The Friend

by Dorothy Koomson

  I reach out and grab my white wrap from where it hangs like a frozen waterfall over the end of our wooden-framed bed. ‘We’re going to be late,’ I say. I avoid looking at him. I don’t want to see the disappointment on his face, the result of rejecting something that was very much a part of who we were as a couple when we lived in London. We’re not in London any more, and every day it’s becoming more apparent that we’re not that couple any more.

  ‘What’s the matter now?’ he asks.

  ‘Nothing. Why?’

  ‘You just seem …’

  ‘Seem what?’ I ask. I’m still avoiding looking at him as I go to stand by the door. Or rather, I am still avoiding looking at the black, silk-lined pocket of his jacket where he slipped his mobile phone, his little box of secrets, out of sight.

  ‘I don’t know, distant?’

  ‘No, probably more like nervous. I’m going to be meeting your very important new colleagues for the first time.’

  ‘You have nothing to worry about,’ he says. ‘They really won’t mind that you’re a housewife. I’m pretty sure some of the other men have wives who don’t work either.’

  Excuse me? I do look at him then. ‘Why would they mind that I’m a stay-at-home parent? Is looking after children, making sure there’s always someone there when they get home, making sure they get fed and homeworked and put to bed, something to be ashamed of where you work?’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that, Cee,’ he replies.

  ‘Shall we go before we’re late?’ I say to him, not acknowledging the non-apology.

  In one move, Sol springs off the bed and comes to me, gently takes me by the elbow and turns me towards him. Carefully, as though he thinks I might break – or make a run for it if he makes any sudden moves – he loops his arms around me and stares at me until I am forced to look at him.

  ‘You’re not upset about what I said, are you?’ he asks.

  ‘Why would I be upset?’ I reply.

  He shrugs. ‘You just seem a bit over-sensitive these days.’ He says this gently, as though simply saying those words will light the touchpaper of my temper.

  Sensitive. Right. You’re rude but me minding is me being over-sensitive. ‘We’re going to be late,’ I tell him. I break away from him and begin down the stairs. That now-familiar feeling of holding my tongue, trying to keep the peace at all costs, stomps repeatedly on my chest with every step I take.

  SATURDAY

  Cece

  1:45 a.m. ‘Keep your dress on while I fuck you,’ Sol slurs once we’ve crept up through the house to our bedroom.

  I haven’t seen him this drunk in a very long time. His whole body is consumed by swathes of prosecco, wine, beer and whisky, and he has to lean against the bedroom door to stop himself swaying – actually, probably to stop himself falling over. I haven’t drunk more than a glass and a half of prosecco, because I have to drive the boys to martial arts later. I’m aware that it’s the drink making him irritating, but what about before he got drunk? What about that?

  He didn’t exactly cover himself in glory tonight. Apart from renaming me ‘My Wife’ to everyone he introduced me to so I had to follow up with ‘Hi, I’m Cece’, he revealed quite clearly what he currently thinks of me. At one point during dinner the CEO’s wife, Brenda, asked, ‘Do you work, Cece?’

  ‘If you can call shopping and having coffee working, then Cece works very hard,’ Sol replied and laughed. A couple of other men laughed but none of the women at the table did. Even when I worked full-time I wouldn’t have laughed.

  ‘No,’ I said to Brenda, when the laughter stopped. ‘I don’t work outside of the home. That’s to say I don’t currently earn money for taking care of my kids and running the house and covering for the other parent.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I remember those days well,’ she replied wistfully. ‘I remember that moment of utter frustration and absolute blinding fury when Rex would call me up and announce he was going away without a single thought as to what my plans might be. It was almost as if, because he earned the money, he had no respect for me and my time and thought I should be there waiting to define myself by whatever it was he was doing. Rex doesn’t know this, but I often thought at moments like that that I had three choices: walk out and see how he’d cope with sorting out childcare and running the home; or smother him to death in his sleep. Obviously I went for option three – which was to put up with it. But it was touch and go a few times.’

  Rex, her husband, froze in putting a sauce-covered prawn in his mouth and I felt Sol stiffen in shock beside me. After that Sol, for the most part, kept the barbed comments to a minimum and I scanned the room, looking for who could potentially be his ‘T. B.H.’ friend.

  ‘I love that dress, keep it on while I fuck you,’ he repeats in the dark of our bedroom. Funnily enough, now that I’m fully aware that Sol has minimal respect for me because I’m no longer earning money, I’m less inclined to have sex with him. I roll my eyes at him and start to cross the room to take off my clothes, when he grabs my wrist and pulls me back towards him. He moves his other hand to my waist and holds my body tightly against his. ‘I said—’

  ‘I heard what you said and no thank you.’

  ‘Oh, why not?’ he says. ‘It’s been months, Cee. Months. I think my balls are going to explode.’

  ‘Yeah, well, good luck with that.’

  ‘What is wrong with you now?’ he snarls. ‘I just want us to make love. We haven’t done it in months. What is wrong with that?’

  ‘Sol, I’m really very tired. I’m actually tired enough to climb into bed fully clothed right now, so no, I don’t want sex.’

  ‘You don’t have to do anything, just lie there and I’ll pull your dress down when I’m done.’

  I rip my arm away and step back, absolutely revolted.

  Even in his drunken state, he realises that what he said is out of order. He closes his eyes and then opens them again, squinting like he is expecting me to scream at him. ‘I’m sorry. Shouldn’t have said that. I was well out of order.’

  ‘I’m going to pretend this whole conversation didn’t happen,’ I tell him. ‘Now, please step aside so I can go to the bathroom. I really hope you’re in bed pretending to be asleep by the time I get back.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Cee,’ he says while he stumbles away from the door. ‘I’m sorry for being an arsehole tonight. I’ll do better. I promise.’

  You keep saying that. You keep saying that, but your pattern of behaviour is showing me that all you’re going to do is keep getting worse.

  9 a.m. This feels like middle-of-the-night o’clock. I feel hungover, my head is banging, my mouth is achy and dry, and my eyes are barely open. I didn’t drink enough – a glass and a half of prosecco – to be in this state. I know the real reason why I’m tired and emotional: Sol. He wisely pretended to be asleep until I had left the house with the boys while Harmony was making cakes with Mum. Oh Sol, I can’t help thinking. For him to say that when we both know he wasn’t joking …

  I take a sip of the coffee in front of me; it’s not as nice as the stuff from Milk ’n’ Cookees, but I haven’t any other option. This café attached to the dojo is populated by people who look as shell-shocked as me while they wait for their children to finish learning how to defend themselves. Each of us sits at individual tables, or on one of the low sofas, with a drink in front of them, either staring into space or scrolling through their phones. One woman is using her time wisely and sits marking a pile of books. Most of us are simply stranded here, washed up like large pebbles on the beach of waiting.

  ‘Do you mind if I sit here?’ a male voice says to me.

  I glance up and begin to say, ‘Of course n—’ and my voice falters. ‘Not. Of course not.’ I move over, slide the boys’ coats and bags towards my body to make room for Trevor Whidmore to sit down. He piles his daughter’s belongings beside Oscar and Ore’s stuff, then carefully drops his lengthy frame onto the other end of the small sofa. The café has a large wall of gl
ass, and we are sitting in the seats next to it.

  ‘This is going to sound like a chat-up line, but don’t I know you from somewhere?’ he asks. He has a deep, melodic voice.

  ‘I, erm, my children, well, two of them, have just started going to Plummer Prep.’

  He sighs, nods his head, purses his lips for a moment. ‘Right. I see.’ He looks wiped out. I was complaining in my head mere minutes ago about being tired, and here I am, confronted by someone who is properly tired, justifiably exhausted. I remember what it was like when I first had the twins. I thought I’d be all right, having done it all before on my own, but the tiredness, the bone-crushing, eye-watering, mind-altering fatigue, didn’t leave me for a good two years. He looks how I used to feel.

  ‘How are you getting on?’ I say to him.

  He stops staring out of the window and spins on his bottom to look at me but he doesn’t say anything. ‘I’m not rubbernecking,’ I explain. ‘If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine. And I’ll shut up and not say another word to you. I only asked so it doesn’t seem to you that I’m one of those people who’ll cross the road to avoid you rather than have an awkward conversation.’

  The woman from behind the counter brings his coffee in a takeaway cup to the table and places it in front of him. This gives him a few more seconds to decide how he’s going to respond to me. Once she’s gone, he glances at the parent sitting on the sofa opposite who has her headphones plugged into her tablet and has it on very loud.

  ‘We’re all right,’ he says. ‘As all right as we can be. I’ve brought the girls back to their classes so we can try to get back to normal. Except I got it wrong and Madison is in the later class here and Scarlett’s ballet class is now down the road. So I’ve had to beg both people to let them stay in the wrong classes for today. So this is as normal as we can be with all this going on.’

  ‘That’s all you can do, I suppose.’ There isn’t a lot to say, really. I don’t know him well enough to offer him comfort.

  ‘Do you have any idea how frustrating that is?’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Not being able to do anything but carry on as normal? I like to fix things but I can’t fix this.’ He speaks in a low tone, doesn’t want anyone to hear him. ‘This sort of thing makes you feel so powerless. And I can’t stand to see her like that. She was always so “alive” and vibrant. And now she’s there, not moving, hooked up to machines. They keep saying she should wake up soon. They don’t understand why she hasn’t. She hasn’t responded either way, not even when they’ve tried to bring her out of it.’ He sips from his coffee cup without uncapping it, and rubs his hand quickly and anxiously over his brow. Wiping away worry, soothing his sorrows. ‘How many children do you have?’

  I was reaching for some words that might be appropriate, trying to think of what to say and coming up short. What do you say when someone’s wife has been almost murdered and no one is sure when she’ll wake up to tell them what happened and who did it? Not a lot. So I’m grateful to him for asking another question.

  ‘Erm, three. One is older, she goes to school on the other side of Brighton. Middelson High? She loves it. Has fitted right in and doesn’t really need me, much as it pains me to admit.’

  ‘Sort of thing Yvonne would have said. I know she became so involved with the Parents’ Council because the children needed her less as they were getting older.’

  ‘Maybe that’s what I should do,’ I say. ‘I mean, apart from needing me to run them around and take them to school and cook their meals, do their washing and stand over them while they do homework, they don’t need me much at all.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe the Parents’ Council would be good for you,’ he says.

  ‘Sorry, that was insensitive,’ I say.

  ‘Not really. Yvonne was always trying to get people interested in it. I’ll tell her tonight that I may have got her a new recruit. It may bring her round if only so she can shout at me for not running it past her first.’ A ghost of a smile hovers over his lips.

  ‘It must be so hard,’ I say. ‘How are the girls doing?’

  ‘Mostly fine. They seem to have taken it in their stride, really. They don’t talk much about it. The school have been very good about making sure there’s no gossip or such.’

  ‘That’s good. With the school I mean.’

  He nods and stares into the distance. ‘Yeah, shame about the others really.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Yvonne had a lot of friends and acquaintances. Some of them she was really close to and she spent a lot of time helping people out. The first couple of weeks after it happened, it was fine, people were falling over themselves to help out, bringing round food and offering to have the girls. They were posting all this stuff about how she was the heart of the school, how the place wasn’t the same without her. Now they’ve all pretty much scrolled on like they do on the internet – because it doesn’t appear on the newsfeed any more, they’ve kind of forgotten about us. On the good side, they’ve stopped all the ridiculous over-the-top stuff on social media; on the other side, they’ve forgotten we exist in real life, too. Except when they see me at the gates. Then they just stare and probably start gossiping the second my back’s turned.’

  ‘I haven’t heard any gossip, if that’s any consolation?’

  His face relaxes into a tired smile. ‘It’s not, but thanks for trying.’

  ‘Look, I know you don’t know me, but take my number – if you need a hand then give me a call. The boys have talked about Madison because she’s in their class, and they really like Scarlett, too. I’m sure we could have them over for a playdate sometime. You don’t want me to be cooking for you all, trust me, but if I can help in any other way, just let me know.’

  Trevor Whidmore’s eyes roam over me, wondering what sort of person would make such an offer to someone they barely know. He’s probably also wondering what I’m hoping to get out of it. ‘I don’t even know your name.’

  ‘Well, my parents named me Cece, but everyone at Plummer Prep probably knows me as Oscar and Ore’s mum. I’ll answer to either.’

  His face drops its dour, defeated expression for a moment and he grins at me. I grin back, glad to have helped him in a small way. ‘I’m serious, you know. Take my number and call me if you need a hand. Hopefully you won’t need it for much longer, but if you do, it’s good to have a backup.’

  ‘OK,’ he says. We exchange numbers and the door to the dojo slides back. The boys are in the middle of the queue to exit, bowing deeply at the same time to their black-robed sensei before skipping over to our table.

  ‘Mum-Mum-Mum-Mum,’ Oscar says with his excited stutter, ‘you’ll never guess who’s in our class?’

  The noise level in the room has shot up now the children are out and ready to properly start their weekend.

  ‘Madison,’ Ore says over him. ‘Madison Whidmore is in our class.’

  ‘Yes, I know, I was just talking to her dad,’ I reply.

  Oscar’s fingers are straight in his mouth, feeling his back teeth as he often does, to check whether any more are coming through. Ore raises his hands and runs them over the back of his hair while they both look to the pale white man sitting next to me.

  ‘Hi, Madison,’ Oscar says when she arrives at the table. He whips his hands out of his mouth and straightens up.

  ‘Hi, Madison,’ Ore says. ‘My mum’s been talking to your dad.’ He says this as though I have done something wrong. ‘I don’t know what about.’

  Madison looks at her dad and he smiles at her. ‘They were probably talking about school. That’s all adults talk about,’ she says without smiling at her dad. ‘School and results and how much they’re paying so what they should be getting for it.’

  ‘Paying to go to school?’ Oscar says, affronted.

  ‘Yeah,’ Madison replies. ‘Weird, I know.’

  ‘Really weird,’ Ore says. As a child they all turn to me and start to eye me up as though I am the source of
this weirdness.

  ‘Anyway.’ I stand up, still under the scrutiny of three pairs of eight-year-old eyes. ‘Let’s get going, boys.’

  ‘See you later, Maddie,’ Ore says, his eyes still fixed on me.

  ‘Bye, Madison,’ Oscar adds, watching me too.

  ‘Bye, Oscar, bye, Ore,’ Madison says, also still fixed on me.

  I look over their heads at Trevor Whidmore, who is finding the whole thing highly amusing. He grins at me, and hides a smirk.

  Well, even if he doesn’t call me, at least I’ve given him two things to smile about today, I decide as I bundle the boys up the short flight of stairs and out into the street.

  Part 6

  MONDAY

  Hazel

  2 a.m. I don’t know my friends. They know everything about me. My life is an open book to them and I know nothing about them. I tested this out the other night: I asked Cece loads of questions and she answered them. She opened up to me with no effort. But I don’t know half of that stuff about Anaya and Maxie. These are the people my freedom rests upon. I pick up my mobile and stare at it. I bet they’re asleep. I bet they’re fast asleep and not even thinking about it. I can’t sleep. If I’m honest, I haven’t been able to sleep since way before what happened to Yvonne. Obviously it was because of Yvonne, but I haven’t been able to sleep properly for months now.