I smiled back, trying to mask my insincerity. Please God, get me out of here.
The door swung open and Charlie swaggered in, his arm round a crowing Renee. I was stuck between a rock and a hard bitch. Oh dear.
‘Fantastic, darling. Fantastic bloody show. Leonora was absolutely worth her weight in the proverbial, and Fay’s tears. God!’ Charlie caught sight of me attempting to dissolve into the sofa. ‘All right, Maggie, darling. Feeling better? I told you this show would help heal the wounds for good.’
By the time I remembered him again, the boy had gone.
An apologetic Sally wanted me to go for a quick drink with her, but by now I’d realised that if I didn’t sober up I’d be throwing up. I needed to eat and lie down; more importantly, I wanted to get away from Charlie – fast. I’d see them all soon, I promised Sally. I’d be back at work in a week or two (or more like four, if I could help it).
Out on the busy street, I breathed a sigh of relief and lit a cigarette. The lunchtime rush had begun on Grays Inn Road, and I perched on top of the imposing studio stairs to wait for my cab. November’s chill was truly in the air, and I huddled down into my coat, shivering despite its warmth. The skeletal leaves from the ornamental trees in the studio’s planters skittered round my feet. Chip wrappers cartwheeled in the gutter. A Number 45 crawled past, spewing noxious fumes out below an advert for Renee’s memoirs, her smug face resplendent on its bright red rear, as big as a potting shed. I shuddered. I watched a very old man pull his tartan shopping-trolley up the road, his head wrinkled and jutting like an ancient tortoise’s. With a great lurch, I thought of Gar. I’d neglected her since the accident.
My cab pulled up and beeped. Hauling myself to my feet at the top of the stairs, an arm snaked through mine suddenly, sending me off balance. Panic coursed through my veins as the concrete rushed up towards me. Just in time I righted myself.
‘I’m so glad I caught you.’
I looked round at the voice, struggling to regain my equilibrium. Fay Carter was gazing up at me. ‘Does your foot really hurt? I’ve had loads of problems with my arm. They have to keep re-setting it.’
‘Oh dear.’ I tried to disengage myself without causing offence. ‘No, I’m fine, really.’ But I moved too fast; my crutch went crashing down the bloody stairs. I bit my lip, swallowing my pain and irritation.
‘I’ll get it.’ She pattered after the crutch. ‘It’s nice to help each other, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, of course,’ I replied uneasily.
‘After all,’ Fay returned the crutch to my freezing hand, ‘I’m only returning the favour.’ Her huge eyes were so serious, too serious, as she looked up at me. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t get the chance to thank you before today for saving me.’
‘Look, I’m sorry, but I really don’t think I did.’ I heard the screaming metal on the motorway again and blanched. ‘You must have me confused with –’
‘No, Maggie.’ She just kept staring. ‘It was you, it was definitely you. They told me after, the rescue-workers. They pointed you out. And now you’ve just helped me again, in there.’ She indicated the television studio. ‘So I really owe you now.’
‘You don’t, honestly.’ I hopped down the steps as fast as my leg would carry me. ‘I’d better – you know. The cab’s waiting. I’ll see you –’
A metallic car with darkened windows pulled up opposite the studios, sounding its imperious horn.
‘That’s me,’ Fay smiled dreamily. ‘I was going to say’, she tapped lightly down the stairs beside me, ‘we should get together sometime, don’t you think? Give me your number, yeah?’
My heart sank, but she rattled on, not seeming to notice my reticence. ‘A few of us were thinking of starting a survivors’ group. I’d love you to be part of it, Maggie. You’d be great. Really helpful.’
Fay was too near me now, right in my space, peering up into my face. Was the girl always this upbeat? I felt truly exhausted. How could I explain that the idea of being in any sort of group right now filled me full of dread, least of all one that would reminisce endlessly about that hideous night? The silver car hooted again. Fay waved a little pearl-tipped hand.
‘Coming!’ She turned back to me. ‘Look, here’s my number, yeah?’ Fishing around in the sequinned handbag that dangled from her own plaster-cast, she handed me a small shiny pink card.
Fay Carter, Entertainer Extraordinaire, it announced in black flowing script. A tiny big-bosomed figure high-kicked beneath the words.
‘I had them made up when I knew I was coming on the show. Good, aren’t they? Give me a call. Don’t be shy. You know,’ she clasped my freezing hand in her little one, the diamond on her ring finger biting into my flesh, ‘I’ve got the feeling this is the start of something. Something huge.’ Leaning up, she kissed me on both cheeks. ‘Do you know what I mean? And by the way, I’m so sorry about your boyfriend. Charlie told me.’
I just stood there and stared, speechless, as the small figure drifted across Grays Inn Road, weaving through taxis, beneath the admiring builders ant-like on Café Buena’s new scaffolding, earning a beep from an appreciative white-van man.
Across the road, Fay paused at the car door, turning to wave. I saw a spiky peroxide head lean across to help her with the door. ‘See you soon,’ she mouthed, before a removal van blocked my view. When I looked again, she was gone.
As my driver settled me into the back of his car, chattering about the traffic and the ever-expanding congestion zone, I tried to concentrate politely, but all the time he prattled I felt a gnawing sense of unease, a sense that grew and grew. Deep down I knew I hadn’t seen the last of my new friend.
I was in bed when the flowers came. Two days after the show and I was still smarting from the shame, still hiding from the world. Sally had tried to reassure me that it had been fine, that I’d been fine, honestly – but then she would. That was her job.
I knew it really wasn’t fine when Alex rang. I hadn’t heard from him for months. He didn’t speak but I recognised his silence. His silence that made me almost breathless.
‘Alex,’ I said urgently to the air, to the static on the phone, ‘I know it’s you.’ But he didn’t speak. He didn’t ever speak, but I felt his presence down the phone, solid, tangible. After a while, after I’d just sat there clutching the phone and hoping, he’d hung up.
I hadn’t been out of the house since the cab had dropped me back from the studio. My father had left for a three-day teaching conference on the morning of the show, so I’d hardly even bothered to get dressed since I’d slammed the front door safely shut behind me. I knew I should see Gar, I must see her, but I couldn’t quite bear to go. Not yet. I felt too vulnerable myself.
‘You’re not dealing with this, Mag,’ chided Bel when she called, but then fortunately Hannah had decorated the kitchen wall with Bel’s new bright pink lipstick and Bel needed to go and shout at her, so I escaped yet more psychoanalysis by a whisker. For the time being, at least.
I
