Friday Night With The Girls: A tale that will make you laugh, cry and call your best friend!

by Shari Low

  ‘What are you all doing here?’ I asked, to be rewarded with a raucous impromptu chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’, led by Ginger.

  God, she looked great. Thin, but great. And it was so good to see her. For the last year, every time Lizzy and I had a few drinks we’d vow to book a trip down to London, only for sobriety, work, children and commitments to put the knackers on it.

  ‘Babe, you look amazing,’ I told her as I slipped into the leather-studded sofa and gave her a huge squeeze.

  Oh, this was fantastic. Really, really fantastic. So much for Marc avoiding grand, sweeping romantic gestures – there was no way I was swapping him for Rico now. At the other side of the table, Marc slid beside Josie and Ike, while Avril ignored them all by chatting to someone on her new mobile phone.

  ‘Who’s she talking to?’ I mouthed to Josie.

  ‘Perverts. She’s got a part-time job on one of those new sex lines to earn a bit of extra cash.’ She accompanied the revelation with two thumbs-up.

  Deciding this was one of those occasions in life where there was such a thing as too much information, I took a quick slug from the champagne glass that had materialised in front of me and – much to her discomfort – gave Ginger another hug. Public displays of affection were still not her thing.

  Four waiters descended on the table with huge slabs of antipasti and baskets of assorted bread that smelled incredible.

  ‘So tell me everything. How’s work? How’s life?’ By my reckoning we had a few hours to catch up on months of gossip and I didn’t want to waste a minute.

  ‘All good,’ Ginger replied.

  Was it just me, or did her grin not reach her eyes?

  ‘I’m looking after a new boy band and I swear they’re going to be a cross between Oasis and Take That. The lead singer already has anger issues and a weight problem. S’cuse me.’ She gestured to one of the waiters. ‘Can we have another bottle of champagne and I’ll have a Jack Daniel’s and Coke too.’

  Over beside Marc, I noticed Ike’s head shake and his lips tighten. His day-old sexy stubble was a stark contrast to the suave cut of his suit and the perfectly groomed hair. It struck me as bizarre that I barely knew the husband of one of my closest lifelong friends, but since almost the day that they met they’d lived in London and when Ginger did come back up she often came alone. Despite the age difference though, Ike seemed to be good for her. The stereotype of the sleazy music-industry guy getting his moneymaking claws into the female talent and controlling her life definitely didn’t seem to apply here. He was more of a protector, a carer, a balance for her roller-coaster personality and inherent volatility. And let’s face it, after doing his apprenticeship looking after Ginger, the guy was a shoo-in for a role with a UN Peacekeeping Force.

  I snapped out of my reverie when I realised that Lizzy had weighed in on the conversation too. ‘Did you do the test?’ I heard her whisper to Ginger. What test? What’s going on? Oh God she was sick. My best friend was sick and I didn’t even know about it. Memo to self – that would be the propensity for panic and drama taking over again.

  Ginger glanced around to make sure that everyone else was engaged in their own conversations.

  ‘Three stabbings and an indecent exposure . . .’ Marc was saying to Ike.

  ‘. . . the year end. Difficult to predict the stock situation . . .’ Adam was telling Josie, unaware that she had completely glazed over and was staring vacantly at Rico’s passing arse.

  ‘Go on, big boy, grab it tight.’ That was Avril. And I didn’t want to know.

  Yep, coast was clear for Ginger to continue. ‘Pregnancy test,’ she half whispered/half mouthed.

  I bit my tongue to stop myself from uttering an exclamatory yelp. Pregnancy! Ginger had never, in all the years I’d known her, ever expressed the slightest notion for a baby and now she was doing tests?

  ‘Negative,’ she told Lizzy, her voice oozing relief. Bloody hell, she looked rattled. This was clearly some burst condom/ forgotten pill/senseless on Jack Daniel’s scenario that left the possibility that Ginger was up the duff. Why didn’t I know about this? Why? Lizzy clearly knew. Ginger obviously knew. Therefore . . .

  ‘Why don’t I know about this?’ It was out before I realised it.

  Lizzy’s turn to whisper now. ‘It’s new. And you haven’t been around for a while and –’ she switched her focus back to Ginger ‘– oh hon, those prayers worked. Are you relieved?’

  Ginger nodded. ‘You’ve no idea. I’ve never been so terrified in my life.’

  I reached under the table and took her hand. She was obviously drained with the stress of it all because such an act of tactile affection in Ginger’s direction usually resulted in rolling eyes and a response stating, ‘No, I do not need a hug so fuck off and stop coming over all Oprah.’

  This time she just did nothing. No retraction of the hand, no reassuring squeeze, just nothing.

  Where had I been? Ginger was obviously in the middle of an important, emotional time in her life and I had been completely oblivious. There was no way this was going to happen again.

  With a flicker of surprise, I realised that Lizzy had been right – I hadn’t been around much at all. The last few times she’d called me to arrange a Friday night out, I’d made excuses. I used to see her when I was right next door, but now I rarely stayed at my flat because Marc preferred to crash at his. Sure, it was bigger. And cleaner. And didn’t come with the sound of screaming children during the day. But maybe we could stay there one or two nights a week just to even things up? I’d run that past him tomorrow.

  ‘So how come you haven’t told her about all this?’ Ginger asked Lizzy, with a head toss in my direction.

  ‘We haven’t had a chance to gab properly in ages.’ Lizzy sounded just a little defensive and . . . was that a little hurt too? That was ridiculous! We’d had a night in and a long gab only . . . only . . . Shit, when was the last time that we had a night in and a long gab?

  ‘And I’ve not had a chance to pop into the shop. You know, with my broken ankle.’

  She had a broken ankle? Several pounds of white plaster completed a circular ascent that started on the floor and ended with a thump on the table. Irrevocable proof that my other best friend did indeed have a broken ankle.

  My mouth was opening and closing like an overwrought haddock before I managed, ‘How did you break it?’

  ‘I fell . . .’ There was a split second of relief as I realised that she’d had an innocuous, everyday stumble and I hadn’t missed something crucial in her life like, say, an ascent of the north face of the Eiger or her first solo swim of the Channel.

  ‘. . . off a podium. In a nightclub. When we were in Las Vegas.’

  What?

  Had I been in a coma? Or a time warp? Or prison? Hang on. The last time I spoke to Lizzy she was bawling her eyes out because Princess Diana had just died and that was August. We were now in October. Two months!

  How had I ever managed to let two months pass without anything more than a few five-minute conversations?

  But then it was difficult to juggle everything because, you know, I, erm, worked long hours. And on nights off I liked to crash out. Or if Marc was off we liked to do things together, just get quality time and . . .

  A memory flooded back of me standing in the rain, ten years before, wearing white high heels and soaking clothes, while I waited for Red to come change my tyre. I’d pushed my pals to one side for a boyfriend then and I’d just realised that I’d been doing it all over again. What. A. Tit.

  Well, that was going to change right now. I felt a shift of priorities wash over me. Or that might just have been a dip in my blood sugar because I was drinking champagne on an empty stomach.

  The point was I’d caught it in time. I just had to make a bit more effort to stay in touch with the girls and I also had to stand my ground where Marc was concerned. Dinner parties, that was the answer. Wasn’t that what ‘almost thirty-somethings’ did these days? Even if Marc hated them and I had t
he culinary skills of, say, a cheese plant, that was no excuse. I’d have my friends over and show an active interest in their lives while trying not to kill them with insufficiently cooked food.

  I was in charge of my life and it was time that I acted like it. This was my life. Mine. And I was going to reassess my priorities and take back control.

  A loud, repetitive ding cut through my thoughts and I realised that Marc was banging his spoon on the side of his glass.

  ‘A bit of warning might have helped there,’ Avril hissed. ‘You just scared that bloke shitless and he hung up just when he was getting to the tickly bit.’

  ‘Sometimes it’s hard to hide my pride in my children,’ Josie deadpanned, to a thunderous glare from her daughter.

  Marc cleared his throat and stood up, earning a chorus of applause and whistles. ‘First, thank you all for coming out to celebrate Lou’s birthday.’ More whistles. ‘And, Josie, well done for keeping tonight a secret.’

  Josie performed a mock bow in recognition of her achievement. For a gossip-aficionado like Josie to refrain from spilling the details must have been torture.

  First thing tomorrow morning, after I’d turned over my newly revised leaf and re-entered into society, I was going to nip over there with croissants, coffee and a bulk box of caramel logs. We had serious catching up to do.

  ‘And I’d just like to say a few words about Lou.’

  Aaaaw, so sweet. But he could stop now because everyone was staring at me and I hated being the centre of attention. Hated it. Almost as much as Ginger hated public displays of affection. He should stop now before one of us snapped.

  ‘We’ve been together now for just over a year and it’s honestly been the best year of my life.’

  ‘Oh my God, I’m filling up.’ That was Josie. Beside me, Ginger just tutted.

  ‘Lou, you are beautiful and kind, and the best friend anyone could ever have . . .’

  No, I’m not! I’m not! Lizzy was almost up the bloody Eiger and I knew nothing about it!

  ‘. . . and I love you.’

  I mean, I’ve been crap lately. Really, really crap. But now I was going to fix it.

  ‘So Lou . . .’ Bugger, he was still talking. I thought he’d finished.

  ‘Lou Cairney . . .’ What? What is it? My mind was running its own commentary on the situation and I’d lost the capacity to switch it off. Champagne always had that effect on me.

  ‘Happy birthday, darling.’

  Oh, right. Thank you. That’s so sweet. Now sit down before Ginger takes you out with a bread stick.

  Rico appeared at his side with a large shoe-sized box and Marc took it then nudged it across the table.

  A present! And I knew exactly what it was. For weeks I’d been hinting about the silver strappy sandals that we’d seen one day when we were passing the window of House Of Fraser and he’d obviously been listening.

  Maybe this being the centre of attention thing wasn’t so bad after all. I peeled back the pink foil paper, lifted the lid and gasped. I couldn’t help it. OK, so it wasn’t the silver ones but it was the black ones that were exactly the same and Marc had been right when he’d said that they would go with far more outfits than the silver.

  Ooh, they were gorgeous! I was so, so lucky. In fact, I was going to put them on right now. Everyone was still staring at me so perhaps if I ducked under the table to change my shoes it would take the heat off for a few moments.

  I surreptitiously slipped my shoes off then pulled the other sandal from the box. I was just about to go low, when I spotted the charm. The ankle strap was threaded through an adorable silver charm with a gleaming crystal stone in the . . .

  ‘Lou.’ Marc’s voice sounded distinctly more tense than usual. Had Ginger booted him under the table? And would everyone please stop looking at me?

  ‘Lou,’ he repeated and this time I saw his eyes move to the sandal that I was holding, before settling on the charm, then flicking up to meet my gaze. The charm. Me. The charm. Me.

  The realisation took me much longer than everyone else at the table. It wasn’t a charm. It was bigger than that. It was more of a . . .

  ‘Lou, will you marry me?’

  Twenty-one

  Lou

  The St Kentigern Hotel, Glasgow. Saturday morning, 2am.

  ‘Were you guys pissed off with me when all that was going on?’

  They both spoke at exactly the same moment.

  ‘No,’ replied Ginger.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Lizzy.

  We’d discussed it a few times over the years but not in any great detail. It was tough to get Ginger to discuss anything emotionally deeper than the latest release on iTunes.

  I knew that meant the conversation I was working up to having with them this weekend would probably leave her requiring therapy. Tomorrow. We would talk about the tough stuff tomorrow.

  ‘I felt it too, but I don’t think I realised it at the time. I just kind of thought everyone was busy doing their own stuff. You were away.’ I looked at Ginger, then Lizzy. ‘Lizzy, you were so busy with the kids. And I was . . . somewhere between knackered and torn. I so wanted the salon to succeed, yet I wanted to make Marc happy too. I guess everything else got put on hold for a while. I’m a crap friend. Look, I’m bowing my head in shame.’

  I took it too far and cracked my forehead off the dark wood table. The three perma-tanned teens from a few tables away watched and giggled. They hadn’t taken their eyes off us all night. They were either trying to pluck up the courage to come speak to Ginger, or wondering why we were in a trendy nightspot instead of spending the weekend on a Saga tour.

  ‘Ouch, that hurt.’ I wasn’t sure if I was talking about my head or the fact that Lizzy admitted she’d been upset with me. I couldn’t really blame her because somewhere inside I’d known I was messing up . . . and what happened next proved it.

  Twenty-two

  Lou

  1999 – Aged 29

  ‘I’m not looking down. I’m not. No way. I’m not looking down. I’m . . . oh bugger, I’m looking down.’

  I sent up a silent prayer to the patron saint of bloody great heights that none of the twelve Japanese tourists standing to my right understood English. By the way a couple of them were looking at me in amusement, I had a feeling the prayer was going unanswered.

  It didn’t help that Marc also seemed to find this whole scene highly amusing. He reached his hand out to me. ‘Come on, I’ve got you. Trust me.’

  I shook my head and managed to spit some words out through gritted teeth. ‘That’s what they always say in the movies right before someone goes “splat”.’

  On this breezy, cloudy New York November afternoon, we were standing on the Observation Deck on the eighty-sixth floor of the Empire State Building, 1,050 feet up, and I was scared out of my wits. It had taken twenty minutes just to get me into the elevator and even then I only did it because Marc had promised me we’d stay inside. He’d lied.

  ‘Babe, come on, you’ll be fine. It won’t kill you.’

  ‘They always say that in the movies too. When the paramedics come, can you tell them it was a heart attack? And tell Josie I love her and she can have all my worldly goods except the salon. Avril can have that, but only if she doesn’t go through with her promise to rename it “Cut the Crap”.’

  I felt a slight swaying motion and automatically grabbed the first thing that came to hand. To his credit, the small Japanese man smiled kindly when he peeled my fingers off his arm one by one.

  Marc was starting to look slightly irritated now. What did he expect? After three years together, he was fully aware that I was phobic about having my feet a large distance from the ground. I didn’t do tall roller coasters. High bridges were the work of the devil. And if I went within fifty yards of a bungee rope I had to sit down and put my head between my knees until the urge to faint subsided.

  This wasn’t Sleepless In bloody Seattle. Tom Hanks wasn’t standing by with a twinkle in his eye ready to make me his and
whisk me off to live happily ever after in an unfeasible romantic comedy plot. In my head, this was more Die Hard 1, 2 or 3 – the bit where someone freezes in a moment of peril and John McClane has to drag them from a burning / airport terminal/subway system to save their life. It was not possible to be any more scared than this.

  As Marc finally took the hint and stepped back over to my side, he let out a long sigh. I’d have punched him if my hands weren’t too busy gripping on to the wall.

  ‘Can we go down now?’

  No answer.

  ‘Marc, can we –’

  ‘This isn’t working out how I thought it would,’ he interrupted me.

  Really? Actually it wasn’t working out how I thought either. I was pretty sure I’d be requiring resuscitation by now.

  ‘Look Marc, I’m sorry but it’s the height . . .’

  ‘I don’t mean the sightseeing,’ he countered. ‘I mean us. Now.’

  Oh bloody hell. A relationship chat at 1,050 feet. Great.

  Somebody shoot me.

  ‘Marc, what do you want from me? And whatever it is, can you tell me when we get back onto solid ground?’

  I was sweating. Actual rivulets of sweat were running down my face.

  What was going on with him? He wasn’t usually this insensitive. I mean, sure he was definitely an Alpha male and it was highly unlikely that he was going to get in touch with his inner light of emotional empathy any time soon, but this was getting somewhere close to psychological torture.

  ‘It’s just that I kind of had a vision of how this was going to go up here.’ He rummaged in the pocket of his cream chinos. Terror aside, I’d thought his choice of dress was cute today. A little formal – and it didn’t exactly co-ordinate with my skinny jeans, Guns and Roses T-shirt and Uggs – but the preppy trousers and the white polo shirt on those broad shoulders and perfectly toned arse made him look like an American jock. If I wasn’t close to death, I’d consider nipping back to the hotel for a siesta with perks.