Her Closest Friend (ARC)

by Clare Boyd

  ‘If she stopped with the booze, she’d be all right,’ he said.

  The wine seemed to solidify in my throat. ‘Yes.’

  He picked up his phone in response to a text alert. ‘Speak of the devil. She wants to know what train I’m getting.’

  ‘You should tell her where you are.’

  He began texting her back. ‘No way. I value my life.’

  I laughed guiltily.

  He stuck his phone in his back pocket. ‘What if she’s not okay, like, in a really serious way? Like she’s…’ he paused, then dropped his voice a notch, ‘unstable.’

  ‘I think she’s been under a lot of strain lately,’ I said.

  ‘When I think of Dylan on his own with her, it freaks the hell out of me.’

  My fingers tapped my knees under the table. ‘Dylan will be fine. She would never harm him. She dotes on him.’

  ‘Naomi, you have to understand, I love the crazy cow, but I can’t be with her a day longer, I can’t do it. I’ve tried to reason with her about stuff, I’ve tried to help her. I’ve tried everything. But I can’t do it any more.’

  I felt for him. I understood. ‘I understand.’

  He looked up, with eyes rimmed red, and he slid his hand towards me across the table, reaching out. ‘I need you to look out for my boy,’ he pleaded. ‘For me, Naomi. You’re the only one I trust.’

  A pang of genuine fear sliced through me and I placed my hand on his and squeezed it tightly. Understandably, Sophie could have viewed this as a disloyal act – my touch too intimate for the man who had scorned her – but I felt real affection for him, real sisterly affection.

  ‘I promise I will. I really do promise.’

  Chapter Twelve

  They had waited – she and Dylan – and they had waited, and Adam had not arrived. Dylan had sat in the front seat, panting like a dog at the car window, as the passengers filtered out from the most recent London train.

  ‘Is this the one Daddy’s on?’ Dylan asked.

  Sophie’s sleep deprivation from her road trip to Exeter last night had given her an ache in the centre of her brain. The nap that she had taken in the car in a lay-by had only provided a few hours’ sleep. Thoughts about her decision to confess to Naomi drilled their way through her mind, leaving gaping holes of self-doubt.

  ‘I don’t know, Dylan.’

  ‘When will he be here?’ he whined.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  She had wanted to surprise Adam, make amends for disappearing last night. In his text he had said he was working late, that he would be home at ten or ten thirty. It took ten minutes to drive home from the station, which would mean he was either on the 21.02 train from Waterloo, arriving at 21.50, or the 21.16, arriving at 22.10.

  Dylan banged the glass with his fist. ‘I can’t see him!’

  Neither could Sophie. She checked her phone to make sure that she had not missed a text from him. If he had missed the train or decided to stay in London, he would have told them. He would never have let Dylan down.

  Dylan unzipped his puffa jacket and shrugged it off to reveal his Spider-Man pyjamas. The smell of his hydrocortisone cream spread through the air.

  ‘I’m hot!’ Dylan cried, fiddling with the knobs on the car.

  She pushed his hands away. ‘Don’t do that. I’ll turn it down if you’re hot.’

  He returned to his spot at the window.

  By a quarter to eleven, after an hour of waiting in the car, Sophie realised that Daddy was not coming.

  She turned on the ignition. ‘Come on. Let’s go. Daddy lied.’

  Sophie waited for the tears. Instead, Dylan began scratching his elbows, then strapped himself into the front seat again and said sulkily, ‘I want to go to bed.’

  Within minutes of leaving the station, her phone pinged with a text. Dylan read it out loud. ‘It’s from Daddy! It says, “I’m home! Where the hell are you?” Ooh, rude word, Daddy!’

  ‘He’s at home?’

  ‘Can I text him back?’

  ‘Tell him we’ll be there in ten minutes.’

  When she glanced over, she saw that Dylan was choosing angry emojis.

  It didn’t matter. It kept him busy for the drive so that she could think straight.

  If Adam was at home, how had he got there? They had seen all the trains arrive at the station and his car was in the drive. Eager to find out, wondering if a driver from the job had taken him home, she sped through the lanes.

  Dylan was asleep by the time she pulled into the drive.

  The door to the shack opened. The silhouette of Adam was menacing against the warm glow from inside.

  ‘It’s almost eleven at night! Where the hell did you take him so late?’ he shouted.

  ‘Shush. He’s asleep,’ Sophie whispered angrily.

  She heaved a floppy Dylan out of the car and carried him inside and into their bed. Her bed. It was technically Sophie’s bed now.

  Having tucked him in, she crept out of the room and closed the door, relieved that she would not have an arduous story time session ahead of her, grateful for the time she would now have with Adam to find out how he had made it home.

  Before she went through to the kitchen, where she could hear the chink of bottles rattling from the fridge, she checked her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She pinched her cheeks to add some colour and ruffled her hair forward, satisfied that she looked passable, as scorned wives go.

  She found Adam slumped forward on the sofa, scrolling through his phone with one hand, taking a gulp of wine with the other.

  ‘You must be tired. I’ve prepared supper, if you want me to put it on,’ she asked.

  He snapped his head up and glared at her. His full attention startled her.

  ‘Where have you been?’ he hissed.

  She poured her own glass of wine and curled up on the sofa next to him. Her toes kneaded his thighs, but he shuffled over, away from her. This tiny rejection enraged her.

  She ground her back teeth together, grinding away the anger, before replying in her sweetest voice, ‘We wanted to surprise you at the station. That’s all.’

  It had thrown him, she could tell. How could he be angry with her now?

  ‘Sophie,’ he said, leaning back, running his fingers through his beautiful black hair, ‘It’s not appropriate for kids Dylan’s age to be out so late. You do understand this, don’t you?’

  ‘It was a one-off, Adam.’

  He stole a glance over at her, and for a split second she could see the depth of his feelings for her. Whatever happened, she knew he would always love her more than he loved any other woman.

  ‘Can you just promise me that you’ll not go out with him that late again?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘And that you’ll not leave him alone again?’

  ‘Promise.’ At this, she pulled her knees up to her chest and rested her wine glass on the top of one knee, balancing it there, seeing how long it would stay upright before she had to catch it. She yearned to retreat to her grandfather’s house for something stronger, but she was resisting its pull, reminding herself of its emptiness.

  ‘What happened to your hand?’

  She looked at the bandage she had wrapped around the seeping rash. ‘My eczema flared up.’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said, inexplicably. But it reminded her of what he was to blame for.

  ‘What train were you on, again?’ she asked.

  ‘Why does that matter?’ he said, reaching for his phone again.

  ‘Tell me, I’m interested.’

  ‘I caught the nine sixteen.’

  ‘It’s funny, we didn’t see you.’

  ‘Well, I was there.’

  ‘I suppose it was dark,’ she mused, humouring his lie, clearly remembering the ten or so passengers who had dribbled out of the station from the 21.16. ‘And my eyesight isn’t perfect.’

  He stood up and stretched his arms in the air, feigning a yawn. ‘I’m knackered. I’m going to bed.’

&nb
sp; She watched his every move as he washed up his wine glass, left it on the draining board, plugged in his phone to charge and removed his slippers before climbing the ladder upstairs.

  ‘Night,’ she said, more to herself.

  And she waited. And waited. Waited to hear the familiar noises of a sleeping man.

  As soon as she heard his changed breathing, she checked his phone.

  The photograph of Dylan shone from the screen. She typed in the code 197710, his birthday year and day. In the past, he had used this code. It didn’t work. She tried Dylan’s details, 201023. It didn’t work. After three more attempts, she crept into her bedroom, where Dylan was sleeping, and sat on the edge of the bed.

  She stroked his head, whispering, ‘Dylan, sweetie, Dylan, wake up.’

  His eyes flickered open, and then closed. Gently, she shook him. ‘Wake up, poppet. Mummy needs you to do something really important.’

  He mumbled, ‘I’m too tired.’

  Impatiently, she continued to harass him until he sat up and rubbed his eyes.

  She shoved Adam’s phone into his hands. ‘Can you type in Daddy’s code?’

  ‘Why?’ he said, too loudly.

  ‘Keep your voice down.’

  ‘Why?’ he whispered.

  ‘I want to surprise Daddy with something.’

  ‘Surprises are stupid,’ he said, flopping down and pulling his teddy into him.

  ‘Come on. Wake up. Come on.’ She prodded his ribs and he squirmed and whined, ‘Go away, Mummy. I’m sleeping.’

  Her exasperation got the better of her, and she yanked him by the wrist.

  ‘Do as I say. Now,’ she ordered.

  ‘Ow,’ he whimpered, rubbing his wrist. ‘You hurt me.’

  She was trembling with anticipation as she placed the phone into his hands. ‘Do it. Or you won’t get any pocket money for a whole month.’

  ‘You hurt me, Mummy,’ he repeated as he typed in Adam’s code: 197715. It was her own birthday year and date.

  ‘Thank you. Now you can go back to sleep,’ she said, kissing him on the forehead.

  He curled back under the duvet and she left him.

  Her heart raced as she navigated her way through Adam’s phone to his texts. She saw the name ‘Nat’ at the top of the list. She scrolled through their most recent exchange.

  I hope it goes okay. Kisses. Can’t wait to see you. More kisses xxxx

  This shoot is never-ending. Wish you were the stylist. She’s shit.

  Miss you xxxxx

  And on and on they texted each other. After reading three days’ worth of inane interchanges, back and forth, back and forth, she gathered that Natalie was away on a shoot in South Africa this week, and that she was the more forthcoming between the two of them, in terms of feelings. She was always the one to start up the exchanges and always the one to end them with a ‘miss you’ or ‘can’t wait to see you’, which were often met with radio silences from Adam. This heartened Sophie a little and set her mind whirring with hope, believing that Natalie might be expendable after all. As an amusing aside, she fantasised about a GIF depicting a man in Johannesburg approaching Natalie’s car at the traffic lights, opening her car door, snatching her handbag and shooting her in the face. As it replayed over and over in her mind, Sophie smiled to herself.

  The other text exchanges between friends and family were useless and tiresome. She moved on to WhatsApp.

  The name ‘Naomi’ was at the top of the list of recent contact exchanges. Her brain scrambled. It must have been another Naomi. A friend or colleague of his. There was no photograph in the contact details. It read:

  Is it still okay if I pop over tonight? Adam

  What will you tell Sophie? Nx

  Working late ; )

  See you then. Naomi x

  The mucus thickened in Sophie’s mouth.

  Images of Adam and Naomi flirting and laughing together hurtled through her mind. Until now, their connection, their friendship had enthralled her. She had been proud of having them both in her life; as though Adam endorsed her character in Naomi’s eyes, as though Naomi affirmed her in Adam’s eyes.

  Considering everything she knew about Naomi’s past, it may well have been naive to view them so simply. Naomi’s drunken promiscuity at Exeter had been amoral, at best; indiscriminate certainly, disgusting often. By day, Naomi had been the goody-two-shoes who had sat at the front of the lecture halls listening earnestly. By night, she had slipped in and out of the shadows of the university party scene enticing men into her bed. Only Sophie had been privy to her dirty little secret: by witnessing the boys leaving, by seeing their clinches, by rescuing her from precarious situations, by hearing her guilty disclosures.

  When Sophie tried to scroll further back into their text history, she found nothing. If she and Adam had met before in secret, there was nothing to prove it. If they had sent each other messages, they had been deleted. As she scoured Adam’s phone for more evidence, she wondered whether Natalie had been the red herring, the plaything, while he and Naomi struggled with their consciences, secretly in love. Surely Naomi could not be capable of such treachery.

  It was an unimaginable thought, initially, and she dismissed the whole idea, convincing herself it had come from a bent, sleep-deprived mind. Although she wanted to know why they had met in secret, wanted to hear their innocent explanation, the stress of finding out made her feel lethargic. She could not keep her eyes open.

  She curled up on the sofa, pulled the rug over her and fell into a fitful sleep, to awake abruptly an hour later, after a series of nasty, disconnected dreams. Her paranoia began wheeling around and around her brain. As she struggled to sleep, as the night wore on, their secret meeting became a tryst, became an affair, became a certainty.

  At three in the morning, she shot up from the sofa and searched the fridge for some wine, which she hoped would have a soporific effect on her. There wasn’t a drop of alcohol anywhere in the house.

  Overtired, overanxious, she grabbed Deda’s keys and ran over to the cottage.

  ‘Deda! Deda!’ she cried, regretting her clear-out of the kitchen. He had been the voice of reason, and she needed to hear him now. But he was gone. The clear-out had killed him for the second time. There was a void, and the paranoid voices of old rushed in, gabbling and chattering and goading.

  She flung open the kitchen cupboards, knowing she would find nothing, wishing she had not been so thorough, wishing that she had left just three items: the bottle and the two shot glasses. The tension tightened her muscles until she thought they might snap. She paced back and forth, not knowing where to take her mind, not knowing how to throw cold water on it.

  She needed the milk-and-honey drip of Stolichnaya down her throat, or she feared the sparks of agitation would explode into panic. Her hands began to shake. Her heart rate sped.

  ‘Deda?’

  She squeezed her temples and paced, willing his voice. Deda, please, come to me, she thought.

  ‘Deda? Deda? I’ve protected Naomi, and this is how she repays me? Is she that spoilt, that entitled? Can it be true?’

  Hold her close, my Sophia.

  ‘NO! I can’t!’ Sophie screamed.

  He was gone again.

  ‘Deda? Are you still there? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry! Please come back,’ she whimpered.

  She stumbled into the garage to get a sleeping bag and a futon that had been stored under the bench for years. There, she also found a secret stash of vodka, which was like stumbling on gold nuggets in a riverbed. All of it she carried into the cottage, and she rolled the damp bedding out onto the green carpet in the front room. She felt closer to Deda.

  Shot by shot, she worked through the vodka and her confidence grew again. In fact, she felt greater than ever, greater than everyone else. Those dreams about flicking little humans away from her with her fingertips had come to her because she was fearless, all-powerful, misunderstood. Whatever setbacks she had experienced in life had been the fault of a world no
t ready for her, a backward-thinking culture of small-mindedness, taking their narrow paths of convention. She didn’t fit in, which was a good thing. She didn’t need anybody except Dylan. Children were survivors. They were strong. Unlike adults. Like Naomi and Adam, who were weak, working against her with their petty jealousies and inadequacies.

  She wanted Naomi to feel hurt, just as Sophie was hurting, and she knew exactly how to get her just where it would hurt most.

  She reached for her phone and opened up Facebook.

  Although Sophie had her own account, she had not posted a personal photograph for a long time and had very few friends, but Naomi had thousands, and she knew that Naomi used the same password for all of her accounts: DianaIzzy0609.

  It seemed an opportune moment to give Naomi’s ‘friends’ a glimpse into the real Naomi, share the highlights, remind Naomi of their friendship, flood her with reminders of who they had once been.

  In the corner of Sophie’s old bedroom, which Naomi had failed to get around to clearing out, there was a wire drawer under the bed, which contained photograph albums and Kodak envelopes filled with old snaps from childhood and university. There was bound to be something interesting in there to post, some nostalgia to exploit.

  It didn’t take her long to find a photograph that perfectly highlighted their friendship.

  It was taken outside a pub in the centre of Exeter, on a street corner. Sophie and Naomi were arm in arm. But not in that way that shows happy, twee closeness. The flash was cruel. Naomi’s pale, fat thighs dimpled under her velvet hot pants, her t-shirt was covered in a wet patch across one breast; her spotty chin and forehead shone with sweat or spittle and her half-mast eyes were reddened, their focus gone. Beside her was Sophie, who smiled awkwardly at the camera as she held Naomi by the elbow. Aside from the red-eye, she was slim, well-dressed in low-slung, flared jeans, a tight T and large belt. Her white-blonde hair fell about her face in flattering wisps and her lips were newly painted pink.