Overdue

As the glass doors onto the street slide open, Rachel's flood of words dries up.

"Rachel, I'm so sorry, I'm really so sorry."

I know she's heard me, but she doesn't react, gaze still straight ahead. "Here it all is, life going on," she finally says, flicking her wrist at the busy scene in front of us.

It's London Bridge on a Saturday night, everyone dressed for the heatwave. Girls tossing their hot-tonged hair and salon-tanned legs, blokes displaying their gym-shaped chests and arms in tight t-shirts. Funny how just an hour ago, I'd have been surveying this scene with miserable lust uppermost in my mind and now, I couldn't care less. I just want to take care of Rachel. Which goes surprisingly easily, since she obediently follows my lead as I thread us through the people streaming out of the tube station exits until we reach the tiny tapas place across the road.

We're seated easily, since it's quite early in the evening. I order food and a glass of wine for both of us before the waiter can even blink, then turn to look at her.

"When did Fliss take this turn for the worse?"

She hesitates, running her thumb around the place setting on the table. "She called me before you last came round to mine to say she needed another transfusion. So soon after her last one. So --" she gulps, a horrible sound, "so we knew it was only a matter of time before we were going to find ourselves here."

"Well, that's shit," I offer, an understatement if ever there was one.

She nods slowly, looking utterly beat. I watch her staring out of the window until the food begins arriving. Part way through picking at it, she manages a tiny smile.

"You got all my favourites."

I shrug. What else was I going to do? It seemed a natural part of looking after her, on what must be one of the worst nights of her life. It's not long after that she puts her fork down, and I know she's finished. I pay the bill in cash, not waiting for change and not caring whether the tip is over the top or not.

She pauses outside. "This heat. It's going to break all the records, isn't it? It feels like the world is coming to an end." And then, as if embarrassed, she shakes her head. "Sorry, Michael. I'm not right in the head."

"Don't worry about that, Rach. I wish you'd said something before."

"Me too. I don't know why I didn't tell you as soon as you came over. I think I was hiding from it."

"Yeah, I can understand that."

"But I'm sorry I didn't. Maybe things wouldn't have gone so badly south if I had."

"Maybe."

We stand waiting for the lights to change before crossing the road, the pull of Fliss like gravity. But then Rachel turns to look at me full in the face.

"I don't think I can cope with talking about what happened between us, Mike. Not now. But will you help me get through this?"

I take hold of her arm, noting the huffs and tuts from people having to walk around us as we ignore the green man to stand there, on the busy kerb of the hot, dusty street.

"You don't even need to ask me, Rachel. I'll do whatever you need."

There's no drumroll or clap of thunder to underscore the drama of the moment. The city carries on, oblivious, its pace neither slowing down nor speeding up; the swell of pedestrians and traffic as relentless as ever. But it feels like one of the most important moments of my life. Even if there are really only two certainties ahead -- that Fliss is going to reach the end of her life, and that I'm going to be able to be with Rachel for however long she needs me. No question it might be inappropriate to admit it, but this is the calmest, happiest, I've felt in a very long time.

I take her hand as we wait again for the lights to change before walking back to the hospital.

+++

And now it's July. Barely a month since Fliss died. Time has both flown and dragged, the unreality somehow exaggerated by the mad heatwave. Newsreel of rivers run dry and emptied-out reservoirs, aerial photography of the parched earth revealing remains of never-before-seen Iron Age and Roman forts, and of sunbathers covering every inch of beaches and parks like lizards has overlaid everything with a fantastical distortion. A hall of mirrors.

I stare up at the train information overhead, wondering for the fiftieth time if this is a good idea or not. Just as I'm pulling my phone out of my bag, I sense him.

"Rachel," he smiles, leaning in for a polite hug.

I squeeze him tightly, feeling his overheated body underneath the white linen shirt.

"The tube was brutal. It'd have been better to walk it," he mutters in my ear.

I steal a short kiss, catching him somewhere near his ear. "I've got the train tickets. We're on platform five."

"Ok, let's go do this flower show thing."

"I'm going to get my apologies in now, Mike. I've got a suspicion we might bring the average age range down by a significant margin today."

"Yes, indeed. My memory of Chelsea is of ancient dowagers and paunchy retired Colonels and the like."

"When did you do Chelsea?" I ask, as the ticket gates snap shut behind us.

"Mother dragged me there every year until I got bigger than her and could fight back. She'd set up in the champagne tent and lie in wait for some naïve bugger to fall for her tricks."

"God, Mikey, sometimes I forget how completely fucked up your childhood was. It's difficult to believe, given how normal you are."

He coughs, stepping back to let me board the train first. "I'm not sure your definition of normal is all that."

I smile back at him. "No, perhaps not. But still, you know what I mean. It's a miracle you're not a full-on conman, or in jail."

"Or homeless."

"Or that," I agree, sitting next to the window.

"Boarding school helped," he finishes, sitting in the opposite seat, looking cool and collected as always.

He may have had a fraud and a trickster as a mother, but he looks born to nobility, even when he goes without a shave, needs a haircut, or wears eye make-up. Or, as today, looks like he's had no sleep.

"Remind me why we're doing this, Rach?"

"Well, I think one of the characters in the new thing I'm writing is the sort who'd go to flower shows, and I've never been to one. Hence, here we are. And I am, by the way, grateful for your company, Michael. Thanks for coming with me."

"Don't mention it. I know my hostas from my hellebores, so I can help you out of any tight horticultural spots you get us into today. And, actually, I'm rather hoping there's a champagne tent for us to treat ourselves."

"There's definitely one of those, and I'm buying, as it's the least I can do."

"No you're not."

He says it softly but very firmly, and it sends a sharp thrill spiralling through me. I shift on the seat, surprised at this return of feeling after weeks of dumb numbness.

"Any champagne's going to be on me, today," he adds, his soft brown eyes glancing mine, a touch of smugness on his face.

I tip my head, asking.

"I came out on top last night."

"Poker?" I ask, before my heart can fuck with my head by inserting unwelcome images of Mike on top of -- well -- a person.

He nods, pushing a hand through his hair. "Yeah, I didn't get home until five, but it was worth it."

"I don't know how you do it, Mike. I don't know how you hold your nerve like that."

He slides his feet parallel to mine, close but not touching. "It's easier for me than letting my guard down," he says.

I catch at my breath, the truth of his words so painfully clear that I see how very self-absorbed I've been lately. He's smiling when I look at him, a bit forced. I smile back but we let ourselves fall silent for the rest of the journey.

During the quiet, a flurry of thoughts storm into my brain, shaking it from its grief-filled torpor. The heat of that Sunday in my flat as he'd sat there, tense as all hell next to me, my mistake thinking I could tease it out of him, the nakedness of his eyes as he'd said, 'I love you more than I should. For best friends, that is.'

I sigh, watching the baked landscape slide by, lawns and commons bleached blond by the heat, the sky a deceptively benign shade of blue. Everything so dry. It can't distract me from the clamour in my head of all the things I've not been able to listen to since Fliss became so ill.

That Sunday, I'd already been teetering on the edge of normality since Fliss's phone call of earlier. 'Hey, Rach, I'm going back into Guy's for another transfusion tomorrow.' Followed by a long, long moment where she gave me the time to work out what it meant. How her relationship with leukaemia was finally, suddenly, coming to its conclusion.

For the rest of that day, until Mike had arrived, I'd gone back and forth, between acceptance and anger, until I'd felt wrung out. Why I hadn't told him about Fliss right away, I can't say. Stubbornness, probably. Not wanting to put it into words, because that would have made it irretrievably real and true. All I'd wanted was an easy afternoon of films and good company, which is why his admission had hit me all wrong.

Ugh. Anyway, I did that thing I really hate, which is to burst into tears and let the anger win out over all other emotions. And -- the worst -- I'd sent him away. Dismissed him from my home, even though it was the last thing I should have done. Thrown him out like none of it mattered -- that he was my best friend; that he'd declared himself like that, making himself so vulnerable; that I'd needed him that day more than ever.

"Hey, we're here. Come on."

His voice brings me sharply back to the present. We follow the crowd out of the station and over the river towards the palace.

"It's pretty here," I offer.

"Mmm. One of mother's men lived out this way. Had a mooring for his boat at the end of his garden. Bloody creep he was."

I wince at his harsh tone and brush his forearm, wanting to soften it. Wanting to recover the equilibrium we used to have between us and unsure how to do that. An apology is needed but I'm afraid. His words bounce around my head; 'so here I am, making it awkward as all fuck,' his eyes full of hope and trepidation. I shiver.

"Ok?" he asks, his eyes shaded by sunglasses now.

"Fine, yes," I smile up at him, lengthening my stride to match his. "I feel as though I should have dressed more, um, thematically, for today," gesturing at the colourful, floral dresses all around us.

"Not sure that's your style, darling," he drawls, lifting his mouth up at the corner. "Not sure even I could pull off wearing a frock like that."

We laugh, but for me, it's an exercise in camouflage, as all those moments have come back in a flood of heat, a heady sum of all the things I've noticed and tried not to notice about him. The things that I'd fight myself over, since they weren't compatible with the truce we'd called, the one where we were just friends. His nice hands. His laugh. The way his body changed after he'd taken up boxing and running. How nice he looked in a suit. How he could look masculine in mascara.

Mmm, and I need to stop thinking like this, otherwise it'll spoil the day.

We shuffle through security, the guy searching my bag paying more attention to Michael than to me, before waving us through with a friendly nod.

"Did he just give you the come on?" I demand before thinking.

"Why? Jealous?"

And even with his sunglasses on, I see him wink at me. I close my mouth, my spirits suddenly soaring. Because maybe we really can get back to that place where we're this easeful with each other again.

"Right, I think the nearest champagne source is this way," he mutters, tapping my shoulder to indicate we're turning right.

"It's barely ten in the morning."

"And I've had no sleep to speak of, so we're in dire need of champagne. And you didn't say we had to do this sober, Rach."

"Ok, well then that was an oversight on my part," I retort.

"Please don't tell me this character of yours is teetotal?"

I watch as he cuts through the dithering crowds consulting their printed maps, heads turning to look at him as he shows complete certainty of direction. He must have researched this already, I consider, skipping a little to keep up. I can't help wondering what everyone else sees. Do we look like a couple, or just friends? He's far more eye-catching than me. His mother always claims his father was a prince. Or a count, or an emir. One of those. No name, but definitely (apparently) royalty from somewhere in the world.

My tongue burns, suddenly and startlingly impatient to articulate everything I need to tell him, but instead, I go into an explanation of the character -- she's called Emily and proving harder to get to know than usual -- who probably goes to flower shows. No, she's not teetotal, but she does take life too seriously and it's her unexpected unravelling that forms the central spine of the new story I'm writing. I babble on, barely drawing breath and certainly not paying much attention to our surroundings until he presses two plastic goblets -- fake flutes -- into my hands and pours from the bottle he's just bought.

I eye it doubtfully. "That's not going to stay chilled for long in this heat."

"Then we'll just have to drink quickly," he replies easily, still with the upturned mouth.

My stomach trips over itself and the bubbles fizz in my mouth and nose as we toast each other.

"To research," he offers.

As we stroll along the avenues, heads turning this way and that to take in the show gardens, I learn he wasn't faking when he claimed horticultural knowledge as he flings out Latin and common names like it's a second language, getting into conversations with earnest women about shrubs and borders and perennials and pruning. I hang back, fascinated. When it crosses my mind he might be engaging with them to give me more material to work with, knowing what a crap introvert I am around crowds, my head spins.

I can try to blame the drink except I know it's not just that. No. I'm suddenly and completely brimfull of hope it's not too late for us. That he hasn't given up on me despite how terrible I've been to him; that it might still be possible. He's been by my side ever since my desperate phone call to him from the hospital, yet not once has he so much as hinted at the unresolved conversation between us.

"Lunch?"

He looms over me, his last partner in horticultural note-swapping turning away, a happy flush across her full decolletage.

"And we need another one of these," he adds, swinging the bottle in his hand.

By some miracle, we find enough space to sit down on the banked grass and spread out the results of his foraging through the catering stalls between us, including a freshly sweating bottle of champagne. We munch and sip our way through most of it, happy to watch everyone else around us, until he asks me to tell him some stories. I oblige, old memories of me doing this opening out, even as I spin tales about the couples and groups sitting around us right here.

"We used to do this, do you remember? You always used to ask me to do this."

He looks at me over his sunglasses, scooping the last of the strawberries into his fingers. "I remember," again in that quiet voice.

"When did we stop going out like this?" I ask, before realising how it's likely going to march us straight into the awkwardness we've avoided for weeks.

He says nothing, but looks as though he's gauging what to say next; what my state of mind is today.

"I feel a bit more normal today," I finally offer. "I mean, still odd and, you know, finding it hard to believe she's gone, but -- also, it's as though a normality is shouldering its way back in there, if you know what I mean."

He takes my swerve into this territory without so much as a blink. Well, I suppose if he's not used to me by now, when will he ever be?

He sits back on his hands. "It's ok. We don't have to talk about it today."

My heart and soul expand to fill my chest, such a physical sensation I feel sure it's somehow visible. Because, well, I think we do need to talk about it today.

"But we can. If --"

"Ok."

"Ok, then," I swallow. "So, I think I need to go first, because I owe you an apology," and as he straightens up, looking as though he's going to interrupt, I run a finger and thumb across my lips, telling him I want him to listen, not speak. Not yet.

I take a gulp of champagne to wet my dry mouth. "I wish I hadn't reacted so badly when you told me what you did. It was unfair. And wrong." I shake my head. "I really don't know why I didn't tell you about Fliss as soon as you arrived."

He sits up to pour the remainder of the bottle into our glasses, sharing it out, filling the glasses right to the top.

"Because all of that came out, when instead I should have been reacting to what you'd said, Mikey, because that was important too."

He stays silent, and my heart starts to thump.

"And I'm really sorry about that. About telling you to leave. So sorry. I should never have done that, Mike. Never."

Still he says nothing.

"It was a huge shock. After all these years, you know? I never thought you'd ever feel that way about me. Not after --" I come to a halt, my words dried up.

"It's ok. You were in shock from Fliss's news, I know that now."

I breathe out, relieved he's at least saying something. And nod. "Yes. Yes, I was. But still -- it wasn't right of me to chuck you out. If I could change it, I would."

"Would you?"

There's a peculiar light in his eyes.

"Yes, Mikey. I would. If I could go back and change it, I'd make you sit there and tell me everything."

"Would you?" he repeats.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Why? Because, well, because --" I take another deep breath, overcome with the knowledge it's now, - this moment - and no turning back. "Because if I'm going to hand you my heart on a plate, I need to know everything about your feelings; how they've changed, and why. And everything," I add, desperately and without any of the eloquence I'd wished for.

I let him pull me towards him, needing to hide my crumpling face. It's not as though he hasn't seen me cry plenty recently, but those were tears for Fliss. Socially acceptable. Expected, even. But this is different. I grimace, fighting to maintain at least some dignity. At least, until he says something. He doesn't though. Just holds me.

Gradually, I tune into his body's rhythms. The movement of his breathing. His heartbeat. Just as I think I might cry again, from the frustration, he eases back a little.

"Your heart, huh?"

"Yes. That," I mutter, pressing my face against the grain of his linen shirt, not ready to face him.

I feel his chest sink as he expels a blast of air. "Well, fuck."

If I hadn't been pressed this close to his body, I don't know if I could have heard his whispered curse.

"What does that mean?" I breathe.

"I'm not sure."

Which makes me more curious than embarrassed, so I sit up to see him. He's pushed his sunglasses into his hair, making him look like he should be in photo shoot in Biarritz or Capri. The expression on his face is unfamiliar. Disappointed? Annoyed? Nervous?

"I've a feeling this conversation is long overdue, don't you?"

I watch his lips move but there's a delay before his words begin to make sense. Before I begin to understand he's not just talking about the last couple of weeks but maybe also the last fourteen years.

"Overdue?"

He swallows more champagne, his eyes not leaving my face in a way that makes me grateful I've never been on the opposite side of the courtroom from him.

"If I'd known about Fliss that day, I'd never have said anything."

"I know. That's just one of the things that I'm angry at myself about. And I hope you won't take this the wrong way, but this --" I flick my hand between us, "us -- we're always somehow tangled up with Fliss. She's always been in-between us."