She’d gone into journalism, and after a while I gathered she’d joined the Standard. I’d see her by-line first in tiny letters, and then gradually bigger and bigger, eventually accompanied by a picture in which she looked absolutely stunning.
I was working in advertising. I started as an account executive for a big, buzzy trendy ad agency that had recently scooped armfuls of awards, and I loved it. And every night I’d get on the tube with my copy of the Standard and look out for Portia’s pieces, savouring every word of my former friend, who was now almost famous.
But then, about two years ago, her by-line disappeared. I went through a stage of buying every single paper for a couple of weeks, just in case her name should pop up somewhere else, but it never did, and after a while I gave up.
Josh and Lucy, and Si, were, are, my closest friends. Eddie is married to Sarah, and has become a hot-shot director for a television company, so we don’t see him very often, but he comes down to stay from time to time. Apparently he remains in touch with Elizabeth. She was at their wedding four years ago, as lovely as she had been back then, but even after all these years she avoided us.
Si is still on the hunt for the perfect man, as indeed was I up until a few years ago, but I’ve given up now, particularly given that Si is the perfect date for those social and work occasions I can’t face on my own.
The funny thing is, if you had asked me whether we would all be friends ten years after graduating from university, I would have said yes, but only if Portia were included, because she was the star around which we all revolved. Yet even without her, it works.
We do talk about her, though. Do still miss her. They say time heals all wounds, but I find myself missing her more as the years go by. Not less.
Josh has a friend who was a journalist on the Standard, and it seems she’d left to write a book. Josh said she was still single and was now living in Maida Vale. I remember feeling a pang when I heard that. Maida Vale. Up the road. I could bump into her at Waitrose. Or drive past her in Swiss Cottage. Or maybe I’d see her having a coffee in West End Lane.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see her. I did, it’s just that the more time passed, the harder it was to pick up the phone and call her. Then a few more years went by, and my career took off. I had relationships, and flings, and my wonderful friends, particularly Si, and they all conspired to fill the void that Portia had left all those years before. Gradually I stopped thinking about Portia as much, although if I’m honest she was always there, in the back of my mind.
Once I thought I saw her. I was grabbing a coffee in the West End, and, as I turned to leave, out of the corner of my eye I could have sworn I saw Portia walking past, rounding the corner. She had such a distinctive stride, and all that mahogany hair. If it was her, she looked amazing, far more stylish than before, but I wasn’t sure, and I was in too much of a hurry to follow. And even if I had gone after her, what would I have said?
Chapter three
‘What shall I wear?’ Si is, as usual, moaning at me down the phone.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Si. I’m busy. How come you don’t understand the concept of work? Why do you never seem to do anything except phone me a million times a day?’
I can almost see Si stick out his lower lip in a pretend sulk. ‘Fine,’ he says, in exactly the tone I would have expected. ‘I’ll leave you to your work, then, shall I?’
Before I can say anything I hear a click, then the dialling tone. I sigh wearily and punch out his number, knowing that the phone won’t even ring before he picks it up.
‘Have I ever told you how much I hate you?’ he says, picking up the phone.
‘No you don’t. You love me. That’s why I’m allowed to say these things to you.’
‘Oh, okay, then,’ he grumbles. ‘But what are you wearing? No, no! Let me guess. Black trousers perhaps? A large black tent-like jumper to cover your bum? Black boots?’
‘Well, if you know so much, how come you’re asking?’
‘Cath, you’re not a student any more. Why do you dress like one? I keep offering to give you clothing lessons, but you’re still as sartorially challenged as you ever were. What are we going to do with you?’
‘Darling Si. I’m just not interested in clothes, like you. I’m sorry. I wish it were different.’ I throw in a few sobs for good measure and Si laughs. ‘I’m a hopeless case,’ I continue, throwing caution to the winds and crying hysterically. ‘A lost cause.’
‘There, there,’ he soothes. ‘No such thing as a lost cause. We’ll get you to Armani if it kills me.’
‘Can I go now?’ I say, in my usual exasperated tone, wondering whether I should signal my secretary to come in and tell me in a loud voice that my three o’clock appointment is here. ‘Have you finished with me? I am busy, Si. Seriously.’
‘You’re no fun,’ he says. ‘I’ll come over to yours at seven thirty.’
‘Fine, see you la – ’ and I stop with a sigh because he’s already gone.
I smile to myself for a few minutes after I put the phone down, because it is extraordinary that Si manages to do this. He’s supposed to be a film editor, although God knows exactly what that means. All I do know is that he works in Soho, which is, as he readily admits, completely perfect for him, because he can go out cruising every night, if he wants to.
He did throughout his twenties, and when Soho became the new gay village and all the seedy hostess bars were replaced with minimalist gay bars, Si thought he’d died and gone to Heaven (which he did fairly often in those days), but he seems to have settled down now. He used to talk about beautiful boys, and six-pack stomachs, and buns of steel, whereas now he talks about finding someone to cook for, to make a home with, to share everything with. But he’s so desperate for commitment, a relationship, anyone who comes even vaguely close is frightened off within days.
‘It’s my chocolate mousse, isn’t it?’ he says to me, humour doing a pretty bad job of hiding the pain. ‘I knew I’d over-whisked those egg whites.’
‘Either that or the fact that you slid the onion ring on to the third finger of his left hand after half an hour,’ I say, and we both sigh with disappointment, because neither of us can understand why he can’t find someone.
He’s not drop-dead gorgeous, but he’s certainly cute in a Matthew Broderick sort of way. He’s funny, sensitive, kind, thoughtful, has a vicious sense of humour when he feels really comfortable with you, but would never use it against his friends. Or so he tells me.
And his body is – and I’m trying to be as objective as possible – really rather gorgeous. As he says, despite hating ‘the scene’, he appreciates that he’s unlikely to meet Mr Right at the local McDonald’s, and if you have to do the bars and, even more occasionally, the clubs, you have to look the part, and white T-shirts, apparently, require toned, tanned flesh underneath.
Every New Year’s Eve Si and I make a deal. If neither of us is married by the age of thirty-five, we’ll marry each other. Actually, it used to be by the age of twenty-five. Then thirty. And doubtless by the time we hit thirty-five it will move to forty.
I suppose I am slightly in love with him, if only in a platonic way, although there are plenty of times when I wish it could be different. Put it like this. I’m fairly genuine about our New Year’s Eve promises. Si is everything I’ve ever looked for in a man. Apart from the being gay bit, of course. And he’d make a wonderful husband and father. I’d never have to lift a finger at home – he’d do all the cleaning and cook me wonderful gourmet meals every night.