The Friends We Keep(39)

She melted a large knob of butter in the pan and whisked the eggs, adding seasoning and chives she snipped from the pot on the windowsill. When the butter was sizzling hot, just about to brown, she tipped the eggs into the pan and quickly, quickly, using the back of the fork tines, scrambled the eggs before turning the heat down to low and setting the omelet back on the gentle flame to cook through, making sure the top stayed perfectly creamy. Folding the omelet onto a plate, she added a toasted brioche, before bringing it into the living room, to Ben.

“That looks delicious.” Ben sat up, reaching for the knife and fork. He ate quickly, and quietly, other than constantly looking at Maggie and proclaiming this the best omelet he had ever eaten in his life.

It’s what I do, thought Maggie. Food cooked with love. I show the people I care about that I love them by feeding them. Then she rebuked herself for thinking that when it came to Ben. She didn’t love Ben; she hardly knew him.

“Is there room for me?” she said, when he had finished.

“There will always be room for you.” He smiled before patting the seat next to him as Maggie curled up. She didn’t resist when he took her legs and pulled them onto his lap, resting his hands absentmindedly on her shins, with no idea of the effect it was having on Maggie, who could hardly breathe. They sat together for a while, appearing to be perfectly comfortable, even though Maggie was feeling ever so slightly nauseated, the butterflies in her stomach taking great leaps every time he moved. He had had plenty of alcohol, but rather than seeming drunk, he seemed softer, sweeter, his defenses down. This was the Ben who rubbed her back, who squeezed her arm, who would, she thought, take care of her.

On-screen, the host, Jean Paul Gaultier, visited something called the Tickle Factory.

“Oh God,” said Maggie. “That sounds like hell to me.”

“Which bit?”

“Tickling. I hate being tickled.”

“Oh, Maggie.” Ben turned his head from the television and looked at her, a twinkle in his eye.

“What?”

“Oh, Maggie, Maggie, Maggie.”

“What?”

“You should never have told me that.” He raised his hands as Maggie yelped, pulling her legs off his lap and inching away from him on the sofa, but it was too late. Suddenly his hands were everywhere, tickling her as she laughed hysterically, while begging him to stop.

He did stop, both of them breathing heavily, Ben suddenly on top of her, his face inches from hers. They were both smiling, until the smiles slid off each of their faces as they gazed into each other’s eyes.

“Are you drunk?” Maggie whispered, remembering once upon a time when she found herself in a very similar situation, not wanting to ever have that happen again.

“I’m very definitely sober,” he whispered back, tipping his head forward until his lips were on hers, and Maggie’s whole body shuddered with an electrical current she didn’t know it was possible to feel.





nineteen


- 1995 -



Too scrawny,” her mother kept saying, sucking her teeth and shaking her head every time she looked at Evvie over the past two days.

“You want me to stop modeling?” Evvie would ask, and they would both start laughing, for Evvie’s mother couldn’t have been more proud of her daughter. Everywhere she went she got Evvie’s picture out of her wallet, and everyone told her Evvie had clearly got her good looks from her mother.

“I wish you’d come and visit more often,” said her mother, walking Evvie to the fancy car that had pulled up outside the house in Stockwell.

“I wish you’d come and visit me! I’ve got a fabulous apartment downtown and there’s more than enough room for you.”

“New York was another life,” said her mother. “I like it here, and the only place I like traveling to at my age is Jamaica.”

“Your age. You’re still young, and vibrant. You’ve been living with Granny too long.”

“You’re telling me.” Evvie’s mother patted her stomach and laughed. “My stomach is testament to that.”

“And now you see why I don’t come and stay more often,” Evvie teased.

“Nothing wrong with that,” said her mother, allowing Evvie to put her arms around her and give her a tight hug before waving her off, standing outside her house until the car was long gone.



* * *



? ? ?

Evvie’s life was going even better than she expected in every area except romantically. At twenty-seven years old, she was one of the world’s best-known models. She was not merely a model, but a supermodel who rubbed shoulders with the rich and famous and who was, in fact, rich and famous herself.

She was supposed to have it all, but when Maggie phoned her last year to tell her that Evvie would never believe who she had run into in the cafeteria at her new job, who she was having drinks with later that week, Evvie had felt her heart plummet. She knew she was going to say Evil Ben. And as soon as Maggie did, Evvie felt sick, knowing, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Maggie would end up marrying him.

Evvie had had plenty of relationships, but she picked horribly. She used to joke that if you put a thousand nice guys in a room with one fuckup, she’d find herself leaving with the fuckup, except it wasn’t that funny because it was true. From time to time she had thought about Ben, wondering what-if, wondering if things might have been different with him. All these years later, there was still no one with whom she had had the same chemistry, no one who had turned her on in the same way, and there were times, late at night, when she would lie in bed and wonder whether anyone might ever make her feel that way again.