Harm's Way by Celia Walden

that.’
    We went on to Georges, a new restaurant that fascinated us both on the top floor of the Centre Pompidou. The waitresses, in skin-tight leather trousers, were so beautiful that nobody cared if the service was a little slack. I was unable to concentrate on the conversation, waiting in vain for Beth to reply to a message I’d sent hours earlier. Despite my best efforts, the subject turned to Christian.
    â€˜So come on: what do you think of him?’ Stephen leant forward expectantly across the white Formica table. ‘Because I thought he was OK when I first met him, but now I’m beginning to wonder. I mean, Beth’s no fool, I know that, but she’s at the time of life where she wants things – things I can’t imagine he’s going to give her. And you want to see some of his friends.’ His face was lowered to within an inch of the table. ‘They look like the cast of
La Haine.’
    Stephen was a snob, which usually amused me, but this time I decided not to give him the answer he wanted.
    â€˜Maybe she’s just enjoying herself.’ I got a kick out of saying the exact opposite of what I thought. ‘Do you know any other forty-year-olds like her? Because I don’t.’
    â€˜Yes, but don’t you think there’s something dodgy about him?’
    I thought for a second before answering with total sincerity: ‘No. I think he’s had a messed-up childhood, a bit like Beth, but otherwise he seems to be a pretty gentle guy.’
    â€˜Look, I’m not saying he’s sleeping around but none of us know anything about him. And Beth’s gone into this thing head on.’ He paused. ‘Anyway, who am I to judge? She said she was having a great time a couple of days ago, so unless they’ve got sick of each other since then …’
    â€˜She rang you?’
    â€˜No – just sent a text saying she was having a ball. Over here!’ he cried out to a lost-looking pair of leather trousers carrying our two drinks on a tray, and changed the subject to women.
    I walked home incensed by the fact that Stephen came first in Beth’s affections, especially when there appeared to be nothing he wanted more than to see her relationship fail. Stephen had grown up with Beth, watched her go through all that had made her what she now was, yet he begrudged her this happy episode. Because that was undoubtedly what it was in my view: an ‘episode’ – not something for us to start theorising about. I had connected so little with his concerns that I hadn’t even felt tempted to tell him about the kiss. Back at the flat I put the telly on mute and sat on the floor eating leftovers from my fridge and watching theimages move on the screen. I missed Beth. For the third time that day I ran my eye over the pencilled list of places for us to visit which I had drawn up in a fit of excitement at the prospect of her return. Embarrassed by the childish optimism in each rounded letter, I screwed it up and threw it in the bin. I wanted to make her laugh with tales of yet more banging on the wall during the early hours, tell her that I suspected Isabelle had a crush on Stephen. It was also, absurdly, to her that I most wanted to confide about Christian. ‘Like a Virgin’ was playing in a club across the street and as I washed my face I could hear Monsieur Abitbol enjoying an abusive phone call on the other side of the wall. Didn’t he ever tire of swearing? It soon transpired that the abuse was directed at me.
    â€˜She’s a bitch, keeping me up all night with her knocking. I’m going to get the police round, that’s what I’ll do. Bitch. And if that doesn’t work I’ll go around there and sort her out myself. That’s what I’ll do. Bitch.’
    â€˜Just you try,’ I mouthed to myself in the mirror.
    I knew that the next day, no matter how hard I tried, would be spent awaiting Beth’s return.