I stood over her, shocked and tongue-tied, while she refused to meet my eyes. Finally, she added in a quieter voice, “So, I need your help. That’s what friends are for, isn’t it? Tell your rich friends to leave St Mary’s alone.” I thought about all this. The unfairness of her accusations, and the unexpected connections she had made. It was true: I had done well from Thatcher’s boom even though I didn’t like her. I cooled myself from the tart replies that sprang to my lips and remembered Ga- brielle’s limitless generosity and kindness at Hereford Road. It was against her nature to assert herself in this angry way.
I sat down next to her while she continued to look at her knees. “Gaby, I’m sorry. I know you put everything into that hospital. But I don’t have any influence at Westminster council. Tibu know that. They’re horrible people. None of our friends are involved in local politics. Their heads are all on the other side of the world.”
“I know ... I know. I’m sorry, Marcella. I’m being stupid. I just don’t know who to be angry with, or what to do. So I’m angry with my best friend who I know will not be angry back at me. You see how hopeless I am? We’ve talked about going on strike, but they’d like that. You see what they are doing to the miners.”
“I wish I could do something. Gaby, you know you can always stay here. I’ll never forget how you gave me a home when I first came to London.”
She looked around. “Thanks. "Your flat is lovely, but I like having my own place. In any case, you already have a visitor.”
“Oh, Ashraf. He’s just a friend of Benji’s.”
“Another businessman?” She got up and walked to the window, looked at Westbourne Grove and Queensway. I decided not to elaborate on what Ashraf was.
“You know what these are, Marcella?” Gabrielle had picked up one of my miniature ceramic pots from the windowsill and removed the lid, tilting the inside to catch the light. “Little wombs. You’ve filled your flat with little wombs. You want a child.”
“No! I just like them!” I looked around, stabbed and suddenly alarmed. There were nearly a hundred pots and lacquered boxes. Did everyone see what Gabielle saw, a woman around thirty living with a man who wouldn’t marry her, so desperate for a baby and blind to it that she spent her spare time collecting little wombs? I felt my colour rising.
Gabrielle turned and saw me stricken in the middle of the room and realised what she’d done. “Oh, Marcella, I’m sorry. My big mouth. I don’t know what I’m saying today. It’s this psychology training I have to take. It’s all nonsense. I’m so stupid.”
She came to where I stood and put her arms round me. We hugged with damp cheeks and I was reminded again of how Gabrielle was my exact match in height and weight.
“I didn’t mean any of those things,” she said. “We’re all proud of what you’ve done.”
“What about you, Gaby? Don’t you want children?”
“Me? If it happens. I’m scared. I have this bad tendency to want to look after people. I’m worried that if I have children there won’t be anything left of me. I think I’ll make a good aunt.”
The phone rang and I pulled myself away from Gabrielle to reach for it. “Hello?”
“This is Idi Amin, President of Uganda. Give me Ashraf.”
“Oh, Idi. Ashraf’s not here, Idi.” To Gabrielle, I whispered, “It’s Idi Amin—the Ugandan dictator.” “Then Benji. Give me Benji.”
“Benji’s not available either. You have to talk to me. Is it guns you want, or baked beans?”
“Who is this? Don’t talk nonsense at me.”
“This is Marcella D’Souza. I’m an East African Asian. You hate people like me. Remember? You’re a murderer. You chased us out of Uganda. Ashraf and Benji are Asian too. Why would they want to help you?”
“Clear the line, you foolish girl. Get off Ashraf’s line.”
“Actually, it’s my line. Oh, and Ashraf says to tell you he’s not a Moslem any more. He’s become a Jew. He thinks you’re crazy.”
“I am Idi Amin. I am not nobody. You cannot speak to me this way. I am a head of state.”
“Bye, bye, Idi. Bye, bye.” I put the phone down, caught the astonished look on Gabrielle’s face and doubled over in laughter.
“Marcella, you’re crazy! Was that really Idi Amin?” She tried to find a reply in my face, but I was too far gone.
“That felt good,” was all I could manage, then, “Bye, bye, Idi!” until Gabrielle was laughing as much as me and echoing, “Bye, bye, Idi.”
When we faltered through shortage of breath, resting on each other, she asked, “Is Ashraf really a Jew?” starting me off again, then her. “You’re my best friend, Gaby,” I finally managed.
“You’re mine,” she replied.
A key in the front door lock seemed like insufficient reason to break free from laughter or each other. “Benji!” I said as he slipped past the door. “We’re acting silly. Come and join us.”
Then I saw that Benji’s face was dark. “Hello, Gabrielle,” he said without his usual smile and welcome. “Will you excuse us a moment? I have to talk to Marcella.”
He took me to the spare room, his office and Ashraf’s bedroom. I noted a pile of glossy gun catalogues on the floor that I had not seen before. “Has Ashraf called or visited since last night?”
“No.”
“Anyone else? Anyone unusual?”
“Idi Amin called a minute ago. What is it?”
“Not Amin. Anyone else.”
“No. Like who?”
“Ashraf was arrested yesterday. We were in Mayfair, just walking from the car to The Rose when two plainclothes policemen stopped us. They ignored me and took Ashraf away. He just had time to say that he had to go with them before they took him to a car. I’ve asked around but no
