Page 14 of Not in a Million Years

Six

I emerged from the dimly lit arcade into dazzling sunlight. The street was busy, and a series of smells assaulted me: the weird herbal, bready aroma of a Subway; a blast of washing powder from a laundromat; a waft of dope smoke from somewhere.

The smell of weed reminded me inevitably of Andy. Unlike Daniel, I hadn’t really partaken of the party lifestyle he’d embraced so fervently in his twenties and been unable to escape until just a couple of years ago. But I’d seen the aftermath: those endless, dragging Sundays when Andy had hung out at my flat, rattling with come-down, devouring the sausage baps I made him, then lighting spliff after spliff and smoking them on my balcony ‘to take the edge off’.

Eventually, the neighbours’ complaints had gone from ‘Could you maybe do that inside?’ to ‘We’re going to call the cops if this doesn’t stop’, and Andy and I’d had to decamp to the park instead, so he could take the edge off there. Sometimes, Daniel had joined us. It was around then I’d started to realise that Andy’s lifestyle was segueing from ‘party’ to ‘problem’ – a fact universally acknowledged, except by Daniel.

Because Daniel, I’d quickly realised, was part of the problem. He’d begun popping up when Andy and I had arranged to meet for drinks or a meal or to see a movie or whatever, just tagging along, uninvited by me but presumably welcomed by Andy – in spite of his protestations about not wanting to share me. Often, when I left to go home early because I had work the next day, the two of them would head off somewhere unspecified to make a night of it. But one time, when I’d known Andy for just over a year, it had ended up being just Daniel and me, because Andy had texted fifteen minutes after we’d been due to meet saying he was legit dying of man flu and had taken to his bed. So it had seemed like a golden opportunity to share my concern with his mate.

‘Listen,’ I’d said, once we were installed on bar stools with mojitos and a little bowl of rice crackers, ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m worried.’

‘What’s up, Kate?’ Daniel had looked at me steadily. His eyes were no colour at all, I noticed – a flat silvery grey, like five-pence pieces dropped on a pavement in the rain.

‘It’s Andy,’ I said. ‘He came round to mine last night – well, at about three this morning actually – and he was absolutely wasted.’

Daniel shrugged. ‘That’s our Andy. Always fond of a mind-altering substance.’

‘But it was Tuesday night. He’d lost his keys and locked himself out. He couldn’t get up to go to work this morning, and he’s already on a written warning.’

‘Might be a good wake-up call if he gets sacked.’

‘It’s not his career I’m bothered about, Daniel,’ I said. ‘Come on, he works for that art gallery practically for free – it’s not like he needs the money. But he’s taking coke, like, every night. It’s getting out of hand.’

‘It’s no big deal, Kate. Come on. Loads of people use it. It’s just recreational.’

‘I’m sure it is just recreational for loads of people. Maybe it even is for you. But I don’t think it is for Andy.’

‘Oh, give over,’ he said. ‘Look at you, caning the cocktails. Should I stage an intervention?’

Things would have escalated after that, and I didn’t want them to escalate, so I left it there – but I was seething with frustration at Daniel’s wilful blindness as well as becoming increasingly concerned about Andy. That night may have been the first time I’d tried to talk to Daniel about Andy’s issues, but it wasn’t the last. And the fact that I was right didn’t leave me feeling even a bit of satisfaction.

Now, though, our roles were reversed. Daniel was the one worrying about Andy, and I was insisting that everything was fine.

What if, this time, he was right and I was wrong? What if I was trying to convince myself rather than him?

While I mused, the bus had been making its tortuously slow way through South London, and at last it reached my stop. I disembarked, thinking of the long afternoon ahead of me. I could head to Tate Modern and give myself a good dose of cultural enrichment. I could walk across the river and do some shopping in Covent Garden. I could visit Naomi and go to the park with her and the twins.

But, somehow, I didn’t feel like doing any of those things. Instead, I popped past St Mungo’s, where Mona was clearing up the last of the cups and saucers from the coffee morning.

‘That cake went down a treat, Kate,’ she told me, handing over the carefully washed cake stand. ‘Absolutely all gone. Did you have a nice time with your friend?’

‘He’s not exactly a friend. And he wants me to go with him to Turkey.’

Mona tilted her head quizzically, and I gave her a brief rundown of the state of play.

‘In these situations,’ she said, pulling the white cloth off the table and bundling it up to take home and wash, ‘I always ask myself: would I regret doing something or would I regret not doing it?’

I thought about this. Did Daniel regret his inaction over Andy all those years ago? He’d never said so – at least not to me. And if I stood by my decision not to go to Turkey with him, would I end up regretting that?

‘I get that,’ I said. ‘It’s good advice. But it seems like such a massive overreaction. And besides, Daniel and I don’t get on. I don’t want to go to Turkey with him – or anywhere else, for that matter. If I’m honest, I’d rather stick pins in my eyes.’

‘Now don’t be melodramatic,’ she scolded. ‘It’s a lovely country. Delicious food. When George was alive, we went all-inclusive there a couple of summers and we ate like kings. And you could do with a rest.’

I wasn’t sure how spending time with Daniel could be described as restful, delicious food or no delicious food. His infuriating smile-that-wasn’t-a-smile, his annoying hair, his insufferable air of having made up his mind and being right – it would be enough to put anyone off their izgara kofte. And besides, there was the small matter of actually getting there, if I did decide to go. Which I hadn’t.

‘What would you do without me and my cake, though?’ I asked. ‘Your guests would riot.’

‘They’d do no such thing. They’d be perfectly happy with custard creams. Maybe not as happy, but they’d make do.’

---