Harriet Evans - The Love of Her Life

CHAPTER EIGHT

March 2001

More than a year after she’d started at Woman’s World , the pie chart of Kate’s friendships was clear. Charly was her best friend. Zoe was her newly engaged, other best friend. Her other friends Betty and Francesca were happily ensconced in their chaotic flat in Clapham; Betty worked in a gallery and tied bunches into her short dyed hair, while Francesca, who was a banker, and the person Kate had been closest to at university, was now extremely grown-up, wore grey suits and worked in Canary Wharf, which was suddenly where everyone was working.

Charly and Kate were still editorial assistants, they sat across from each other and helped each other, they went to the same Italian deli round the corner for lunch (where Kate happily stuffed her face with carbs and fats and Charly gingerly picked out the tomatoes in her sandwich and ate them) and occasionally got the tube to TopShop on Oxford Circus where Kate would try on clothes that didn’t suit her and buy them, and Charly would try on clothes that made her long, leggy form look even more stunning and complain that nothing fitted her, and leave buying nothing. In the evenings, they went to the pub, where they gossiped and bitched about the day at work, their sometimes eccentric colleagues, and the endless fascination of the microcosm of the office.

Kate was changing; she only realized it when other people remarked on it. ‘Nice work, Kate,’ Sue had said briskly to her a couple of months ago, after she had written a little piece on Alma from ‘Coronation Street’. ‘You’re really coming out of your shell, aren’t you?’

The truth was she loved it, she loved her life now. She took to it like an ugly duckling to water. Now Kate strode to the Tube station in the mornings, her long legs flying out in front of her, her long hair catching in the breeze. She laughed with the mailroom boys, she said hello to Catherine the Editor with a bright smile on her face, not a mumbled, half-horrified grunt, in fear lest she might try to engage her in conversation. She loved answering the phone to random readers, calling to ask whether ‘The Darling Buds of May’ was ever coming back on TV again or where they could get the recipe for hot-pot that had been in last week’s issue. And she looked forward to relaxing, drinking, chatting, laughing in the evenings, as she had never done before.

One Friday afternoon in March, Kate sat at her desk, trying to concentrate on the letter she was writing, whilst resisting the temptation to play with her new mobile phone, her first, which she had picked up that very lunchtime. She hadn’t actually called anyone on it yet, but she had taken down everyone in the office’s number, entering each one in the address book, slowly and painfully. It was four o’clock, and the office felt dead. Kate felt dead too – it had been Sophie’s birthday drinks the night before, a long, messy night, culminating in Kate not getting home till two because of the vagaries of the night bus. Charly had disappeared at midnight, with a random ad exec she’d pulled hanging onto her arm. She had been in a strange, cool mood, and Kate could tell a storm was brewing.

Kate chewed on her biro and looked up from her desk, where she had been idly pressing buttons on her mobile. ‘So – did you go back to his place?’ she asked.

Charly was flicking through a magazine, exaggeratedly pouting. She was supposed to be checking the text for the recipe card layout.

‘God, I love Britney Spears,’ she said. ‘There’s no way she’s a virgin. No way. Look.’

She waved the magazine in front of Kate.

‘Fake boobs,’ said Kate, glancing at the magazine.

‘No,’ said Charly. ‘They’re real.’

‘They’re fake!’ said Kate. ‘Come on! Where did they come from! She used to have no boobs at all.’

‘From growing up, she’s only nineteen,’ said Charly, as Kate’s boss Sue zoomed into view, her heels clicking madly on the thin lino. Charly carried on flicking through the magazine, as Kate turned back to her computer screen.

‘Are you in next week?’ Sue said, not slowing down or making eye contact with Kate.

‘Yes,’ said Kate, who was used to her boss. ‘Why, what do you need?’

‘I’m on holiday next week. Bloody half-term. Fucking Malcolm’s booked that stupid riyad in Morocco. Can you do the Editor’s Letter for me? I thought you might like to do it.’

‘Sure,’ said Kate, half standing up, like a Captain in the mess when the General pays a visit. ‘Of course, Sue. Wow, how great! Thanks – thanks a lot.’

Sue stood still, several steps ahead of Kate, on her way out to the lifts. ‘Great. Good one. Get it to Catherine for her to look over by Tuesday morning. OK?’

‘“Thanks – thanks a lot”,’ Charly mimicked as Sue walked away. ‘You big suck!’

‘I know,’ said Kate, embarrassed. Charly rolled her eyes.

‘Well done,’ she said, after a pause. ‘Good one. I’m going to be really kind and take you out for a drink to celebrate tonight. And there’s a new club in Soho just opened. Virus, it’s called. We could go on there afterwards.’

Kate bit her lip. ‘I can’t, sorry. Steve and Zoe are having a housewarming party. Sort of engagement party thing too. It’s fancy dress. And especially not after last night.’

‘Ooh la la,’ Charly said. ‘Sorry I asked. How about just one after work instead?’

‘OK,’ said Kate. ‘Great.’ She swivelled happily on her chair. ‘The editor’s letter! Hurrah!’

‘Where shall we go?’ said Kate, as they left the office an hour later, striding out together in the dusk of the March evening. ‘The Crown?’

‘No,’ said Charly, firmly. ‘Anywhere but The Crown.’

‘Oh god,’ said Kate. ‘Who did you do there?’

‘Shut up!’ said Charly, glaring at her, but smiling. ‘I didn’t “do” anyone there, thank you very much. It’s just Phil and Claire …’ She trailed off, chewing a strand of hair.

‘What?’

‘They’re there tonight, heard them say it as they left.’

‘So?’ Kate liked The Crown. It had nice bar snacks, like mixed nuts, and though it didn’t have a quiz machine, it had a jukebox, a rarity in a central London pub. And it was by the Inns of Court, tucked away on a little side-street – she thought it was rather nice, like something out of a Dickens novel. There were barristers in there, sometimes in gowns. ‘Go on. I love it in there.’

‘No, come on, we’re going to the Atlas.’

‘ Again ,’ Kate moaned, like an unwilling child being forced to the shops on a Saturday. ‘What’s wrong with Phil and Claire?’

‘There’s nothing wrong with Claire,’ said Charly grimly, jabbing the button for the pelican crossing smartly. ‘Claire is great. I don’t have a problem with Claire .’

‘You – and Phil?’ Kate was aghast, not because she was surprised Charly had slept with someone, but because she hadn’t noticed. ‘When?’

The lights changed. Charly marched across the road, impossibly fast. Kate ran behind her. ‘Hey, slow down. When? Didn’t you know he and Claire –’

Of course she knew he and Claire were an item, it was the worst-kept secret in the office, two best friends at work, also having an affair. It wouldn’t have mattered either, except it was blindingly obvious Claire was mad about Phil and Kate could see he wasn’t that into her. He was a bit of a player; nice enough, but he was twenty-seven, he didn’t want to settle down yet.

But Charly didn’t answer, and they arrived at the pub. The welcoming smoky fug of the Atlas drew them in and, after they had settled down with their drinks (double gin and tonic for Charly, white wine spritzer for Kate), Kate said, tentatively,