Bad Friends. Claire Seeber

and shiny mountains of perfection in Bel’s wedding-cake book and realising I’d probably bitten off more than all the dried fruit I could ever chew with my rash offer, when the phone rang. I thought it might provide escape, but it was Charlie.

      ‘I need to see you,’ he purred.

      ‘I’m about to attempt Bel’s wedding cake,’ I demurred, but the slice of steel through his tone told me I had little choice.

      ‘Order yourself a car and meet me at the club at five,’ he said, and hung up before I could protest again. I had a quick slug of the cooking brandy and relinquished my still-pristine apron, admittedly with a flicker of relief.

      It was already dark by the time my cab pulled up in Greek Street. As I hauled myself onto the pavement outside Soho House, a Lycra-clad courier whizzed by, frantically ringing his bell at a young girl stumbling, half-dressed, across the road. A man very much like a woman, resplendent in white fur, was redoing his cherry lipstick in the shop window next to me. Signing the driver’s docket, my crutch slipped from my grasp; the she-man bowed down to retrieve it for me. As I reached to take it, to thank him for his kindness, a huge silver four-by-four slowed behind him. For one tiny moment the tinted passenger window became transparent beneath the bright lights of the shops. A pale face, turning slowly, all ghostly behind the glass.

      Alex. I thought that it was Alex.

      I staggered. The she-man thrust the crutch into my outstretched hand – but she wasn’t quick enough. I’d lost my balance now, whacking my foot so hard against the kerb as I flailed that tears of pain sprang to my eyes. The she-man caught me before I fell. He smelled of something I recognised; something like my mother. Chanel. For one brief moment I relaxed against this stranger’s soft chest. It was the first time a man’s arms, any arms, in fact, had encircled me since my father’s anxious hug at the hospital, since my days of recovery, and I savoured the warmth. Then I remembered myself.

      ‘Thank you.’ I pulled away, embarrassed. He winked one beady spider-lashed eye at me. ‘Don’t mention it, ducks. I love a cuddle in the afternoon.’

      By the time I found Charlie in the room they called The Library (no books that I could see, but a few very drunk actors attempting to read the over-priced wine list), I was thoroughly unnerved. With every hobble, Alex’s shadow stepped beside me, until I was almost pleased to see the very real Charlie. He was looking kinglike though hardly regal in a great leather armchair, his hooded eyes half-shut against the smoke from his inevitable cigar as he browsed through the latest issue of Broadcast. Only his man-tan gave him away. Just the wrong side of classy.

      ‘Fantastic pic, don’t you think, darling?’ He flicked open the industry paper to show off a photo of himself and Renee smiling sickeningly at one another.

      ‘DOUBLE-DECKER PAIR CELEBRATE RECOMMISSION OF RATINGS WINNER’, the headline declared.

      ‘It’d be funny if they found out her name was really Enid, wouldn’t it?’ I mused, reaching for the glass of Krug Charlie had just poured.

      He frowned. ‘Would it?’

      I met his eye. ‘I think so.’ Images of Alex still floated through my mind. I tried to concentrate. ‘So, what are we celebrating?’

      ‘I’d say that was obvious, darling, wouldn’t you?’ Charlie really was looking spectacularly orange today. He must have bumped up his shares in St Tropez. ‘So, when can we expect you in the office?’

      ‘Soon.’ I took such an enormous sip the bubbles shot straight up my nose.

      ‘Fantastic.’ He ran a hand through his hair, his signet ring glinting under the light. ‘How soon? It has been almost five months now, my darling.’

      The champagne hit the spot. I forgot Alex for a moment; I smiled. ‘Oh, you know. Very soon.’

      ‘Soon enough for this?’ He flung a folder into my lap. Doing Me Wrong: You’re Dumped, heralded the title page.

      ‘What’s this?’

      ‘Fantastic idea, darling. You’ll love it. It can be your victorious return to form.’ He relit his cigar. ‘The idea is the opposite of the “Proposal on-air” show. This is the “You’re Dumped on-air” show.’

      I stared at him. ‘You’re joking, right?’

      He toasted me, then knocked the drink back in one and poured again. ‘Darling, I don’t joke, you know that. It’s a fantastic idea. If it takes off, it’ll be the talk of the town.’

      ‘Charlie, this is not what we agreed.’ An icy sweat broke out across my forehead; the champagne and cigar smoke combining to make me feel suddenly quite sick. ‘You said that if I –’

      ‘I know what I said, darling. But look, I’m sure it was one of your ideas anyway. From the summer. You knew the deal then.’

      Confused, I stood up – rather too suddenly. Charlie caught my crutch neatly in his orange hand.

      ‘For God’s sake, Charlie.’ I grabbed it from him. ‘You’re completely reneging on –’

      ‘Such passion, darling.’ Charlie smirked. ‘That’s what I love about you. That’s why you’ve got to do this programme. Sit down, there’s a good girl.’

      ‘Charlie, I can’t do it. It’s utter crap. You know that.’

      ‘Just this once.’ His eyes were wolf-like now, slits behind the cloud of sweet and sickening smoke. ‘You still owe me.’

      ‘But it won’t be just this once. And I did the trauma show because I owed you.’

      ‘You did the trauma show because it gave you closure, darling. Remember?’

      ‘Did I?’ I gazed at him.

      ‘Absolutely. It was your idea to do it, my darling.’

      ‘Was it?’ Why did my brain ache so much every time I grappled with memories of recent events?

      ‘And you have my promise.’

      ‘I already had your promise, I’m sure.’ I glared at him.

      ‘Please do it, Maggie.’ He stopped smiling and checked his vulgar watch. ‘Or maybe we should talk about the show you really don’t want to do.’

      I went limp with misery. ‘You can’t do this, Charlie.’

      ‘Can’t do what, darling? I’m just giving your career a little helping-hand. God knows you need it after your most recent fuck-up. Work with me, Maggie.’

      ‘You’re playing games,’ I whispered miserably.

      His face was closing down. I tried a different tack, fighting to keep my voice level. ‘Look, I know I did something stupid’ (I just wished I could remember exactly what it was) ‘but it was only the one mistake, wasn’t it? You know you can rely on me.’

      ‘Perhaps I could – once.’ Charlie studied the end of his cigar intently. ‘But you let me down so badly.’

      We gazed at one another, the memories I’d blotted out shifting slightly in the sands of time, reshaping, struggling to the surface. I could feel the anger driving through my bones. ‘But I’ve been waiting all this time for the True Lives docs –’

      But Charlie had already switched off.

      ‘You know, you’re quite beautiful when you’re cross,’ he mused. ‘Though that mop needs a thoroughly good cut. Why don’t you get it seen to?’ His mobile rang. ‘John Frieda’s not bad.’ He stubbed out the cigar and picked something out of a back tooth, snapping open the phone.

      Before I could respond, an obsequious waiter had ushered him to the landing where it wasn’t quite so hallowed: media-whores milling, fat-cats in suits who spoke too loudly and under-dressed girls who simpered, fingers in ears against all the other