Page 39 of The Fall-Out

‘What, you and Andy?’ I couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d chucked her coffee in my face. Andy had been a notoriously fickle correspondent, occasionally sending long stream-of-consciousness voice notes then not replying for weeks if you texted to wish him happy birthday. And yet he’d stayed in touch with Zara? It was far more likely that Zara, aware of Andy’s vulnerability, had stayed in touch with him as a way of keeping tabs on the group she’d chosen to leave. Realising that, I felt a flare of anger at her for using him for that purpose.

She nodded. ‘He used to come to Paris quite often, when he was in funds. He had a boyfriend there for a while, and when that ended and he was sober again he’d come and spend weekends with me. He loved the city.’

This I could imagine – Andy, always stylish to the max, heading out on shopping trips with Zara, eating with her in fancy restaurants, going to art galleries.

‘I’m sure you had loads of fun,’ I said, sarcasm creeping into my voice. ‘Must have been a good chance to catch up on all the news from London.’

‘Oh, it was.’ Her smile was half-obscured by her coffee cup, which she was holding with both hands, as if to warm them. ‘You know how Andy loved to gossip. He told me all about your babies, and Rowan’s new chap, and Kate kicking him out of her flat. He was quite cut up about that, bless him.’

‘So you didn’t need me to tell you Patch and I had twins, and what they were called’ – I smiled sweetly, pleased to have caught her out in what hadn’t exactly been a lie, but had certainly been an omission of the truth – ‘because Andy already had.’

‘Oh, it must have slipped my mind.’ Zara had reverted to her usual airiness; I remembered now how, Teflon-like, she was always able to deflect any suggestion that she was wrong. ‘I’ve never been that interested in children and nor was Andy. He might not even have told me their names – I can’t remember. There was always so much else to talk about.’

‘I’m sure there was.’ Even as I spoke, I hated the bitchy defensiveness in my voice. I didn’t sound like myself, but like a stranger – one I wouldn’t particularly like. ‘You must have loved reminiscing about the old days – that place in Bloomsbury where you used to stay, the last time you came to the Girlfriends’ Club, Abbie’s wedding – good times.’

The cat had left its spot above the fireplace and sprung up on to Zara’s lap, its claws rhythmically piercing the wool of her trousers. She put down her coffee cup and buried her fingers in its fur, as if now she was trying to keep them warm that way.

‘Actually,’ she said, with one of the sudden switches from merriment to mournfulness I remembered, ‘we didn’t talk about those things. I preferred not to remember how it all went wrong. Having Andy with me reminded me a bit of how it was before all that, only without the feeling of being…’

I waited for her to continue, but she didn’t. I heard my voice asking, ‘Being what?’

‘Being the odd one out. You know, among the five of us. If someone made a sitcom, like Friends or something, Kate would be the successful one, Abbie would be the nice one, Rowan would be the beautiful one and you’d be the clever one.’

I knew what she wanted me to ask, and in spite of myself I asked it anyway. ‘What would you be?’

‘I’d be the one who wasn’t important enough to be in every episode,’ she said sadly. ‘On the fringes. My name last in the credits.’

And here it was again – Zara’s familiar pattern of making herself appear marginalised and hard-done-by, all the while also making herself the centre of attention. But this time, her words resonated with me. I remembered that first meeting, looking at my new friends (at least, I already hoped with all my heart that they’d become friends), and categorising them: Kate, the chic City professional; Rowan, strikingly beautiful even with the rain frizzing her hair and mud on her shoes; Abbie, so at ease in her own skin people would gravitate towards her wherever she was. And to that list, of course, I’d added Zara, who wore an air of mysterious glamour with the same assurance she wore that coat that might or might not have been real fur.

It was I, back then, who’d felt out of place, not good enough. Compared to the others, I was just ordinary – not particularly good looking, not particularly successful, just muddling through my life while I waited to discover where it would lead and what kind of person I’d become.

That feeling had persisted for a long time, I realised. I couldn’t quite remember when I’d stopped worrying and realised that my friends loved me for who I was. It was probably round about when Patch and I got together, or when Zara stopped being part of the group.

I didn’t really want to think about why those things might have coincided, or speculate about whether Zara might have realised all along how I felt and how that knowledge could have influenced her behaviour towards me.

‘That’s why it was so important to me that you and I were friends,’ she went on. ‘I felt that you and I… we had something in common.’

No. I’m not letting you do that. I’m not having us painted as fellow outsiders.

I forced a laugh, hearing myself adopt the same tone I used when one of the children launched into a complaint about the unfairness of life. ‘Don’t be silly. You were always at the heart of the group, even though you were living in Paris. We tried our best to include you in things. It was you who was always wreaking havoc, you who decided?—’

‘I had no option! They chose you, same as Patch chose you.’

I was silenced. I didn’t want to go into the details of how Zara’s version of the truth might differ from mine, but I couldn’t deny that fundamental reality.

But even if I’d known what to say, Zara didn’t give me a chance. ‘And speaking of Patch, let me go and fetch that camera for you. It’s in the bedroom somewhere.’

She lifted the cat off her lap, draped it over her shoulder and drifted out. I gulped the rest of the bitter, cooling coffee and stood up. The apartment didn’t feel spacious and elegant now – it felt stifling.

I waited impatiently for Zara to return, hearing her moving about in the next room, making scraping sounds as she dragged what might have been a suitcase across the floor, chattering away to her cat.

‘Here you go,’ she said at last, returning with a black nylon camera bag in her hand, the cat following her. ‘I’ve got no idea if it even still works, but I expect Patch will be glad to have it back. Would you like another coffee?’

I shook my head. ‘Thanks, though. I need to pick the children up from nursery.’

‘Of course you do.’ Her smile was wistful. ‘It’s been lovely talking to you, Naomi. Maybe we should do this again? I feel like there’s so much you and I need to talk about.’

‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea,’ I said. ‘There’s no point raking over ancient history. We’ve all moved on now. And besides, I’m really busy with Patch and the children and everything.’

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