Page 41 of Pictures of Him

‘You were like that when I knew you,’ you say, but your voice is kind; there’s no judgement. I know the question you want to ask: what happened to change you? And I also know that you’re not going to ask it.

‘Are you ready to go?’

You press your thumb into the centre of my palm and now I know exactly what’s in your mind. You’re thinking of this morning, remembering how it was me who took control this time, teasing you, making you wait, until you could no longer bear it. I want to do that again, I want to make you feel the way I feel, desperate, erotically possessed, so much so that I might just rip off all my clothes and lie down here in the middle of the terrace, pulling you down on top of me. The thought of it is making me smile, and you say, ‘What?’ as you reach into your jeans pocket for your wallet, although your own smile tells me that you’ve probably guessed. Our eyes are fixed on each other, the corners of your mouth turning upwards this time, when a shadow falls across the table and a voice – loud, look-at-me, public school remodelled as estuary – cuts right across the last fifteen years and plunges me into gloom.

Four months before: Lucian

‘There you are!’ says Jack, coming up to our table just as we’re about to leave. Celia is right behind him, without her baby for once, and dressed for night-time it seems, in big, bold earrings and a low-cut top.

‘Catherine! Great to see you again, it’s been so long,’ says Jack, stooping down to kiss her on both cheeks. She stares up at him in wordless confusion. I feel a little confused myself. Pleased to see him, guilty that I’ve somehow broken my promise to Catherine.

‘This is Celia, my wife,’ Jack says. ‘All right if we join you?’ He’s already scouting the terrace for extra chairs.

‘Actually, mate, we’re just leaving,’ I tell them, hating how cold I sound but also aware of the look on Catherine’s face. Not quite horror, but something close. ‘Catherine and I haven’t got very long together so we sort of need to spend it on our own. Don’t mean to be unfriendly.’

‘You are joking? The girls are on their way down, Harry and Ling are coming over. We’re all meeting at yours. We popped in just now and Mary said you were here.’

‘We booked a babysitter,’ Celia says. ‘We did try to let you know but your phone was off.’

‘It’s meant to be a surprise. A good one.’

Jack laughs but Catherine doesn’t. She’s staring down at the table; she hasn’t said one word. I take her hand in mine but it’s like holding a dead fish. I’m not sure what to do. I watch as Jack leans forward, shouldering his way into Catherine’s line of vision, forcing her to look at him.

‘Catherine?’ he asks, with his calculated, fail-safe smile. ‘Surely it’s OK if we come over for an hour or two? The girls really want to see you. We all do. It’s been so long.’

‘Sure. It’s fine.’

Her voice is flat and unenthusiastic, kind of rude. She doesn’t smile back.

‘Let’s make it a quick one,’ I say, and Jack looks at me and rolls his eyes.

‘Like that’s going to happen,’ he says.

Jack and Celia follow us home in their Land Rover, and though the journey takes fifteen minutes, Catherine barely speaks.

‘Honestly, it doesn’t matter,’ she says, when I try to explain that I had no idea my friends were coming over. ‘It’s nice that they want to see me. But I can’t stay long. I’ll have to get home.’

‘Just give me an hour and I’ll get rid of them,’ I tell her, and she nods.

‘Of course,’ she says, but the afternoon’s colour has faded. I’m not even sure what happened. It’s as if there is a barrier between us, a paper-thin sheet of something dark and unformed.

The library is empty so we head on to the kitchen andhear the girls’ voices, a wall of noise and loud, shouty, overindulgent laughter. I do love them. It does thrill me to hear them, even after all this time.

‘Think of it as a reunion,’ I tell Catherine just before we open the door. ‘Which is what it actually is.’

She pulls off a weak smile. ‘Rather than the lions’ den, which is how it actually feels?’

We walk in to a shattering volume increase, mainly Alexa screeching at Catherine.

‘Catherine! Oh my God. I can’t believe it!’

They were once so close, Catherine and Alexa. I feel a sharp little moment of grief at the way it all ended; not just our love affair but the friendships too.

She grabs Catherine into an intense, bosom-crushing hug and I love her for it, but it leaves me and Rachel eyeing each other on either side of the island, and ten seconds later, which comes as no relief whatsoever, we are dealing with the arrival of Jack and Celia. We are all connected by sex, is what I find myself thinking, somewhat inappropriately, and suddenly the age-old foibles and indulgences, the background wallpaper to our comfortable, me-centric lives, begin to feel awkward, ungainly, wrong. Me, Rachel and Catherine. Jack, Celia and Alexa.

‘Cocktails?’ I suggest. ‘Library?’

I’ll make cosmopolitans. Vodka, cranberry, a little grenadine, a dash of lime. Ingredients, I hope, with the power of change. In the library, Celia hijacks Catherine onto one of the sofas while Jack, Rachel, Alexa and I loiter around the bar like a circle of misfits. So much to say and none of it sayable: it’s often this way with us.

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