she’d had to buy another copy, apparently. I e-mailed back denying all knowledge and that was the end of our correspondence. I’ve stayed registered for the last six years (because I signed up by direct debit and don’t know where people find the energy to cancel direct debits) and in those six years I’ve had a grand total of three messages, until last month.
Each and every one of the messages I opened was lovely. Everyone wished me well, congratulated me on my engagement. Surprisingly, most agreed that they’d always known I’d do something extraordinary, many said they were delighted to see my name in the newspaper because they thought of me often and had long looked for an excuse to get back in touch because we’d been so close once. Strangely, about two out of every three had an ambition to travel to LA; I hadn’t realized it was such a popular destination of choice. Helen Davis wrote again reminding me how we always liked to share books.
‘Delete the lot,’ said Scott, when I told him about the sudden influx of messages.
‘I haven’t finished reading them.’
‘Waste of time. They all want the same thing. Association. This happened to me when I got the record deal with X-treme. A zillion liggers wrote to remind me how we’d once been best mates, even my old German teacher, which was odd because I distinctly remember him saying that he hated the very sight of me and dreaded Tuesdays when he’d have to be in the same room as me.’
I deleted the messages.
There have been no messages from Jess. I miss her. It’s weird. I’m constantly surrounded by an endless trail of people. There are people to brush my hair, draw my bath, warm my towels, fix my makeup, drive me places, dress me, cook for me, do crosswords with me, whatever – but this crowd doesn’t stop me feeling… what? Lonely? Not quite lonely. That word is too strong. It’s just that while I’m vital to these people (their jobs are dependent on me) I sometimes get the strangest feeling – I feel they don’t see me. I’m invisible, and no amount of designer clothes can get me noticed the way Jess used to notice me. How odd. Of course, it’s great having Ben here and I’m sure I will make proper friends here in time; I just don’t know how much time it will take. I’ve known Jess fourteen years.
I grab my phone and call Jess again before I think of a reason not to. The weeks of not speaking properly to one another have opened up a chasm, and I wonder if I can leap over it. I want to.
Amazingly she picks up. ‘Hey Jess.’ I gush excitedly. ‘Is this a good time to call? Or am I interrupting anything?’ My opener is pretty much an apology.
‘I’m in the supermarket.’
‘Oh. How are you?’
‘Good, the same. You know.’
She sounds a bit odd. Distracted. I tell myself she’s busy but I’m pretty sure she’s miffed. The odd thing is I’m not sure what I’ve done wrong besides become rich and famous, but how can that be wrong? I don’t know what to say next. She hasn’t asked how I am. If I volunteer the information I’ll risk sounding unbearable. What can I say? Oh your life’s ‘the same,’ is it? Well, mine has completely turned round and is so unbelievably fantastic I think I might explode with joy. Er, no, not right.
‘Did you get your invite?’ I ask.
‘Yeah, and the plane ticket. Thanks, very generous of you.’ Her tone is grudging. I hoped she’d be thrilled.
‘No, not at all. It’s the least I can do. I’m the one getting married bloody miles away, I can’t expect everyone to fork out for a flight.’ I try to down-play the three grand, Club Class ticket. It’s odd. I always imagined that one of the perks of being silly rich was that you’d get to be seriously generous with your nearest and dearest. I imagined that splashing the cash would be a wonderful and rewarding thing to do. But it’s not especially. Now I have so much more money than any of my friends – well, I have so much more money than everyone really – and I don’t know how to behave. When I make big gestures I seem flash and showy but if I don’t cough up, I seem tight. I can’t win.
‘How’s Adam?’ I hadn’t planned to say that next. Or indeed ever.