinger sandwiches big time. Rose is now almost three weeks post op and becoming bouncier and more cheerful daily, and revelling in lassitude and giving orders to everyone (me). But I don’t care. I’m so glad to see her smiling. And for my part, I’m almost convinced that I could deal with whatever the rest of my love life lobs at me, if I could partake of regular female bonding sessions such as we have enjoyed this week. Such a shame that we can’t, because despite feeling that, rather like vectors and quadratic equations, my knowledge of child-rearing must have dropped out of my neural net altogether, it’s been a definite good move to drop out of my own life for a week and drop into one more grounded instead. Beginning to feel that I can lick the whole Adam problem; I’m more determined than ever to get to Nepal, carve out some new territory, take a firm line with my career, and hope the spin off of my aesthetic and holistic new lifestyle will reap an incidental bounty in the shape of a six foot gentle hero, with whom I can explore (given constraints of age, flexibility and so on) an active physical union for bit more than ten years. Though not Rhys Hazelton, probably.

In fact, I am so taken with the idea of finding my true self through developing a focussed new life-plan that when I decide to telephone the office on Thursday afternoon to find out whether Habibs
have
made their offer for Cherry Ditchling, I find I am totally sanguine about a possible no-go. But not for long. (Obviously fooled myself about
that
.)

‘Davina,’ I tweet. ‘How’s everything going?’

‘Tickety boo,’ she says. ‘Is there something you want?’

‘Oh, it’s nothing important. I just couldn’t bear waiting till Monday to find out.’

‘Find out what?’

(Forget that, in Davina-world, staff commission is less important than colour of tights.)

‘Did they buy it?’

‘Buy what?’

(Ditto.)

‘Cherry Ditchling.’

‘Cherry Ditchling?’

‘The Habibs. Did they make a firm offer?’

‘Oh,
them
. Yes, they did.’

Yes!

‘For how much?’

‘Four twenty five.’

Excellent!

‘And?’

‘And nothing. The Rutlands-’

‘Pardon? And
nothing
?’

‘Like I just said. And nothing. The Rutlands said no.’

‘No? They said
no
? But that’s only five grand off the asking price. Why?’

‘Because it wasn’t enough.’

‘Wasn’t enough! Christ! But that’s absolute rubbish. They knew they’d have to negotiate. Mr Rutland said as much to me only last week. Look, have you rung and discussed it with Mr Habib? The amount that we’re talking here, I’m sure they’d be prepared to meet them halfway or something. They loved the house. They wouldn’t want to lose it for the sake of a few thousand. Should I -’

‘Charlie, I haven’t rung them because there’s no point. The reason Mr Rutland declined their offer is because he had a better one. An offer at the asking price, in fact. from a cash buyer.’

‘
What?
’

‘So, understandably, he took it.’

‘Oh, God, that is
so
unfair! I don’t believe it! How long have we been trying to sell that dump? Three years? I
can’t
believe it. And - oh, God - don’t tell me - it was Metro, wasn’t it? Don’t tell me it was Metro. Metro
have
sold it, haven’t they?’

There is a silence so short that a flea would dwarf it. I hear it anyway.

‘Not at all,’ she purrs. ‘
We
sold it.’

‘We
did
?’

‘Hugh did.’

‘
Hugh
did?’

‘Uh huh.’

Hugh did
. Not me.
Hugh.
‘So,’ I say finally, ice crystals misting the receiver, ‘Willie JJ are happy. And Hugh’s in the money. And the Habibs can’t exchange as they’ve nowhere to go.’ I laugh, and the mist superfreezes to minus two-seventy Kelvin. ‘Well,’ I add. ‘I must say, I’m really glad I phoned.’

‘You know how things work here, Charlie. You weren’t here, he was. He has his own sales figures to think of.’

Then
I
think. ‘Hang on,’ I say. ‘Surely we’d have been better off getting the Habibs to match the cash offer. That way, we’d still get the commission on Cherry Ditchling, but we’d get the commission on their sale as well. This way there’s a chance that we won’t get that sale now. It could be months before they find a new place to buy, and there’s a strong possibility that their buyers might end up looking for somewhere else.’

‘Charlie, you know the score. A bird in the hand and so on. Besides, Hugh’s out valuing a new property right now. An estate up on the hill. Could be perfect for the Habibs.’

‘Then perhaps I’d better see if I can get back for tomorrow, before he has them pens in hand, signing the contract.’

There is a small exhalation.

‘Don’t be churlish,’ she simpers. ‘Enjoy the rest of your break. See you next.’

Bitch.

Bastard.

Low life scum.

Never
trust a man with rings in his nipples. And more fool her. That boy is up to no good.

For ten seconds after I put the phone down I stare at it in appalled fascination, as if it, and not reality, was the orchestrator of my misery. My air of nonchalance, I manage to note, has dissolved along with the last traces of snow. Or perhaps not dissolved, but simply been buried alive under the malevolent bile that has risen pheonix-like from the ashes of my happy mood.

The point being, that it isn’t really me that does what I do next.

It’s a long number. Full of noughts and sevens and eights. And I’m still making sure I got it right when he answers.

‘Hello,’ he says.

I say it back.

‘Hello. God!
Charlie
! Hello!’

And then I’m not sure quite what to say next. ‘Adam, I -’

But he is. Or seems to be. ‘How
are
you? How’s Rose? Have you -’

‘Um. Fine. She’s fine. She’s, er...fine, and, well, I...Well, I thought...well.....I thought. Well, here I am, anyway. You wanted us to meet up. And, well -’

‘So you changed your mind? I’m very glad, Charlie.’

‘
Are
you? Are you sure we should do this? I mean, God, Adam, you know,
meet
like this?’

‘Of course I’m sure, Charlie. Or I wouldn’t have asked you.’

‘I know that, but...well, you have..well, you have things to lose. I can’t help but keep thinking....’

His voice is firm. ‘Then don’t. I suspect you could think yourself out of most things if you put your mind to it. So let’s get on with it before you do exactly that, shall we? Where and when? You say.’

Me
say. Oh God. ‘I’m due to leave here tomorrow. I was going to set off early evening but Matt’s due back at eleven, and Rose will... well, anyway, I could leave here in the morning and be in London by lunchtime. Would that be any good?’

‘Fine. Absolutely. So where should we meet? Somewhere around here? I’m just off Portland Place. But what about your car? You don’t want to have to bring that into town, do you?’

Someone (me, I guess) tells him I’ll put it in the car park off Regent Street and we arrange that he’ll meet me, just outside there, at one. Spit spot. All sorted.

‘Charlie,’ he says. ‘Thank you.’

My heart goes kerplunk.

‘Is that an underlined thank you?’ I ask him.

‘In bold.’

‘Are you shocked?’ I ask Rose, some minutes later, while still blowing the smoke from my mental revolver.

‘Not in the least,’ she assures me chattily. She pulls her legs up onto the sofa and smiles. In contrast to the beginning of the week, it is a happy, fulsome smile. The smile of a woman at peace with her career choice, at ease with her love life, and at one with her yin and her yang and so forth. And with a whole term’s sick leave, to boot.

I blink. ‘You’re not?
I
am.’ Indeed, I am as shocked as it’s possible to be. Life seems one big round of unexpected behavioural tics just now.

‘No, I’m not,’ she re-iterates. ‘Mainly because you already told me you have Adam’s mobile phone number in your handbag. You don’t make a point of carrying around the phone number of someone you don’t ever intend ringing. You particularly don’t carry it around if the agenda for the rest of your life is to make strenuous efforts not to communicate with the person in question ever again.’

‘I said that?’

‘More than once.’

‘I did believe it.’

‘No you didn’t.’ She puts her
Hello!
down and takes off her reading glasses. ‘Charlie, Charlie, Charlie,’ she says. ‘Don’t kid yourself about this. You’ve spent most of the week looking for an excuse to ring him. Now you’ve got one, so you’ve rung him. Seems pretty straightforward to me.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘Yes it
is
. So stop beating yourself up about it.’

I sit down on the floor beside her, pull my legs up and cradle my knees in my arms. I’m conscious that even if Rose is having none of it, I seem to be creeping ever closer towards the tragic-heroine persona I’ve sketched out for myself.

‘But what a crap reason for ringing him!’ I wail. ‘What a crap reason for
seeing
him. “Oh, hi, Adam! Just thought I’d call to say I’ve decided I will meet you after all, not because I think I should but because your wife is a bitch and I want to get even.” Great.’