Still Thinking Of You Part 2

'Where?'

'Brighton.'

'How old are you, Natasha?' asked Mia.

'Twenty-seven.'

'Where is your family from?' asked Kate.

'Salford, just outside Manchester.'

'Is your father in textiles?'

'No, he was an engineer. He's retired now.' Tash was confused. She felt as though she was being interviewed for a job, and she shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She wanted Rich to rescue her, which was odd because up until that moment she'd never believed in knights in shining armour, but, then, she'd never come across fire-breathing dragons before either.

Jason played Sir Lancelot. 'Are you planning on having babies, and if so will you have mine?' he asked, laughing. 'Leave her alone, poor girl.'

'Is this a Jamie Oliver recipe?' Kate asked Rich, changing the subject. Having found out what they needed to know, no one directed another comment at Tash for the remainder of the evening.

6. Mia's Bomb.

Kate and Ted left just before midnight, as they didn't want to irritate their new baby-sitter by returning too late. Mia and Jason stayed for another hour, only stumbling out into the warm summer night after Jason, Tash and Rich had drained every bottle they could find, bar the cooking sherry. Abstemious Mia had looked on with distaste, although in truth she was more envious than repulsed.

'Isn't this the type of night that makes you want to stay up and watch the sunrise?' Jason asked, flinging his arms wide. He spun around on the path, nearly losing his footing and slipping on to the road. 'Life is f.u.c.king fantastic. f.u.c.king electric. f.u.c.king bright and sparkly, and so f.u.c.king full of love, isn't it? Who'd have thought it? Old Rich, ready to settle down.'

Mia glared and didn't answer. Even if she had drunk the cooking sherry, she was unlikely to have agreed.

'Tash seemed a totally cool honey,' commented Jason. 'Don't you think?'

'She didn't have much to say for herself,' replied Mia with a cold honesty she reserved for her old friends.

'Great legs.'

'For G.o.d's sake, Scaley, do you ever think with anything other than your p.e.n.i.s?'

'Not if I can help it,' grinned Jason, ignoring Mia's irritation. 'Listen, I'm going on to a private club that I've just been given membership to. It's up in Soho. Do you want to come?' He was sure if he could only get a gla.s.s or two down Mia then she would relax a little and perhaps become more of her old self.

'What, and hang out with a whole load of inarticulate drunks instead of just one inarticulate drunk? No, thank you, Scaley.'

'It will be fun,' said Jason, with persistence. Mia threw him a look which expressed her doubt. She spotted a cab about twenty metres up the road. Thankfully it was for hire. She shot up her arm. 'Call me when you sober up. We can discuss the plans for the stag.'

'What will you have to do with the stag?'

'I'll probably have to organize it. You can't be trusted.' Mia saw Jason's look of puzzlement. 'Why shouldn't I organize it?'

'Er, because you haven't got a p.e.n.i.s and, even if you had, you wouldn't think with it,' laughed Jase. 'Left to you, we'll spend the afternoon Jimmy Choo shopping.'

'I loathe shopping.'

'You don't know the first thing about strip joints.'

'That's why the Internet was invented,' argued Mia. 'I am one of his best friends. I don't like you implying that I'm not the right person for the job of arranging a stag do, simply on the grounds of my gender.' Mia hopped into the cab. 'I would offer you a lift, Scaley, but I can't risk you puking in the cab. Goodnight.'

Mia flung herself back on the seat and barked her address at the cabbie.

'Nice night, luv?' he asked.

'Not really,' she said as she snapped closed the part.i.tion, making it clear that she didn't want to talk. Why should she have to chat to the cab driver? She was paying for a service; she didn't need another new best friend. Besides, his views were bound to be ill informed and bigoted, derived from tabloid press. She could do without them.

Mia slipped off her shoes and ma.s.saged her feet against one another. She rubbed her eyes and nose.

What was wrong with her?

Recently, in the past six months or so, she had been consumed by overwhelming feelings of anger, resentment and, she might as well admit it at least to herself jealousy. Tonight had been torture. Rich had always been a confirmed bachelor. She'd thought they'd be company for one another as they edged their way towards old age. Now look at him. He was gaga. And over what? A very ordinary girl that he'd known for about five minutes. It wasn't that Mia wanted Rich in the way Tash did, but she knew well enough that a married friend was a lost friend. She would have to kiss goodbye to those weekend breaks that she, Rich and Jase took from time to time. There was no way that Rich would still be her date for corporate events, now that he was about to turn all pipe and slippers on her. She resented the fact that, from today onwards, any confidences she shared with Rich would automatically be shared with Tash, too. Tash wasn't her friend.

But it wasn't just Rich's engagement that had upset her.

Recently, whenever she looked around, everyone seemed to have it better than her. Of course, Ted and Kate had it all; everyone other than the Beckhams had reason to envy them. They were very happy, extremely rich and, most desirable of all, they had three children. OK, Jason wasn't sorted in the same way, but he didn't seem to want much more from his life than regular, uncomplicated lays. His ambitions were easy to fulfil. Even Lloyd seemed better off than she did. His marriage might have broken down, but he was with someone else now and he was at least a father. Christ, her life really must be c.r.a.p if she was jealous of a s.h.a.g addict and a weekend dad.

She hadn't always felt like this. She used to think that she had it all. In fact, she used to think she was it all. She was born into a fiercely intellectual but still loving family. She had an older brother and an older sister whom her parents exerted most of their parental expectations upon, and therefore she was left pretty much to her own devices. She was encouraged and praised in both her sporting and academic achievements; she'd secured a place at one of the best universities in the country to read French and Economics. Her big b.r.e.a.s.t.s and grin had seized her numerous admirers. Her first-cla.s.s degree had guaranteed her a job in the fast track of the Foreign Office.

Yet.

Mia might have a PhD and an important job in the Foreign Office, but that didn't keep her warm at night, did it?

Her biological clock was more of a biological time bomb, about to violently shatter if she couldn't force a solution soon. If she had to pinpoint one thing that she most resented about Tash it was not her flippancy, her inability to look at the serious issues in life or her insistence on concerning herself with insubstantial matter such as heel heights. It was not her beauty or even her success in finding a man to marry.

It was her youth.

Tash was six years younger. Six years. And she was in a relationship, about to get married. Right now, when Mia was deafened by her biological clock ticktocking towards midnight, all she wanted was a bit more time.

For several months now it seemed that everywhere Mia looked she saw nothing but pregnant women, or women with babies, or tiny children. Of course, that was life, and all around her people were living. Life was teeming out of every school gate, every play park. Life was springing and zooming and buzzing in every skip, hop and jump that she saw countless children execute. Life was radiating from their sticky hands and faces as they devoured ice creams on street corners and in buggies. She saw life in tantrums and spats and squabbles.

It took every ounce of restraint for the normally steely Mia not to cry at the sight of a bawling baby. She felt compelled to pick them up and hush and comfort them. It was only the fear of being arrested that restrained her. It was physically impossible for her to walk past a heavily pregnant woman. It was embarra.s.sing. She found herself talking to all manner of pikey mums-to-be, striking up inane conversations about the weather or the efficiency of supermarket checkout queues, just so she could ask the question, 'So, how long have you to go?' Then perhaps she'd be invited to feel the baby kick, and as she reached out to stroke their blooming b.u.mps she wanted to implode with awe.

And jealousy.

Mia sighed. She was a self-confessed control freak. She cycled to work because she couldn't handle the anxiety of dealing with late trains, let alone the idea that someone else was in the driving seat. A few years ago she had experimented with growing her own vegetables. She'd gone so far as to put her name down on the council waiting list for an allotment because she could not tolerate the thought of eating food that someone else had grown or, more specifically, eating food that someone else had doused in pesticides. As it happened, she wasn't particularly green-fingered and would probably have starved if she hadn't found a small, local, organic greengrocer whom she vigorously bossed and cross-examined as to all his methods of production. Mia liked to know when and where the consumer durables she bought were made, what her boss and her employees had written in her appraisals (however painful), how much her friends earnt, ate and exercised. She liked to know who was having s.e.x with whom, and how often, and how good it was. She did her best to influence all of the above, but the one thing she couldn't control was time. She longed to turn back the clock, but she could not.

There was a time when Mia had been much more relaxed. When she had thrown parties and had not felt the need to calculate number of canapes and gla.s.ses of alcohol per head, nor the cost of said canapes and alcohol, let alone the projected cost of broken gla.s.ses. At uni she had a reputation for throwing the wildest parties. They were not planned several weeks in advance. They were spontaneous events, conjured up in response to the question, 'What shall we do tonight?'

Mia settled back in the cab and couldn't help but smile at the memory. As soon as she offered to throw open her room for a bash (well, hers and Kate's room, technically), then it was all hands on deck. Kate was always in charge of catering, which in those days amounted to little more than a speedy trip to Tesco's to buy a trolleyful of crisps and garlic bread. Jase and Rich would run around campus spreading the word and inviting all and sundry. Ted and Lloyd would move furniture, dragging the beds out of the way to create room for a makeshift dance floor, and Mia would buy the booze. She always bought crates of beer and a vast number of bottles of wine. Obviously some people would bring litre bottles of screw-top wine, but Mia liked to provide her guests with something that cost at least a few quid a bottle. She'd insist that she wouldn't clean her toilet with most of the cheap plonk proffered, but in fact she was simply generous, something she didn't feel needed talking about.

She must have thrown a dozen or more similar parties in the four years she was at university. Every one of them was a monumental success. Friendship and fun and difficult-to-define comfortable familiarity had drifted through each event. Everyone had oozed such uncomplicated optimism and unfettered enthusiasm for life. They had a real belief in the brilliance of their futures.

Mia closed her eyes, telling herself it was because she was tired and not because she was trying to blink back tears. She acknowledged with a profound irritation that she had found parts of this evening a strain. She was aware that she no longer found it easy to be entirely relaxed with the old gang. She no longer thought it was a natural state of affairs if they all knew everything there was to know about one another, which was at once a disappointment to her and also a direct result of her own actions. She had not confided her longing for a baby to anyone. At uni the gang had forged their way through well-mannered small talk, progressed to intimate revelations, moved on to huge debate and finally completed the circle so that their conversations relaxed into an almost continuous discussion on the story line of Neighbours. Now, they seemed to have regressed back to the small talk, only it was no longer always well mannered.

Mia gave up the line of thought. It was too depressing. Instead she started to run through the list of names she liked for babies. It was her favourite game.

7. Clearing Up.

Tash reminded herself that these people meant a lot to Rich, and Rich meant everything to her. Yet she couldn't help breathing a sigh of relief when they finally left her to the washing up at 1 a.m.

'They really liked you,' said Rich, as he slipped his arms around Tash's waist and breathed in the smell of her hair. She was concentrating on the washing up, so didn't turn to face him.

'You think so, hey?' she asked, not absolutely convinced. Yes, Jason liked her. That was clear. She had legs, b.r.e.a.s.t.s and a v.a.g.i.n.a; he wasn't going to dislike her. He borderline fancied her, which was ideal. They could gently flirt, knowing it would never go anywhere, and he could ask her for advice on women. Not that he seemed to need it, if the anecdotes that he relayed tonight were anything to go by. And he clearly adored Rich. She could trust him not to tie a naked Rich to a lamppost the night before their wedding.

Ted and Kate were quite unlike any of Tash's friends. They seemed genuinely excited that they had managed to book tickets for the Khachaturian Centenary Concert with the Philharmonic Orchestra and George Pehlivanian conducting. Apparently it was mid October's must-see. But they were not interested when Tash generously offered her spare tickets for the Robbie Williams concert at Knebworth, which was probably just as well because her old mates would sell their grandmother's souls to secure tickets and would not appreciate her giving them away to her new friends. Their conversation had been fiercely intellectual, as Rich had promised. But rather than being stimulated, as Tash had expected, she was paralysed. She knew she'd come across as dim, which was infuriating. Still, there was plenty of time for her to drop into conversation that she had actually read Salman Rushdie's The Satanic Verses and James Joyce's Ulysses. She hoped that one day they'd be friends enough for her to admit that she hadn't actually enjoyed either book.

But Mia.

'Absolutely, they loved you,' enthused Rich, interrupting Tash's thoughts and ignoring the nuances of the evening.

'Well, why wouldn't they? I'm very nice.'

'Mia even made up a nickname for you, a rare honour. Come on, leave the washing up. I'll do it in the morning.'

Tash peeled off the rubber gloves and allowed Rich to lead her by the hand up the stairs.

'Have you ever slept with Mia?' asked Tash, as they undressed and slipped between the sheets.

'Yeah, a long time ago. Just once.' Telling Tash about old lovers was easy. Their pledge to be totally honest with one another demanded a level of trust and an expectation of clear-headed responses.

'That explains a lot,' stated Tash simply, as she fought a yawn.

'It wasn't an exclusive club.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, obviously there was Jason. They used to be an item, but she's slept with Ted, too.'

'Ted?'

'Yeah.'

'Blimey.'

'I'm not sure Kate knows that.'

'No, I don't suppose she does.' Tash rolled on top of Rich and started to kiss his chest; he stroked her back. 'What was Mia's nickname, then?' she asked between kisses.

'Bridge, as in the game. Very complex.'

'Given what you've just told me I'd have had her down as "Poker".'

Rich laughed, and moved closer to kiss Tash. They kissed for a very long time. Slowly exploring each other's mouth, tongue and lips as if for the first time, not for the thousandth. Tash took hold of Rich's hard p.e.n.i.s and guided it inside her. Gently, she rode him, and they made love very quietly, very carefully. When Rich came, Tash lay exactly where she was until it became uncomfortable. Then she rolled off him, and they lay side by side, Rich spooned around Tash.

'How many people have you slept with, Rich?' asked Tash curiously. 'Do you keep count?'

'I have a number, but I couldn't put a name to every one.'

'That's awful,' said Tash, as she playfully hit him. 'How insensitive. So, go on, how many?'

'I can't tell you that.'

'You have to,' she giggled. Rich leant close to her ear and whispered the number.

'No!' she yelled, feigning shock and horror.

'What? What should I have said? What's the right number?'

'I'm teasing you. The correct number is the real number, however many or few that may be. I mean, what's the right scenario? Would I have preferred it if you'd slept with fewer women and had had longer relationships? Or would it have been better if there had been lots more, but you'd never cared for anyone at all before me? I don't know. It doesn't matter. Everyone has a history.'

'Oh, yeah?' smiled Rich. 'I thought you were a virgin when we met,' he joked.

'Right,' laughed Tash.

Eventually, their breathing slowed, and they were seconds away from a peaceful, slightly drunken sleep when Tash thought to ask, 'By the way, what nickname did Mia give me?'

'Didn't I say?'

'No.'

'She called you "Barbie", as in'

'Barbie doll.'

Rich fell asleep, and Tash was left wondering whether the nickname could be interpreted as anything other than a declaration of war.

8. Lloyd.

It was late October, but still startlingly warm. The leaves on the trees had turned red and were starting to fall. A warm, honey light dripped through the gaps left between the branches and rested on a blanket of conkers and colour that lay on the ground. The majority of Londoners took advantage of the mild autumn. They sat in cafes drinking smoothies and refusing to don jackets. They laughed and joked. They hung on to summer and ignored the displays of Halloween pumpkins that had crept into the window of every shop.

Not Mia.

Mia was also fighting time, but not simply because she wanted to lazily loll in cafes. She didn't like wasting precious hours simply having fun. Since Action Man and Barbie Babe had announced their engagement, Mia had been planning and plotting and scheming to find a way to turn their situation into one that was advantageous for her. It might be Barbie Babe's wedding, but Mia was trying for something even higher. Mia wanted a baby. Nothing was more important than that.