The Friends We Keep Page 3

  “I can’t believe you’re describing my duvet as an emergency.” Evvie regained her composure and smiled.

  “Is it a duvet you’ve had since you were a baby?”

  “No. My grandmother bought it for me to bring to college.”

  “Would you ever, in a million years, have picked that duvet out for yourself?”

  “Maybe not.” Evvie started to laugh. “Okay. It’s as ugly as sin. Let’s go. As long as it’s not expensive, I’m in. I would pay if I could, but I’m on a strict budget. My money’s tied up in a trust. I don’t have access to it until I’m twenty-one. I think my mom was terrified I’d turn into one of those child star horror stories and blow all my earnings on cocaine and champagne. I think she’s regretting it now but my dad’s one of the trustees and he won’t break it.”

  “She sounds very sensible. Don’t worry about it. My dad will be fine if I put it on the credit card. And now I want to hear more about you being a child star.”

  * * *

  • • •

  By the time the girls figured out transportation to Bath and reached Habitat, their life stories had spilled out. Maggie had, it seemed, come from the diametric opposite of Evvie’s life in every possible way. She had been raised by the perfect parents, and as the only girl, was adored by her father. Her older brothers excelled in everything they ever touched, and Maggie wanted nothing more than to get married and have a life just like her parents’.

  “Will you work?” asked Evvie.

  “Not unless I’m forced.” Maggie grimaced.

  She had a plan, one that seemed to Evvie to be shockingly old-fashioned. But who was Evvie to point out that times had changed, and a woman was prime minister (even if, as her grandmother often said, there wasn’t anything very womanly about Maggie Thatcher), and weren’t they supposed to be having careers and taking over the world?

  Maggie’s plan? To attend university, and to work for a few years in something like PR or marketing, before finding a husband and settling down. She wanted a large country house, at least four children, and two Labrador retrievers, and friends dropping in all the time. She wanted, in short, a life just like the one she had had as a child in Sussex. “And why wouldn’t I?” she said when Evvie pointed that out. “It was completely idyllic.”

  Her mother was a wonderful cook who welcomed her father home from work every evening with a gourmet meal. Maggie and her three brothers had dinner with their parents nightly, a boisterous affair that usually saw them sitting at the table chatting about everything, long into the evening. Maggie and her mother would clear the table after dinner, leaving her father and brothers to have some “boy time.”

  Her parents were happy, and loving, and a world away from Evvie’s. Maggie’s upbringing had consisted of horses, gymkhanas, and dogs, graduating to parties thrown by young farmers’ organizations that ended with various apple-cheeked girls snogging drunken well-heeled young men on hay bales in barns from Cornwall to Scotland. During the sixth form there were balls, which drew from public schools across the country. Maggie had a selection of silk taffeta ball gowns and had even—oh the joy!—appeared in the society pages of Tatler magazine, a magazine Evvie had never heard of.

  Evvie told Maggie about her own family, about her street-smart, elegant, beautiful mother who had been brought up first in Kingston, Jamaica, before emigrating to London and meeting Evvie’s Waspy, preppy white father while on vacation in New York. She got pregnant, had stayed. Even though they were cut off from her father’s wealthy family, he had a series of jobs, one after another. He had been doing fine until his drinking got out of control and he’d been “let go,” only for his family name to open yet another door at yet another banking firm.

  She didn’t tell Maggie about the rages. She didn’t tell her what it was like when she was a child, to hear her father come in late, slamming the door. Or what it was like to hear her mother chiding him while Evvie lay in bed, knowing that something terrible would happen, for however loving and affectionate her father was when sober, when he drank, something changed, and a temper emerged. She’d seen it lead to him losing so many of the people he loved—including, eventually, Evvie and her mother.

  He was always contrite the next day—when sober. Sometimes Evvie would come downstairs and find her father on his knees, sobbing, clutching her mother’s legs as he begged for forgiveness. She always forgave him, and Evvie prayed it wouldn’t happen again.

  But one day, he hurt her mother so badly, she stopped forgiving him. She had had enough. There was no room for begging, for forgiveness. They were on a plane, Evvie’s mother’s lips pressed tightly shut the entire journey so no one would see the missing teeth that had flown out when he hit her in the mouth. Evvie told Maggie none of this.

  Instead she told her about being “half-caste,” how she grew up in Brooklyn, going to a privileged performing arts school that was totally mixed, where none of the kids focused on whether they were black or white. And then moving to Stockwell, where her grandmother’s community was entirely black, and her light skin made it both easier, and harder, to know where to fit in. Evvie felt Jamaican, American, and English. She liked ackee and saltfish for breakfast, and roast beef and Yorkshire pudding for dinner, and as much as she adored her mother, she was terrified of getting on her bad side.

  “So where do you fit in?” said Maggie.

  “Wherever I feel at home,” Evvie said simply.

  * * *

  • • •

  Habitat was empty. They wandered around the ground floor for a while, lusting after furniture and fantasizing about the kinds of houses they would have when they finally left college, before heading upstairs to the bedding department.

  Wandering past the futons, they came upon a bedroom set in a bright sunshine yellow. And there, in the middle of an enormous king-sized bed, was a good-looking young man, his oxfords off and placed neatly together by the side of the bed, his legs crossed comfortably as he lay against the pillows, engrossed in a copy of Nancy Mitford’s The Pursuit of Love, with a worn and well-loved teddy bear tucked under one arm.

  “Are you serious?” Evvie held Maggie back, whispering as she pointed him out. “Is that a mannequin?”

  “No. I don’t think so. I think he’s real.” Maggie stepped toward the bed, quietly. “I think I saw his eyes move.”

  “His eyes are now closing,” said the mannequin boy on the bed, putting the book down and closing his eyes, before opening them immediately and grinning at them. “Hello. Can I help you?”

  “You’re American!” said Evvie in delight.

  His face fell. “Can you tell? Damn. I’ve been working on my English accent for months. I’m attempting to channel Sebastian Flyte, but clearly it’s not working.”

  “The teddy bear is an excellent touch.”

  “Don’t you think?” said the boy, propping himself up against the pillows before looking at Evvie. “Speaking of Americans, you’re American. Who are you and where are you from?”

  “Evvie Thompson, originally from New York, although more recently from Stockwell in London, via Brooklyn. It’s complicated.”

  “Evvie Thompson?” He squinted at her. “You look very familiar. Is that your real name?”

  “It’s my mom’s name. When I was a child I was Evvie Hamilton.”

  “I knew it! I knew I recognized you. You were Yolanda Campbell on The Perfect Family.”

  “How do you remember that?”

  “I’m going to be an actor. It’s my job to study actors and actresses. I know everything about acting, and movies. Go on. Test me.”

  “Quote from The Breakfast Club.”

  “‘You ought to spend a little more time trying to make something of yourself and a little less time trying to impress people.’”

  “Nice.”

  “Too easy,” he said, pouting. “Try something harder.”

&n
bsp; “What’s the name of Rosanna Arquette’s character in Desperately Seeking Susan?”

  “Roberta. Come on, girls, you can do better.”

  Maggie shrugged. “I’m not a big film person.” She peered at him closely. “So why are you here? Are you at the university?”

  “Yes. I just arrived. My parents are living over here for my father’s work. He’s in oil. I got here this morning to find I’m stuck on a floor with a bunch of rugby players, and my roommate is playing Led Zeppelin at high volume as he installs a series of bongs on his desk. It’s hell.”

  “So, you decided to move into Habitat instead?” Maggie ventured.

  “Only temporarily, sadly. I wanted to find somewhere peaceful to read, and you have to admit, this room setup is rather wonderful.”

  “You look like you have good taste. We’re trying to do up our room. Want to help us choose pillows and throws?” Evvie had warmed to this boy immediately.

  He grinned, reaching for his shoes. “Shopping is my middle name. I’m Topher.”

  four

  - 1986 -

  Topher pushed the thick wedge of Welsh Rarebit around his plate with a frown, before sliding the plate away.

  “I just can’t,” he said. “I know it’s delicious but it’s all so unhealthy. I tried the fruit salad yesterday thinking it would be good, but it was swimming in some kind of syrup.”

  Maggie grinned through a mouthful of cheese, bread, and Worcestershire sauce. “It’s worth it. These breakfasts are yummy.”

  Evvie had already finished her slice of Welsh Rarebit, which was one slice of thick white bread with melted cheese and Worcestershire sauce grilled to perfection, with the added sin of a fried egg dripping in butter on top. It hadn’t been long, but already her jeans were less baggy, and she knew she’d have to stop soon. At home, she had always helped her grandmother make breakfast every day—saltfish fritters, johnnycakes, ackee. She’d never experienced the full English breakfast, and she couldn’t stop eating. It wasn’t as if she could afford the freshman fifteen. Who knew when it might stop? Given her predilection for compulsive eating, a freshman fifteen could very easily become a freshman twenty-five, or worse.

  She looked at her empty plate, feeling shame. She had wolfed the food down, not even tasting it, and she had been contemplating going back for more. She pushed the plate away and sat back. “I’m so full,” she lied. “I can’t believe I ate that much.”

  “Maggie? Want mine?” Topher moved his plate over to Maggie, who gratefully took it. It wasn’t fair, thought Evvie. Even though it had only been a couple of weeks, Evvie saw how much Maggie ate, and yet she remained as slim as a reed. She was one of those natural athletes who thought nothing of going for a run to let off some excess energy. Maggie had said her whole family had ridiculous metabolisms; they all ate like horses and all stayed slim. Evvie, on the other hand, could easily gain five pounds just thinking about a wedge of chocolate cake.

  She could feel that the switch, the switch that had to flick on in order for her to have enough self-control to diet, was slipping back. And it didn’t help that Maggie always had cookies in their room. Maggie kept them just in case she felt an urge, but once Evvie discovered chocolate Hobnobs, there was no going back. They’d whisper to her from Maggie’s desk drawer, and before she could even think about it, she would wolf down three, and then make herself go out so she wouldn’t eat any more.

  “I think we should go to Chez Jacques tonight.” Topher sipped his coffee. “Apparently the food is decent. I can run in on my way to class and book a table.”

  Evvie blanched. She felt completely at home with Maggie and Topher, who seemed to be an almost permanent fixture in their room already, so much so that he had grabbed another chair from the common room so the three of them could sit in the bay window sipping hot chocolate and watching the world go by, gossiping about everyone. But why did the two people whom she had chosen as best friends seem to have such expensive tastes? She had to get a job, and fast.

  “We can’t tonight,” Evvie said, relieved as she remembered their prior commitment, one that wouldn’t cost nearly as much as the fanciest French restaurant in town. “It’s the fresher bad-taste pub crawl, remember?”

  “Oh God,” Topher groaned. “The one where we’re supposed to go with our residence halls? I can’t go with those rugby players.”

  “So come with us. You’ve practically moved in anyway and all the girls love you. Especially Naomi.” Maggie grinned. “She’s desperate to lure you into her room.” Naomi was a pretty Londoner who had one of the rare single rooms, tucked away under the eaves and accessed by her own staircase.

  “Oh, Naomi. So pretty, and so precious, but she freaks me out.” He shuddered. “Every time she sees me, she strokes my back. I can’t bear it.”

  Evvie frowned at him. “Why not? That’s sweet.”

  “I don’t like being touched by people I don’t know.”

  Maggie started to laugh. “You don’t like being touched by people you do know. I tried to hug you the other day and you cringed!”

  “I said I was sorry at the time. Don’t take it personally. I’m just . . . weird about being touched.”

  “What is your type, anyway?” asked Evvie, who was convinced Topher was gay, but didn’t feel that was something she could ask. What straight man channeled Sebastian Flyte, complete with teddy bear? And what straight man flinched when a woman touched him? It wasn’t just that; it was that he didn’t seem to exude any sexual energy. But, as Maggie pointed out, it could be that he was undecided. Or bi. Or even perhaps asexual, which she had decided was the likeliest. “I think he just likes beautiful things, and beautiful people, which is why he loves you.”

  “I’m hardly the beautiful one,” Evvie had pointed out. “It’s you.” Maggie was who she would like to look like if she came back in another life. But Maggie had simply snorted, so used to having been called Pippi Longstocking for most of her life, she was entirely unaware of the beauty that was emerging.

  But Evvie was beautiful, too, with her café au lait skin and perfect pout, her almond-shaped blue eyes—the Hamilton gene—startling in that face. When Evvie had asked Topher his type, he just shrugged and said he didn’t have one, or if he did, he hadn’t figured it out yet. Maggie had given Evvie a knowing look.

  And so it was agreed, Topher would join the girls’ hall of residence pub crawl, starting at the King’s Head that evening at eight.

  “What the hell are we supposed to go as tonight?” asked Evvie. “I hate costume things. So much pressure.”

  “Whatever it is,” Topher mused, “we’d better decide quickly. We have about three hours to get to the thrift shop to put some costumes together.”

  “What are you going as?” Evvie asked him.

  “I’m going to be a drunk. I bought three cans of mushy peas to pour down my shirt.”

  Maggie yelped with laughter. “What can I do?”

  “Is there anything you hate eating?”

  She paused, thinking. “I hate Marmite.”

  “It’s a bit lame but we could make a big Marmite label for you.”

  “I’ve got it!” said Evvie. “I need pillowcases and black dye. I’m going as a pregnant nun.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The pub was packed, all the girls from Jekyll Hall and all the boys from their neighboring Coleridge Hall jammed into all three rooms in bad-taste costumes ranging from boys in suits dressed as real estate agents to a couple of pedophiles complete with greasy side parts, fake mustaches, and bags of lollipops.

  Everyone was drinking pints of snakebite—lager and hard cider, sometimes with a drop of Ribena—or shots of tequila and vodka. Everyone was chattering, eyeing up the opposite sex, flirting, and getting ready for the next eight pubs. Not all would make it. Some would stagger back to their dorms, others would throw up in the street, other
s still would collapse in shop doorways. A handful would leave partway through, bored by the drunken behavior, and make their way back to their dorms, where they would drink tea with friends and wonder if they’d made a terrible mistake in choosing West Country when they could have gone to Manchester, Edinburgh, or Durham.

  Evvie shouldered her way through the crowds standing in front of the bar. She was almost five feet ten inches in bare feet, and with heels, as she wore today (although why she chose to wear heels for a pub crawl, she would never know), she was over six feet. She liked being tall when she was slim. When she was heavy, she hated it, felt like an Amazon. But despite her jeans getting tighter, she was still feeling good as she squeezed her way through the crowds. She caught the eye of the man behind the bar and held it as she stepped toward him, proffering a five-pound note.

  “Three shots of tequila please.” She smiled at him, expecting him to smile back, but he scowled as he gave the faintest of nods.

  “Busy here tonight, isn’t it,” she said, attempting conversation as he poured the drinks, but he didn’t say anything.

  “It looks like you could do with an extra bartender,” she said, realizing that this might be the perfect job for her, the way for her to keep up with Maggie and Topher, and there was no shame in getting a job in the best pub in town. She could also, surely, keep her friends in free drinks.

  The man gestured to the other room. “If you want a job, speak to Steve. He’s in there.”

  Evvie took the drinks and gave him the money, holding her hand out for change. Usually, she would have slipped the bartender a thank-you, but not this time.

  “A smile really wouldn’t hurt,” she said, keeping her voice light as she put the change in her pocket and gathered the glasses. “Have a great day.”

  five

  - 1986 -

  I can’t stand him,” said Evvie, carefully applying eyeliner as she got ready to go to her shift at the King’s Head. “I don’t know what I’ve done to him but he’s just awful to me.”