for lunch?’
‘Blow it out your arse.’
‘Thanks.’
Fraser looked quizzical. ‘One of those informal offices?’
‘Something like that.’
The Italian was busy and smelled wonderful. I remembered that I hadn’t had any dinner the night before, and the scrambled eggs were a few hours away, so I ordered spaghetti carbonara. And some garlic bread. With cheese. And minestrone soup. And a glass of wine.
‘How’s the ankle? Angus told me.’
‘Much better, thanks. So, what happened between you two? Tell me everything.’
Fraser eyed me munching my way through the garlic bread. ‘Well, you seem in good shape.’
I grimaced. ‘Did you come over to see if I was still a snivelling wretch or not?’
‘Something like that. Angus asked me to pop in and see if you were OK. He was worried about you, and he knew I worked nearby – you know the Xyler building?’
‘The big pinky-coloured one? Yes, I know it, that’s just across the road. Huh! And I thought you’d flown in to whisk me off to some glamorous lunch.’
‘This isn’t glamorous?’
We heard two of the waiters having a loud disagreement in Italian through the multicoloured plastic strips of door covering.
‘Well, you know, for those of us more used to the delights of Quagli’s …’
‘Ha ha.’
He took some bread and mopped up the remnants of my soup with it.
‘So, tell me,’ I said, agog to know how they’d managed to make it up.
‘Really, it was nothing. The Gustard and I fight all the time.’
‘That’s not what he said.’
‘Oh yes, sure, Star Wars figures and, you know, all the usual stuff.’
‘Girls?’ I asked him mischievously.
He grinned.
‘You’re feeling better, all right. No, we don’t usually fight about girls.’
‘Except this one.’
He misunderstood.
‘Who, you?’
‘Ehm, no … Amanda.’
‘Oh, right, I see what you mean.’
Momentarily embarrassed, we looked around in a flurry for our waiter.
A steaming plate of pasta was put in front of me, and I inhaled greedily.
‘So, what did you say?’ I urged.
‘We made up. You’re never going to eat all that.’
‘Watch me, skinny boy.’
‘He came round late last night after you’d gone, and apologized. Actually, I think he was more worried about you than me.’
‘That was just a cover. Boy thing.’
‘Hmm. Anyway, he took it all back, blah blah blah, promised not to mention the wedding any more, etcetera, etcetera.’
‘Right.’ I felt perversely disappointed.
‘You’re pissed off with him, aren’t you?’
‘No.’
‘It’s OK, you know.’ He smiled. ‘I don’t mind if you don’t want me to get married.’
‘It’s not that,’ I protested, lying. ‘I just don’t want you to get married to her.’
‘Ah, so you admit it.’
‘Of course I admit it. I’m sorry. Please don’t hate me.’
‘I don’t hate you. I told you already. And, anyway, I listened to the rest of the tape.’
‘Oh shit, did you?’
‘Don’t worry, I forgive you for what you said about my castle.’
‘Your big pile of rocks.’
‘Whatever.’
I toyed with my pasta.
‘Don’t marry her, Frase. It’s only money.’
I realized I’d said the wrong thing again, but he took it all right.
‘God, if it’s not one thing it’s the other with you two. Now suddenly, I’m the bastard. She’s fine and I’m a money-grabbing bastard, marrying for the wrong reasons.’
‘I’m sorry! I always say the wrong thing.’
‘Forget it. I’m boring myself to death with this damn wedding business. Mel, please, we’ve been friends for a long time. Can you promise to stop going on at me, like Angus did?’
I thought about it. ‘What, just because it’s none of my business?’
He nodded.
‘OK. Seeing as it’s you. And we’ve been friends for such a long time. Apart from the five years in the middle when we lost touch.’
He held out his hands. ‘You vanished. One moment you were being a bit pissed at Graduation, next thing you phone up out of the blue five years later.’
I never had been able to say goodbye.
‘OK then. I promise.’
Having finished his lasagne, he launched into my spaghetti.
‘Don’t you get fed at home?’
‘Not really. Less than five milligrams of fat a week until the wedding.’
‘See, you started it! Less than two seconds that lasted! Wedding, wedding, wedding. Here, help yourself.’
He smiled sadly, and I felt awful. I mean, what did we think we were playing at, with tape recorders and all that shit? This was someone’s life we were fucking around with.
Whenever I get into one of those arguments about nature over nurture – which isn’t that often, to be honest, as I don’t seem to see my genetical ethicist biology friends so much these days – I always bring up my overwhelming desire to feed people I feel a bit sorry for, despite my absolute lack of culinary ability, and think about my mother.
‘Do you want to come round to dinner?’ I asked him. Damn
