Keep Your Friends Close

by Paula Daly

  Penny just can’t recall any of this because it was sixteen years ago. And I don’t go reminding her about it now because I gave up playing the Who’s-the-best-mother? game when my sister-in-law’s first son got out of nappies. No matter what I said, in Penny’s brain Lucy had got her life in order – emotionally and financially – before deciding to become a parent. The responsible way to do it.

  Sometimes, over the past few years, it’s been hard to remember that Lucy is actually a nice person. A person who Sean and I get along with very well. What is it with parents that they end up making you almost detest family members because of their proclivity for comparison? Their quick reminders of how their other child is doing a better job?

  Sean comes back into the room. ‘That was Eve on the phone,’ he says. There’s a mischievous glint in his eye which means that he, too, has been subject to his mother’s stories of Lucy’s marvellous puréeing. I probably got the edited version, actually. ‘Eve’s wondering if it’s all right if she calls in tomorrow evening. She’s finishing a series of lectures in Scotland and will be passing through.’

  ‘Is that your friend from America?’ Penny interrupts, chin raised. ‘The clever girl with the good job?’

  ‘Yes, God, I’ve not seen her in over two years. Did she say how long she was in the country?’

  Sean shakes his head.

  ‘Did you tell her it was okay to come?’

  ‘I said if it wasn’t, you’d call her straight back.’

  2

  SPRING WEATHER IN the Lake District is pretty much like the rest of the year. Changeable. This morning there’s a fine drizzle, and low mist hanging in the valley above Lake Windermere. I stand looking out, coffee in hand.

  Try to imagine every shade of green possible crammed into one small frame – khaki, bottle-green, sage, olive, lime, pistachio, right through to the paler shade of moorland grass, and you’ll get something close to the view from my window.

  Yesterday I rose to find brilliant clear skies and the valley filled with a thick, dense fog. Like a huge glacier it crawled southwards down the lake surface, enveloping everything in its path. Tomorrow I will have no view at all if the forecasted heavy rains arrive.

  Bowness-on-Windermere is the busiest small town in the Lake District. It sits on the eastern shore of the lake, and both my home and the hotel are situated about a mile from the centre. Just close enough for the hotel guests to enjoy a pleasant stroll in, just far enough away for Sean and me to escape the crazy crowds of tourists who pack the place during the summer months.

  I grew up here. And unlike most of my contemporaries, who, once grown, couldn’t wait to escape for city life, I have always wanted to remain. Incidentally, most have returned now that they’re raising families of their own. Bowness has a definite village feel – yes, everyone knows everyone, crime is low and people genuinely care about each other – but we have the amenities of a place typically much larger. An English village of a few thousand residents could not generally support a cinema, Michelin-starred restaurants and a supermarket. It’s the influx of tourists that enables us to live a fairly cosmopolitan life while at the same time residing in a distinctly rural area, an area of outstanding natural beauty.

  Still in my pyjamas, I rinse my cup in the sink and head out the front door with the bag of rubbish. Our tarmac driveway is slick and shiny; everything smells clean and new. I sling the black bag into the outside wheelie bin then give the lid a quick wipe-over with the cloth I’ve brought purposely for the job.

  On my way back I notice that the night rain has sent splatters of grit up the lower half of the front door, so I grab the mop and give it the once-over. While I’m at it I decide to give the lamp above the porch a quick clean, too, and get rid of some cobwebs around the door frame at the same time.

  Back inside the kitchen, Alice looks up at me from her mug of mocha. ‘Have you started mopping the driveway now as well?’ she asks, her voice laced with sarcasm, and I choose to ignore her.

  It’s quieter in the house than usual. Our younger daughter, Felicity, is on a school trip in France. Thirty of them left by coach on Sunday night and arrived in southern Normandy some twenty-seven hours later. She’s due back on Saturday.

  I can’t decide yet if Alice is more difficult when Felicity is here or not. There are two years between them – Alice is sixteen, Felicity fourteen – and like most parents will tell you about their children, they are completely different in temperament.

  What I don’t say openly is that Alice takes after me in that she’s a classic Type A. Both of us push ourselves to the point of breaking.

  We’re like toddlers who keep going at an unprecedented rate, only to snap at anyone close by before collapsing with exhaustion into uncontrollable crying. A well-meaning adult might smile on benevolently, sighing: ‘Oh dear, I think she’s ready for her nap . . .’

  I check the calendar and on seeing the small asterisk scribbled in the corner of Saturday’s box, take out a B vitamin, and slide it across the table towards Alice.

  She’s wearing her new leopard-print onesie. When she prowls around the house in it I find myself humming ‘The Magical Mr Mistoffelees’.

  ‘What’s this for?’ she asks, staring at the tablet.

  ‘PMS – it’s supposed to help.’

  She glares at me. ‘It’s not me who’s edgy, Mum,’ she says, and takes herself upstairs, leaving me with the mild wounded feeling that follows most of our exchanges.

  I get on with preparing her lunch. There’s enough chicken breast left over from last night’s dinner to jazz up a nice Caesar salad. I wash the lettuce, and as I dab it dry so it doesn’t go soggy for her later, I begin mentally running through what we’ve eaten this week, before deciding on the menu for tonight’s dinner with Eve.

  We’ve had red meat twice, so that’s a no-no. Carbs-wise, we’ve had potatoes once, rice once, crusty white baguette once – which means we’re down to have pasta. But I don’t want to serve pasta when I’ve not seen Eve for so long. I want something a little more special.

  Eventually I settle on salmon in a champagne cream sauce and break my once-a-week-potatoes rule by planning to serve the fillets with some nice Jersey Royals and green asparagus. It’s a touch early in the season for asparagus. I do try to keep things seasonal and locally sourced, but I’ve heard even the Italians eat tomatoes now in the wintertime. I know! I was pretty surprised by that as well.

  After bagging Alice’s dance kit, I pop her lunch in her floral school bag, making sure her phone is charged, and give the kitchen floor a quick whizz round with the mop before going to get showered.

  Sean is sitting in bed, the laptop open on his knee. ‘You’ve not moved yet?’ I ask him accusingly.

  ‘I’m looking at phones.’

  ‘You’ve just got a new mobile, why do you need another?’

  ‘I don’t. I’m just looking. Anyway, I didn’t get in till after eleven, I was networking.’

  I roll my eyes at him. ‘You mean not working,’ and he smiles. Calls my name as I head into the bathroom and begin to undress.

  ‘Natty?’ he says.

  ‘What?’

  I come out, and he’s still smiling at me, his boyish beauty catching my attention, the tanned musculature of his chest making my pulse flicker.

  I know what he’s thinking. I know that look.

  But I ignore the heat in my groin because we’re running late. And despite the fact he’s patting the bed beside him, saying, ‘Take a breather, Nat,’ I don’t. Because even though he says it good-naturedly, sexily even, it still irritates me. I try to smile. Try to mask the flash of anger, because he does this all the time.

  I’ll be running around the house like my arse is on fire, and he’ll be lying in bed, or lounging on the sofa, flicking between the channels, and he’ll say, ‘Have a rest, Nat, you don’t need to do this all at once . . . slow down,’ and I’ll want to run the Dyson hard into his shins, because, if I don’t do it, if I don’t make sure we
’re tidy and organized, if I don’t make sure we’re on time, in the right place, with all the right things . . . then who the hell will?

  *

  For dinner this evening I dress up a little. It’s a given that with certain friends you have to make more of an effort, and, well, Eve is one of those friends.

  I remember when I’d just had Felicity and we were mid-move, buying our second bed & breakfast. We’d gone from three guest bedrooms to five, and my standard attire back then was jeans, clean trainers, polo shirt – but because I’d just had a baby, I was still in leggings. My post-pregnancy belly had to be tucked inside my knickers and my boobs resembled two fried eggs.

  Eve was over from the States and arrived unexpectedly on the doorstep: black shift dress, hair in a chignon – and I almost burst into tears upon seeing her. She didn’t realize. She still doesn’t. Eve’s not yet had children so she doesn’t understand how vulnerable a woman feels in the early stages of motherhood. I don’t hold it against her – you don’t know what you don’t know, after all – but since then, whenever visiting a new mum, I always make sure to turn up looking particularly shitty. Because it’s the little things like this that really help a woman out.

  When I’m more or less ready, wearing my black dress, I give my dad a quick call to check the homecare lady has been to help him shower. He’s incapacitated because of two total knee replacements. After thirty-five years as a self-employed joiner his knees were shot. He had both operated on at once so he could return to work faster, but now I’m not sure it was such a good idea. His rehabilitation is taking longer than anticipated and he’s not what you’d call a patient patient. At first he hated the homecare I arranged, but now I have the sneaking suspicion he’s quite enjoying himself. A selection of chatty women come in to get him up; help him bathe; later, put him back to bed. He’s playing his cards close to his chest, but I sense there’s something developing – a romantic attachment – with one of them.

  I stay on the phone less than a minute because the doorbell rings and there’s silence on the stairs, so it’s left to me to answer. My dad says he’s fine anyway, tells me he’s got a bit of company planned for this evening, and he says no more and I don’t ask.

  Hurrying down the stairs, I do one last inspection of my appearance in the hall mirror before throwing open the door, squealing when I see Eve.

  I throw my arms around her, gushing, ‘I’ve missed you, I’ve missed you,’ and I mean it.

  Eve is probably my oldest remaining friend. I don’t have a wide circle of friends; acquaintances have dropped away over the years as the girls have grown, and I’ve not sought to replace them, as I get more than my fill of socializing from the hotel.

  But I don’t see nearly half as much of Eve as I would like to, and when I clap eyes on her it’s as if something clicks back into place inside me. I feel weirdly young again.

  It happens every time I’m with her; I think because we have a shared history. We were at university together and so much happened that first year, so much that changed all of us, made us the people we are today, that no matter how close other women have become to me, there is never the same bond. Eve’s the person I talk to when I’m struggling with a life problem, and the reason I turn to her is because she doesn’t judge. I can vent. I can complain about Sean, call him unsupportive, lazy, feckless, and she will listen, even laugh along at how useless men can be, but she’ll never criticize Sean. Never hint or suggest, as other friends might, that there are real problems within our marriage, because she knows that the stuff I complain about is, ultimately, trivial. She knows I love him deeply.

  She holds me at arm’s length, studies my face: ‘God, it’s good to see you,’ and she brings me in again for another hug. We stay like that for – what is the optimal length of time for a hug? Four seconds? Five? Whatever it is, we exceed it and she says into my ear, ‘You’re thin again, Natty. Are you working too hard?’

  ‘Don’t start,’ I reply playfully. ‘You’ve only just got here.’

  But she is right. Yesterday I caught sight of myself cleaning those bathroom tiles and was momentarily shocked by my appearance. I wouldn’t say I’m desperately thin, but I am beginning to appear pinched and sinewy. The ribs above my breasts are jutting out like a rack. I studied geology in school and yesterday I found myself staring at my reflection, shocked, comparing my ribs to the fossilized thorax of a trilobite. Not a good look.

  ‘You’ve got all night to analyse me and put me straight,’ I tell Eve, closing the door. ‘What do you want to drink? Red or white?’

  ‘I could do with a caffeine jolt, actually.’ Then she asks with a smile, ‘Is that Sean’s Maserati out there on the driveway?’

  I nod, give her a mock-exasperated expression, and she follows me through to the kitchen. When I’ve taken her coat I set to, spooning Lavazza into the espresso machine. ‘How’s Brett?’ I ask without turning, and she doesn’t answer. After a few seconds I twist around to face her. ‘Eve?’ I prompt.

  She closes her eyes. Not exactly fighting back the tears, more steadying herself for what she’s about to reveal.

  She gives one firm shake of her head and says, ‘It’s over.’

  ‘Over?’ I gasp. ‘What? When? Are you sure?’

  ‘Certain,’ she replies, and I’m gobsmacked. I’ve never actually met Brett, but Eve seemed so settled. I forget the coffee for the time being and move towards her, putting my arm around her shoulders: ‘Eve, can I ask why?’ and she winces. ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Sorry, that was clumsy of me. You . . . you took me by surprise. It’s the last thing I expected to hear.’ I don’t add that I thought she was coming here to announce that she was pregnant.

  She smiles at me feebly. ‘It’s okay. I probably should have told you before arriving. I suppose I didn’t want my visit to be all maudlin, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Of course. Of course,’ I prattle on. ‘I totally understand. I tried calling you a few times last week but couldn’t get through, was that because—’

  ‘No,’ she answers, cutting me off a little sharply. ‘I’ve had a problem with my cell. I’ve got an iPhone now – remind me to give you the new number later.’

  I look down, embarrassed. What I should have done is contact her office. Because she’s on the road lecturing or else dealing with clients, we’ve had an arrangement for the past few years – I call her voicemail, and she gets back to me as soon as she’s able to. Now I wish I’d persisted in trying to get in touch with her.

  Not sure where to go next, I ask, ‘Would you like a whisky with that coffee?’

  And she smiles. ‘Love one.’

  Badly timed as ever, Sean walks in. He’s barefoot, carrying a pair of clean socks in his right hand, his hair still damp from the shower. I can see wet patches soaking through his shirt. ‘Hello, stranger,’ he says, kissing Eve’s cheek. ‘Good trip?’

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ she says, instantly masking her distress to spare my husband. ‘Are you dining with us tonight, Sean? Or are you at the hotel?’

  Eve knows the drill. Knows that neither one of us can be missing from the place for too long lest we come out in a rash.

  ‘I’m eating here,’ he tells her, ‘heading there for drinks later with guests, then I’ll stay on to start setting up for Saturday. We’re hosting the Pride of Cumbria Awards.’

  ‘Oooh,’ says Eve, suitably impressed.

  ‘Shouldn’t be late, though,’ he says, grabbing a glass. ‘I’m sure you two will still be up gossiping when I get back.’

  ‘That new car’s a beast, Sean.’ Eve smiles, and he goes momentarily sheepish.

  Sean’s still not used to the idea of being flashy, but Christ knows we’ve worked hard enough to deserve a little luxury. Eventually, when I could take no more of him browsing the procession of Maseratis on eBay (sellers upload engine noises now, if you can believe it), I told him to treat himself. Told him to get the thing before he gets too old to look good in it. Turned out he needed only minimal persuas
ion.

  Sean pours himself a glass of Sauvignon Blanc and stops to kiss my neck as he passes on his way to the lounge, his fingertips brushing the delicate skin of my throat. ‘You look beautiful tonight, Natty,’ he whispers, and though this small act of love should be welcomed, I frown a little – though I hide it.

  Sean and I have not had sex in – well, it’s been a while. It’s not him. It’s me. In bed, he no longer nudges me in the back with an erection, expecting instant action. He does all the right things: beginning the bribery (ahem, foreplay) early on in the day, with compliments and caresses, lingering looks and unexpected kisses. But I’ve got to be honest: Right now, even though we’ve always enjoyed good sex, often great sex, it just feels like another thing to do.

  I smile at Sean in a way that lets him know it’s probably a no-go again tonight, and he holds my gaze, his face darkening suddenly as though to convey: Then when, Natty? This situation can’t go on for ever.

  Recently he asked me what it was I actually needed him for, and when I voiced everything I could think of, he told me we could pay any old dogsbody for those things.

  The one thing he can give me, the one thing that no one else can, is the one thing I don’t want, he said coldly.

  Alice joins us for dinner and it’s as if a surly girl climbed the stairs after school and a totally different one emerged just in time for Eve’s visit. Metamorphosis complete, Alice is now charming and funny, interested in everything being said around the table. In short, she is a delight.

  She has her red hair in a loose plait slung over her left shoulder and is wearing a cream lace dress. On her feet she has sequinned flip-flops. It’s early May. The temperature outside is still around twelve degrees, but Alice couldn’t look more right. She has this knack for pulling together unsuitable outfits that on anyone else would seem silly and affected. But on her, because of her long-limbed, willowy build, her clothes are elegant. Elegant and cool at the same time. She’s the only person I’ve seen wear biker boots with a tiny frilled skirt and a misshapen grey marl sweatshirt and look spectacular.