What My Best Friend Did (24 page)

I wondered if, in her mind, it had ever really gone beyond that; if she’d meant what she said during her depression, about how she hadn’t wanted to lose me. Whatever her motives for any of it, she’d obviously now got everything she needed from our relationship and was ready to move on to the next. I could now see how others before me could have fallen by the wayside, illness or no illness. But in quieter moments I just felt bereft, unable to see how she could have done it all: lied, manipulated … all when she knew Tom was special to me. I thought I had meant more to her than that.

Could I have done anything differently, given the chance? But done what? Asked on first meeting her if she was of sound mind? But then, it wasn’t her illness that was the problem—it was her. How she’d chosen to behave. It was nothing more than bad luck, us meeting. She had just seemed a fun person. It had certainly proven to be a life-changing friendship.

And in spite of everything, much as I was still angry with myself for wasting my time and energy, I had waited for her to ring and apologize again. She hadn’t. Through silence, she neatly made her point that we were done.

“Of all the people to make friends with,” I said, trying to lighten the tone, “I pick the mentally unstable social deviant. You know the only positive thing to come out of this utterly shit month is that I’ve lost about a stone without even trying.” I curled my feet up and under me.

“Perfect! You’re thin, heartbroken—you should come to Paris!” Vic paused. “You could stay here for a bit while you found your
pêche?”

“And three-wheel it on yours and Luc’s French bicyclette made for two? Thanks, but I need to start standing on my own two pieds.
Pêche
means ‘fishing,’ by the way,” I explained helpfully.
“Pieds
is ‘feet.’”

“Oh,” she said. “No wonder buying stockings the other day was such hard work. Do you think you might just be better off moving home for a bit?”

“Four hours on a train on top of a working day?” I said. “And if the commute didn’t kill me, Fran would. She’s around at Mum and Dad’s all the time: cross, fed up of being pregnant and spoiling for a fight. Maybe I should see if a local church has a nativity crib where I can bunk down? If I can get a shepherd to sling his crook, I’m laughing.”

“I think you’re being very brave, you know,” Vic said firmly, “and I’m proud of you. I know it’s hard not being part of the team anymore when they both used to belong exclusively to you, and I think you’re doing amazingly well. You’re nearly there, Al. Chin up. Now, sweetheart, I’m sorry to cut this short but I’ve got to go now. I really am trashed and I’m on a long day tomorrow.”

“Oh are you?” Appalled, I suddenly realized that I’d been on the phone to her for ages and hadn’t asked a single question about how she was. “I’m so sorry, Vic. I’ve just gone on and on about me and not asked anything about what you’ve been up to.”

She hesitated. “It’s all right,” she said finally. “You’re having a tough time at the moment. I understand, honestly I do. You’re going to be OK, Al—I promise.”

Her words comforted me later, as I sat worrying on Gretchen’s sofa in the dark, watching crappy Wednesday-night TV intently in my pajamas, bed socks pulled up and no makeup on, eating a family-sized bag of Doritos. I’d just got a text message that a flat I’d been going to see in the morning had been let earlier in the afternoon. Time, along with my options, was running out.

All thoughts slipped from my mind, however, as I heard voices the other side of the front door and saw the handle begin to turn slowly. Someone was out there trying to break in! For reasons best known to myself, I immediately turned the sound down on the TV, it was just an instant reaction. I froze completely rigid. Then I heard a key scratchily slip-sliding around the lock.

The door burst open and, like a bad dream, there they were: Tom and Gretchen, very real and right in front of me, piling in, laughing breathlessly, bags slipping off their shoulders. Gretchen reached for the light switch, saying confusedly, “The TV’s on!” She obviously couldn’t see me, immobile with shock on the sofa, but as the big light flooded the flat, she leaped out of her skin to find me sitting there motionless and exclaimed, “Shit! Alice?”

Her arm dropped heavily by her side. She was totally floored to see me. She had obviously thought that I was so outraged, so hurt and betrayed, I had packed up and shipped out in a blaze of, “I’m not living a second longer in her flat.”

“What are you doing here?” she said, astonished. “I mean, I thought … well, I didn’t think—we didn’t expect …” She glanced at Tom, who was carefully putting his bag down and assessing the situation. He glanced back at her and that was enough. Just that, a shared coupled-up “look” that didn’t even need words.

She was wearing an oatmeal cashmere skirt—it looked expensive and understated, flowing over her slim hips and flaring gently out at the bottom, while her black polo neck clung to every soft curve. She looked groomed and sleek, the kind of woman the professional man would be proud to come home to, and I could see, as I glanced at Tom, he was that man.

His suit was no longer classic, but edgy. Over the seven months it had been since I’d seen him, he’d filled out. As he put his hands on his hips in an “I’m anticipating trouble” stance, pushing his jacket open and causing his shirt to tighten over his pecs and tummy, I could see it was all lean, hard muscle. Some-one had dealt with some pent-up hurt down at the gym, that was for sure. He had no tie on and his shoes weren’t the staid Church’s lace-ups he’d left London in, but were very “Take no crap and if you have to ask, you can’t afford them.” His hair was shorter and styled differently and he’d replaced his glasses with lenses, making his eyes look very clear and piercing.

It was, of course, just perfect that I sat there looking such a pathetic state. I might as well have had a sign around my neck that said “Please give generously.”

I took a deep breath and said, calmly and with as much dignity as I could manage, “I didn’t think you were back for another two weeks. I’ve been having difficulties finding somewhere to live. I’m sorry to have surprised you and I’m very sorry to still be here.”

There was a silence, then Tom coughed and said, “Look, it’s no problem. We can go back to mine, Gretch. Sort this in the morning. We are earlier, obviously. Gretchen’s got this job thing and I transferred back too …” he petered out. “Anyway, it’s not important.”

“It’s just not a great time to be moving, in the run-up to Christmas,” I said. “Not that it is, of course, your problem.”

“All right, Tiny Tim,” Gretchen rolled her eyes and did an embarrassed laugh, “I’m not going to throw you out. You can stay as long as you want, you know that. I’m just guessing you don’t really want to live with me. Although there are two bedrooms, so …”

I stared at her. Was her medication too high or something? I didn’t want to be in her flat, period! She didn’t really, either in her right or mentally unstable mind, think I’d want to live with her? Perhaps I could be on breakfast duty when Tom stayed over? Maybe we’d all stay up and watch movies together under a duvet eating popcorn, she and I with our hair in pigtails, and before they went off to bed to shag like rabbits, we’d all shout “Good night!” like they did on Walton weirdo mountain.

Then I realized it was an act for Tom’s benefit. Carefully crafted to make her look like the reasonable one, the one who had tried to be nice but had it thrown back in her face. Oh, I wasn’t that green … how very Gretchen to think she could smother me with friendship. “Thank you, but no,” I said quietly.

“I understand totally,” Gretchen said. “This must be hard for you … I know you probably don’t want to talk now. Well, I know you don’t because you didn’t call me back or anything when I left you all of those messages. But you can absolutely stay here until you have somewhere else to go. I’ll just stay with Tom at his until you’re ready to move.” She looked at Tom with wide, innocent eyes. “That’s OK, isn’t it?”

“Of course!” he said, looking slightly put on the spot.

I had to hand it to her—she was even better than I had given her credit for. She’d just taken, what, five seconds to move herself into his flat, while giving him little or no say in the matter.

He looked at me and there was no guile or malice there. Just honest concern. “We really do want to help, Al.”

“That’s settled then,” Gretchen said quickly. “It’s the least we can do. I’ll not trouble you while you’re here. Just let me know when you’ve found somewhere. No rush.”

Of course there wasn’t, the arrangement suited her down to the ground.

“I’ll pop around tomorrow, just to drop off some things, if that’s OK?” she asked, and I nodded.

And with her game, set and match in the bag—Tom picked up the remainder of them—they were gone.

* * * 

I was up extra early the following morning. I knew it would be better to be out when she arrived, although part of me very much wanted to be there. But, despite my efforts, at 8 A.M. I heard the door go and walked into the kitchen to find her kicking off her shoes, having let herself in. She’d second-guessed me yet again.

“Oh good,” she smiled brightly, “you’re here. Sorry I’m so early—Tom had to go into work and I couldn’t see any point in hanging around so … I picked up some post from downstairs for you.” She lightly threw a postcard across the room as she dumped her bag on the ground and began to remove her gloves.

I picked it up as it landed at my feet. It was a picture of a hippo with a small bird sitting on its back, and above it was the caption “Friends”.

I flipped it over and read:

“Sorry. I didn’t know if I should hide it or not,” she said, head sympathetically on one side. “I’m sure he meant well, Al, honestly … but it’s fair to say he could have chosen a better card. No one needs to be told they remind someone of a hippo.”

That hadn’t even occurred to me until then.

“I’m really sorry that it didn’t work out between the two of you,” she said.

“Just don’t bother, Gretchen,” I said, looking at her steadily. “Tom’s not here. You’re wasting your breath.”

She sighed sadly. “Oh, Alice. Don’t. I was trying to be nice. How much longer are you going to keep grabbing the olive branch and hitting me with it?”

“How long have you got?”

“But Al, you finished with him. You didn’t want him! Surely you want Tom to be happy, otherwise that’s just … really selfish. It doesn’t bother me that he went out with you.”

“Well, it bothers me!” I shouted, suddenly angry. “You were my best friend, Gretchen! You never even told me you liked him! He wasn’t some bloke I saw for a month or two—I was with him for two years!” Had she actually just called me selfish? To my face?

“OK, I know that now,” she said warningly. “But …”

“Oh come on, you knew that once you dropped your bombshell about me and Bailey! You totally knew he was a major part of my life.”

“But while we’re on the subject, you’d been with my brother for about five months. If you still were, you and I wouldn’t even be having this conversation and you know it.”

“Yes we would actually,” I said quickly. “You lied to me, you manipulated me, you—”

“Oh you know what?” she said, closing her eyes briefly. “I can’t do this crap, it’s beneath both of us. I tried to explain to you about me and him dating, but you wouldn’t take my calls and refused to listen. You’ve acted like a child all the way through, in fact.” She reached for her bag. “It’s lucky at least one of us is capable of behaving like an adult. I think I should probably go.”

“Back to the flat where I used to live?” I said. “By the way, does Tom know Paolo beat him to first go on you?”

The second the words were out of my mouth I regretted it. It was a disgusting thing to say.

She flushed a deep red. “That was a really low shot. I was ill that night, as you well know. And by the way, you’re very welcome.” She motioned around her.

“Believe me, I’m making every effort to get the hell out of your life.”

She said nothing, but turned and shoved her feet angrily back into her shoes and yanked on her gloves. She reached the door, paused, turned back and said, “I’m not out to get you, Alice. And I don’t feel like I owe you anything either, so don’t go thinking this is me soothing my guilty conscience, because it isn’t. It’s simply that you were there for me when I needed you. So I’m here for you. That’s what true friendship is, in case you’d forgotten.”

She looked at me and waited for me to say something, but I didn’t.

Gretchen shook her head in disappointment, walked through the door and closed it quietly behind her.

I
wasn’t entirely surprised to have another visitor the following night. I’d barely been back from work long enough to make a cup of tea before the front doorbell rang. On answering it, I discovered Tom on the other side.

“Hi,” he said awkwardly. He looked more like the old him than the last time I’d seen him—he was wearing his glasses and his hair looked a little more disheveled than styled. “Someone was coming in downstairs and let me in, so I didn’t buzz the intercom and just came straight up. I hope that’s OK.”

“Of course it is!” I said quickly. Was this what we’d been reduced to? Polite explanations about intercoms?

“Can I come in? I’d like to talk to you.”

I opened the door wider. “Would you like a tea?”

“Yes, please.” He stepped in and slipped his shoes off, then removed his coat, laying it carefully over the arm of the sofa. “It’s bloody nippy out there.” He shivered, padding over to the breakfast bar in his socks and settling on a stool.

“Good day at work?” I asked, reaching for a cup and automatically putting in the spoonful of sugar I knew he took. It was the start to a conversation we’d had hundreds of times before, but never in such surreal circumstances.

“Could be worse,” he yawned, taking his glasses off and giving them a quick wipe before popping them back on. “Everyone’s working their arses off to get everything done in time for Christmas and they’re just assuming I can pick up things where I left off six-odd months ago: ‘Come on, Tom, you know we keep those documents on the third floor at the back of the cupboard in what was Heather’s office before she went on maternity leave, or try in Jonty’s cabinet. He’s sharing with Don now.’” He shook his head. “I don’t know who any of these people are, and frankly it all makes me want to climb into the mythical Heather’s cupboard and hope it leads to Narnia. Or back to New York. Either would be an improvement. Anyway, enough about me. How’s your work going?”