My Best Friend's Girl

by Dorothy Koomson

  I didn’t like to see him like this. He’d always been steady and strong, not hesitant and nervous. He always knew what to do in any situation. Ted had been the one who had arranged everything when I’d asked for a sabbatical for six months so I could take care of Adele—he’d come up with the idea of me working three days a week from home. When I called him after Adele died to tell him I’d fostered a child, he’d organized for me to have both compassionate and maternity leave.

  Ted raised his head and studied me for a long moment. “Kamryn,” he began and I held my breath, scared of what he was going to say. “I have some news. I didn’t want to worry you while you were away. I’m…I’m leaving.”

  The glass slipped in my hand and I clutched it tighter to stop the wine spilling onto my carpet. He was leaving me, he was walking out of my life. Ted’s dark eyes held my gaze for a lot longer than was strictly necessary—there was something else. Something final about this. “Why do I get the feeling I’m never going to see you again?” I asked cautiously.

  “Ava and I are moving to Italy, starting again over there.”

  Not only leaving the company but leaving the country, too. “That’s…It’s great for you. Sorry, that sounds fake, but it’s not. I am really pleased for you, but I’m also feeling sorry for myself. I’ll miss you.”

  “You’ll hardly know I’m gone,” he said with a laugh.

  I didn’t laugh. Ted knew how much he meant to me.

  Since we’d met six years ago working on a project in London, Ted had been offering me a job as his second in command. Although he knew I was settled in London, he’d say, “One day, Matika, I’ll wear you down.” Just over two years ago, three days after I found out about Nate and Adele, I’d preempted his usual offer and asked if the position was still open. He’d been shocked. It’d showed on his face, in his slight frown, but he’d asked me no questions, simply told me what I’d have to do to formally apply and gave me the job almost straightaway. When I’d stepped into my new role, we were setting up Living Angeles so we worked many a late night together.

  One particular Friday night he walked me back to the hotel, wished me a good weekend and left me in reception. I went to the room that was my home while I was finding a flat and sat on the edge of the bed in the dark. Scared and alone and unable to do anything except wring my hands. Minutes later there was a knock at the door. I took my time answering it because I could barely move. It was Ted.

  “Kamryn,” he said, his face creasing in concern, “are you OK? You’ve been a bit down these past few weeks but today you seem even more…What’s the matter?”

  “It’s my wedding day tomorrow,” I confessed. The burden of that had been weighing on me for most of the week. I was meant to be marrying Nate the next day.

  He hid his surprise behind a look of deep concern, as he said quietly, “Oh, Kamryn.”

  I nodded. “But it’s over. I’m not getting married. I’m all alone.”

  He folded his arms around me and I crumpled. He led me to the bed and lay with me all night, holding me, stroking my hair as I swung between silence and quiet sobbing. In the morning, I looked at him to say thank you and found him staring at me with the same look of intense concern he’d had when I’d opened the door. Silence and understanding swelled between us, then he bent his head and kissed me. He kissed me and I decided to go with it. I knew he was married and that while he and his wife, Ava, had split up recently they were talking about getting back together, but I still decided to go with it. I was tired of feeling loss and pain and loneliness. I wanted to feel something else. Anything else. Even for a few minutes. Even if it would only compound my problems. I reached for the button on his shirt but he stopped me. “I—I…” he stuttered, “I’m sorry. I’m back with Ava. I’m sorry.”

  I was relieved. Unburdened. I hadn’t been sure I could go through with sex and now, thankfully, I didn’t have to. Ted took me in his arms again and said he’d stay as long as I needed him. We spent most of Saturday lying on the bed and I even fell asleep. He left on Sunday and, although we never mentioned the night again, we were closer. He’d seen a fragile side of me and I saw the same side of him six months later when his wife left him again and I spent the night watching him drink himself into oblivion then making sure he got home safely. We had a friendship that was mutually supportive; I’d always notice if he wasn’t around.

  “It’s going to work out with you and Ava, then?” I asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  His troubled expression belied the conviction of his reply. “This is what you want, isn’t it, Ted?” I asked, worried that he’d been pushed into this decision by his wife. She’d left him several times in the twenty years that they’d been married but he always took her back because, he said, “I love her.”

  “Yes, Kamryn, it is what I want.”

  “So, what’s up? What aren’t you telling me?”

  “There’s no easy way to say this…”

  “Just say it, then.”

  “They’ve already found my replacement. I’ve been working with him on a handover for the past couple of weeks.”

  The glass of wine slipped in my hand again. “You mean I’ve not even been given the chance to apply for the job? Don’t they think I’m up to it?”

  “It’s not that, Kamryn, you know you can’t do this job now that you’ve got a child, not with all the late nights and traveling to London and Edinburgh.”

  The heat of indignation began in my feet and burned its way up through my body to the tips of my hair. “That’s why? Because I’ve got a child?”

  “No one has said that officially. They want someone new, someone who’s going to be able to put in the hours, look at the company’s marketing strategy with a fresh eye and make some big changes. You can’t do that if you’ve got to leave on time every night, you know that, Kamryn.”

  “This wouldn’t be happening if I was a bloke, would it? No one makes judgments about men’s dedication to the job once they become fathers. A man can work all the hours God sends and still be seen as a good father because he’s providing for his family. Or he can leave on time every night and his boss won’t question his commitment, they’ll simply think he’s a good father who wants to spend time with his children. It’s a win-win if you’re a man.”

  “We all make choices, Kamryn,” Ted stated calmly, unruffled by my rant. “I’m not saying what they’ve done is right, but would you really want to miss out on the time with Tegan? She’s only going to be this age once, do you want to miss out on that? Especially when she’s just lost her mother and will need you. How would you feel if you squandered the hours you could spend with her at work?”

  Although the man in the blue suit was right, resentment still thudded through my veins. “That should have been my choice, it’s my life, after all. I’m annoyed that I didn’t even get the chance to apply, to prove I was up to it. Who are they to make decisions about my life? I’ve worked for Angeles for seven years and this is how I get treated? Who do they think they are? Who do they think I am? Do they think I’m going to take this lying down?”

  “It’s a testament to how much the company respects and likes you that they were willing to let you work from London, then gave you all this time off for compassionate and then maternity leave,” Ted reasoned.

  “That’s also what alerted them to the fact that my priorities might have changed.” I took a mouthful of wine, held it there, letting the sharp tang of the pale liquid seep into my taste buds before swallowing. “God I’m pissed off,” I stated, my whole body slumping in resignation. It wasn’t simply the job. It was the sense of powerlessness that had engulfed my life. Everything was out of control. First I couldn’t do anything to stop Adele…going. I didn’t stop Tegan from being hurt by her grandparents. I had motherhood forced upon me and now my job, the one thing that always kept me sane, the thing I could rely on to remain constant, had been snatched away from me. I wasn’t mistress of my own destiny anymore; circumstance had taken a s
ledgehammer to all my best-laid plans. And I wasn’t even allowed to complain about it. I had no control over any part of my life.

  “What’s the new marketing director like, then?”

  “Luke Wiseman? He’s ambitious,” Ted stated diplomatically. It got worse. “He was headhunted for the position.” And worse. “From a management consultancy firm.” And worse. “He’s a Harvard Business School graduate. He’s got lots of ideas, which is what Angeles needs.”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  Ted sat back, relaxed now that he’d imparted the grave news about my working life. “How’s parenthood?” he asked, his eyes alight with interest. Ted and Ava didn’t have children, and it was their infertility that had dismantled their marriage. Ava couldn’t conceive children and she’d been against adoption, but she wanted Ted to have children, so she repeatedly left him so he could find someone else.

  “It’s fine,” I said. I couldn’t tell Ted how much I was struggling—he’d give anything to be in my position, to be a parent, to have a child asleep in the other room, knowing he was going to take care of her.

  “Does ‘fine’ mean you’re barely coping?”

  “No, it’s not that bad. I’ve just got a lot of other stuff to deal with.”

  “Tegan’s mother?”

  “Yeah, that among other things.”

  “Would you like to talk about it?” His brown eyes were laced with that concern he had shown the night we kissed.

  “To be honest, no. Tell me all about your plans for moving to Italy and, most importantly, when I can come visit.”

  Hours later, I saw Ted outside to the waiting taxi and we shared a brief, friendly hug.

  “You’ll make a good parent,” Ted said as we stepped apart.

  I gave him a wan smile in return. “Thanks.”

  “You will, I know you will. I have every confidence in you.”

  “Thanks, boss. I’ll see you in a few weeks.”

  “Yes, you will.” Ted turned. “Oh,” he said and spun back.

  “I forgot to tell you, someone called for you while you were still in London. Very pleasant young man. He wanted to know if you were going to the funeral. What was his name?” Ted clicked his fingers, trying to recall the name. He needn’t have bothered; I knew exactly what he was going to say.

  “Oh, yes, Nathaniel Turner.”

  chapter 14

  My walls. My beautiful white-with-a-hint-of-cream walls.

  That’s what hurt the most about all this. The walls. Losing the sitting room wasn’t so bad—it wasn’t as if I had built the room from scratch. It was the loss of the walls I’d spent hours and hours painting that hurt. I had made the bricks and mortar mine when I painted the walls. And now it was going to go.

  Tegan stood with a paintbrush in one hand, a pot of red paint at her feet and a mix of happiness, excitement and apprehension on her little face. I’d tied a blue and white scarf around her head to protect her hair. She’d been worried about wearing her pink long-sleeved top and blue jeans for the job, but I’d reassured her that this was what adults wore to decorate. And just to prove my point, I’d dusted off my old decorating gear—dark blue combats, a pink T-shirt, and a yellow-and-white scarf to tie around my head.

  “Am I really ’lowed to paint on the wall?” Tegan checked again. She’d asked me that five times in the past minute.

  “Yep, any color you want.”

  I’d taken us to a DIY store yesterday and we’d bought a host of stencils—animals, stars, moons, suns, dolphins, fish—and paints in red, blue, brown, yellow and green. It was marginally cheaper than painting the whole room again. Not necessarily financially cheaper, simply less costly in terms of my time and sanity.

  “Can I paint a fish there?”

  She pointed to the space under the window. I’d had to lie on the floor to get right under the windowsill with the cream paint. Now it was going to be graced with a fish.

  “What color do you want to paint it?”

  She looked down at the open pot of red paint that was releasing fumes into the hot room. The windows were wide open but the cream fabric blinds that hung at them didn’t move because there wasn’t even the slightest stir of wind in the air. “Red.”

  “Go on, then,” I said. I picked up the fish stencil, attached it to the wall with tape, then stepped aside for the artist to do her work.

  Tegan took one more look at me to confirm that it was all right to do this, and made a stroke in the middle of the stencil. Each of her strokes were short and stubby, nervous and hesitant, carefully placed so she wouldn’t go outside the edges.

  The fish looked bereft on the wall, one lone splash of color in the wide ocean of cream-white.

  “OK, who’s next?” I asked.

  “An elephant,” Tegan decided.

  “What color?”

  “Blue?” she asked.

  “If the lady wants blue, the lady can have blue.” I got down on my knees, picked up the screwdriver, inserted it under the lid of the blue pot of paint and prised it open.

  As Tegan colored in the elephant stencil, I went to the stereo and flicked on the radio. I found an easy-listening station, one that would fit with the sun streaming in through the open windows and the warm, fragrant air. I’d forgotten how different the atmosphere was up here. London, much as I loved it, much as it was my “home,” was saturated with urgency. The frantic pace of being a capital city seemed to stain the air. Leeds was a city but without the frenzy.

  The pling, pling, pling of Peter Gabriel’s “Solsbury Hill” started and I flicked the volume up a few notches so it filled the flat. I’d moved all the furniture into the middle of the room when Tegan had been asleep in my room last night. I’d dismantled my desk and put my iMac on the floor in the corner of the bedroom. Old white and cream sheets covered the furniture; newspaper protected the floor. I glanced over at Tegan, whose little body was hunched forward, as she carefully painted her elephant. I could feel rather than see the concentration on her face. I could imagine her little tongue poking out from between her pink lips, her brow furrowed, her eyes crunched up as she made blue marks on the wall. I smiled and cranked up the stereo another notch or two.

  It took most of the afternoon to encircle the room with animals. Tegan was very particular and wanted to make sure each animal was equally spaced and all the same height from the ground, meaning I had to get the ruler out and ensure each animal was the same distance from its neighbor. Personally, I would have lived with any imperfections but not Tegan. She was precise in almost everything: at night, she had to sleep on the same side of the bed; she ate her dinner from the center of the plate outward; when she took her shoes off when she came in, she placed them neatly at the same place by the kitchen door every time. I just kicked mine off and pushed them aside so I wouldn’t trip over them.

  We stood beside the covered furniture and looked at our handiwork. Tegan’s ark of multicolored animals. She was good at painting, it had to be said. Probably got it from her mother. But then her father had been good at art too. Nate was always scribbling things on pieces of paper. We’d sit in pubs and at the end of the evening, we’d find he’d sketched someone across the bar on a beer mat. At home, while we were watching TV, there’d be the scratch, scratch of his pen on paper as he doodled. It was his way of burning off nervous energy. Some people smoked, others bit their nails, Nate sketched.

  Since I’d seen him at the funeral, Nate had been inhabiting my mind. Any space that wasn’t occupied with thoughts of Tegan, Adele and how I would cope, was filled with Nate. I hadn’t thought of him much since the day I collected my belongings from London; there was a part of my mind I’d consigned him to, a place I could ignore, but now he’d breached that, was reaching into every free recess. He’d called me. Had discovered that Adele was gone and had called me. Was he hoping for a reconciliation? Or to use this as a reason to start talking to me again? Or was it simply to find out if I was going to the funeral?

  “Like a Virgin
” came on the radio and shoved Nate aside, replaced the image of him in black with the image of Madonna in white, gyrating in a highly non-virginal way as she did in the video. I cranked up the stereo until Madge’s voice was on the verge of distorting with the volume. I glanced down at Tegan, who was staring up at me with a confused expression on her face. Is this suitable listening for a five-year-old? I wondered. Ah well, too late, she’s heard most of it. I didn’t understand the words when I’d first heard it all those years ago and I was a teenager.

  I held my hand out to her and she slipped her blue-, red-, green- and yellow-splattered fingers into my palm. I started rocking my hips, swaying my head in time to the music. I moved her hand with mine and she followed suit, dancing and moving in the room of heat and paint fumes. I lifted her hand up in the air and let her twirl a couple of times, then I grabbed both her small hands and rocked her arms. Unexpectedly, she threw her head back and laughed, a giggle that was partway between a belly rumble and a gurgle. It lifted my heart. I pulled her into my arms and started jiggling around the room with her. She was light in my arms, light but so much more substantial than she had been.

  “Like a Virgin” segued into Cyndi Lauper’s “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun,” and I put Tegan down as we both simultaneously threw our arms in the air and started moving our bodies side to side. Tegan even knew some of the words and sang along to the chorus.

  “This is my mummy’s favorite song,” Tegan laughed. And then stopped as she realized what she’d done: she’d brought up her mother when neither of us had mentioned her in the past week.

  I stopped dancing too, my heart drumming hard in my chest. Cyndi carried on singing her heart out but Tegan and I stood staring at each other, every word of the song like shards of glass scraping across our skins.

  Moving stiffly, I went to the stereo and flicked it off. The silence was sudden and brutal. I didn’t know how to handle moments of sudden remembering like this one. I’d done the best I could to read up on how to help a child deal with death but reading was no substitute for experience, of which I had none. And none of the articles had explained what to do in moments of sudden remembering. When you were having fun even though your mother, your best friend, was gone. None of them explained how to handle the twin emotions of guilt and resentment. Guilt at forgetting for a minute that this horrible thing had happened and finding a droplet of enjoyment; and resentment aimed at your loved one for leaving you. And then more guilt for feeling that resentment. And then more resentment for that guilt. It was a spiral that I stayed on the outside of, thinking around it like you would walk around a puddle in the road—you knew it was there but you were going nowhere near it. Thinking around these feelings meant, though, that I didn’t have the vocabulary to speak to Tegan about it. I didn’t know how to explain to her that it was normal to feel this; that she was allowed to be angry and upset and confused and hurt. And that despite the pain that had surrounded us, sadness wasn’t mandatory twenty-four hours a day, laughing was permissible.