Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
OCTOBER 2010
‘Oh my God.’ Seeing Abbie and Matt approach me across the crowded concourse of St Pancras station, I abandoned my wheelie case and dashed to meet them, skidding to a stop and almost spilling my coffee. ‘How exciting is this?’
‘We’re going to Paris.’ She hugged me tightly, making my coffee slosh dangerously again. ‘We’re going en vacances .’
‘We’re going to chez Zara,’ I agreed.
‘ Sur le Eurostar ,’ offered Matt.
‘ Et voilà – or is it voici ? – Rowan,’ I said. ‘At least one of us can speak French properly.’
In her swishy taupe trench coat and high-heeled boots, Rowan looked the epitome of Parisian chic. She joined our huddle, grinning excitedly but apprehensively.
‘God, I hope I still have a daughter when I get back,’ she fretted, checking her phone. ‘Paul’s never looked after Clara on his own for this long before. What if he breaks her, or leaves her in Sainsbury’s or something?’
‘He won’t,’ Matt assured her. ‘Apart from anything else, he’ll be too shit-scared of what you’d do to him if he so much as dressed her in odd socks. Here’s Kate – but no Andy?’
Kate was approaching almost at a run, her case trundling behind her.
‘Sorry I’m late. Fucking nightmare of a morning. Andy’s not coming. He woke up this morning with a severe case of man flu.’
We all met each other’s eyes, but said nothing. We knew that Andy’s ailment was far more likely to be a bad hangover or come-down than any sort of viral infection, but we didn’t want to bring down the mood by discussing it. This weekend had been weeks in the planning, a surprise visit to see Zara in Paris, and a much-needed break for all of us.
‘Shame,’ Rowan said, ‘but I guess that means we’ve got an extra room, so you and I won’t need to share if we don’t want to, Naomi.’
‘I mean, I’m totally happy to. But to be honest, I snore terribly when I’ve had a few drinks and since you’ve not got Clara with you, you’ll probably be glad to get some sleep.’
‘So we’re just waiting on Patch.’ Matt glanced at his watch. ‘Hopefully he’s not been struck down with a lurgy too?’
‘He said he’ll meet us in Paris.’ I tried not to blush, feeling as if everyone could guess how long I’d had Patch’s number saved on my phone before I’d finally dialled it. ‘His flight from Aberdeen was delayed so he’s getting a later train.’
Rowan gave me a searching look and said nothing. But, as we moved to board the train, she hung back with me, letting the others go ahead, and we found seats together a couple of rows away from them.
‘It’s going to be kind of weird seeing Zara on her new turf,’ she began, handing me a can of pre-mixed gin and tonic from her bag.
‘Yeah, although Patch has been out to see her a couple of times already, so it’s not so new to him.’ As soon as I’d spoken, I wished I hadn’t.
‘You two have been chatting, then?’ Rowan asked faux-casually, her eyes narrowing.
‘Me and Zara? Yes, of course. We?—’
‘Nome. You know that’s not who I meant.’
I ducked my head, then took a gulp of my drink. I hated lying to my friends – hated even the idea of it, which was why, up until now, I’d been careful not to. Or at least, to lie only by omission. When the first of Patch’s texts had arrived on my phone a month before, I’d felt a thrill of excitement so intense it had shocked me – almost as much as my own urge to keep the to-and-fro messaging that had followed a secret.
Even though our exchanges had been entirely innocent: him sending me a photo of some dolphins in the North Sea, me replying with a picture of autumn leaves in a London park; him asking me how work was going, me telling him about a disastrous first-and-last date I’d been on with a friend of a colleague; and, more recently, us sharing plans for this Paris getaway, they still filled me with guilt. Guilt that was almost as potent as the pleasure our sporadic exchanges brought me. Guilt that was only intensified when I remembered what I was almost sure I’d seen in Zara’s hotel room six months earlier – because now I was not only hiding something from Zara, but hiding something from Patch, too.
‘Oh, me and Patch?’ I replied casually. ‘Yeah, we text sometimes. It’s no big deal. We’re just mates.’
Rowan pushed her sunglasses up into her glossy hair. ‘Naomi, babe, I want you to hear me out. Just this once, then I promise I’ll never mention it again, okay?’
I felt the kind of hollow apprehension I used to get when I was summoned to the headmistress’s office for bunking off a hockey match. ‘Okay. But seriously, Ro, there’s nothing?—’
‘Going on between you and Patch? I didn’t think there was. At least, not yet.’
‘What do you mean?’ That twist of guilt again, with a thrilling side of, Does she truly think something might actually happen between him and me?
‘Nome, I’m sorry to mention this. I really am. I don’t want you to think I’m lecturing, because I’m not. But I’ve noticed – it’s been pretty obvious to be honest, for ages – that you like him.’
‘Of course I like him. We all do.’
She gave an impatient little shake of her head. ‘Duh. But you like like him.’
‘I… Ro, if I did, what would it matter? He’s with Zara. I’d never, ever do anything to hurt her or spoil what we’ve all got as a group. You know I wouldn’t.’
‘I know you wouldn’t,’ she echoed. ‘But here’s the thing. You might not mean to, but sometimes things happen when two people like each other. And with Zara and Patch having this long-distance thing, it makes their relationship that little bit more fragile.’
She thinks he likes me! But I concealed my pleasure. ‘Ro, there’s nothing to worry about. Truly, there isn’t. I promise.’
‘Okay.’ She reached over and squeezed my hand, her cashmere wrist-warmer soft against my palm. ‘Because I really don’t want anyone to get hurt. And you really, really don’t want to make an enemy out of Zara.’
‘What are you talking about, Ro? I’d never make… Zara’s my?—’
‘You two are looking very serious.’ Matt’s grinning face loomed above us. ‘I’m off to the bar for a bottle of fizz. Want any crisps with it?’
The rest of the journey passed uneventfully. Rowan fell asleep; I closed my eyes, but couldn’t stop thinking about what she’d said. I remembered the last time I’d seen Patch: the pain on his face when he’d watched Zara and Daniel dancing, then the recklessness with which he’d given me his number, like it was some sort of final throw of a dice. I didn’t know what was going on between him and Zara or how deep the cracks I’d witnessed in their relationship ran, but I did know that distance was only a part of what was wrong.
And what about me? Did I fancy Patch? There was no point denying it to myself any longer, even if I continued doing the equivalent of putting my fingers in my ears and going la-la-la when Rowan brought it up. Would I ever do anything about it? Of course not. Absolutely, categorically not.
Except that, by not deleting his number from my phone straight away and now exchanging messages with him, I already had.
It was going to have to stop, I told myself. This weekend would be safe – Zara and our other friends would be there. Nothing could happen between us, even if Patch wanted it to. Did I want it to? Not at the expense of hurting Zara and destroying our friendship, that was for sure. And as for what Patch wanted – it was impossible to imagine him wanting to put his relationship with Zara in jeopardy for me of all people.
What I felt for him was just a crush. A stupid teenage thing based on nothing but a few minutes in a bathroom and another few at a bar, and magnified through the twin lenses of secrecy and distance. Now I had the opportunity not only to see Zara, but also to put the whole thing into perspective and knock it on the head once and for all.
So why did that prospect make me feel bereft?
My gloomy musings were banished from my mind the second Patch arrived at the apartment we’d rented in Montmartre. It was tiny – the room that had been destined for Andy had only a single bed, pressed tightly against one wall – but the ceilings were high and the walls painted a sunny yellow. On the walk there, I’d already found myself falling in love with the city: the graceful tree-lined boulevards, the wrought-iron pavement tables where people chatted over glasses of red wine, the first glimpse of the Eiffel Tower on the horizon.
It was enchanting – but even Paris paled in comparison with Patch. As soon as I heard the rattle of the door and his footsteps on the wooden floor, it felt like the whole atmosphere of the place changed, as if the heating had been turned up a notch or music had started playing or some exotic scent had filled the air.
But it was only him. Calling out a greeting, apologising for being late, hugging and kissing us all (including Matt – I loved how unrestrained Patch was in his displays of affection), depositing a supermarket carrier bag bulging with wine and cheese on the kitchen table.
I hung back, longing for his embrace but also wary, conscious of Rowan’s watchful eyes and my own emotions, kept so precariously in check.
‘Naomi.’ He hugged me and I allowed my cheek to rest for a second against the sleeve of his woollen coat, feeling the fabric scratch my skin and the hardness of his bicep beneath it. ‘How are you, sweetheart? First time in Paris?’
‘I think I came here on a school trip ages ago, but I can barely remember it. It’s beautiful.’
‘We should sightsee properly tomorrow,’ Abbie said. ‘Go to the Louvre, see Jim Morrison’s grave?—’
‘Take lots of photos to send to Andy,’ Kate went on.
‘Get Zara to show us the good shops,’ added Rowan. ‘I’m sure it’s all changed since I lived here.’
‘What’s the plan tonight, anyway?’ Matt asked. ‘Does she know you’re here?’
Patch nodded, smiling easily. ‘She’s booked a table at a bistro near her flat. I had to ring them and tell them there’d be seven of us, not two, and it was a surprise. Which was kind of tricky, given my non-existent French. Anyway, we’re meeting there at eight; I’ll go back to her place afterwards.’
Abbie glanced at her watch. ‘That gives us two hours. I’m dying for a shower – why don’t we get ready, then head out and explore a bit and have a drink somewhere?’
So I hurried to the bathroom I shared with Rowan, determined to make myself look as beautiful as I possibly could, but painfully conscious that it would be nowhere near as beautiful as Zara looked without even breaking a sweat.
By ten that evening, we were all seated at a long, paper-covered table in the restaurant, surrounded by the remains of steak-frites, mussel shells, baskets of bread and almost-empty bottles of red wine. Zara had reacted with amazed delight to our surprise. The food had been delicious. Crème br?lée and brandies had been ordered. Patch was safely on the opposite side of the table to me, down the other end next to Zara, and I was allowing myself to enjoy his company at a distance, the intensity of my feelings mellowed by wine and the company of my friends.
We were all pleasantly tipsy – except for Zara. As soon as we sat down, she’d ordered a kir royale and then another, then drunk wine at what seemed like twice the pace of the rest of us, barely touching her food. Paris seemed to have changed her – or maybe not so much changed her as intensified her, distilled the essence that made her Zara. She’d lost weight; her legs in her black leather trousers were model-thin and the bones of her wrists clearly visible where the draped sleeves of her silk blouse ended. Her hair was cut more sharply than ever, her eyeliner more heavily applied, her lips stained now with red wine as well as her dark lipstick.
There was something about her – there always had been – that made you just want to gaze and gaze at her. She wasn’t conventionally pretty like Rowan, but she had something – glamour, magnetism, charisma; I didn’t know the word for it and I didn’t want to know, because whatever it was, it was part of what must make her irresistible to Patch. And that night, I could hardly bear to look at her, partly because of how her beauty made me feel – small, nondescript, shabby – and partly because looking at her meant looking at Patch, and every time I did that he would look back at me, as if he somehow knew, and I’d feel a twist of pain deep inside me that even the wine and laughter couldn’t muffle.
‘I’m going out for a fag.’ Now I had to look, because Zara was standing up, swaying slightly in her high-heeled boots and steadying herself on the table before making her way to the door.
She passed me on her way and I felt her hand brush my shoulder.
‘Come out with me, Naomi.’
I didn’t smoke – I never had. But it was a summons I couldn’t ignore. Abandoning my untouched dessert, I got up, shrugging my arms into my coat, and followed her outside. Apparently impervious to the cold, she was leaning against the stone wall of the restaurant, one ankle crossed over the other, her cigarette lighter illuminating the sharp planes and angles of her face.
‘It’s so amazing to see you,’ I said. ‘Are you having a good time?’
‘The best.’ Smiling, she blew out a long plume of smoke. ‘I can’t believe you all came here just to visit me. And see Paris, of course.’
‘Yeah, it’s all about Paris really,’ I joked. ‘You just happened to be here.’
She laughed. ‘The truth comes out. Tell me, are you seeing much of Patch in London?’
Her normally clear voice was a bit slurry and I realised she was even drunker than I’d thought.
‘Not really. I mean, he’s up in Scotland most of the time, and when he comes down he gets together with the guys, but I haven’t seen him since New Year’s.’
Apart from those text messages. My phone was in my bag, back in the restaurant, but I felt as if it might be sending out a hidden signal, telling Zara the truth about what was stored in its memory.
‘It’s shit, the long-distance thing,’ she went on. ‘I mean, we see each other maybe once every six weeks. We message all the time, obviously, and sometimes it gets quite – you know – spicy.’
I flinched, not wanting to imagine her and Patch sexting each other, sharing over their phones the things they wanted to do in real life – had done, would be doing later that night.
‘Are you embarrassed?’ She laughed. ‘Bless you, Naomi. If you knew the stuff we get up to, you’d just die. I’m very highly sexed, you see, and so’s Patch.’
I remembered that dingy hotel room, the shape beneath the bedcovers, the sound of a snore that I could have sworn was a man’s. Was that an example of Zara being highly sexed? If so, surely it was something Patch couldn’t be expected to put up with, no matter how enthusiastic about bedroom shenanigans he was himself.
What went on between them was none of my business. But I felt compelled to know – did they have some sort of consensual open relationship thing going on?
While I was trying to frame the words to ask, Zara took another long drag on her cigarette and then went on, ‘Here’s the thing – I trust him, obviously. I know he’s smitten with me, and I am with him. But I meet loads of hot men at work. Most of them gay, obviously, but not all of them. And I have to admit I sometimes feel – you know, tempted. And I can’t help wondering if it’s the same for him.’
‘Honestly, Zara – how many hot women do you think work on oil rigs? Gay or not? But if you’re’ – I could hardly bear to use the words – ‘seeing other people, don’t you think he deserves to know?’
She laughed again, that throaty cackle. ‘I’m not “seeing other people”. Bless you, Naomi. Not in the way you mean, anyway. I’m not unfaithful in any sense that matters. But Patch is different. For him, when he’s back on shore, letting off steam, or in London seeing his mates when we haven’t been together for weeks – if something happened, it would matter. To him and to me.’
‘But you trust him, surely? He must trust you, knowing all the hot men you meet here in Paris.’ Did he, though? I remembered the shadow of sadness I’d seen on Patch’s face at the New Year’s Eve party, right before he’d given me his number. He hadn’t looked particularly trusting then.
‘Trust.’ She grimaced, her crimson lips curling downwards like a sad clown’s. ‘I mean, it’s all well and good, isn’t it? But I’d rather have certainty than trust.’
‘You can’t be certain though, can you?’ I leaned in closer to her, feeling the warmth of her shoulder, smelling her perfume and her cigarette smoke. For a second, I felt like I’d felt back in the very earliest days of the Girlfriends’ Club, when we’d all got drunk together and shared secrets, revelling in the joy of our new-found friendship. Before I’d known how I was going to feel about Zara’s boyfriend. And feeling as I did, who was I to judge what Zara was doing?
‘Sure, there are no guarantees. I can’t keep the man under lock and key – although if I could, he’d probably quite like it.’
‘So then all you have left is trust.’
‘Trust – and maybe a little insurance policy as well. Belt and braces.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean you, Naomi. Will you help me? As my friend?’
‘Help you do what? Seriously, Zara, I don’t under?—’
‘It won’t take much. It’ll be the ultimate cushy number, actually.’ Again, I heard the slurred mushiness in her words. ‘Just touch base with him. When he’s in London, meet up with him. Go for drinks. Have coffee. Go see those action comedy films he likes so much. Hang out. That’s all.’
‘You want me to spy on him?’ Her request took me completely by surprise – as did the spark of excitement it gave me. She wasn’t just giving me permission to see Patch when she wasn’t around – she was practically ordering me to.
‘Haha. Not spy. That would be mad. Just be his friend. And if he suddenly isn’t free to see you, or he mentions another woman, or you think something’s off, you let me know. Simple.’
‘Zara, this is mad. You can’t be serious. It’s no way to have a relationship – you doing… whatever you’re doing, and then asking me to keep tabs on him. It’s not healthy. You need to tell him what’s going on.’
She looked at me through a haze of smoke, her eyes narrowed. ‘Why? You don’t want to split us up, do you, Naomi? Because if you did, I’d have to wonder about the reason for that.’
‘No!’ I felt like I’d walked into a trap. ‘Of course that’s not what I want.’
‘That’s settled, then.’ She dropped her cigarette butt and ground it under her heel. Then she reached out and gripped my hand with her cold fingers, so hard it hurt. ‘Naomi?’
‘What?’ I wanted to pull back from her, but I couldn’t.
‘You won’t tell anyone about this, will you? Because it could literally destroy me.’
Her intensity frightened me. I wanted this conversation to end; I wanted to get back inside the warm restaurant and drink wine and laugh with our friends. So I said the only thing there was to say.
‘Of course I won’t.’
‘Thank you, Naomi. I knew I could count on you.’