One half of the world cannot understand the pleasures of the other.
—Emma
That’s how I happened to find myself a week later, along with what seemed like hundreds of other beauty editors, crushed inside a tent in a London park to witness the launch of a new fragrance called Intuition, which was described in the press release as having “the most delicate notes of amber, jasmine, and musk” but actually smelled like gin. In a rush of excitement, the spokesmodel, a famous English actress, swanned into the tent wearing a flowing gown of tulle and made her contractual sixty-second speech about the honor of being chosen as the face of Intuition and how it smelled exactly as she wanted to smell.
Like an alcoholic, I thought as I strained to see the actress, but my table was so far from the podium that her famous features were indiscernible. She was just a blond speck on the horizon. And that was all she was to remain, as the next day, which was supposed to be my interview, she had woken up ill, no doubt from inhaling too much Intuition, and canceled. I called the only person I knew in London, my dear friend, Emma.
Emma was an English girl whom I had met one summer during my stint working as a wardrobe assistant. We had bonded over the grueling hours, the crap pay, and the icky advances of the perpetually drunken leading actor. That was years ago but we had remained close friends. She had moved back to London to become a film composer; instead, she’d fallen in love with a man named Clive who worked in the City as a hedge fund manager (whatever that is). He was loaded and had bought them a town house in Notting Hill, which I had yet to see. It was high time for a visit.
A snapshot of Emma: She was thirty-seven, tall like me, pencil thin, and always kept her hair super short in a pixie cut circa Twiggy from the 1960s. She spoke in one of those lovely, lyrical English accents that was considered posh, but not mannered like the queen. Did I mention that she liked to drink?
We began our reunion with a glass of white wine at her place, which was airy and bright with high ceilings and white walls, and outlandish white shag rugs over dark hardwood. We sat perched on snow white leather sofas flanked by white accent tables. It must be Clive’s taste; Emma could never be this neat on her own, or by choice. I for one was thankful that the wine was white.
From there we moved on to a succession of pubs and many more glasses of wine before meeting up with Clive at his private club in Soho. We were seated at a table close to the fireplace, which had two large leather club chairs facing it.
“I’m very drunk,” I announced.
“I’m bloody drunk, too,” Emma yelped.
As we descended into a fit of giggles a very pregnant woman glowered at us before taking up residence in one of the club chairs.
“Everywhere I turn there’s a pregnant woman,” I said, exasperated. “Does no one use birth control anymore?”
“She’s jealous that she can’t drink,” Emma offered, then went silent. “I should tell you,” she gulped. “I’m trying to get pregnant.”
“Not you, too!” I said accusingly. Catching myself, I quickly added, “That’s awesome! But should you be drinking?”
“The whole bloody thing terrifies me,” she said seriously. “I reckon getting drunk is the only way to cope.”
I was happy for my friend, but to be honest I was sick of baby talk. The conversation soon went down the familiar road of how long she’d been trying, what she and Clive had done to try, and the usual assortment of tricks, herbs, and science that had brought nothing but worry, tension, and no baby. I listened and gave her tips that I had gleaned from Marianne and every other woman I knew. I was immensely relieved when Clive showed up.
Clive was the picture postcard Englishman. He wore a Savile Row pinstripe suit and bold striped shirt, a silk tie, and pocket square. His face was clean-shaven, with a ruddy complexion and his hair appropriately tousled. His manners were refined, his wit pitch-perfect, and his bank account flush.
“I see you two have had a few,” he noted gravely. “Let’s get some water.”
“Oh, come on, luv,” Emma teased. “Have a pint or five.”
“I need it,” he answered and slumped into the chair and loosened his tie. I didn’t know Clive very well, but I sensed his dark mood.
“Something wrong?” I asked.
“The stock market is about to go tits up,” he said bluntly, then continued in a tone that said he was making an obvious understatement. “No big deal, really. Just a few American mortgage companies are filing for bankruptcy, investment firms are losing billions.”
“Boring!” Emma pronounced.
“You won’t think that when we’re flat broke,” he snapped.
“Don’t be alarmist,” she teased, then turned to me. “He always thinks we’re headed for the poorhouse.”
I didn’t know what to say. I hadn’t gotten around to telling her that I’d already fallen victim to the recession and that this trip was my swan song as an acting beauty editor. And I had no idea what their financial situation was. I didn’t think of Emma as a big-ticket shopper but their house looked expensive. A woman could get used to that style of living very easily.
“Are things really that bad?” I asked sympathetically, remembering Brandon’s warning to me.
“It’s not good,” Clive answered glumly. “I’m not sure I’ll get my bonus this year.”
“Is that all?” Emma chided him. “We can get by without your bloody bonus.”
But the look on Clive’s face made me doubt that was true.
We let the subject drop and ordered more wine. As we drank and chatted about nonfinancial matters, like where all those shag rugs came from, Clive spotted someone he knew.
“Excuse me,” he said and left the table. I watched as he stood talking to a man who was about our age.
“Who’s that?” I asked nonchalantly.
Emma looked over, a bit bleary-eyed, and smiled. “He’s a childhood mate of Clive’s,” she explained. “They went to school together. He lives in the country near Clive’s mum. I’ve only met him once or twice.”
“Well, he’s on his way over,” I said and sipped my pinot grigio.
As the two men got closer I was struck by how different he was from Clive. For one thing, he was far less stylish, dressed in a baggy pale blue cotton button-down, faded blue jeans with frayed hems, and scuffed brown loafers. He was tall and skinny, and I mean really skinny, like rock star skinny. But once he stood at our table I could see his physical attributes trumped his taste in clothing. His complexion was pale like ivory, skin a supermodel would die for. And then there were his eyes. They were oversized and pale blue, the color of antifreeze poured over ice. All this white and blue was made more extreme by his thick jet black hair. He was quirky looking but strikingly handsome all at once. Suddenly scruffy jeans didn’t seem such a fashion crime.
“Kate, I’d like you to meet Griffith Saunderson,” Clive said.
Was Clive so drunk he was lisping? Griffith?
The man held out his hand, and a wide smile slowly unfurled across his face, revealing a set of straight, white teeth.
“Grifter?” I said carefully so as not to lisp like Clive had. “With a name like that I hope you’re not in banking, too.”
“Griffith,” he repeated impatiently. “Not Grifter. People call me Griff. And no, I’m not in banking. I manage a country estate in Dorset.”
“Oh, you’re from the country,” I slurred. “That explains it.”
“Explains what?” he asked suspiciously.
“Your clothes. You’re a kind of farmer?” I smiled up at him.
“No, I manage a bed and breakfast,” Griff repeated, clearly offended. I shrugged; maybe it was all the wine but I couldn’t fathom that what I’d said was insulting. At least it wasn’t intentional.
But Clive, positively horrified, glared at me. “What precisely is wrong with Griff’s clothes?” he asked icily.
“I didn’t say anything was wrong,” I protested, but it was too late. Emma burst out laughing and answered on my behalf.
“Griff, you are dressed a bit scruffily,” Emma sputtered. “Kate works at a fashion magazine in New York. She’s accustomed to men swanning around in Armani.”
Before I could disagree, Griff rolled his blue eyes to the rafters and sneered at me. “Well, I wouldn’t want to insult such a discerning eye as yours,” he said seriously. His tone was so solemn and condescending that I, too, burst out laughing and felt compelled to defend my innocent, albeit drunken, farmer observation.
“I’m sorry. It’s just that your shirt is practically worn through! And those jeans are frayed at the hem; when you said ‘country’ I assumed you worked outside. Maybe you’ve got to get yourself some new things,” I said simply. My remark sent Emma into another fit of laughter and I wasn’t far behind.
“Kate!” Clive snapped and loomed over us, seething with embarrassment. Griff, not amused in the least, sniffed and looked away.
“Don’t bother,” Griff said dismissively. “I’ve got to catch the train back to Dorset.”
“Kate’s about to turn forty,” Clive said in an attempt to get even.
“Clive!” said Emma through her laughter.
“Really?” Griff mocked me. “I would have thought you were much older.”
The following morning brought the worst hangover of my life and little memory of the night before. I crawled to the bathroom and forced myself to stand in the shower, clinging to the wall for support. I felt very sorry for myself. But as I stood there, my head pounding, my body sweating, I had a memory flash of Clive’s friend and of being slightly rude to him. Was I rude? What was his name? Biff?
Eventually I managed to make my way to the living room, where Clive was cooking a fry-up for Emma.
“God, you look as bad as I feel!” she blurted as I collapsed on the sofa.
“What were we thinking?” I groaned.
“You both ought to be ashamed,” Clive said. “You behaved like … what do you call it in America? Trailer park trash.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, offended.
“He’ll get over it,” Emma said dismissively.
“Who?” I asked. “Biff?”
“Griff,” Clive corrected me sternly. “You two made such severe fun of his fashion sense that he left, quite embarrassed I’m sure.”
“He has no fashion sense, that was Kate’s point.” Emma smirked.
It all flooded back to me. I had told a complete stranger he was a fashion disaster, and worse, I had done so in public. I was a horrible person.
“Christ,” I groaned again. “I’m sorry, Clive. Should I e-mail an apology?”
“I already have,” he explained.
“Bollocks,” Emma said. “You did no such thing.”
“I do feel awful,” I admitted. I turned to Clive and pronounced, “I vow that if I ever see him again I will be polite, complimentary, and sweet.”
Of course the fact that I would never see him again made my vow extremely easy to keep.
As Clive served up the bacon and eggs, my BlackBerry went off.
“Sorry,” I said, and rummaged in my purse for the offending PDA. But my mood changed when I saw it was my grandmother calling. She never called when I was on a business trip. It was a rule we had made long ago; no phone calls unless it was urgent. Seeing her name on the display terrified me.
“Hello?” I answered, panic in my voice. What I heard was the unmistakable, and disturbing, sound of my ninety-three-year-old grandmother crying.
“Kate?” she asked faintly.
Suddenly my hangover cleared and I sat bolt upright.
“Are you okay?” I demanded. “What happened?”
Hearing the urgency in my voice, Clive switched off the radio in the background.
“My mouth hurts,” Nana answered through tears. “I can’t chew, I can barely put my teeth together.”
It was at that moment I remembered yesterday’s ENT appointment. I had completely forgotten.
“Did you take the liquid Tylenol?” I asked, desperate to help. “What did the specialist say?”
“He found a tumor and he did a biopsy,” she explained. Her crying had stopped. She relied on me for comfort as much as I did her.
“He did?” I asked, choking on the fear I felt swelling in my throat. A wave of guilt washed over me. I should have been there. “I’m coming home,” I said. “I’ll be there as soon as I can catch a plane.”
I hung up and realized that I was shaking, partly from the hangover, but mostly out of fear. I was suddenly very afraid.
“Everything okay?” Emma asked.
“No,” I answered. “I don’t think so.”