Free Just Friends by Robyn Sisman

heart, only a block of ice.
    When Michael was out of sight, they walked on in pensive silence, arm in arm. Maybe Cat was right about men. Here they were, two single women together, perfectly happy. No husbands to irritate them. No children to rush home to. Just friends. Cat would always be there for her, with her fold-out bed and comfort food, her affection and loyalty.
    Suddenly Freya felt optimistic again. She had taken this afternoon off work so that she could sneak into Michael’s apartment and grab the clothes she needed while he was safely at the office. Then she would start looking for somewhere to live and figure out what to do about England now that Michael had let her down. Somehow the future would sort itself out.

 
     
    CHAPTER 6
     
    “The important question,” said Leo, “is how you’re going to position yourself.”
    “Right here on this barstool seems pretty good to me.” Jack grinned and tipped a bottle of beer to his lips.
    The truth was, he was hellishly uncomfortable on the molded plastic seat, raised on its slim chromium stalk to an awkward height that left him pawing alternately for the footrest and the floor. These things might look cool, but they were made for Italians, not a six-foot-four American who liked to slouch. But he wasn’t about to complain. When it came to a free lunch he could take the rough with the smooth.
    They were sitting at a shiny horseshoe-shaped bar that projected deep into the room, imprisoning two ludicrously handsome barmen, one black, one white, who coordinated beautifully with the decor—couches and chairs in charcoal and beige leather, casually grouped around a scattering of zebra rugs. Color came in brash primaries from paintings on the wall, and piles of oranges and lemons in steel baskets on the bar. Something by U2 was playing on the sound system. There was a buzz of chatter from the lunchtime crowd, a mixture of sharp suits, leather jackets, ponytails, and arrestingly short dresses.
    This was Club SoHo, a new members-only media hangout, sited in a handsome old cast-iron building embellished with Italianate pillars and curlicues, like a New World palazzo. Jack had read about its glitzy membership—screenwriters, actors, agents, producers—but this was the first time he’d been inside. He liked it. The atmosphere was casual, classless, antipuritan and about as far as you could get from the old-fashioned college clubs with their scary acoustics, moribund attendants, and preppie clones. Although he had not actually noticed a sign outside saying “No admittance for the over forty-fives,” the message hung in the ether: no corporate geeks, no has-beens from the seventies, no old money. If you were here you were hip. You could write your own rules. The fact that Leo was smoking and hadn’t been lynched spoke for itself.
    “I’m serious,” Leo persisted. “People don’t have time to figure things out for themselves anymore. You have to tell them what to think. Get the juices flowing. Connect.”
    “ ‘Only connect,’ ” Jack muttered vaguely. “Who wrote that?”
    Leo plucked at his tie, a bold snakeskin pattern aggressively teamed with a crimson shirt. “No idea. I never went to college.”
    This was a daring admission from someone in the literary world. Jack was curious. “How come?”
    “No time. No money.”
    “Didn’t your parents—?”
    “My dad was a failed boxer, my mother an Irish Catholic who left school at fourteen. Both boozers. Both dead. I came to books late. But I’m making up for it now.” Leo gave a sly grin and stubbed out his cigarette. “Let’s go eat.”
    Jack followed him up the stairs, trying to fit this interesting piece of information into the Leo jigsaw. The two men had been aware of each other for some years, as they both circled the literary pond, waiting for an opportunity to jump in and make a splash, but they’d been acquaintances rather than friends. Leo used to be almost a figure of fun, a shameless