‘Karl. With a K.’
‘Correct! Question two. What is James’ star sign?’
‘He’s old in the year,’ Nina said straight off. ‘I remember that. He’s definitely September or October.’
‘No, I think it’s August,’ Tom said. ‘I’m sure it’s August.’
They bickered amicably back and forth, swapping evidence, until Nina said, ‘Nora, what do you – wait, are you OK? Your face is a bit green.’
‘I’m feeling a bit sick,’ I said shortly.
‘Oh, God.’ Nina recoiled almost physically, though there was a limit to how far she could get away from me in the narrow back seat. ‘Someone open a window. Tom. Tom, wind yours down too.’ She nudged me in the ribs and said, ‘Open your eyes. Looking at the road helps – it’s something to do with giving the brain the information that you’re travelling.’
Reluctantly I opened my eyes. Flo was grinning in the front seat. Clare was driving along calmly, and I could see in the rear-view mirror that she had an amused smile on her face. She caught my eye for a fleeting moment, and the smile twitched. For a moment – just a moment – I wanted to slap her across her perfect, beautiful cheekbone.
‘I’m sure it’s August,’ Tom said again. ‘I remember going to the Proms with him and Bruce one year.’
‘Oh for crying out loud,’ I snapped. ‘It’s 20th September. I’ve no idea what sign that is.’
‘Virgo,’ Tom said instantly. He didn’t seem to hold my shortness of temper against him. ‘Are you sure about the date, Nora?’
I nodded.
‘OK, Virgo. That’s our answer.’
‘Two points to Team Backseat Drivers!’ Flo said delightedly. ‘Clare you will have some catching up to do. Next question: what is James’s favourite food?’
I wanted to shut my eyes, but I didn’t dare. This was torture.
I looked down at my lap, away from Clare, and pushed my nails into my palm, trying to distract myself from the nausea, and the memories that were crowding in unbidden. I had a sharp, flashing picture of James, sprawled on his bed after school eating his way through a bowl of clementines. He loved those things. For a moment the scent was sharp in my nostrils – the sweet tang of the oil, the smell of his room – of tumbled sheets and him. I used to love clementines – love the smell of them on his fingers, finding the peel in his pocket. I never touch them now.
‘Panang curry?’ Tom said uncertainly, and Flo pulled face.
‘Almost – but I can only give you half a point for that. Panang with …?’
‘Tofu,’ Tom said promptly. Flo nodded.
‘Three points! Two more questions to go before Clare’s round. Question four – which play was James’s West End debut?’
‘West End in what sense?’ Tom asked. ‘I mean are you counting the National as West End? Because personally I wouldn’t.’
There was some muttered discussion between Flo and Clare in the front seat and Flo turned back round.
‘OK, let me rephrase that as London debut.’
I Googled James once. Only once. Google was spattered with images of him – pictures of him in costume, on stage, publicity stills, shots of him smiling at charity functions and opening nights. The ones I couldn’t bear were the ones where he was looking directly at the camera, directly out of the screen, at me. When I scrolled down to one where he was naked on stage, in Equus, I had closed the browser with shaking hands, as if I’d stumbled on something violent or obscene.
Tom and Nina were conferring over the top of my head.
‘We think it was as an understudy in The History Boys,’ Nina said at last. Flo sucked in her breath.
‘Ooooh! Close. I’m sorry – that was his second role. Over to Clare?’
‘Vincent in Brixton,’ Clare said. ‘One point to me.’
‘Never heard of it,’ Nina said. Tom leaned across me and punched her.
‘It won the Laurence Olivier Award for Best New Play! And a Tony Award.’
‘Never heard of that either. Who’s Tony?’
‘Jesus!’ Tom threw up his hands. ‘I’m in a car with a bleeding philistine.’
‘OK,’ Flo said loudly, talking over them. ‘Fifth and final question before we hand over to Clare for her round. When and where did James propose to Clare?’
I shut my eyes again, listening to the chorus of protest from Tom and Nina.
‘That’s not fair!’
‘They should at least be things that Clare has a chance of not knowing.’
‘He proposed on her birthday,’ Tom said, ‘I know that. Because they came to lunch with me and Bruce the next day and Clare was flashing that ring. Where is it, Clare?’
‘Oh, I—’ I heard Clare shift in the driving seat and fumble the gear change as we took a junction too fast. ‘I left it at home. To tell you the truth I’ve not got used to wearing it yet and I keep panicking I’m going to lose it.’
‘As for where …’ I could hear the frown in Tom’s voice. ‘I’m going to go for a pure punt and say, J. Sheekey?’
‘Ooh, so close!’ Flo sucked in her breath. ‘Birthday was right but it was in the bar at the Southbank. Sorry, half a point there. So that’s … three and a half points, and a point and a half to Clare.’
‘Some of those were fixes,’ Tom grumbled. ‘But we’ll get our revenge.’
‘Right, round two, question one to Clare. What was James’s first pet called?’
‘Blimey.’ Clare sounded stumped. ‘I think it was a hamster but I honestly don’t know.’
‘Backseat team?’
‘No idea,’ Nina said. ‘Nora?’
She had the grace to sound awkward, as if she knew how painful this all was. I did know. But I was damned if I was telling them. I only shook my head.
‘A guinea pig called Mindy. Nul points. Question two. Who is James’s ideal celebrity woman?’
Clare burst out laughing. ‘OK, for self-respect I’m going to say the person who looks most like me. Which is … God, who do I look like? Christ. You always sound delusional whatever you say. OK, he likes strong women, funny women. I’m going to say … Billie Piper.’
‘You don’t look anything like Billie Piper!’ Nina objected. ‘Well, except that you’re both blonde.’
‘Well it’s not Billie Piper,’ Flo said. ‘It’s—’ she consulted her piece of paper. ‘Jees, I have no idea who this is: Jean, how do you say that? Morrow? Clare?’
‘Never heard of her either. Is she a stage actress, Tom?’
‘Right here,’ Flo interjected and we rounded the corner with a sickening swing.
‘Jeanne Moreau,’ Tom said. ‘She’s a French actress. She was in that Truffaut film. Jules et Jim, I think it was. But I didn’t know she was James’ favourite actress.’
‘Well, I’d hardly call her a celebrity,’ Clare grumbled as we lurched over a humpback bridge and picked up speed. The sick feeling rose again. ‘Next question.’
‘What is James’s favourite designer clothes label?’
Favourite designer clothes label? The James I’d known would have laughed at the very suggestion. I wondered if it was a trick question and Clare was about to say Oxfam.
Clare tapped her fingers on the wheel, thinking. ‘I’m stuck between Alexander McQueen,’ she said at last, ‘and Comme des Garçons. But I’m going to go for … McQueen. Mainly because he actually wears McQueen.’
Jesus wept.
‘Correct!’ Flo said. ‘Well, it actually says “If we’re talking people I think are cool, then probably Vivienne Westwood, but if you mean designers I actually wear, then McQueen.” So I think that counts. Question four, which body part—’ she began to laugh ‘—did James accidentally slice off aged ten in a woodwork lesson?’
‘He took a chunk off his knuckle,’ Clare said instantly. ‘The scar’s still there.’