Was that herdrug dealer?
I knew she liked to party, but was she really about to go and replenish her stash on a Sunday evening in the middle of preparing dinner?
I went back to the kitchen and finished my glass of punch. As I was refilling it, the door opened again and a male voice shouted, ‘Hello!’
This time, itwasSimon and he had a key to Jess’s flat. My already low mood sank further. It was a bit soon, wasn’t it? He still hadn’t given me back my key yet.
‘Oh, hi,’ he said. ‘Jess told me you were coming over to interview her for the magazine. How exciting.’
I wasn’t in the mood to correct him, so I just nodded.
‘Where is she?’
‘She’s gone to get cash for her drug dealer.’
I waited for Simon to laugh or ask if I was kidding. But evidently, a Sunday-afternoon drug deal was not an unusual occurrence in the Baxter-Honeywell household.
‘Something smells good,’ he said, nodding at the oven.
‘Yes,’ I replied, lamely.
‘Look, I know you meant well, Frixie, but Jess mentioned that you’d brought up the whole Marcie Tyler thing again.’
That was barely ten minutes ago. Did they speak to each other every thirty seconds?
‘This is turning into an obsession,’ he said. ‘You’re like a scratched record.’
His choice of words stung. ‘You know how important it is for the magazine.’
‘But you know it upsets Jess. Why keep bringing it up? It’s like you’ve got some weird fetish about it.’
Why was he suddenly acting like this – implying my interest in Marcie was unhealthy? I’d grown up listening to her, and Simon had been there hitting the repeat button on theCDwith me. He should understand better than anyone.
Stupid, ridiculous, humiliating tears threatened to fall. I turned towards the counter, determined not to let him see how much his words hurt.
Simon poured himself a drink without asking if I wanted a refill. It was like I was invisible and I was actually relieved when Jess’s rattling car came to a halt outside.
‘I’m back!’ she sing-songed from the hallway, banging the door behind her. She had a big – and possibly chemically induced – smile on her face. ‘Who’s up for some grub?’
*
The rest of the evening was pretty lousy. I had to feign a headache to account for my quietness, and Jess’s famed cookery skills proved hugely lacking. I don’t know whether she’d taken a couple of pills or lines of coke, but she was too far gone to care that the veal was rubbery or that the rice was soggy.
Even the apple pie in the oven hadn’t defrosted properly and turned out to be shop-bought – its Waitrose wrapping tossed carelessly on a counter.
It’s not that I was being a massive snob, but Simon praised every fucking dish. His assessment of her culinary skills was tainted either by his feelings for her, or his own lack of sobriety. His eyes were ringed red, which led me to believe that he’d partaken in whatever goods Jess had procured from her earlier gentleman caller.
In fairness, Jess had asked me if I fancied a little ‘help’ too, but I politely declined and she didn’t push it.
Around the time when normal guests would have readily agreed to coffees, I got up. ‘I’d better get home.’
No one tried to talk me out of it.
We said our lukewarm goodbyes and then I was out, the door closing before I’d even made it to the pavement.
I looked up and down the street, trying to remember which way the train station was, but it was still early and I didn’t want to go home.
When I pulled my phone out, searching for someone to recount my horrible evening to, my fingers scrolled to ‘N’ without any help from my brain.
