Читать книгу The Most Difficult Thing - Charlotte Philby - Страница 17

If it had happened a few months earlier, I would have told Meg about Harry and me, regardless of what I had promised. How different things might have turned out if I had. There was nothing she and I did not share, back then, nothing we wouldn’t have told each other, until suddenly there was.

At first I put the cracks that began to show in Meg’s armour down to the pressures of office life – the spikiness that had always been offset by a natural generosity and easy humour falling away into something that would have been otherwise unexplainable.

David had picked up on it too, on the occasions when we still found time to hang out together, the three of us, between the various pulls of our respective working lives. He had tried to raise it with me but I had played the ignorant, telling myself I would not discuss Meg behind her back but knowing deep down that I just did not want to think about it.

And then, one day, the blinkers were torn off.

I was sitting at the table in the kitchen of our flat, typing up a piece on monochrome accenting. Behind me, a single panel of wall was lined incongruously with illustrations of botanical branches: a single roll of statement wallpaper which I had plucked from a box of samples at the office, with Clarissa’s encouragement; one of a number of disjointed acquisitions with which I had started to embellish the flat over the past months. I was squinting at the computer, trying to block out the churn of Camden High Street filtering in through the sash, when Meg walked through the front door, slamming her keys onto the counter, pulling open the door to the fridge and closing it again.

‘Where have you been? Are you OK?’

It had been two or three days since I had last seen her, only an unfinished cup of coffee on the counter when I woke that morning offering any sign that she had been home at all.

She looked odd, changed somehow, in a way that I could no longer ignore: her fingers scratching at her thighs, front teeth chewing her bottom lip. There was a darkness that had taken hold, its shadow stretching beneath her; an anger, barely contained, slowly tightening its grip.

‘Why?’

‘You just seem a bit … I tried to call.’

‘I’m fine, I’m tired. Work’s full on …’ Her eyes skittered around the room as if in search of an answer.

‘David rang, a minute ago, wanted to know if we were going to his party.’

Even as I said it, I knew I was setting myself up for a fall. Harry was away on a job, and although house parties were not my scene, especially not without Meg there to create a distraction, something had made me say yes.

‘Can’t, there’s something I’ve got to do.’ Meg’s voice was distant.

‘What is it?’

It stung that I even had to ask.

‘Just something for work.’

She walked out of the kitchen, and even though her bedroom stood directly on the other side of the wall, she could have been on the other side of the world.

When she came back out, half an hour later, her expression had softened slightly.

‘Sorry, I’m not myself at the moment, it’s just a lot of pressure.’

She held my gaze for a second before snapping her face away again. Without looking me in the eye, she stepped forward and kissed my cheek. There was a flicker of electricity between us and then she turned, the door slamming shut before I had time to reply.

The bus stop stood opposite our flat on the high street, illuminated in a sickly streetlight. Fifteen minutes later I stepped off the bus at South End Green, where the road veered right towards Hampstead Heath station.

Keeping the pub on my left I followed the right fork which led up to the Heath.

In all the years David and I had known each other, I had never been to his London house. After leaving halls, he had his own apartment in Brighton, on one of the smarter Regency squares, a very different proposition to the house we had shared the year previously.

The flat had been bought for him by his father, he let slip one afternoon. We were lazing on the nobbled rectangle of grass that stood between a U of buildings, sharing a bag of chips from soggy newspaper, the sea lapping at the shore on the other side of the main road. Back then, David still told himself he was uncomfortable with the level of wealth his father had started to accrue as his business grew from small-time independent to leading international trading company TradeSmart. The irony of his faux-liberal university lifestyle, banging on about the importance of fair trade while snorting lines of cocaine from supply chains involving child exploitation and murder, paid for by Daddy’s money, was not so much lost on him as ignored.

He had been the first person I met, the day I arrived at Sussex. Freshers’ Week, Falmer campus. Summer had stretched on that year, grass lining the lazy knolls that formed a ripple in front of the university, swarming with bodies, snatching up the final rays. Morcheeba drifting across the hills. Endless drum’n’bass.

My halls were on the far side of campus, just before rows of housing melted away into fields.

‘So, this is your room,’ explained the self-assured young man who greeted me at the door. He had watched my eyes for a reaction as I scanned the room with its worn carpets and fireproof doors.

‘Sorry, I’m David,’ he had added, stretching out his hand. ‘I’m your RA. This is my second year so I’m here to, you know, make sure you have everything you need …’

‘I’m Anna.’ I smiled self-consciously, trying out my new name for the first time.

‘What are you studying?’ His eyes were trying hard to catch mine.

‘English Literature.’

‘Cool, I’m doing Business Studies … Are your parents bringing the rest of your things later?’

I paused, shaking my head, and kept walking. ‘It’s just my dad but he’s abroad. RAF.’

I could hear the hesitation in my voice, but David never questioned it, and why would he?

As David continued talking, my eyes settled on a blur of hills rising to meet an expanse of blue sky, through the window, unaware of the dark clouds looming in from the edge.

The light was fading as David’s road came into view, in an enclave of North London reserved for old money and increasingly new.

The house was a four-storey Victorian semi-detached, three times the size of my parents’ home, chequered tiled steps leading up to the entrance. It was beautiful, the house a child might draw, plucked straight from a ghost story.

I took the stairs to the house slowly; light and voices emanated from the hallway through the open front door, music spilling over the wall from the garden.

David was there, waiting for me, a smile stitched across his face as I tentatively pushed at the open door.

‘You came!’

He kissed my cheek, his skin soft and grateful, my proximity to him reassuring.

‘This is your house?’

‘This is it.’ Leading the way, past a sweeping staircase with double-height ceilings and down through the kitchen, David paused to pour me a drink.

‘So here we are.’

We were standing in the garden, which was not much smaller than the ground floor of the house. The lawn stretched down to a red-brick wall with an arched doorway leading out onto the Heath.

On the terraced area, where we now stood, there were paper lanterns punctuating the view from one side of the house to the other. In the middle of the garden someone had attempted to create a pit and amidst the ash, a fire licked at the air. A group of people I didn’t recognise were sitting around it, flicking joint roaches into the flames.

‘Anna, I’m …’ Watching my face turn back to his, David took a step forward, a look stirring in his eyes. Ever since that night at the club, something had shifted between us and aside from the gifts that passed between us like relentless peace offerings, he had been careful not to push.

‘Meg couldn’t come,’ I changed the subject before I could stop myself, immediately feeling like a traitor to my friend for raising the subject.

‘What’s with her at the moment?’ David’s face changed. ‘Every time I see her recently she’s …’

‘She’s just, you know, work.’

David raised his eyebrow. ‘I don’t know, it seems like more than that. We’re all busy …’

‘How is work?’ It seemed fitting to change track.

‘Good, yeah, I mean it’s banking, it’s not exactly … But it’s good, you know, doing something for myself, making my own money.’

I nodded, wondering how much David earned. Not that he needed money of his own, clearly.

As if reading my mind, he continued, ‘My dad wanted me to go into the family business but … I don’t know, I want to do my own thing. The idea of just following my father’s footsteps …’

He blushed, shrugging.

‘Good for you.’ Discreetly, my eyes cast their way up the back of the house, the vast wooden shutters, creepers growing up the walls. The top-floor windows gazed out with hollow eyes over the black expanse of Hampstead Heath.

‘So this is the house you grew up in?’

David took a swig of his drink.

‘Yup. My grandparents bought it in the 1950s, and when they died, my dad inherited it.’

‘And he doesn’t mind you having a party …?’

‘He doesn’t live here any more. He’s got a flat in town, but he’s away most of the time, so it’s just me.’

‘How come?’

‘Work. He’s mainly working in Africa and Asia at the moment. His company has an office over here, but mostly it’s …’

The music stopped suddenly, as if someone had lurched the needle from the record, followed by a wave of indignation from the crowd. Behind David’s shoulder I could see more people spilling into the garden as the music started again, something soulful this time.

‘If you ever want to come over …’

‘Thanks.’ I smiled, not sure what else to say as I watched the party from a distance, David’s guests’ uplit faces devoid of features, like apparitions passing under a cloud.

It was nearly 1 a.m. by the time I left the party. David had called me a cab, his hand lingering on mine as I ducked into the car, his eyes following me down the road.

Within minutes of driving, the wide open streets of Hampstead gave way to Malden Road, sprawling council blocks obscuring my view of the sky. Camden High Street, with its all-night bars and the endless roar of the night bus trundling along tarmac scarred by hidden potholes, faded to a reassuring throb as I pressed closed the door from the street.

A strip of light gently glowed above the tatty carpet at the top of the stairs, warm and inviting, but when my feet reached the upstairs landing, something already felt wrong. I pushed open the front door to find the room darker than I had imagined. Meg’s body, her back to me, was unnaturally taut at the table, an open bottle of wine beside her.

In another life, I would have called out to her. I would have watched her turn to me, holding up the bottle, signalling for me to bring down a glass. Now, though, her body was still. For a moment I felt my joints freeze, imagining the worst, but then she moved, a small, almost imperceptible intake of breath, and my chest loosened, just enough.

Not knowing what else to do, I went to the counter to pull down a mug, waiting for her to make the first move. Holding the cup under the tap, I discreetly glanced at the window, catching an outline of her silhouette.

Taking a gulp of water, I turned to face her. From here, she looked pale and still.

‘Meg?’

When I ran towards her, her head collapsed into my chest, her body heaving with silent tears.

‘Sshh, what is it?’ It was the first time I had ever seen her cry. The first time in my life that I had been alone with someone in tears, whom I was allowed to touch.

Meg shook her head.

‘Anna … I …’

The words dried up after that. I briefly tried to speak, to fill the silence with the sounds she needed to hear. I wonder now how different things might have been if I had. But my throat clammed up. Instead, I led her to her bed and pulled the blankets around her neck, lying down beside her, my arms wrapped in hers, until her breath slowed into sleep.

Meg was standing by the counter when I emerged in the kitchen the following morning. She was facing the window, the glass streaked with rain.

‘I have to go.’ She did not look at me as I pulled a mug from a pile on the draining board.

‘OK, I’ll be off soon, too. I’m going into the office to catch up on a few things.’

Clarissa had assured me there was no need to work this weekend, but we had a big commercial pitch coming up and I knew she planned to go in and crack on – and I knew how much it would please her to see me there as she arrived, perched in front of my computer, notes neatly stretched across my desk. If I was going to climb the ladder the way I needed to, I had to show how keen I was, how much more I was capable of than endless admin.

‘I’m leaving London.’ Meg turned away from me, her voice matter-of-fact.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ve been offered a job in Bristol.’

Finally, she turned back to face me, her skin bare, free of the heavy eyeliner she always applied within minutes of showering.

‘What? When?’ My eyes scoured her face for signs of something I could hold onto.

‘I can’t talk now. This flat, it’s—’

‘Bristol?’

‘You can stay on, if you can cover the rent on your own, or … It’s paid up until the end of the month. We’ll talk later. I’ve got to go.’

‘Meg, what the fuck? Where are you going?’

I followed her to the front door, willing her to turn around as she gripped the handrail, her free arm raised defensively as she reached the bottom of the stairs.

But I didn’t follow her. Instead, I went to the office, rather than waiting there in the flat for her return, making the effort she would have made to stop me from leaving, had the shoe been on the other foot. If I had, could I have saved us all?

Harry’s phone was off when I tried it at lunchtime, on my way to the noisy coffee shop where I ordered a salad box for Clarissa before heading back to the office. Again, I was met by the monotony of his answerphone as I wrestled with the front door later that evening, the smell of frying meat following me in from the kebab shop, my voice struggling to remain light.

‘Harry, it’s me, just seeing how you are. I’m at the office but I wondered what you were doing tonight, or tomorrow. Call me …’

I paused before I hung up, slipping the phone back into my pocket, darkness descending as I shut the door against the street.

Even before I reached the upstairs landing, something felt different. In the dark, fumbling for the light switch, my key turning quietly in the lock, I pushed the door open with a nervous hand.

‘Meg?’

Inside, the flat was still and instinctively I knew.

I called her name again, already knowing it was too late. Feeling it, the guillotine falling, severing the space between then and now.