1986 – aged 31 #3
‘Yes, but it’s supposed to be good, fast, nice, romantic, good music!’
‘All right, all right! Get tickets! Jeez!’ It was nice to spend time with her friend, lovely that Glenda now worked a couple of days a week at the gallery.
They didn’t speak about the six months without contact, both figuring that with so much history and a lifetime ahead of them, that hiatus didn’t warrant close attention.
Glenda had reached out in the wake of Lilly’s dad’s death, and she had welcomed her with open arms. The reason for the fallout would, she knew, live long in her mind, but her dad’s passing had taught her some valuable lessons; that life was short, it could end quickly, and you could never have too many good friends in your corner to help see you through those rough times.
Bertie had asked to see the gallery. The fact that it was for the last time was implicit and, as ever, she and his brother, Chris, had kept a jolly countenance, settled his fragile self into the wheelchair and brought him here.
She had quite forgotten that she’d arranged for Glenda and the kids to pop by as Bertie ran his eye over the accounts, stopping to cough and sip from his glass of water via a straw.
He’d even laughed as raucously as was possible, as they reminisced about a certain exhibition when a fight had almost broken out over a sloppily held glass of red and a spoiled mohair blazer!
‘Oh!’ Her friend’s voice had come from the doorway, drawing their attention.
‘Glen!’ she’d called out, delighted to see Bradley and Andrew, her godsons, who both looked like little Norms. ‘I’m such a dummy!
I forgot I’d said we’d have lunch. Look who’s here!
’ She had turned and pointed eagerly at Bertie, who had slunk down into the wheelchair, his bony physique offering little resistance against the plastic seating.
He was like a little bird and about as frail, eyes sunken, mouth small, skin tight and with painful lesions on his forehead, devoid of his beautiful hair.
A large woollen scarf was wound about his neck, as he felt the chill, even on the warmest of days.
Bertie had raised his bony fingers in greeting.
‘Hey, kids!’
It was then, as the boys made as if to walk forward, that Glenda pulled them back, a split-second decision, anchoring them to her with her arms around their shoulders.
‘We’ll let you get on, Lil, I’ll . . . I’ll give you a ring.’ Glenda spoke nervously, as she shepherded them out of the gallery.
‘Okay, then!’ She managed to wave them goodbye with enthusiasm. It was only as she turned back to Bertie that she saw he was crying. It had broken her, to see him so affected.
Lilly hadn’t waited for her friend to ring and had dialled the number the moment she got back to the flat, relieved that it was Glenda who answered the phone, unable to imagine making small talk with Norm while her gut churned with all the fire it tried to contain.
‘What on earth was that, earlier?’ was her opener, as anger fizzed in her veins.
‘What was what?’ Glenda’s confusion didn’t fool her for a second.
‘You know exactly what I’m talking about! The way you pulled the kids towards you as if you didn’t want them infected! That!’ She had raised her voice, picturing Bertie’s tears, and unable to back down.
‘I don’t—’
‘Don’t deny it, Glen! I saw you, we all did, and you did that to our friend, our wonderful friend who is poorly, dying! He just wanted one last look at the gallery, and you did that to him!’ She hated the crack to her voice.
‘I wasn’t going to deny it—’
‘Are you for real?’ she interrupted.
‘I was going to say, I don’t know how to make you understand.’
‘Well, shame on you, Glenda! Shame on you! You’re right, I will never understand!’
‘That’s right, you can’t!’
‘Jesus, how are you even trying to justify what you did!’ Lilly yelled.
‘I don’t have to justify it, I just have to do what I think is best to keep my kids safe. And that’s why you’ll never understand because you don’t know what it feels like!’
Lilly felt the sting of her friend’s words slap her around the face. Glenda wasn’t done.
‘I wouldn’t want to upset Bertie for the world!’ Glenda cried openly now. ‘But if there is a choice between offending him and putting my boys in danger, there’s no choice, none at all!’
‘Putting your boys in danger?’ Lilly’s voice was hoarse from a throat pulled thin with equal measures of anger and distress.
‘You’re not a mum, Lil! You don’t have children!’ The words had landed like a punch in her throat. ‘I would throw myself in front of a speeding bus, I’d take a bullet, I’d do anything, anything to protect them, and we just don’t know enough about it, and if there is the slightest risk . . .’
‘Fuck you, Glenda. How could you? Fuck you!’ She had slammed down the phone and they hadn’t spoken for the longest time.
Six months, to be precise.
The call came, after her dad’s funeral, as if time hadn’t passed.
‘Hey, Lil, I was so sorry to hear your news. How’re you holding up?’
‘Oh, you know . . .’
And that had been that; they had built a bridge back to each other.
Glenda waved the pound notes in her hand. ‘Right, so I’m nipping to the delicatessen on Lupus Street to check on the order for tomorrow. I’ll grab us a couple of sandwiches for lunch. Back in a tick.’
‘See you in a bit.’ Lilly waved her off.
Placing the catalogues on the welcome desk, she pulled two dark petals from the outer edges of the full-bloom peonies that sat in an oversized glass vase and had started to discolour a little, reminding herself to give the stems a trim and change the water before she left for the evening.
With the exhibition opening tomorrow, Lilly wanted everything to be perfect, just as Bertie had taught her.
He had always taken care of every little detail, reminding her that all a night required to be successful was ‘good lighting, great music, cold drinks, delicious canapés, the right guest list and plenty of pzazz!’ She pictured him then, sprinkling invisible magic dust in an arc around his head.
How she missed him, especially at times like this when he would be enjoying the preparation, shouting joy into the space, oozing energy and enthusiasm with every breath.
Her wonderful, wonderful friend. No matter how much time passed, she missed him like it was yesterday and suspected she always would.
The telephone on her small desk rang. Lilly removed her diamanté-and-drop pearl earring, holding it in her palm as she lifted the telephone, which had been ringing off the hook today; the Standard wanting to check the press release.
The journalist from the Guardian going over the article about the young up-and-coming artist she was championing, whose charcoal studies of fish were making quite the splash.
Then there had been the last-minute calls from the drinks supplier, and the harpist she had invited to pluck away in the middle of the floor, a talking point, if nothing else.
‘B’Art Gallery, Pimlico, Lilly speaking.’
She would with hindsight claim that in the microsecond before he spoke, the small intake of breath, the way he paused, told her it was him before he uttered the single word, as if she could sense it. That might of course be pure poppycock, nothing more than a fanciful embellishment.
‘Lilly.’
The sound fired a bolt right through her body. Two syllables that opened a portal that took her back in time to 1973.
It was him.
It was Wilkie, the sound of him on the end of the phone. She’d have known him anywhere.
‘It’s me, it’s Wilkie.’
‘Yes.’ Her voice was a hushed, awkward whisper as her body shivered in response and she felt the horrific surge of longing that was a visceral response to hearing his voice.
How she hated this reaction towards this man who was never hers, could never be hers.
Her throat felt narrow, her legs too weak to support her frame as she fell into the leather chair.
‘What do you want?’ She kept her voice clipped, her tone level with just the right amount of dismissal.
It bothered her that words like my love .
. . Wilkie . . . darling one . . . still formed in her mind and floated around just enough to confuse her and threaten to throw off her cool demeanour.
She pictured the two of them, rocking together on that big bed in Royal Avenue, her nails on his back, his breath against her face.
‘It’s been a while.’ He dared to offer a small laugh, as if anything about the way he had treated her, his disappearance, his casual infidelity, was funny, not to mention the trauma he had left in the wake of his leaving.
‘What is it you want?’ It felt safest to repeat the question and not try to expand on any conversation he may or may not be intent on having.
‘What I want is to hear your voice, to talk to you. I’ve thought about calling before, many times, but it never felt’ – he paused – ‘I saw an article in the Sundays about the gallery, and there you were, and I just thought . . .’
‘What did you think, exactly?’
‘That it might be the right time to call to . . . apologise, I guess.’
It was her turn to offer a small laugh.
‘Bit late for that.’ She gripped the receiver with both hands, yet still they shook.
‘A lot of water has passed under a lot of bridges, Elizabeth-Roberta.’