‘And before you say the usual shit about me not having AIDS, you know and I know that it is just a matter of time. All I ever wanted from life was to be happy, and what bloody chance do I have of meeting Mr Right now? No bloody chance, that’s what, and there’s no point in you saying anything because you don’t know the first bloody thing about it.
‘You have no idea how it feels to be me right now. You don’t know what it’s like to have this death sentence hanging over you. God,’ he snorts with drunken laughter, as I wonder whether I should just put down the phone, because Si in vindictive drinking mood is not a good thing.
But no, I am a friend, I will be here for him and I will listen so he knows that he is not alone in this.
‘At least you, Cath,’ he continues, laughing out loud, ‘don’t have to worry about AIDS. Jesus, it’s the least of your concerns. Your legs are stuck so tightly together it would take a man a lot stronger than that bloody James to prise them apart.
‘And relationship? You don’t know the meaning of the word. You’re so fucking frightened of getting hurt you attach yourself to me, Josh and Lucy, like a fucking limpet, just so you don’t actually have to put yourself out there in the big bad world and risk finding love.
‘You’re like a bloody robot. You don’t have a clue, and then you tell me I’m not going to die and I’m expected to believe that? Coming from you?’
I have had enough. The tears have already started to drip down my face, but Si doesn’t need to know that. He just needs to know that I won’t take this abuse. Not from my best friend. Not even when I know he’s going through hell.
‘I’m not going to listen to you any more, Si,’ I say gently.
‘Why? Because the truth hurts?’
‘I’m putting the phone down now,’ I say, and, as I gently place the phone back in the cradle, I can hear Si shouting, ‘Cath? Cath?’ but I then unplug the phone, together with the answering machine, from the wall.
And I curl up on the sofa, hugging my knees to my chest, and I let the tears stream down my face, because I know that Si would never have said those things if he wasn’t drunk, and frightened, and filled with rage at the injustices of the world, but I also know that everything he said he believed.
He’s just never told me before because he didn’t want to hurt me, and the only way he would ever dare tell me was when he had the false courage that alcohol had given him.
And the worst part is that I know he’s right. He’s right about me closing off from the world. Running away from anything that isn’t safe and familiar. Running away from James.
After a while I get up, splash cold water on my face and pick up the phone to ring James. I listen to his answer phone, and then, after the bleep goes, I still haven’t formulated anything to say, so I gently put the phone down.
Si was right. The truth does hurt. But sometimes hearing the truth can inspire you to do things differently. I am going to get hold of James, invite him over for dinner and seduce him.
And just because I put it off until tomorrow because I suddenly realize that the emotions of the day have severely taken their toll, doesn’t mean that I’m not going to do it.
Trust me.
Chapter twenty-eight
At half past four on Monday a woman walks into the shop with a large bunch of flowers and asks for me by name before handing me the flowers. This is vaguely cheering because today has been the day from hell.
I just feel that everything is going wrong in my life. Too much is changing too quickly. I can’t blame Portia for that, but her return has damaged the equilibrium far more than I could ever have anticipated.
Which I suppose is ridiculous, because whether Portia had come back or not, Si would still have met Will and would still have contracted the virus, but nothing feels safe any more, and I seem to spend most of my time waiting for the next bomb to fall.
And can it really be simply coincidence that everything seems to have changed since she first turned up at the party at Bookends? If it were only one thing, I could handle it. If, say, Si had been diagnosed, and everything else was fine, I could cope. But Si’s diagnosis, and Josh’s affair, and then to have Si turn on me, is just too much.
Just for a change I didn’t sleep well over the weekend. I spent the entire two days on my own, unable to face anyone, and at night everything that Si had said kept going through my mind, and I kept telling myself that I would feel better about it in the morning, but each morning, as soon as I awoke, I knew that the black cloud was still there.
And I haven’t called him. Perhaps I should have done, because he, after all, is the one who is truly going through hell, whereas I am just experiencing it second hand, but I need some time and space to forgive him, and I’m hoping that a few days will be enough.
He won’t be coming tonight. Won’t turn up after the conversation the other night, if, that is, he remembers anything at all, because God knows how much alcohol he had, in fact, consumed.
And now I have to deal with Portia myself, which is fine, especially given that she was clearly not the object of Josh’s affections. I am only slightly astonished at how quickly I have managed to forgive her that alleged infidelity, although quite how quickly I will forgive her for disrupting my life, our lives, beyond all measure is another story indeed.
I drop the flowers off at home, waiting until I’m in a cab on the way to Soho before opening the card, although I already know they’ll be from Si. Sure enough: ‘For Cath. I’m so, so sorry and I’m too frightened to call. You’re a far better friend than I could ever hope for, and I need you. Please forgive me. Will explain when you call. Will you? Soon? Love you, sweets. S.’
It doesn’t even bring a smile to my face, not yet, not when the hurt is so raw, but I tuck the card safely in my diary, knowing that it will be something I will keep.
I am shown into the bar at the Groucho, and I see Portia instantly, because at this hour the bar is not yet crowded. She is sitting in a corner, sipping a gin and tonic, looking stunning.
I walk over and she stands to greet me, her face lighting up when she first sees me, the smile fading as she realizes I am not smiling in return, or not, at least, with quite the same brilliance.
‘Cath.’ She opts for the double kiss on the cheek, her voice warm but businesslike. ‘You’re looking great. It feels like ages. What can I get you?’
A gin and tonic arrives and I sip it slowly, thinking how easy it would be to fall into the arms of alcohol when under stress, how I may not be able to forgive Si for what he said, but I can certainly understand how he came to say it.
We make small talk for a while. I talk about the shop and how busy we’ve been, and she tells me she has also been travelling for work. Last weekend to New York, this weekend Europe.
We talk about New York. About where she stays, what she does. I say that it is somewhere I have always wanted to go, but I am quite sure that if I went, I would never return, because my love for the city would be so strong.
‘How do you know that?’ she laughs.
‘Because of Woody Allen and NYPD Blue,’ I reply, in all seriousness, and even as she’s laughing I wonder whether she is mentally filing this away, only for the phrase to pop up in a future episode of the series.
The series. How can I sit here and pretend that I am here merely on a social call, a catch-up, an innocent girls’ night out? How can we talk about New York, and Woody Allen films, and work, when she is exposing all our secrets in her series, when we don’t even know what some of those secrets are?
‘Portia,’ I interrupt her gently, mid-flow. ‘There’s something I need to talk to you about.’