Can We Still Be Friends by Alexandra Shulman Read Free Book Online Page B

‘Happens all the time.’
    From her reflection in the full-length mirror in the Joseph changing room, it was clear that the Greek suntan had nearly gone and that Sal was overwhelmed by the black jackets. A scratch below her eye had swollen. Perhaps black was a mistake, but it would tick the cost-per-wear box surely, and it would be useful camouflage, adding the veneer of professionalism. She eased a Lycra-saturated skirt over her bottom – great: you couldn’t see the line of her knickers – and buttoned up the matching jacket. It was obvious that she had nothing save a bra on underneath, which gave the outfit a casual sexiness, she thought. She didn’t want to appear too buttoned up, too sexless. The older women on the paper all looked like that. They had a faded appearance, as if they had been punctured and all the pleasure had run out. The price on the tag had been crossed out three times, each one lower than the previous. A black Joseph suit at a bargain price – she had to have it, even though it cost more than her month’s rent to Annie. She wished she didn’t feel so awful.
    Last night, she had been in the flat alone. Sunday had passed slowly, and she had spent it lying on the terrace, hearing the squeals and bickering in the gardens below. Flick had made occasional appearances, padding along the parapet wall with feline ease and then scampering down the stepladder on seemingly irrational whims. At around four o’clock, Sal had climbed down from the terrace to consult the contents of the fridge. A tub of hummus crusting along the edge and a small chunk of dry Cheddar was all that was on offer. There was a basket of rotting peaches sitting on the kitchen table. It wasn’t that Sal expected Annie to organize the food, it was simply that Sal always forgot about it. The effort of walking down to the local shop was more than it was worth. It was too hot to be hungry anyway. She carried a glass of water back upto the roof. It was August, and the city was in the usual disarray of that month. Kendra had told her that London was a crazy place in August, that anything could happen, because all the shrinks took the month off.
    ‘Mum can’t deal with it because Laila always goes back to Lisbon for the whole month too. No cleaners, no sanity. A bad scene,’ she concluded.
    Sal didn’t think she knew anyone that visited a shrink, and they certainly didn’t employ a cleaner, but it was true, there was something different about the city. With families away on holiday, the streets were emptier, windows open, everywhere music and shouting. At night the air was thick with the smells of the city, the heat that had bounced back off the dirty pavements.
    The sound of the telephone beside the sofa pierced the long silence of the day. It was Stuart Jeffries, immediately obvious from the strident tones she had heard the previous day, as he gave the West Berlin stringer a rocket for filing late.
    ‘I’m just round the corner from you. Fancy a drink?’ Sal envisaged Stuart’s lanky frame and unremarkable face. She certainly didn’t fancy him, but a drink and some company she could do with.
    ‘Sure, that’d be great. When? OK. See you in fifteen.’
    Fifteen minutes to the second, and the doorbell buzzed. Sal ran down the three flights of stairs to the front door, where Stuart stood, looking up at the top-floor windows.
    ‘I thought it would be quicker if I just came down,’ Sal said, giving him the slightest peck on the cheek she could manage without being rude. He smelt of popcorn.
    ‘So where shall we go? Do you have a favourite place?’ he asked, opening the passenger door of his car.
    Sal immediately regretted her decision to meet him. She didn’t mind having a drink with him if she didn’t have to think about it, but she didn’t want to invest any thought in the proceedings. That would look like she was keen, which she most certainly wasn’t.
    ‘Oh, anywhere will be fine. There’s a pub at the end of the