Free Can We Still Be Friends by Alexandra Shulman Page A

cocoon.
    ‘Tania, good to see you. Thank you for sending me this gorgeous Annie,’ said Jackson. Annie looked up to see Tania in a huge white ruffled shirt and flowing trousers.
    ‘Not at all, Jacko. Not at all. Just part of the service. I’m meeting Chris for a nightcap.’
    ‘Chris, now where’s he been? I haven’t seen him in ages. Good guy. Is he still with whatshername, Calliope? Nope, that’s not right. Names aren’t my thing …’
    Tania exerted unusual restraint in resisting pointing out that girls’ names weren’t Jackson’s thing because so many of them passed his way, but she was fond of Annie. Let her enjoy tonight; it probably wouldn’t go further than his mattress. Gosh, she looked a real beauty sitting there. Luminous even in the low light, her only make-up, maybe mascara? It had been years since she’d been able to get away with that. She wouldn’t walk out for a pint of milk without her slap nowadays.
    ‘See you tomorrow, Annie.’ Annie watched Tania sway back down the bar, a white tanker parting the waves of drinkers.
    Zanzibar was becoming yet more crowded when at midnight Jackson suggested that it was time to move, rising from the table as he spoke. Although it was September, the night was still warm enough for them to be coatless and, as they walked down the street, Jackson’s arm was around Annie’s waist, the fabric of the blue dress sliding under his hand. The kiss, when it happened, was impeccable.
    ‘You are so beautiful, my lovely Annie,’ Jackson whispered, his hand caressing the nape of her neck as he unlocked his car.
    They drove along the London roads. Looking down at herself, she saw stripes reflected from streetlights moving along her flesh with their shadows. She was aware that they were heading towards Regent’s Park rather than in the direction that would take her hometo Cranbourne Terrace. At each red traffic light Jackson kissed her again, seamlessly combining gear shifts with caresses. As she returned his kisses, there was a part of her watching, in thrall to what was happening to her.
    They drew up at a large red-brick building and Jackson led her up the steps to the front door and then inside his ground-floor flat. An enormous dog bounded up against her.
    ‘Buster, she’s mine – out you go. Catch you later.’ Jackson opened the double doors at one end of the large room they had entered, pushing a recalcitrant Golden Retriever through them. Annie could see the shape of trees in the garden. She walked towards them, horribly unsure how to behave. The confidence that had grown throughout the past hours had evaporated in an instant. She could feel the magic of the evening seeping away as unwelcome self-consciousness took hold. What on earth was she doing there? Was this going to be a one-night stand? But as Jackson turned to her, sweetly kissing her face, then her neck, then her eyelids, as he lifted her dress off and bent to kiss the side of her hips, moving back to just look at her in obvious admiration and then returning to her lips, her worries faded. He took her hand to lead her to the bedroom, laying her on the large bed as if she were the most precious object, never taking his eyes off her.

4
    Marisa Rootstein was adjusting the display of books on the enormous glass coffee table that sat before the fireplace in her drawing room. Kendra watched her mother place the thick catalogue raisonné of Andy Warhol’s silk screens on top of the slim pamphlet from the Francesco Clemente show at the Mary Boone Gallery. Then, deciding against it, she left the Clemente catalogue visible and positioned alongside it instead Salman Rushdie’s just published
Shame.
The Rootsteins’ coffee table was a carefully edited display of contemporary culture, and its obvious artifice and ostentation made Kendra want to vomit.
    The huge room, with its elaborate cornicing and tall windows looking out on to several acres of communal garden, was rarely used by day, functioning mostly