Page 73 of Not in a Million Years

‘Calm down, Kate.’ Daniel waved the bag in front of my eyes. ‘It’s only saffron. Where’ve you been anyway, mate? We sent out a search party.’

‘You did? Oh blimey. I suppose that’s the naughty step for me, then. You didn’t ring the peelers, did you?’

‘We reckoned there was no point, on account of you being big enough and ugly enough to look after yourself. In theory, at least.’

‘We were really worried, Andy.’ My voice came out all thin and high-pitched with indignation and anxiety. ‘Abbie and Patch are out looking for you right now.’

‘They are?’ Andy’s eyes widened. ‘Maybe I should go out and look for them, and then you two can come out and look for me. It’ll be like that Agatha Christie novel where they all go missing, one after another.’

He collapsed on the sofa next to me, giggling.

‘I’ll text them,’ Daniel said. ‘Tell them they can stand down and go home.’

‘But what about my risotto? Tell them to come over. We can have a party, just like old times.’

‘It’s almost midnight, mate. I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

‘Fanta?’ Andy suggested, hopeful as a child. ‘Please tell me there’s Fanta in the fridge. My mouth feels like I’ve been sucking virgin Tampax. Not that I’ve ever seen a Tampax, virgin or otherwise. I’ve led a sheltered life, you know, Katie babe.’

He looked at me, his pupils tiny, his eyes clearly struggling to focus on my face.

‘Not sheltered enough,’ I managed to reply, but Andy had already moved on.

‘Tunes! We need tunes! Come on, fire up the old Spotify.’

Daniel obliged, sitting down on the armchair opposite us. He played the music at a low volume, so as not to piss off his neighbours, and let Andy talk, agreeing with him, contributing occasionally to his rambling reminiscences, bringing him more Fanta and a pack of Doritos when he said he was hungry.

It was a practised ritual we’d enacted countless times before. I sat in silence, listening to them, feeling the last of my anxiety dissolve – not because I wasn’t worried any more, but because I simply couldn’t endure being worried any longer.

At some point, their voices and the music drifting over and past me, I fell asleep.

Twenty-Seven

Then

2009–2010

Two days after Abbie and Matt’s discovery of Andy’s theft and him turning up at my flat, he checked into a residential rehab centre. It was significantly less plushy than either of us would have liked – but, as I said to him, he had to cut his coat to suit my cloth.

He wasn’t allowed to contact me while he was there, and I spent the whole time fretting about what I’d done. What if Andy never forgave me for the ultimatum I’d issued? What if he came out changed, diminished, not the friend whose jokes made me laugh until I cried or the lover whose body I’d look at in my bed, unable to believe my luck that he was there? What if it didn’t work, and he immediately went back to his old ways, leaving me thousands of pounds poorer and fresh out of ideas?

Two weeks into his stay there, I had a call from Daniel. Since my housewarming party a year or so previously, I’d barely seen him on my own, and only occasionally when Andy and I were out with the group and he turned up to join us. He and Andy often went out together, I knew, but I didn’t share their fondness for nightclubs so never asked to go along.

So his suggestion that we meet up for a coffee took me by surprise. I didn’t have the chance to think of a reason not to go, and besides, I knew how close he was to Andy, and seeing him would be a substitute – albeit a poor one – for seeing Andy, who I was missing desperately.

But almost as soon as I laid eyes on Daniel, lounging almost horizontally on the comfortable banquette seat, leaving the hard chair opposite for me, I regretted my decision. It wasn’t that looking at him was any hardship; he was as handsome as ever. Andy, I’d learned, liked to surround himself with people he considered beautiful, and it was easy to see how Daniel, with his tawny hair, silver-grey eyes and jaw you could use to crack walnuts, had made the cut.

But he looked at me with undisguised coldness, and I realised at once that this wasn’t going to be a friendly catch-up.

‘So,’ he said, ‘how’s Warden Norton?’

Confused, I put down my cappuccino and sat across from him. ‘How’s who?’

‘You haven’t seen The Shawshank Redemption, then. He’s the prison guard.’

‘Look,’ I bristled, ‘I didn’t arrange for Andy to attend drug rehabilitation out of spite, you know. And it’s not exactly hard labour – he’s perfectly comfortable. He’s receiving medical care he desperately needs. I have no idea why people who claim to be his friends didn’t think to do this years ago.’

‘I see. So in spite of the fact I’ve been Andy’s friend since university and you’ve known him all of five minutes—’

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