Lucy has called it closure, and that feels exactly right. It feels that finally, at the ripe old age of thirty-one, I am able to close the chapter on Portia, to sever the ties that have bound me to her all these years, and to let her go.
Which is not to say I won’t see her. She and Si are growing closer, and I’m sure she’ll be there, at his dinner party, tonight, although I’m not sure how often Josh and Lucy will want to see her, Ingrid now spending almost every night at Portia’s, which is, as Lucy keeps saying, not what they’re paying her for.
And, as Josh has already pointed out, however much he may like Portia, the last thing he wants to do is socialize with Ingrid on a regular basis. They do seem to be very much a couple, which is making it rather awkward for Josh and Lucy, given that Ingrid is still their au pair.
Perhaps I am over-analysing all of this. Perhaps it is merely as simple as my life moving on: I have the career of my dreams now that I have Bookends; I have a relationship with James, and I am happy. No, more than happy. Content. Deeply content, and perhaps it is this that is allowing me to let go of the old life and welcome the new.
Because God knows a lot has changed. Not that I was unhappy before, but I can see now that Si is right when he says that I was in a rut, that we all were. Bizarre as it seems, Si thinks that there is a reason for him being diagnosed positive. He has started to involve himself far more in the world of alternative therapies, and has been talking about training in acupressure massage himself.
As for Paul, it actually does seem to be materializing into something important, and Si does have a point when he says he would never have met Paul had he not been diagnosed.
Si tries to give the impression that he takes Paul for granted, but nothing could be further from the truth, and I adore watching them together. Because Paul does something I have never seen anyone do to Si before, ever. He mothers him. I popped in there the other night and Paul was clucking round Si like a mother hen, which Si was pretending to find irritating, but of course he was loving every second of it.
Even Josh and Lucy have changed, grown far closer, since the ‘affair that never was’. It may not have actually happened, but there’s no denying that the pair of them drifted apart, too caught up in their separate lives to give one another time, and the actual physical act of having sex with someone outside the marriage was just a formality.
They make time for one another now. They talk to one another, and at least twice a week they ensure they have dinner alone, just the two of them, to keep the romance alive (incidentally, the Agent Provocateur gear hasn’t been wasted after all).
I had always thought of myself as the observer in this group, the one who watches silently as the action happens to everyone else, but I can now see that this isn’t the case. Si has become just as much of an observer, only he chooses not to keep his observations to himself. He speaks ‘his truth’ frequently now, along with many other truths that I don’t necessarily want to hear.
This, by the way, is all part of his new philosophy of taking each day at a time, living in the present, and realizing that life is too short not to say the things you mean, which was fine in the beginning, but I swear he’s starting to take advantage of it now, and some things I just don’t need to hear.
Other things, however, I do. He finally told me that I just could not go around looking like Michael Jackson circa 1978 any longer, and if I didn’t go and get my afro seen to, he would refuse to speak to me for evermore.
I did it for Si, not for me, because some things will never change, and although I would like to make Si happy by waking up one morning with a huge interest in clothes, and hair, and make-up, it just isn’t me, and you can only force these things for so long.
But I agreed to make concessions with the hair, and I’m glad I did. I had it professionally straightened, with some sort of reverse perm solution. It hasn’t gone quite as straight as Si would have wanted, but it does now slip down my back in large, loose curls, and is about six inches longer, and secretly makes me feel far more feminine.
James adores it, as he’s now able to run his fingers through it without the fear of coming across a stray bird’s nest or two, but the loveliest thing about him is that he thinks I’m perfect. He lies in bed at night, stroking my thighs, not even flinching at the orange peel effect of cellulite under his hands, and he thinks I’m beautiful.
And having him think I’m beautiful has started to make me feel beautiful, and this is perhaps the biggest change of all, because apart from one day, in the hairdressers with Portia all those years ago, I’ve never felt beautiful before.
‘Crisis, crisis.’ Si’s on the phone, sounding desperate. ‘I need lemons. Oh God, I can’t believe I forgot the lemons. Cath, can you bring me lemons?’
‘Now?’ I’m standing in the living room, water dripping into a big puddle on the carpet, as I still haven’t got round to getting a walkabout phone and I still have this ridiculous thing about taking a phone call, even when you’re in the bath and have an answer phone that functions perfectly normally.
Si grumbles to himself for a few seconds. ‘Oh, okay,’ he mutters eventually. ‘I suppose you can bring them with, but you must be first. Seven thirty sharp. Can you do that?’
‘Okay. Where’s Paul? Can’t he get lemons?’
‘Nope. He’s gone out to get some more crackers and his mobile’s not on.’
I already know that tonight will be the dinner party to end all dinner parties, and not because Si intends to reveal his coup de grâce in what will doubtless be the most dramatic way possible. I know because Si has been planning this for days. He has planned the menu, the flowers, even the place settings, because this will not be eaten off our laps while sitting on the sofa, oh no. Paul has borrowed a trestle table from a friend, to be covered with a crisp damask tablecloth and tiny tea lights in glasses (‘Candles, my darling Cath,’ said Si, the other day, ‘are just so done.’), all to be placed in the centre of the living room, which will be lit by the light of the fire and the tea lights alone. The champagne will be on ice, and Si’s beloved opera will be playing softly in the background as we take our seats.
Portia was going to come tonight, although there was a question about Ingrid, Josh still being extremely uncomfortable, both with the fact that Ingrid is Portia’s lover, and also, more importantly, with the fact that she’s his au pair. Luckily for all of us, Portia had already accepted an invitation to some media do with Ingrid, and although part of me is fascinated to see them together, the other part is relieved they won’t be coming, because, let’s face it, Ingrid is not exactly my favourite person.
Paul, naturally, will be there, having been Johnny to Si’s Fanny Craddock all week, and James has been invited as well. James knows about Si, he would have had to be stupid not to guess, and he knows that tonight is the night he is planning to tell everyone, although, as James has pointed out, everyone knows, apart from Josh and Lucy.
‘Is there not something slightly ghoulish about calling everybody together to announce it in this way?’ he asked, the other morning, and I was surprised to find myself saying that it is, in fact, quite the reverse. I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it will be, is meant to be, a celebration of life. Of friendships, both new and old.
‘Cath! Look at you! You look all gorgeous and sparkly, like a film star!’ Lucy is as exuberant as ever as we approach them, shivering on the doorstep in the cold December air.