by Jane Moore
I let out a long sigh and hook my handbag over my arm. "You're just a hard-faced old cow, Kara, plain and simple. Dan had that right. Our friendship is a false, abusive one and I want no further part in it. If I ever see you again, it will be too soon."
I stop speaking and turn to the rest of the room. "Apologies you had to hear all that," I say to no one in particular. "But it had to be said."
"On the contrary, hear fucking hear!" It's Richard, leaning against the kitchen sink. "Never darken my Dior again!" he adds, looking over at Kara, who's still eyeballing me defiantly.
Suddenly, Tab appears between us. "Kara, I think you and Dan had better leave," she says quietly.
I place a hand on her shoulder. "No, Tab, don't worry. I'm leaving now anyway. Sorry about all that, I hope it didn't ruin your party." I walk out of the kitchen door into the hallway, turning round for one last remark.
"Kara, you and Dan really should get married, you know. I can't think of a couple more deserving of each other."
I smile thinly at them, scan the room, and turn on my heel heading for the front door. My final image from the party is of Ben standing alone in a corner, a look of terrible sadness on his face.
Thirty Five
Oooh, St. Charles Place with a hotel, that's $750, please!" I hold my hand out towards Michael. "Aunty Jess?"
"Yes, my darling Emily?"
"Why do you always win at Monopoly?"
"Because I always buy up the cheap properties and build on them as soon as I can," I say pompously. "Daddy may well scoff at my tactic, but it works every time . . . whilst he's still struggling to buy even one house for his ostentatious Boardwalk and Park Place."
Michael pokes his tongue out at me, whilst Matthew, sitting to my right, simply looks puzzled.
"Ostin . . . ostin-stay-shuss," he struggles, "is that anything to do with Austin Powers?"
Olivia and I share a small smile. "No, darling," I reply. "It means pretentious . . . you know, showing off."
Counting the money Michael has handed to me, I place it on top of my vast pile of cash and ruffle Emily's hair. "I think I've won, don't you?"
Olivia looks at her watch. "Yes, come on, I need the table cleared for lunch anyway. Jess wins . . . again."
"The winner!" Hands raised aloft, I do a victory lap of the kitchen before running down the hallway to the living room, two delighted children squealing in my wake.
We fall into a bundle on the sofa, my arm round each of them. "Right! What film shall we watch?"
"What she means is, what film will you two watch while she falls asleep," says Michael, flopping into the armchair opposite.
One hour's time and one lunch later, I'm back at the kitchen table, my top pants button undone to accommodate my bloated stomach. "That was great, thanks." I hold up my glass of lemonade in a toast. "Here's to Olivia, and Happy New Year one and all."
"To my beautiful, charming, delightful wife," says Michael, leaning across and kissing her on the cheek.
Olivia raises her eyes heavenward. "Yes, you can go and watch the rugby," she laughs. "Creep!"
Michael needs no second bidding and hastily grabs his glass of lager. "I'll watch it in the bedroom so the kids can finish watching their film downstairs," he says. "See you later."
"Coffee?" Olivia looks at me inquiringly.
"I'll make it." I force myself to stand up and walk over to the kettle. "You've done quite enough for one day. How are you feeling?"
"Great, actually." She smiles. "I'm not usually a big fan of New Year's, but I feel very optimistic about this one."
"Good." I smile. "That's what I like to hear."
"I enjoyed Tab's party," she adds, flicking through an old copy of OK magazine. "Did we miss anything by leaving so soon after midnight?"
I widen my eyes, suddenly realizing she doesn't know about the showdown with Kara. "Yes, you missed your sister's finest moment. Let me make the coffee and I'll fill you in."
It's 6 p.m. and pitch black by the time I arrive back at my flat, exhausted but extremely mellow after a contented afternoon spent gossiping with Olivia at her kitchen table.
Having deliberately left my mobile phone at home to escape intrusive calls from the outside world, I rummage in the bottom of the fruit bowl to retrieve it. Six missed calls, three new messages.
"Richard will be one, Tab will be another," I say out loud. Sure enough, I'm right. The third is from Madeleine, with the distinct sound of a man's voice in the background and lots of giggling on her part. All are ringing for a postmortem on the gunfight at the OK Kara Corral.
Knowing Richard will be at home with his mobile switched off, I deliberately choose to call the latter and leave a message. I need to be in the right, energetic mood for a high-octane conversation with him, and I'm not.
Fake gas fire on full blast, telly on mute, and legs curled under me on the sofa, I pick up the hands-free phone and punch in Tab's home number.
"Hi there, it's me. I'm just calling to say that I know we've been friends for ages, but you really get on my tits and I don't want to clap eyes on you ever again."
Tab bursts out laughing on the other end. "I never liked you either," she retorts.
"Sorry about that." My voice is serious now. "I hope it didn't screw up your party."
"On the contrary, it rejuvenated it," she enthuses. "It was starting to wind down until the you and Kara moment, then after you'd gone it was really buzzy again with everyone talking about what had happened."
"What about Kara? Did she spontaneously combust into a small, steaming blob on the kitchen floor?"
"Not far off. After you'd walked out, she stood there motionless for about another minute, just staring at the ground. Then Dan tapped her on the arm and asked if she was OK, and she turned on him with all guns blazing."
"Really?" I say delightedly. I'm relishing the thought.
"Yes, she said . . . or should I say spat . . . something like 'I don't know who to fucking believe,' then marched out of the kitchen with him in hot pursuit behind her."
"And?"
"And then we heard the front door slam and they had both gone."
I purse my lips. "Bloody hell, I'll bet he's having a really shit New Year's Day."
Tab laughs. "You bet. Mind you, sounds like he deserves it if what you were saying was true."
"Of course it was true," I snap, annoyed she might even contemplate the thought that I'd made it all up. "You don't seriously think I'd invent something like that, do you?"
"No, no, not at all," she replies hastily. "I just thought you might have exaggerated slightly . . . you know, just to wind her up."
"Nope. It was pretty much verbatim what happened. He's such a slimeball. I couldn't believe it when she came to your birthday dinner and said they were back together."
"Well, as you said last night, they deserve each other. Did you enjoy the party otherwise?"
"I had a lovely time, thanks. And it was nice to catch up with Ben. I haven't seen him for ages." I feel slightly nauseous as I remember what was said.
"Yes, I saw you talking to him. Is he OK?"
I pause for a moment, mulling over whether to tell Tab the full, unexpurgated version of our conversation. I decide she's trustworthy enough. "Don't tell Will, but I asked Ben outright if he was gay."
She audibly gasps. "And what did he say?"
"Well, that's just it. He didn't."
"He must have done or said something," she says incredulously. "That's a pretty big question to have been asked."
"I know, but just as I had asked it, you came over and interrupted us. Do you remember? It was when you came to tell me about the pregnancy."
Tab groans. "What bloody great timing on my part. Didn't you speak to him again later?"
"No, I didn't get the chance. When I went back into the kitchen he was talking to someone else, then the whole Kara business happened and I left."
She's silent for a moment, then takes a deep breath. "You should call him tonight."
I shudder at the thought. "I can't, Tab, I feel so hideously awkward now for having mentioned it. I could kick myself, I really could. He's such a nice man, and I feel I've ruined our friendship by pushing such a sensitive subject on him in such an appallingly insensitive manner." I sigh and shift slightly, stretching my aching legs out in front of me. "It feels like it does the day after you've gotten really drunk and ended up shagging an old friend. You know, when you feel the whole axis of your relationship has shifted and will never be the same again."
"Shall I ring him and see if he mentions it?" says Tab.
"No, absolutely not," I splutter. "You wouldn't call him out of the blue at the best of times, and New Year's Day would seem really suspicious. He'd know I'd put you up to it." I let out a long, slow breath. "No, I think I'll use the coward's way out and e-mail him."
"Well, let me know what happens." She clears her throat. "Look, gotta go, Will has cooked dinner and, as it's a once-in-a-year occurrence, I'd better look appreciative and savor it. I'll call you tomorrow, OK?"
After she's put the phone down, I sit there for a few minutes, pondering what to do about Ben. I decide that an e-mail still is the best option. It offers a distance that's easier to cope with, and he can read it several times without pressure before deciding how to respond. Deep down, I'm also afraid of what a direct phone conversation might yield. I don't think I could bear it if he was ice cold or overtly hostile, though he certainly has every right to be. Along those lines, he might just delete my e-mail altogether. But at least I'll know I've tried.
Lifting my laptop onto my knees, I switch it on and wince slightly, the bright screen hurting my eyes. There are a few new e-mails, but a quick scan reveals that none of them are from Ben.
However, there is one from my new cyberbuddy, Seb Northam, dated today.
Dear Jess,
Happy New Year!!! I vaguely remember you saying you were going to a party, so hope you enjoyed it.
I also went to a party at a friend's house, but can't really remember much as I drank myself stupid, made a complete spectacle of myself doing a solo rendition of "Oops upside your head," and am deeply regretting it this morning. My mouth feels like the inside of a parrot cage.
I didn't get up until midday, and have just made myself a Cup-O-Soup and a mushroom toast topper. What a glamorous life, eh?
Do you realize it's now been just over two months since we started writing to each other? We've exchanged photographs and lots of very personal information--not least your feelings about your sister's breast cancer--and I feel we have got to know each other pretty well.
So all that remains is to actually meet! I have refrained from suggesting it before because I sensed that, maybe, with so much going on in your life, you weren't ready to do so.
But as we stand on the threshold of another new year, my hangover has numbed me enough to pluck up the courage to say that I would dearly like to actually clap eyes on you in the flesh.
No pressure, just two cyberfriends seeing if their relationship has a chance of crossing into the real world.
So I'm going to take a leap of faith here and book us a table for lunch on Saturday. Let's make it 1 p.m. at Rawnsleys' restaurant on Walton Street, SW1. If you turn up, fantastic. If you don't, then at least I'll know for sure that you're not interested in extending this relationship beyond the occasional e-mail, which I've enjoyed very much, by the way, don't get me wrong.
This may all sound very Sunday afternoon movie, but hey, wouldn't life be dull without a little bit of old-fashioned romance?
Yours,
Seb xx
I stare at the screen blankly for a few moments, absorbing what he's written. Over the past few weeks, we have indeed shared many hopes and thoughts that, normally, it would take me longer to impart to an actual boyfriend.
The reason for this, I muse, is twofold. With a new boyfriend you're trying to impress, you always present a rather false, permanently jolly side of yourself in the early stages, anxious not to show weakness until you both know each other a little better. Seb's not a boyfriend, so I've felt no reservations in sharing my every little up and down over my new job and, most of all, Olivia.
Secondly, as anyone familiar with e-mail knows, the barrier of the computer between you is almost like passing on information through a third party. It makes you more succinct in what you want to say, flirtier, and a hell of a lot braver. There are no immediate reactions to deal with, no facial expressions that suggest hurt, disappointment, or pity, no interruptions or contradictions, just a self-indulgent, unhindered flow. Consequently, it can be very cathartic, a form of cyber therapy.
The burning question is, would finally meeting him spoil it all? Would it burst the comforting bubble we have been happily conversing in for so long?
I'm not so sure, but as it's only Wednesday, I've got three days to think about it. Right now, I push it to the back of my mind, wanting to concentrate on my e-mail to Ben.
Dear Ben.
No, too formal. Delete.
Yo there.
Yo? Have I completely lost my marbles? I sound like a children's TV presenter. All that's missing is a thumbs-up sign.
Hi there.
That's better. Friendly and casual, that's the style I want.
It's New Year's Day and I'm suffering from quite a hangover. But then, you'd know that because you had to suffer the drunken creature that led up to it!
I haven't drunk so much since . . . ooh . . . last week, and my New Year resolution is to cut right back on the alcohol and lead a blameless life of abstemiousness. Well, for at least a month anyway.
Anyway, enough of my wittering. I wish I could say that I was so drunk last night that I don't remember a word that passed between us. But sadly I do, and I'm mortified that I could have been so insensitive to ask what I did in such circumstances. Hardly the right time or the place, was it?
So I want to apologize profusely for doing so, and say that your private life is absolutely none of my business and I should never have intruded. My only defense is that, because I confided in you so early about Olivia, I suppose I felt our friendship was closer and more confessional than it actually was from your point of view. I overstepped the mark and I'm sorry.
For what it's worth, I couldn't care two hoots whether you're straight, gay, bisexual, trisexual (!), or totally asexual. All I care about is that you've been a very good friend to me and I hate the thought that, instead of waiting for you to tell me yourself, I may have hurt you by being so intrusive.
So can we just forget that conversation ever happened? Please? I want to press rewind and go back to how we were--a friendship with no pressure, just good mates who are there for each other in times of crisis.
Groveling apologies again, and I hope you can see your way to forgive me.
Jess x
I reread it a couple of times, then click on "send" before I can change my mind. I just hope it does the trick. Sighing, I close the lid of my laptop and lean back against the sofa, my thoughts full of how different my life is just one year on.
Last New Year's Day, there was no Ben, Kara and I were friends (at least of a sort), and I was still working at Good Morning Britain and hating every minute of it. I was single but--in the absence of an Internet ad--still following the traditional route of trawling wine bars and parties. And most poignantly of all, Olivia didn't have cancer.
I wonder, not without some trepidation, what twists and turns my life will have taken another year from now.
Thirty Six
The wind shoots noisily down my bedroom chimney, jolting the grate and waking me with a start. Disoriented, I sit bolt upright and take a few seconds to realize that the world hasn't ended and I'm not late for work. It's 10 a.m. Saturday morning and I sink gratefully back onto my pillow, fantasizing about having a housekeeper who would now bring me a refreshing cup of tea. Or an obliging boyfriend who would do the same, perhaps?
For the first time in ages, I find myself lamenting t
he lack of a serious relationship in my life, and not just because I'm too lazy to get off my backside and make my own tea. No, even thinking back to the days of the hapless Nathan, there was something reassuring about waking up on a wet weekend morning and having someone to cuddle up to or even just slop around the house with. Company on tap if you wanted it, a long, solitary bath with a good book if you didn't.
As a singleton, there isn't that choice. Sure, I could hit the phone and invite myself to someone's house, but sometimes that feels like piggybacking on their lives rather than simply living my own.
Sighing, I haul myself out of bed and pad through into the kitchen to make that much-needed cup of tea. Waiting for the kettle to boil, I unplug my laptop from its charger and switch it on.
There are four new e-mails, all work related, and my heart sinks. It's now been three days since I e-mailed Ben to apologize about my behavior on New Year's Eve, and the silence has been deafening. Like staring at a phone you want desperately to ring, I have been obsessively checking my in-box at least once an hour, silently willing there to be a reply from him.
But nothing. I can only assume I have offended him so greatly that he's either going to make me suffer for several more days, or he's simply decided to do what I have finally done with Kara and cut me out of his life altogether. Let's face it, who needs friends like drunken old me?