Bookends Read online

  ‘So that means that I’m the bloody fat bloke with the coffee, aren’t I?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ I wipe the smile off my face in a flash. ‘So shall we make a move, Joe?’

  Chapter seven

  I cannot believe how quickly this all seems to be happening. Six weeks ago there I was, stuck in my job, dreading the tube, wondering if there would ever be an end to all of this, and praying for summer to arrive early just to make me feel better.

  The next minute I’m caught up in Lucy’s whirlwind of interior design, recipe ideas, hurried phone calls to the estate agent to make sure it’s still ours. And God, am I glad I didn’t take Si’s advice. I cannot think of anything worse than watching Lucy do this without me, because I have loved, am loving, every minute of it.

  The scariest bit was actually handing in my notice at the agency. They offered me more money to stay, but my mind was well and truly made up. Then, at my leaving do, my boss made a speech where he confessed that he’d always had a dream of moving to the country and buying a farm, and said he was deeply jealous that I was pursuing my own dream, when he didn’t have the nerve.

  But once I’d actually left, panic set in. That first Monday morning, when I didn’t have to get up at the crack of dawn and catch the tube to work, I suddenly realized what I’d done: what a big step it was. What on earth would I do if it all went horribly wrong?

  But then, later that day, Lucy dragged me to a meeting with the carpenter in the shop, and once we’d spent half an hour talking about bars and counters and display shelves, it started to feel real again and, more importantly, started to feel right.

  And then the meetings started. We were hoping we wouldn’t have to do a business plan, Lucy and I managing to raise £120,000 between us, but we hadn’t banked on working capital: paying employees; paying the bills; managing the inventory; petty cash and all the other minor day-to-day expenses that you never think about when it’s still just a fantasy.

  So Josh said we had to go to the bank. We set aside the best part of a week and sat at Lucy’s kitchen table, heads together, drawing up a business plan, and every night, when Josh got home, we’d run it by him, moaning and groaning because he kept telling us we had to make it more businesslike.

  But eventually we got it right. We took it to the bank, and they agreed to lend us a further £100,000, which was far more than we’d even dreamt. And Josh and Lucy remortgaged their house, which meant we could buy the shop in the first place.

  We then had to deal with the Health and Safety inspectors. We didn’t need planning permission, as we weren’t actually going to be cooking on the premises, and preparing food falls into something called an Al Use Class, which was a good thing for us, because it didn’t constitute a change of use.

  Lucy and I travelled up to Derbyshire and spent the day with Ted and Linda, the people Josh had told us about who own a bookshop, and their advice was invaluable.

  And eventually contracts were exchanged, with the completion date amazingly set for the same day, and we could actually start work. It was touch and go for a while, us getting the shop, but James managed to swing it our way, despite the competition that suddenly appeared at the eleventh hour.

  James has actually been fantastic, and the more I know him, the more I like him. I know I shouldn’t be that surprised, but he really does seem to be honest, straight, to have integrity. Lucy’s also pointed out that he’s rather dishy, but to be perfectly honest he’s not my type. If I have a type any more, that is.

  Plus, he’s a child. Well, not literally, but he’s got to be younger than us. I’d hazard a guess at around twenty-six, but Lucy thinks he’s more like twenty-eight, an age, she says, at which they are unstoppable. Whatever that means.

  She even managed to draw out of him the fact that once upon a time he was an artist, but lack of funds meant he had to find something else, and property seemed the most lucrative option at the time.

  The snowball appears to be gathering momentum with every passing minute, and last week, when the builders had finally moved out, Lucy and I were able to do the one job we’d been looking forward to since the beginning – painting the shop.

  We had talked, initially, of finding architects, employing teams of builders, paying for the most professional of jobs it is possible to pay for in England, in the nineties. But, as Lucy pointed out, all builders are a nightmare, so, rather than paying someone a fortune to have a hassle-filled life, why not pay someone peanuts for a hassle-filled life, and do a bit more yourself?

  And, despite not being particularly house-proud, I will admit that I’m genuinely excited about painting Bookends ourselves. Corny name, I know, but it seemed to fit, and even Si had to admit it was probably right.

  Lucy and I have been to Homebase. Have selected the perfect shade of sunshine yellow for the walls. Have contacted local hire companies for huge, professional sanding machines to sand down the floor ourselves. Have found a ‘carpenter from heaven’ – Lucy’s words, naturally – who’s building the bar in the middle of the room for a knockdown price.

  Lucy’s been developing new recipes, although no one’s allowed to taste until she’s absolutely ready, and I’ve run up huge phone bills calling Edward – a distant cousin who works in sales at one of the major publishers – and picking his brains about the how, what, when and where of stocking a bookshop.

  Even Si, loath though he is to admit it, is impressed, although I know he won’t actually come out and say so until we’re up and running.

  ‘Have you seen their house? Have you seen what’s happened to their house?’ Si’s borrowed a huge, shaggy mutt called Mouse to walk in the park. Except we’re not walking in the park simply to enjoy the pleasures that nature can offer. I know what it means when Si borrows Mouse for the park, or the hill, or the heath. It means that Si’s on the hunt for Mr Right. Si has this theory that every woman, and/or gay man, should have a dog. This is because, he says, most men go weak at the knees over dogs. Not small dogs, though. Big, strapping dogs. Alsatians, Labradors, Retrievers. Real dogs.

  Mouse belongs to Steve and Joe, and Si discovered the joys of Mouse when Steve and Joe bought a holiday home in Tenerife. Northern Tenerife, they said, and therefore far, far away from all the lager louts. Simply divine, they said, the only catch being that they couldn’t take Mouse.

  So Si, naturally, was enlisted to dog sit. We went together to pick up Mouse. Si drove his sparkling classic Beetle up to Steve and Joe’s flat – both of whom I’d met several times, although I wouldn’t classify them as friends of mine – and before we’d even made it halfway up the path we heard Mouse.

  ‘Are you quite sure about this?’ I said, looking at Si’s face as we stood on the doorstep listening to what sounded like a Rottweiler hurling himself at the door.

  ‘Quite sure,’ Si said, but I could see he was having serious second thoughts, and then the door was open and this great big teddy bear of a dog launched himself upon us, covering Si’s face with huge wet kisses, whirling round in ecstasy, crying and barking with joy.

  Si phoned me the next morning, breathless with excitement. ‘This is it,’ he said. ‘I have to get a dog of my own.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Because I’ve never met so many gorgeous men in my life!’

  Apparently Si and Mouse had been minding their own business, walking up Frith Street, when three – three! – gorgeous men stopped to pat Mouse and say what a handsome dog he was. Never mind the fact that none of them had gone on to invite Si out on a date. It was enough, and Si decided that the only thing standing between him and Mr Right was the lack of a canine friend.

  Of course a week later it all changed.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Si hissed down the phone. ‘The bloody hair gets everywhere.’

  ‘He’s a shaggy dog,’ I laugh. ‘What did you expect?’

  ‘I did not expect a carpet of hair over all my furniture. Christ. I’ve spent the last week hoovering and it still hasn’t helped. Mouse! Get Down!�
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  ‘So you’re not going out to buy Mouse Junior, then?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Except Mouse did find me a rather nice young man in Hampstead yesterday.’

  Si no longer dog sits for Mouse, but he does take him out regularly for walks, trying to guess where the gay population of North London might be. And yes, I know you’re thinking behind Spaniards Inn at the top of the heath, but, as Si says, he’s not looking for a quick fuck. Plus, he wouldn’t want to corrupt Mouse.

  ‘What’s happened to their house?’ I ask Si, as I pull off my cardigan and tie it round my waist, thanking God I had the foresight to wear a T-shirt underneath, as the sun has finally managed to break through the clouds and it’s turning into a beautiful day.

  Confused, I look at Si, wondering exactly what he’s talking about, although harbouring a strong suspicion he’s talking about Josh and Lucy.

  ‘The place looks like a bomb’s hit it. Those book catalogues! Piles and piles of the bloody things all over the sofas. You can hardly move in there for catalogues.’

  I shrug. ‘That’s the new business, I’m afraid.’

  We slow down a bit to catch our breath, because beautiful as Primrose Hill is it’s not called Primrose Hill for nothing, and when we reach the top we collapse on a bench to admire the view.

  ‘So.’ Si reaches into his pocket for a treat for Mouse, who gobbles it up, then bounds over to a mad Old English Sheepdog called Dylan for a spot of harassment. ‘Aren’t you going to ask me about my date?’

  ‘Oh my God!’ I’m absolutely mortified that I’ve forgotten – that last night Si saw Will again, and that, despite Si having cooked him dinner, Will does seem to be rather interested after all.

  ‘I am that evil witch friend of yours, and I’m sorry. I want to know everything.’

  ‘Everything?’

  I roll my eyes. ‘You can leave out the gory details. Start with your menu.’

  ‘Fresh asparagus to start with. Garlic bread, naturally…’

  ‘God, Si, you really must learn to outgrow that, it seriously is becoming increasingly naff. Wait! Let me guess. You consulted Queen Delia for the main course.’

  ‘But of course,’ he sniffs. ‘Since when have I consulted anyone other than Queen Delia for my seduction dinners?’

  ‘Hmm. Let me think. I’m guessing… fish?’

  A faint smile spreads over Si’s face.

  ‘Okay. So… it was either the coulibiac or the salmon with a cous cous crust.’

  ‘Good,’ he says, eyebrows raised. ‘But which one?’

  ‘Well, I know you would have wanted to impress him, and, although both are equally impressive, the coulibiac is one step ahead on the presentation front, so I’m guessing coulibiac.’

  Si laughs. ‘If you’re so bloody clever, what did I make for pudding?’

  ‘I know what you didn’t make.’ I nudge him, and we both laugh at the memory of the chocolate mousse.

  ‘Okay,’ I say, thinking hard. ‘I’m doubting a proper pudding because the coulibiac’s pretty heavy, with all that rice and pastry. Am I right?’

  ‘If you mean, did I make treacle sponge, then yes, you’re right.’

  I suddenly remember Si’s last Queen Delia success, and I smile to myself as I say breezily, ‘It was hot last night, wasn’t it? Hot enough for’ – I pause dramatically – ‘a strawberry granita.’

  ‘God, you really are a witch, aren’t you?’ Si hits me. ‘Anyway, he now thinks I should give up my job in films and open a restaurant.’

  ‘Yeah. You could call it Delia’s Den.’

  ‘Or Delia’s Dinners.’

  ‘Because of course she wouldn’t have a copyright problem with that, would she?’ We both snort with laughter at the thought.

  ‘So we didn’t stop talking all night,’ Si says, itching to keep on the subject of Will. ‘He is fantastic, you know. He’s handsome, and bright, and funny, and charming. You’d love him, I can’t wait for you to meet him.’

  I look at Si with eyebrow raised sardonically. ‘Si, you know what that means. It means I’ll hate him.’

  ‘Well, of course you’ll hate him if you think you’re going to hate him,’ he says disdainfully. ‘But actually this time I think the two of you would get on. And he works in PR, so you’d have something in common.’

  ‘Si, how many times do I have to tell you that PR and advertising have practically nothing in common.’

  ‘He’s creative. You’re creative. He has black shoes. You have black everything. You’re bound to get on.’

  ‘And what’s his relationship history?’

  Si looks at me with horror. ‘Like I know?’

  ‘But didn’t you ask? You must have asked. That’s always your first question.’

  ‘Darling, Cath. He’s a gay man with twinkling blue eyes and a body to die for. I’ll have to assume he’s been shagging for Britain, and is now tired of it and looking for security.’

  ‘So how come you didn’t ask?’

  ‘Because he would have lied. They always do.’

  Si takes my arm, and we walk down the other side of the hill, our stride perfectly in tune, Mouse and Dylan happily tearing around the field, chasing one another.

  We walk in silence for a while, then Si asks, ‘If you could meet anyone walking round this field right now, who would it be?’

  ‘Dead or alive?’

  ‘Alive, sweets. This has to be a fantasy that has potential. Otherwise what’s the point.’

  ‘Okay. Someone we know, or someone we don’t?’

  Si lets out a long sigh. ‘For God’s sake, Cath. Just get on with the game.’

  ‘Okay, okay, sorry.’ We trudge along while I try to think of someone, but, as each name flicks into my head, I mentally cross them off, knowing that they’re not the person I’d really like to meet, but not quite sure who is.

  And eventually I’m left with only one name.

  ‘Portia.’

  Si looks at me with horror. ‘God, Cath. You’re so sad. I thought you’d say Brad Pitt. At the very least I would have accepted Tom Cruise, but Portia? You really are obsessed, aren’t you?’

  Actually I’m not obsessed. In fact, apart from our weekly addiction to her series, made all the stronger now we know the truth, I’ve hardly thought about her since I left that message on her machine.

  I was pissed off that she didn’t call back. Pissed off that she’d obviously rejected us, wanted nothing more to do with us, but other than that I really didn’t mind, it was just that there were so many unanswered questions. I suppose what I’m trying to say is that there never seemed to be closure with Portia.

  I remember Lucy once saying that the relationships she carried with her, the ones that hadn’t seemed to die, no matter how far in the past they were, were always the ones that didn’t actually have an end. They were the ones that were cut short before their life span was up. The relationships where one person decided they’d had enough – invariably the men – and the other person never had a chance to say their piece, to explain how they felt, to be acknowledged at all. Lucy was using this analogy to talk about relationships she’d had before Josh, men she’d been out with, lived with, loved; but I see no reason why you can’t extend this analogy to friendship, because what is that type of close female friendship if not a relationship? Without the sex, of course.

  And relationship does sum it up far better than friendship: I remember feeling, at times, that Portia and I were locked into such an incredibly intense relationship, that. it wasn’t unusual for us to joke that we felt like lovers, except we didn’t want to sleep together.

  ‘If I could find a man like you,’ she’d say, ‘I’d marry him tomorrow.’ And I’d say the same thing back to her.

  There were occasions when I felt quite simply overwhelmed with love for Portia. She was like the sister I never had. The best friend, mother, father, brother, the everything, and I do not believe that you can simply walk away from friendships like that. You cannot simply dri
ft apart and get on with your lives, never giving one another a second thought.

  Which was perhaps what upset me, pissed me off most, about Portia not returning the phone call. If I had come home to find a message on my machine from Portia, I would have called her back. Immediately. I might have felt sick with nerves while doing so, but I would have done it. But then who knows, she may have changed beyond recognition. I might be remembering someone who doesn’t exist any more, or perhaps in name alone.

  ‘I think you might have been slightly in love with Portia,’ Lucy said once, while I jumped in shock and dismay. And guilt, because this was something I already knew.

  ‘I don’t mean you wanted to have sex with her,’ Lucy continued, seeing my reaction. ‘I just mean you felt an incredibly strong emotional attachment. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, loving someone like that. And you mustn’t deny it to yourself, negate the memories. The nature of your friendship with her was incredibly special and pure, and you must remember that.’

  So when Si makes the comment about being obsessed with Portia, I shrug regretfully and explain lightly, ‘Unfinished business, Si. I’d just like to see her again.’

  ‘You know that if she does happen to call you’d be duty bound to tell her about the bookshop? In fact I think you should call and leave another message on her machine, just to make sure she includes it in the series. She’d have to rework her storylines to give you a dusty little bookshop called something like Fully Booked.’

  ‘And Steen would presumably be called in to do the decorating. Chintz armchairs and gingham cushions.’

  Si laughs. ‘Anyway. My turn. Now who, other than Will, would I most want to bump into right here, right now. Hmm. Let me think. Rupert Everett or John Travolta? Eeny Meeny Miny Mo…’

  ‘No, Max,’ Lucy says. ‘Go and wash your hands before touching anything.’ She turns back to the fridge, and Max walks over to me with a grin, which I take to be a good sign.

  ‘Hello, Max. Have you been at school today?’

  Max doesn’t say anything, revolting Damien devilspawn that he is, but, still grinning, he reaches out two chocolatey hands and grabs my cream cardigan, before running out of the room chuckling to himself, leaving me open-mouthed with shock. Not because I care about the cream cardigan, but because that child is a monster.