by Jane Fallon
Really? Who is she? I might have heard of her …
No. Delete. That’ll make her feel even worse. (I finally told her about my nomination last night, on the phone: ‘Oh, by the way, I got nominated for some little award, just a stupid thing and they obviously couldn’t find enough eligible books to make up the numbers so anyway, yeah …’
There was the tiniest hesitation. A millisecond of silence. A pause that gave away how much this must sting. Then: ‘George, that’s amazing! How brilliant! Really. Wow.’ Because of course she’s pleased for me. She just had to bury her personal disappointment first. I understand. Totally.)
That must be tough. One of my friends from college became quite a successful designer for a while soon after we left. I remember having very mixed feelings. I was thrilled for him but it stung more than a little. It’s natural.
Send.
That’s exactly it! I couldn’t be happier for Georgia but that doesn’t mean I don’t wish it was me it was happening to sometimes. Does that make me a bad friend?
Not at all. Wishing something good would happen for yourself doesn’t mean you want to take it away from anyone else. Patricia is quite the philosopher. I bet Georgia would love it if you were published too.
Her response takes ages, as if she’s thinking about what to say. I don’t know. Sometimes I think she would hate it. That our friendship works because she’s super successful and I’m not.
Wait. What? I have only ever wanted the best for Lyds. OK, so I admit there’s a deeply buried fear in me – that I am most definitely not proud of – that if Lydia were published people would compare us (people who know us both anyway) and I would come up lacking. That behind my back they would all say she had been the real talent all along and my success was just luck. But I had absolutely no idea that Lydia had ever picked up on this. Ever. Before I can reply there’s another message from Lydia.
I don’t mean that! That sounds awful!! Forget I said it. God, Patricia, what must you think of me?
I’m devastated. Have I really made Lydia feel like this? That I would ever want anything but the best for her?
Gosh, don’t worry, it’s understandable. But from everything you’ve ever said about Georgia it sounds as if she’s a good friend. I’m sure she would do anything to support you.
I know, you’re right. I just feel like such a failure. I’ve been sending a book of my own out recently – you know, the characters from the cards – but getting rejection after rejection. I haven’t even told Georgia that bit!
I’ve always known that Lydia must find what’s happened to me quite tough, however much she protests otherwise. It’s both odd and strangely fascinating to hear her talk about it so openly, though. And I’m not going to lie, it makes me feel seriously uncomfortable hearing something she doesn’t want me to know. I understand why she doesn’t want to confide in me – the real me. She would never want to rain on my parade. But I don’t think I realized it was still so raw for her, that she was harbouring her own ambitions to be published even now. I mean, I know she hates her job, but did I really think she was holding out for her own publishing deal still? I don’t know. Maybe I’ve been burying my head in the sand because that makes it easier for me to enjoy my own success. Once again my guilt racks up. My insecurities hovering at the edge of my consciousness. I’m sitting in my office, pretending to work (I often count hours spent in here as work just as I count hours spent wearing gym gear as exercise), surrounded by images of Wilbur on book covers, on a poster on the wall. It’s his simplicity, my editor once told me, that makes him so appealing to pre-schoolers. I think she meant it as a compliment but I stewed on the comment for days.
I would love to see it one day. I actually did see her book a couple of years ago. She handed me a copy one night, saying she wanted some feedback, leaving it till the last minute when we were hugging each other goodbye in the street after an evening out before thrusting the large brown envelope into my hand and fleeing into the tube station. I’m sure it’s changed since then if she’s still working on it, but I remember thinking it was exceptional. Magical. I can’t remember what I said to her about it. I know I would have been complimentary but did I encourage her enough? Did I realize how important it was to her?
Maybe I can help her. She obviously has connections in publishing of her own but I doubt she wants her employers to know she’s trying to get her own deal on the side. I should show her work to my editor. I still have it somewhere. Lyds has skirted around the idea before that maybe I could, but my relationship with my editor is complicated to say the least so I’ve always deliberately failed to pick up on her hints. I feel terrible. I hadn’t realized she was having such a rough time. I wish she felt she could confide in me about this stuff. Before I became successful we told each other everything. All our fears. Our ambitions. At least, I thought we did. Maybe it was always just me pouring out my heart. Maybe I was always so wrapped up in myself that I didn’t notice her lack of openness.
One day, Lydia writes. I imagine for a second the two of us published side by side, celebrating together, before the old panic sets in. My career fading while hers goes stellar.
What do you think of her books? I press send before I can stop myself. Curse myself for being so stupid. I leave my phone on the desk and head down to the kitchen to make a coffee before I see her answer. No good can come of hearing what people say about you when they think you can’t hear, remember, even your best friend. Actually, though, I know Lydia better than that. I know how generous she always is. I stir in some oat milk and wander back up, telling myself that that’s the last time I ask a question like that. It’s not fair. Patricia needs to stick to her remit – a cheerleader for Lydia’s art – and nothing else. I can see there’s a new message before I even pick the phone up.
They’re great for little kids. They do really well.
That’s it. Damned with faint praise. No ‘I love them’ or ‘They’re gorgeous’. This, I remind myself, is why I should leave well alone.
Is she a good illustrator?
What the fuck is wrong with me? I throw my mobile back down on the desk. I need to delete Patricia’s account. I can make some excuse to Lydia about her giving up social media or pretend she’s ill or something. I’ll do it now. I’ll just wait for Lydia’s reply …
Fabulous, she says and I breathe a sigh of relief. I don’t know what I was waiting for.
Nick is out for the evening. He’s the Events Manager for a chain of leisure parks. Eleven sites from Dorset to Inverness boasting static caravans each with a large clubhouse hosting entertainment every evening during the holiday season, which runs from March to the New Year. Nick helps to organize tours that seem to comprise mostly of former X Factor finalists and Britain’s Got Talent rejects as well as one-off events and even smaller acts local to each venue. The guests expect something every night and don’t seem to care much what. Nick works in the London headquarters – Diamond Leisure are raking in some serious cash and have offices in the new development behind King’s Cross, chosen for its proximity to the Eurostar in readiness for their proposed expansion into Europe – and tonight is attending a teambuilding dinner. Every year they spend a lot of time in the off season discussing ways to improve the company’s slightly tacky image and every year they end up back where they started and Nick’s team are checking out Gareth Gates’s availability the following day.
I’m in Manna with Lydia eating veggie bangers and mash and drinking a large glass of red wine. Lyds has just confessed that she’s been on a second and then a third date with Vince – he of the Hamilton tickets – and that, shock horror, she thinks she might like him. I put down my fork.
‘This … no … it can’t be true …’ I can’t remember the last time she had anything but the most passing interest in a man and a third date is unprecedented.
She raises her thin eyebrows. ‘I know, right. I’m not saying we’re about to move in together but it’s been nice.’
‘And …?�
�
‘What?’ She takes a tiny sip of wine.
‘Are you seeing him again? Don’t make me beg for details.’
‘Oh.’ She laughs. ‘Yes. At the weekend. It’s my turn to decide what to do. I’m thinking maybe the cinema. They’re doing The Sound of Music singalong at the Gate.’
‘Jesus Christ. If he wants to see you again after that he’s definitely a keeper. And have you …?’
A pink flush creeps up from her neck, something that always happens when she’s put on the spot. ‘I have no idea what you mean,’ she says, laughing.
‘I’ll take that as a yes.’
‘Take it any way you like, I’m not saying anything.’
‘Lydia Somers! On the third date!’
‘Second actually. Right, let’s talk about something else …’
‘No way. I have questions. Second and third? If not, why not?’
She slices a piece of sausage, agonizingly slowly. Lydia is the only person I know who always uses both a knife and fork, to neatly parcel out each bite before she starts eating. I wait. Finally she finishes.
‘Nope. Not telling.’ She pops a chunk of sausage into her mouth as if to say ‘Case closed’.
‘Spoilsport,’ I say, just as a woman at the next table – half of a couple who were already eating when we arrived – says, ‘Just when it was getting good. Don’t leave us hanging,’ which results in Lydia nearly choking on her morsel, laughing. Sadly I don’t get any more details, but we do end up chatting to our neighbours – Shaz and Dave (‘No, really. We met at speed dating, and once we introduced ourselves to each other we knew we had to go on a date just on the basis of our names. I mean, it would have been like being called Ant and Bec and not giving it a go’) – who turn out to be both sweet and hilarious, for the next hour or so. By nine o’clock we’ve moved our tables together and we’re sharing a bottle. They’ve been together for four months and they’re like a couple of proselytizing Jehovah’s Witnesses about the speed-dating club they met at. ‘You meet people you’d never encounter anywhere else,’ Shaz says. ‘I mean, most of them are probably psychopaths, but at least you only have to spend three minutes with them …’
‘How cute were they?’ Lydia says as we pick our way through the ice back to mine.
‘I wonder how often that happens. Someone meets their absolute soul mate at one of those events.’ I squeak as my right foot slides away from me. Clutch at Lydia’s arm. I have an out-of-proportion fear of falling over in weather like this and I never seem to have the right shoes on to ensure it doesn’t happen.
‘That’s the thing …’ Lydia says, wrapping her scarf round her face three more times so only her eyes are visible. It makes it hard to hear what she’s saying. ‘Vince’s nice and all that. But he’s one hundred per cent not my soul mate, so what’s the point?’
This is what she always does. Talks herself out of relationships before they’ve even started. I put it down to the fact that her parents met when they were sixteen, married at twenty-two. From what she’s told me they never had a cross word, they did everything together, never spent a night apart, and neither of them would have wanted it any other way. She has picked an impossible role model to aspire to. And not necessarily a healthy one. I mean, I love Nick. I couldn’t imagine sharing my life with anyone else. But we’re not joined at the hip. And we wouldn’t want to be.
‘You don’t know that yet.’ We’ve reached my front door. I dig around in my pocket for the keys. ‘Give it a chance.’
She sighs. ‘I do though.’
‘Not all couples are soul mates.’ The warmth from inside rushes out to greet us as the door opens. ‘Coffee before you go? Nick’ll be back any minute.’
She shakes her head. ‘I’ve got an early start. You should aim for that though, shouldn’t you?’ She pokes around on her phone. ‘I don’t want to settle. I’d rather be on my own.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘But the two things aren’t mutually exclusive. You can have a bit of fun with Vince without it having to lead to anything serious. I mean, why not?’
She shrugs. ‘I suppose.’ Her mobile beeps. ‘Oh, my Uber’s nearly here already. It must have just dropped someone off round the corner.’
‘Text me when you get in,’ I say, as I always do when she’s about to be driven across London by a strange man who’s only requirement for the job is that he owns a car. Or knows someone who does. She hugs me, her nose a block of ice on my cheek.
‘Will do.’
Nick stumbles in, merrily drunk, while I’m in the bathroom, scrubbing my face with a wipe. He’s a textbook good drunk. Happy and affectionate. In love with the world.
‘Was it fun?’ I say, attacking a particularly persistent blob of mascara.
He catches my eye in the mirror and gives me a lazy smile that still makes my heart flip. ‘Boring as fuck. I’m just happy to be home. How was Lyds?’
‘Good,’ I say, slathering on moisturizer. ‘Trying to talk herself out of dating a man she actually seems to like.’
I check in on Patricia’s Twitter while I wait for Lydia’s text, and Nick to have a shower. Send out a banal tweet about having been to a local theatre production just to keep the myth alive (So wonderful. Theatre at its best) and then, just as I’m about to log out, a 1 appears on the little envelope in the corner. A direct message.
Hope the theatre was fun! I’ve been for a delicious meal with Georgia. Manna in Primrose Hill. Do you ever come up to London, Patricia?
I hesitate before I reply. Do I really want to get into a conversation now? I hate to leave her hanging though. Not if I can help it!
I don’t blame you, comes the response. I’m surprised. Lydia usually professes to love the city and all it has to offer.
I can hear Nick singing away to himself in the bathroom. I need to wrap this up quickly. Well, I hope you had a fun evening. I press send and then wonder if I should have said Night or something that indicated the conversation was over. I start typing again, one ear open for Nick’s movements. As I do a response pops up.
It was great to see her. It’s just … it’s difficult at the moment. I feel awkward around her.
What? What does that mean?
In what way? I start to write and then realize that sounds too nosey. I delete it. I’m sorry. Nothing to worry about, I hope?
I sit there willing her to reply, one eye on the bathroom door. I can’t imagine how people with illicit lovers cope with the stress of secret communication. This is bad enough. I’m staring at my phone when Nick breezes out of the bathroom, dressed only in a towel, a slightly comedy wolfish look on his face. He leans over me. He smells of citrus and mint, with an undertone of booze. He always gets amorous when he’s had a few beers. He gently takes the mobile out of my hand and kisses me.
‘She didn’t text me yet,’ I say, when we come up for air. He knows I always demand Lydia let me know she’s safely home. I will him not to look at the phone. Not to ask who the hell Patricia is. He puts it on the bedside table and I breathe a sigh of relief, but my head is full of a million questions I want to ask Lydia. What is she talking about? Why does she feel uncomfortable around me? Why didn’t she say anything to my face? And what’s she going to think about Patricia abandoning her halfway through a confessional conversation? Nick has peeled back the covers and is nuzzling the inside of my thighs, something that would usually make me forget anything else that’s happening in my life. I can’t concentrate though. I go through the motions, but my mind is elsewhere. Probably she’s just talking about the inequity of our careers. A continuation of the conversation she started with Patricia the other day. I try to remember the exact wording of what she said. Force myself to resist the urge to pick up my phone and check. Faking it is one thing, but looking at Twitter while my husband gives it his all might be a step too far.
Ten minutes later, once Nick is snoring lightly, one arm draped heavily over my stomach, I slide out from under it and take my phone to the bathroom. Lydia has replied.
God, I shouldn’t have said anything. That’s what a couple of glasses of wine do to me! It’s just … I found out something and I feel terrible about it. I’m really having trouble pretending everything is normal. But I can’t tell her because what if it’s not true? What if I blow her life up by telling her something that turns out to be a made-up bit of gossip?
I sit down on the bathroom floor, which is damp from Nick’s wet feet. I stare at the message. Read it again, hoping I might have missed something, that I’ve misread it, that Lydia is actually talking about a play or a film she’s seen and not real life. My life.