Michael Robotham - The Night Ferry

“Well I didn’t spend two hundred quid on this dress and squeeze into these bloody shoes to be ignored by him again.”

Unlike Lindsay, I have no desire to hang around with people I have spent twelve years avoiding. I don’t want to hear how much money they make or how big their house is or see photographs of their children who have names that sound like brands of shampoo.

That’s the thing about school reunions—people only come to measure their life against others and to see the failures. They want to know which of the beauty queens has put on seventy pounds and seen her husband run off with his secretary, and which teacher got caught taking photographs in the changing rooms.

“Come on, aren’t you curious?” Lindsay asks.

“Of course, I’m curious. I hate the fact I’m curious. I just wish I was invisible.”

“Don’t be such a spoilsport.” She rubs her finger across my eyebrows. “Did you see Annabelle Trunzo? My God that dress! And what about her hair?”

“Rocco doesn’t even have any hair.”

“Ah, but he’s still looking fit.”

“Is he married?”

“Hush your mouth.”

“Well, I think you should at least find out before you shag him.”

She gives me a wicked grin. “I’ll ask afterward.”

Lindsay acts like a real man-eater, but I know she’s not really so predatory. I tell myself that all the time, but I still wouldn’t let her date my brothers.

Back in the hall, the lights have been turned down and the music turned up. Spandau Ballet has been replaced by eighties anthems. The women are wearing a mixture of cocktail dresses and saris. Others are pretending not to care, in leather jackets and designer jeans.

There were always tribes at Oaklands. The whites were a minority. Most of the students were Banglas (Bangladeshis) with a few Pakis and Indians thrown into the mix.

I was a “curry,” a “yindoo,” an “elephant trainer.” Brown Indian in case you’re wondering. As defining details go, nothing else came close at Oaklands—not my black hair, braces or skinny legs; not having glandular fever at seven, or being able to run like the wind. Everything else paled into insignificance alongside my skin color and Sikh heritage.

It’s not true that all Sikhs are called Singh. And we don’t all carry curved blades strapped to our chests (although in the East End having this sort of rep isn’t such a bad thing).

Even now the Banglas are sticking together. People are sitting next to the same people they sat alongside at school. Despite everything that has happened in the intervening years, the core facets of our personalities are untouched. All our flaws and strengths are the same.

On the far side of the hall I see Cate arriving. She is pale and striking, with a short expensive haircut and cheap sexy shoes. Dressed in a long light khaki skirt and a silk blouse, she looks elegant and, yes, pregnant. Her hands are smoothing her neat, compact bump. It’s more than a bump. A beach ball. She hasn’t long to go.

I don’t want her to see me staring. I turn away.

“Alisha?”

“Sure. Who else?” I turn suddenly and put on a goofy smile.

Cate leans forward and kisses my cheek. I don’t close my eyes. Neither does she. We stare at each other. Surprised. She smells of childhood.

There are fine lines at the corners of her eyes. I wasn’t there to see them drawn. The small scar on her left temple, just beneath her hairline, I remember that one.

We’re the same age, twenty-nine, and the same shape, except for the bump. I have darker skin and hidden depths (like all brunettes) but I can categorically state that I will never look as good as Cate. She has learned—no, that makes it sound too practiced—she was born with the ability to make men admire her. I don’t know the secret. A movement of the eye, a cock of the head, a tone of voice or a touch of the arm, creates a moment, an illusion that all men gay or straight, old or young buy into.

People are watching her now. I doubt if she even realizes.

“How are you?”

“I’m fine,” I answer too quickly and start again. “I’m all right.”

“Just all right?”

I try to laugh. “But look at you—you’re pregnant.”

“Yes.”

“When are you due?”

“In four weeks.”

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

The questions and answers are too abrupt and matter-of-fact. Conversation has never been this hard—not with Cate. She looks nervously over my shoulder, as if worried we might be overheard.

“Didn’t you marry—?”

“Felix Beaumont. He’s over there.”

I follow her eyes to a tall, heavy-set figure in casual trousers and a loose white shirt. Felix didn’t go to Oaklands and his real name is Buczkowski, not “Beaumont.” His father was a Polish shopkeeper who ran an electronics shop on Tottenham Court Road.

Now he’s deep in conversation with Annabelle Trunzo, whose dress is a scrap of material held up by her chest. If she exhales it’s going to be bunched around her ankles.

“You know what I used to hate most about nights like this?” says Cate. “Having someone who looks immaculate telling me how she spent all day ferrying children to ballet or football or cricket. And then she asks the obvious question: ‘Do you have any kids?’ And I say, ‘Nope, no children.’ And she jokes, ‘Hey, why don’t you have one of mine?’ God that pisses me off.”

“Well, it won’t happen anymore.”

“No.”

She takes a glass of wine from a passing tray. Again she glances around, looking distracted.

“Why did we fall out? It must have been my fault.”

“I’m sure you remember,” I say.

“It doesn’t matter anymore. By the way, I want you to be a godparent.”

“I’m not even a Christian.”

“Oh, that doesn’t matter.”

Cate is avoiding whatever she really wants to talk about.

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

She hesitates. “I’ve gone too far this time, Ali. I’ve risked everything.”

Taking her arm, I steer her toward a quiet corner. People are starting to dance. The music is too loud. Cate puts her mouth close to my ear. “You have to help me. Promise me you’ll help me…”

“Of course.”

She holds back a sob, seeming to bite down upon it. “They want to take my baby. They can’t. You have to stop them—”

A hand touches her shoulder and she jumps, startled.

“Hello, gorgeous pregnant lady, who have we here?”

Cate backs away a step. “No one. It’s just an old friend.” Something shifts inside her. She wants to escape.

Felix Beaumont has perfect teeth. My mother has a thing about dental work. It is the first thing she notices about people.

“I remember you,” he says. “You were behind me.”

“At school?”

“No, at the bar.”

He laughs and adopts an expression of amused curiosity.

Cate has backed farther away. My eyes find hers. The faintest shake of her head tells me to let her go. I feel a rush of tenderness toward her. She motions with her empty glass. “I’m just going to get a refill.”

“Go easy on that stuff, sweetheart. You’re not alone.” He brushes her bump.

“Last one.”

Felix watches her leave with a mixture of sadness and longing. Finally, he turns back to me.

“So is it Miss or Mrs.?”

“Pardon?”

“Are you married?”

I hear myself say “Ms.” which makes me sound like a lesbian. I change it to “Miss” and then blurt, “I’m single,” which appears desperate.

“That explains it.”

“What?”

“Those with children have photographs. Those without have nicer clothes and fewer lines.”

Is that supposed to be a compliment?