A Vintage Friendship

A VINTAGE FRIENDSHIP

Cathy Hopkins

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Copyright © Cathy Hopkins 2020

Cover design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cover photograph © Shutterstock.com

Cathy Hopkins asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008295004

Ebook Edition © August 2020 ISBN: 9780008295011

Version: 2020-09-17

Epigraph

There is nothing on this earth more to be prized than true friendship.

Thomas Aquinas

That awkward moment when you think you’re someone’s close friend, and … you’re not.

Anonymous

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Epigraph

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Epilogue

The Rules of Friendship by Sara Meyers and assorted chums

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Cathy Hopkins

About the Publisher

Sara

1972

‘We have to do something,’ said Jo, ‘like a ceremony or ritual where we make a promise that, no matter what, we’ll stay best friends.’

It was July, our last day of school, and we were waiting at the bus stop outside Woolworths on the High Street in Hulme, Manchester. Ally, Jo, Mitch and me. We called ourselves the Fab Four, but today we were feeling more weird than fab. Our A-levels were done, the familiarity and routine of lessons over, tearful farewells made to classmates and the summer holidays were stretching before us. I knew we shared the same thoughts. Our lives ahead. Would we be OK? What would become of us? Jobs? Homes? Love affairs? Would we meet The One? Get married? Have children? We would be going out into the big unknown and, for the first time in seven years, going our separate ways. It was unimaginable to think of days and nights without my three closest chums – no more sleepovers, no more discussing every intimate detail of our lives, no more being there on each other’s doorsteps to share, support, laugh or cry. It was Oxford to study English literature for Ally, Exeter for me to do social sciences, art college in Brighton for Jo. Only Mitch would be staying put and getting a job, having put off college for a year.

‘A ceremony to mark our friendship?’ said Ally. ‘For better for worse, for richer for poorer, to love and to cherish, til death do us part.’

Mitch sang the opening lines of ‘Going to the Chapel of Love’, and the rest of us joined in with gusto.

‘I’m serious,’ said Jo. ‘This really matters to me.’

‘Me too,’ I said. I looked at my three friends and felt a surge of affection. I loved these girls more than anybody in the world: more than my brothers, more than any boy I’d had a crush on. We knew each other so well. Soft-hearted Jo who was so pretty but didn’t know it or believe it, no matter how many times we told her. She had soulful brown eyes and a full mouth with a perfect Cupid’s bow. The fashion at the time was for boyish figures and straight hair; Jo, with her curves and wild, curly hair, was the polar opposite.

Only Mitch looked as if she’d stepped out of one of the magazines. With her long lean limbs, high cheekbones and straight, long blonde hair, she was the beauty of the four of us: easily the most confident and a boy-magnet wherever we went. She was the leader of our small group, the coolest girl in school, too, endlessly curious, the first to come back to the rest of us with a music track or a lipstick, or to suggest we experiment with our parents’ drinks cabinet when they were out. In later years she would roll up a quid deal of Red Leb to smoke while listening to Pink Floyd or the Grateful Dead.

Ally was the smallest of the four of us. Neat and petite, with brown shoulder-length hair and grey, intelligent eyes. She was confident, too, but in a different way to Mitch. She had a calm about her; she seemed unruffled, always sure about who she was and what she wanted to do, the first of us to have a steady boyfriend, a boy she’d been with since fifth form. And then there was me, Sara Meyers, somewhere in the middle on the confidence scale. I had to work at how I looked. I scrubbed up OK, but only if I battled with my wavy chestnut hair by, much to my mother’s horror, ironing it under brown paper. Plus I’d been the last to lose any pubescent chubbiness, and I still didn’t really know what I wanted to do when I left college.

‘We could go out to the woods and dance naked under a full moon,’ said Mitch.

‘In Manchester? Even in July we’d freeze,’ said Ally.

‘We could get tattoos?’ Jo suggested.

‘Yeah. Where?’ said Mitch. ‘On our bums? Or boobs? What would it say? What’s the symbol for friendship?’

‘A heart? Two hands holding?’ I said.

‘No way,’ said Ally. ‘I’m not doing that. Too painful. What about we plant a tree? Or name a star?’

‘Nah,’ the rest of us chorused.

‘Why not? If we named a star, every time we looked in the sky at night, we’d think of each other.’

‘True,’ said Jo. ‘That’s sweet. Or … I know! My mum’s still got all my milk teeth. If you’ve got yours somewhere, we could have them made into jewellery then give it to each other.’

There was a brief silence before Ally, Mitch and I cracked up.

‘No words, Jo,’ said Mitch. ‘I can tell you now that I am not wearing a bracelet or necklace made from your old teeth.’

‘How about we become blood sisters?’ I said. ‘All we have to do is prick a finger at the same time then press it against each other’s to mix the blood.’

‘You lot are seriously weird,’ said Ally. ‘Sharing blood is too creepy and – like the tattoo – it would hurt.’

‘OK, so let’s just make a promise to stay friends then go and get pissed down the student’s union. We’ve earned it,’ said Mitch. She looked up at the bus stop. ‘The promise is that today, right here, at this magnificent, significant and noble bus stop—’

‘Noble?’ asked Ally.

I put my hand on Ally’s arm. ‘She’s on a roll, best let her finish.’

‘This place where we’ve stood a thousand times,’ Mitch continued, ‘in rain and snow and wind and sun; this place that has been a constant part of our lives since first year, we will swear here, at this landmark, that we will be friends for ever and always. Stand on one leg.’

Jo and I did as we were told. We were used to obeying Mitch’s mad instructions.

‘We’re eighteen,’ said Ally. ‘Oughtn’t we to act more grown-up now?’

‘Never, it’s very important that we don’t grow old and boring,’ said Mitch, to which Ally nodded and joined the rest of us on one leg. ‘Repeat after me.’

‘After me,’ I said. Mitch gave me a warning look. I grinned back at her.

‘I swear,’ Mitch continued.

‘I swear,’ said Ally, Jo and I.

‘That I.’

‘That I.’

‘Mitch, Ally, Jo and Sara.’

‘Mitch, Ally, Jo and Sara.’

‘Will never grow old.’

‘Will never grow old.’

‘And be friends for ever.’

‘And be friends for ever.’

‘Come what may.’

‘Come what may,’ we repeated.

‘Amen.’

‘Amen.’

We put our legs down but Mitch hadn’t finished. She put her left hand on the bus stop, Jo put hers on top, then Ally, then me. ‘Friends for ever,’ she said.

‘Friends for ever,’ we chorused.

‘And we promise to be each other’s bridesmaids,’ said Jo.

‘And name our children after each other if we have girls,’ I said.

‘Or boys,’ said Mitch.

Ally rolled her eyes. ‘OK, you could probably get away with a boy called Mitch, Jo or Al, but Sara? I don’t think so. The main thing is that we stay in touch and continue to be there for each other. That’s the main rule of friendship.’

‘And real friends keep their promises to each other,’ I said.

For a moment, Mitch looked tearful. ‘You really do promise? I’m the one being left behind here while you all swan off to college life and bright new futures.’

I put my arm around her. ‘We would never leave you behind, ever and you’ll have a bright future whatever you do because you are Michelle Blake and a force to be reckoned with. Anyway, it won’t be long before you’re off too, and in the meantime we’ll write and call with all our news and you must do the same.’

‘Deal,’ said Mitch.

‘Deal,’ said Ally, Jo and I.

Chapter One

Sara

2018

I was walking down the stairs towards the exit after the screening of our company’s latest drama production, The Rat, at BAFTA, when I noticed my boss Chris Lindsay. He was putting on his jacket ready to head out. It had been a glamorous night, the reception held upstairs in the David Lean room, where leafless trees in pots had been lit with white fairy lights creating a magical atmosphere. The area had been hot and noisy with chatter, the scent of perfumes and colognes wafting in the air as the TV crowd mingled after the viewing, picked at delicate canapés, sipped Prosecco and eyed each other up. I, being older than most there, was ready for my bed.

‘Hey Chris,’ I called. As he turned and saw me, I gave him my most winning smile. He didn’t return it. He looked away and walked towards the doors and out into the late summer night.

What the …?

Behind me, my agent Nicholas tripped and stumbled into me. I caught and steadied him, then we both almost fell down the last steps just as Rhys Logan, my arch rival and super bitch appeared at the top of the stairs. He looked as well groomed and smooth as ever.

‘Bit squiffy are we, Sara?’ he asked.

I took a deep breath. Rhys, of course, would have only drunk mineral water all night. ‘You know us,’ I replied with a grin. ‘Party party party. Can’t take us anywhere.’ I’d learnt long ago not to be defensive when Rhys was trying to wrong-foot me and I prayed he hadn’t seen Chris blank me. Rhys would have loved that, and it would have been all round the office by lunchtime tomorrow.

‘And what were you doing here?’ Rhys asked. Nicholas ignored his question and breezed out through the door on to Piccadilly.

‘Same as you, I’d imagine.’

‘Maybe. I was personally invited by the PR team.’

I’d been personally invited too, by the director who was an old boyfriend, but didn’t feel it necessary to say so.

‘Anyway, got to dash, early morning start,’ said Rhys.

‘I know. Way past your bedtime.’

Rhys shrugged. ‘The price of looking good.’

We both leant forward, air-kissed, and he was gone.

‘Did you see that?’ I asked Nicholas once we were outside and out of Rhys’s earshot.

‘See what?’

‘Chris Lindsay, he just blanked me.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Nicholas. ‘You’re Sara Meyers. He wouldn’t dare.’

‘You just blanked Rhys, and very few people dare do that.’

‘That’s different. Rhys is a tosser. You’re being paranoid, imagining Chris blanked you.’

‘No, he did.’ I put the back of my hand up to my forehead in a mock-tragic posture and sighed. ‘It’s over. I tell you, my career is over.’

Nicholas laughed. ‘Drama queen.’

We got into our waiting cab. As we drove away into the warm night, Nicholas closed his eyes and was soon snoring softly. Dear man. In his late seventies, bald as a coot, debonair and dapper, he was impeccably dressed as always in a suit and socks from Paul Smith, his shoes handmade in Italy. He’d been my agent and friend for over thirty years, a charming, kind and funny man, but with a core of steel when negotiating terms and well respected in the industry, something I had been grateful for over the decades.

I stared out of the window as we headed west past the familiar landmarks of Fortnum & Mason, The Wolseley (my and Nicholas’s favourite watering hole), The Ritz hotel, past Green Park on our left and into the flow of traffic around Hyde Park corner. I was puzzled by Chris’s behaviour. Fifteen years ago, he had been the man who was ‘thrilled and delighted’, his words, to have me on board. His team had put on a hell of a show at the time, pitching to me why I should join them and leave the magazine where I’d worked in my thirties and forties. I’d done a bit of TV work before then; I’d often been brought in as a guest writer and broadcaster on various lifestyle programmes, or to review the papers on a Sunday, but nothing permanent until spotted by Chris Lindsay. It had been seductive and flattering, and I’d accepted, and I’d had a very happy time since, coming up with programme ideas as well as presenting. For years, I’d hosted the morning show, then more recently the mid-morning programme, with a few extra appearances on shows covering everything from gardening to antique finds, the type shown in the early evenings. I’d particularly enjoyed the fact that my ideas were respected and often taken through to production. For years, I’d been the face of Calcot morning TV, my face on posters, social media, even buses. ‘Face on the back of a bus, not like the back of the bus,’ I gaily told friends at the time. I was recognized wherever I went, got good seats in restaurants, was invited to everything. It was a golden era, but I’d had a feeling these last few months that something had changed. The extra appearances were starting to dwindle. It didn’t look as if I was going to be given back my usual slot on the early morning show.

Nicholas opened one bleary eye. ‘Are we there yet?’

‘Almost. Nicholas, my inner drama queen aside, what would I do if work dried up? I’m fifty-eight. Am I too old to be presenting?’ Actually, I wasn’t fifty-eight. I was sixty-four, a fact that Nicholas knew all too well, but kindly ignored.

‘Don’t talk tosh. There are plenty of women your age going strong on our screens, all still working. Have a facelift if you’re really worried about your age.’

‘I will if you will,’ I said. I knew he wasn’t serious. We’d discussed it at length after one of the directors had suggested it last year. I wouldn’t go that way. Why should I? I looked years younger than I was, something I worked hard at. A ten-minute routine every morning with my facial toner, an hour’s Pilates every other day, wheatgrass in smoothies, probiotics for my gut, six to eight glasses of mineral water whatever the weather. I maintained a size eight, despite the more than occasional night on the fizz. Luckily I’d inherited my mother’s good bone structure and my father’s slim build and, thanks to the talented Damian Ward, hairdresser to the celebs, no one would ever know that my shoulder-length hair, once chestnut brown, was now white under the blonde and fudge-coloured highlights. ‘And did you hear Rhys ask what I was doing there and not in a friendly way?’

Nicholas’s soft snoring told me that he’d dropped off again.

When we reached his house in Holland Park, I gently shook him awake. He opened his eyes, got out cash, waved away my refusal to take it and tucked the money in my handbag. ‘Sleep well, dear Sara. Your career isn’t over. Rhys isn’t your friend so don’t worry about how he acts or what he says. He’s an ass and all will be well.’

He had been listening, after all. I watched him as he got out and walked up the steps to a white teraced town house. A welcome glow from lamps lit on the ground floor showed that his partner, James, and their shepadoodle Atticus would be waiting up for him.

The taxi went on to Notting Hill and into a cobbled mews where I had lived for the past ten years. Home. No lights on. No dog, cat or partner waiting. My choice. No regrets. In I went and was upstairs, make-up off, in bed in less than ten minutes. Sadly, although exhausted, sleep wouldn’t come. My mind had gone into overdrive, going through my budget. How long could I survive without work? How would I pay the mortgage with no regular income? What else could I do? Is there a care home for celebrities where we’d all gather together in a communal area and sing ‘Memories’ from Cats? I finally dropped off as the lyrics about ‘better days gone’ droned on in my head.

Chapter Two

The following week, I’d just finished a piece for a series looking into the true value of health spas, when Chris’s secretary called to say he’d like to see me. Deep breath. Good posture. Ready to smile. Try to block out ‘Memories’ from Cats and singing has-beens in my head and replace them with Gloria Gaynor and ‘I Will Survive’.

Chris got up to greet me when I entered his office (floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the canal at Camden). Peck peck on each cheek. The Judas kiss, I thought as I took a seat and he settled himself behind his desk. I looked at him directly, confidently. What I saw was a man was in his fifties, grey hair worn too long considering it was thinning, dressed in jeans, checked flannel shirt and red Converse sneakers. No mention of the other week and blanking me.

‘How are you, Sara?’

‘Excellent,’ I said, giving him the Meyers smile (wide, dazzling and bright according to Hello! magazine eight years ago). ‘You?’

‘Good, yes, thanks.’ I noticed he wasn’t making eye contact. Never a good sign. ‘So. Sara. Bit awkward this. No easy way to tell you but we’re going to be making some changes round here. I … er …’

I let him squirm. I stopped smiling.

‘Well … thing is, direction from above,’ he continued. ‘They want a fresh look for the morning show …’

As if I didn’t already know, I thought. ‘Ah.’ A couple of months ago, there had been some changes in management and a young chap in tight skinny jeans and designer sneakers had been brought in. I’d only met him a couple of times but the rumours were that he’d been head-hunted to take Carlton TV into the next decade.

‘New faces …’

‘Younger faces.’

‘Some, not all. This isn’t about your age, Sara, but the programme formula is getting a bit tired …’

‘I get it. So you won’t be renewing my contract.’

Chris looked very uncomfortable. ‘I’m so sorry, if it was up to me—’

‘Not a problem, Chris. I’ve already had some offers,’ I lied. ‘One that looks very promising actually.’

‘Really? Who?’

‘You know I can’t say.’ I stood up. I didn’t want to prolong the meeting. No point. At least I’d be leaving with my dignity intact, and Chris would tell others that I’d had offers. I’d learnt long ago not to let anyone see when you’re sinking. This had been coming a while, moved from the prime morning show to mid-morning; only a dummy wouldn’t have seen what was happening. I offered Chris my hand.

Chris stood and we shook hands. ‘Best of luck, Sara. I really mean that.’

‘And to you too. I really mean that.’ I didn’t.

As I came out of Chris’s room, I spotted Rhys by a coffee machine on the other side of the open-plan office. He was staring at me to see how I’d taken it. I put on my most cheerful face and gave him a friendly wave.

What now? I asked myself once I was in the lift. I needed to talk to someone who would understand. The first person I used to call in situations like this was my close friend Anita, but she’d died five years ago. She’d have known what to say but she’d gone. So … what to do? Alcohol. Nicholas.

*

An hour later, Nicholas and I were ensconced in a comfy pew in a bar on Ladbroke Grove. In front of us was an ice bucket and an almost-empty bottle of Chablis.

‘Told you so,’ I said.

Nicholas rolled his eyes. ‘You told me your career was over. As your agent, I can’t possibly agree with that.’

‘So what now then?’

‘I’m often asked if you’ll do commercials.’

‘What for? Equity release? Stair lifts? Retirement homes?’

‘No, of course not, Sara, nothing like that, so you can stop that right now. Commercials can be quite lucrative.’

‘And everyone who sees them knows you need the money.’

‘So? Everyone needs money. No shame there. Want me to put some feelers out?’

I shrugged. ‘Beggars can’t be choosers.’

‘Again, enough with the “woe is me” attitude. It’s not like you and it’s pathetic and self-indulgent.’

I laughed. ‘OK, being realistic. I’m past my sell-by date. Is it over for me now in TV? What other opportunities are there out there?’

‘Of course you’re not past it – you’re being over-dramatic. There are lots of women on TV who are your age.’

‘So you keep saying, but usually fronting programmes about pension fraud and care homes in crisis.’

He sighed. ‘Then write a thriller like one of those that are so popular now; they have to have “girl” in the title: Gone Girl, Girl on a Train, Girl with a Dragon Tattoo.’