Amy had forgotten that Juliet disapproved of Karen. Juliet was from a hunt-ball public-school background and would be the first to admit that she had been an outrageous snob at uni. Karen hadn’t been the ‘right sort’; but then neither had Amy.
‘Of course: Karen,’ said Juliet. ‘What’s she doing now?’
Amy shrugged. ‘It’s been so long since we caught up, I’ve got no idea. But I’ll fill you in on Sunday.’
‘Give her my love.’
Amy left the building and went out onto the street. Sometimes she felt like a shark; that she had to keep moving or else she would cease to exist. She had completely forgotten about her lunch date with her old school friend until her assistant had reminded her earlier, and it was very tempting just to cancel it. But although she had no ties to her home town any more, she and Karen had once been close – as close as sisters – and nostalgia and a pinch of curiosity made her keep it.
The tower was on the South Bank, wedged between Tate Modern and the London Eye, once an abandoned wasteland of wharves and warehouses, now transformed into a buzzing media enclave. A newspaper, a TV studio and a theatre were all within a stone’s throw of each other, which of course attracted a rash of restaurants – Mexican, Lebanese, Thai street food – plus the kind of bars that flattered editors and producers into feeling young and edgy. People milled about; the media set in suits with open-necked shirts, or summer dresses and ballet flats, mingling with well-informed tourists, students, cycle couriers and buskers. Amy wove between them towards Tanjerin, a Japanese restaurant, pushing inside.
Of all the restaurants in London, Tanjerin was still her favourite. She had been eating here regularly ever since it opened, partly for their melt-in-the-mouth California rolls, but also because it was rare to see anyone from the magazine world in here. It was dark and cramped; not the sort of place to be seen, which was anathema to the media set. It was the sort of place she could come alone and not be noticed.
‘Your friend is already here,’ said Charlie, the maître d’. Amy looked around expectantly, her smile of anticipation slowly turning to a frown. Where? Where was her friend? A couple leaned across a table for two, hands touching, amongst groups of Japanese businessmen and an assortment of hipsters. And then she saw her.
‘Karen,’ she said, trying not to let it sound like a question. She hadn’t seen her at first because, stupidly, she had expected her to look exactly the same as she had in 1995. The woman stood; of course it was Karen. Older, heavier – obviously; it had been over a decade – but Amy recognised the way she held herself, the shape of her neck, the slightly puzzled smile. ‘So good to see you,’ she said, stepping forward and embracing her. ‘It’s been, what?’
‘Fifteen years,’ said Karen. ‘You’re looking good, Ames.’
Ames. No one had called her that since she had stepped onto the train at Bristol Temple Meads station heading for university. It sounded odd, alien. But also somehow reassuring.
‘You’re looking great too,’ she said. It was the polite thing to say, a very English reflex. But in truth Karen looked old. Of course no amount of wheatgerm or Pilates could stop the march of time, but her skin was pale and lined, sagging under the eyes, and she had put on weight, the fat pooling around her neck.
‘So what are you doing in London?’ asked Amy, taking a menu from the waitress.
‘Here to see a show. Wicked.’ Karen grinned.
Amy didn’t know if she meant the musical or if it was an expression of excitement.
‘One of the girls at work won tickets in a competition, so we thought we’d make a weekend of it,’ Karen continued. ‘Four of us have come down. We’re staying in the Royal Hotel, right near Oxford Street.’ She said it like she was describing the Taj Mahal. ‘That’s where the others are now, emptying out Topshop I shouldn’t wonder.’
The waitress was hovering with her order pad. They liked a quick turnaround at Tanjerin – another reason why Amy had chosen it.
‘Bloody hell, this might as well be in Greek,’ said Karen, looking up from her menu. ‘What’s unagi?’
‘Freshwater eel. It’s good.’
‘Eel? Urgh,’ said Karen, wincing.
Amy searched the menu for something her friend might like. She came so often to Tanjerin, she hadn’t stopped to think that its food was a little too directional for many people’s tastes.
She ordered a selection of rolls for both of them, and a bottle of San Pellegrino. Then, seeing the disappointment on Karen’s face, she held up a hand. ‘What the hell, why not? One glass of wine can’t hurt, can it?’
‘Never remember having to talk you into drinking before, Ames,’ sai
d Karen. ‘You were always the one ordering the shots in the Dragon. Do you remember that night we did all that tequila, then went skinny-dipping in the canal?’
Amy burst out laughing. ‘God, yes! Wasn’t Jenny there too?’
‘And Cookie, that lad she was seeing. Getting a right eyeful he was, thought his luck was in until you stole his shoes.’
‘Did I?’
Karen laughed too, and for a moment she looked exactly as Amy remembered her: the lopsided smile, the sparkle in her eyes. Back when they’d both had their lives in front of them.
‘Don’t you remember? You called him a pervert and threw his trainers over a fence so he couldn’t follow us, then we ran back to Jen’s.’
Amy shook her head. She genuinely hadn’t thought of those times for years. It felt like someone was recalling a movie she’d watched and dimly recalled, instead of her own life.