by Beth Miller
Ceri burbles on. ‘You’ll never believe what happened. Jenny was in a completely weird mood.’
‘When is she not, that bitch.’
‘Totally. She went outside with Rees for a cigarette, and when I went out, there they were.’
‘Shagging? Jesus, Ceri!’
‘NO! Just kissing. It was bad enough. The worst humiliation ever.’
Considering her jumper collection, that really is saying something.
‘What did Rees have to say about it?’
‘Fuck him. He keeps phoning, writing illiterate letters. It’s properly pitiful.’
‘Poor you.’
‘Laura, I’m so sorry. Please come back, I’ll let you do all the windows, proper contract, everything.’
I shake my head. ‘Did I tell you I’m starting a beautician course in September? I’m going to open my own salon. Getting some guilt money off Huw for the deposit. I’ll be able to give North Wales all the posh London treatments it so desperately needs.’
‘Oh. That’s great.’ Flat monotone.
‘I’ll give you a free facial when I open.’ She could do with one now, to be honest. Look at the size of those pores.
When Ceri eventually buggers off, Miffy sits down on my other side.
‘Amazing job,’ I say. ‘Look at this bizarre group of people. Somehow you turned it into a sparkling event. You should be a party organiser.’
‘Think I’ll stick to troubled teens, thanks. A lot easier.’
‘What were you and Huw talking about? You looked very serious.’
‘Ah. Interesting. Huw was asking why I’d decided to move here permanently.’
‘Listen, Miff.’
‘I told him I felt responsible. Because I’d pushed you over.’ Her tone makes me very uncomfortable. ‘But Huw told me you’d always been inclined to miscarry. That you’ve had five miscarriages. Which I didn’t know. That you’d had signs of premature labour for several weeks before Mel was born. Which I also didn’t know.’
Huw’s such a sodding shit-stirrer.
‘Miffy, I was going to talk to you about it. This evening, in fact …’
‘So it is true.’ She sits back in her seat and folds her arms. Stares at me.
‘It’s just … it’s been so wonderful having you around. You saved my life, really, after Huw left.’
‘I left everything, Laura, to be with you. Because I thought it was my fault.’
‘Was it really only because of guilt that you stayed, though? If so, I kind of wish you hadn’t. I thought there was more to it than that.’
There’s a long pause. She glances in Nick’s direction. Though he’s looking away, he senses it, in that way lovers do, and he turns towards us.
‘There was more to it,’ Miffy says in a long sigh. ‘There were many reasons to stay, and just as many not to go back. If I want you to be honest with me, I’m going to have to be honest myself.’
‘Thank you.’ I put my hand on hers.
‘I suppose me pushing you didn’t help. Even if it didn’t make a physical difference, the stress of us fighting might have made things worse.’
I shrug. ‘It might have. I guess we’ll never know for sure.’
Miffy sits back, untangling our hands. ‘Laura, from here on out, I need you to be straight with me.’
‘I am! Well, I usually am.’
‘I love it here. Best thing that ever happened to me. Finally breaking my ties with London, with my mum. With my childhood. I don’t want our friendship to be based on lies any more.’
‘Oh, Miff, I feel awful.’ I want to cry.
She squeezes my arm and says, ‘I know you’ve always had a slightly hazy relationship with the truth, my love. You see things the way you want to see them.’
‘Doesn’t everyone?’
Miffy leans back in her chair and lights a cigarette.
‘I thought you were giving up?’
‘First one today. Not bad, given the stress levels.’
‘Are you furious with me, Miffy-sister?’
‘More resigned, really. I know what you’re like, Laura.’
‘I reckon you know what I’m like more than anyone else.’
She blows a magnificent series of smoke rings into the sky. ‘I saw Ceri talking to you, looking all contrite. Does she believe you now, and not Rees?’
‘Yep.’
We both start laughing.
‘Well, more fool her,’ says Miffy.
We sit close together, our arms round each other. It’s so important to be known properly. Inside out.
Acknowledgements
I really admire writers who go into their studies, don’t talk to anyone, and emerge a year later with a novel tucked casually under their arm. I’m not like that. Sometimes I could barely write a sentence without needing feedback. For the most unflinching-yet-supportive critique, thank you to my writing mob: Liz Bahs, Clare Best and Alice Owens. Sorry the massage scene didn’t make the final cut, Liz.
The following people all commented helpfully on various drafts: Jo Bloom, Alison Hutchins, Trish Joscelyne, Alex Lahood, Anne Lavender-Jones, Emma Lewis, Nick Lewis, Juliette Mitchell, Rosy Muers-Raby, Gilly Shapiro and Kate Sweetapple. I’d particularly like to thank Saskia Gent and Tim Ward, who each unlocked useful plot points.
For encouragement along the way, thank you to the Literary Consultancy, Tessa West, Chris Taylor at New Writing South, Jim Crace, Suzannah Dunn and Liz Roberts, and my colleagues Emma Chaplin and Katie Moorman. For taking a punt on the book, I’m indebted to my agent Judith Murdoch, and my publisher at Ebury, Gillian Green.
To my children, thanks for making the process much more amusing, if a tad slower. And yes, I will soon write a story featuring your characters, Poshly Posh and Australian Stomach (who is from Brazil).
Finally, John. Even more important than the years of practical support, was your unfaltering belief that this book would be published. You never once hassled me to earn more money/come out of the study/stop using up the printer ink. This is for you.
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First published in 2014 by Ebury Press, an imprint of Ebury Publishing
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Copyright © 2014, by Beth Miller
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