She listened as Gareth bounded up the stairs, any remnants of last night’s hangover gamely tossed aside at the prospect of hair of the dog. She heard voices above her head. It hadn’t occurred to her on her drive down that Gareth might have company, but of course he did. She hoped she might catch a glimpse of the young man before he scampered out the door, but even as she positioned herself against the counter opposite the doorway she only saw a flash of blonde hair and what looked like an exceedingly turquoise shirt dash into the view through the doorway into the hall.
‘Just a minute, Opal,’ Gareth called as he raced after the man. More murmurs at the door and then a silence that sounded like a kiss. The door slammed. Opal waited for Gareth to get ready. When he came down the stairs in a deep green velvet shirt, she smiled, even though it was deeply inappropriate for the early summer weather. ‘How could a mannotcolour-match his ensemble to his accompanying lady’s turban?’ He gave Opal a twirl and again she found herself giggling.
The pair linked arms. ‘To the Ritz!’ Gareth exclaimed as he locked his front door.
Chapter 7
Before Opal had even set herself down into the maroon velvet seat being pulled out beneath her, Gareth ordered for them both.
‘Two white peach bellinis, please.’ Gareth winked at the waiter as he walked away.
‘Honestly, darling, you’re insatiable!’ Opal liked herself when she was around Gareth. Something about being in his presence always made her feel somehow more carefree, more glamorous, more of a bon vivant. She’d often find herself calling him ‘darling’ even though it was an endearment she didn’t usually use. He’d had that effect on her since they’d met.
It was a week after matriculation, and Opal had been feeling increasingly dismayed that her art history classmates at Girton College seemed to have taken against her. She sometimes had that effect on people, often, inexplicably, on blonde women. The three other girls who were on her course at Girton were all blonde, though they would have preferred it described as golden, Opal was sure. Maybe something about her sturdily shoulder-length and triangularly cut grapefruit-coloured curls was off-putting for them. Gareth, on the other hand, in his ochre-coloured elephant cord flares and skintight tank tophad clasped her by the shoulders after their first lecture, and, holding her at arm’s length, had declared that she was ‘a striking beauty, Botticelli-esque with a hint of Da Vincian angularity’.
She had replied: ‘I’m not sure that angularity is a word.’ And he had laughed.
‘I’m Gareth, but you can call me … No actually please do call me Gareth. I think the days of Gary are behind me.’
‘Gareth, hello. I’m Opal but please do call me Pol. Everyone else does.’ She had held out her hand and Gareth had instead linked his arm through hers.
‘Nonsense, Opal is a sensational name. Why on earth would you want anyone to call you Pol with a name like that?’ Opal had blushed. In truth she had always hated her name. ‘Shall we head to the pub?’ Gareth phrased this as a question, but he was already leading her purposefully down Fitzwilliam Street, towards the Mill Inn.
Now here they were, nearly twenty years later, and instead of a dark warm ale that she would choke down, the waiter was handing her a coupe of sparkling porcelain-pink liquid. Porcelain. Like the colour of Agnes’s thighs … The thought came into her head suddenly. It was almost as though she’d forgotten what had actually brought her here. Her emotions had overtaken her, and she allowed herself to ride them like a wave, all the while maybe she was hoping it would carry her away from the truth. That her life, the one she had so carefully constructed for herself, was over.
‘So …’ Gareth took a very large sip and when he set the glass back down there was only a thimble of liquid left in it. ‘What brings you to London town? In a turban? Bursting into tears on a gentleman’s doorstep? Before 9 a.m… .’
Opal took a deep breath. ‘Martin is fucking someone else.’
Gareth did not react like Deborah. He nodded almost imperceptibly, allowing the words to sit between them. In that time it occurred to Opal that his relationship with monogamy was different to hers. She’d never really dwelt on this big difference in their approach to relationships, but now she found that she felt envious. How petty this must all seem to him.
‘With our next door neighbour …’ This at least garnered some shock; he brought his hand to his mouth.
‘Deborah! The rascal!’
‘No, no let me finish.’ Opal was feeling a tad exasperated.
‘Sorry.’
‘Our next door neighbour’s daughter. Her name is Agnes; you probably don’t remember her.’
‘I have to admit that I don’t.’ Gareth finished his drink and caught the waiter’s eye, tapping the side of the glass to indicate ‘another one’.
‘She’s nineteen.’ Opal had hoped this might be the consequential blow. But Gareth didn’t miss a beat.
‘So are you going to leave him?’ The question took her by surprise, and it made her angry – why should she be the one to give up on her perfectly pleasant life, just becausehehad fucked someone else?
Why had she come here? What had she expected from Gareth? Maybe a fraction of the grief that she was feeling?
In that moment she realised that it was a selfish thing to wish for. After what had happened to Joshua, how could she sit across from her dearest oldest friend and expect him to mourn the death of her faltering marriage, when he was still mourning the love of his life.
‘I don’t know if I can,’ Opal replied quietly. Tears began to prick at the corners of her eyes again, and she cast them down to the drink in her hand, unable to look Gareth in the eye as she made the admission. ‘I don’t think I can be on my own.’ She hoped that he would know that she was not being cruel, but rather, honest. If anything she had admired with a pained heart the fortitude that her friend had shown in the dying days, weeks and months of Joshua’s life.
Even though she had read up on the disease and understood rationally that it could not be spread by skin-to-skin contact, she had found herself, literally, walking on tiptoes through the ward, and fighting the urge to pull her jumper sleeves over her hands as she touched doorknobs. She had only managed to visit the hospital once. What she had seen had broken her heart.
While Joshua balanced on the edge of death, Gareth had smiled, stroking his hand and reassuring him with a devastating lie.You can go, my love. It’s OK, I’ll be fine.
And now here she was asking forhissympathy. As though he had read her thoughts, Gareth reached across the table and took her hand in his.
