The Friends We Keep

by Jane Green

  “Congratulations,” she said, forcing a neutral smile. “It’s lovely news.”

  “It’s been a long time,” said Ben. “It’s been ages since we saw each other. Years, no?”

  “Something like that. What a funny, small world that you and Maggie should cross paths again, and now, well! The two of you!” She used every acting skill she had to be bright and happy, as if she were genuinely thrilled.

  “I don’t deserve her,” Ben said, suddenly serious, looking at Evvie intently, in just the way he had all those years ago, and her heart fluttered. He was about to say something else, but Maggie slid next to him, her arm up around his neck as she kissed him. Evvie visibly winced with pain, relieved that no one saw.

  “I still can’t get over it,” said Maggie. “Evil Ben! Who would have ever thought?”

  “Who would have ever thought,” echoed Evvie, looking from Maggie to Ben, feeling that Ben had been about to say something about their time together, the fact that Evvie had an abortion, that Ben said he would never forgive her. But the moment had passed, and Maggie led him away to other guests, leaving Evvie pretending to have a good time.

  “Am I imagining this or was there . . . something . . . between you and the groom?” Topher leaned over and whispered in her ear.

  “You’re imagining it,” she snapped, and he didn’t say anything else.

  She wouldn’t think about Ben again, she decided. After this weekend she would put the past to rest. She wouldn’t see him and Maggie together, not after this weekend. It was too painful, but they had an ocean between them, which made drifting apart an easy choice.

  She would miss Maggie, but the truth was it wasn’t the Maggie of today that she would miss, it was the Maggie of their university days, a Maggie she really didn’t know anymore. Of course they still had a shared history, but it was in the past, and they didn’t necessarily have anything in common any longer.

  Except Ben. But only one of them knew that.

  twenty

  - 1997 -

  Maggie shook Ben until he stirred, aware that she was being rough, that her shaking barely hid her resentment at how badly she slept thanks to how loudly he snored. He had a “work thing” last night, which meant the same as it always did when he had a “work thing.” He’d roll home in a taxi very late, or in the early hours of the morning, and stumble into their bedroom, crashing into walls and doors, before eventually collapsing into bed and snoring so loudly it felt like the whole house was shaking.

  She kept telling him to sleep in the spare room if he was drunk, but he was always too drunk to remember.

  So Maggie would lie next to him grinding her teeth, furious with him for being so drunk, wondering why he couldn’t do what most normal people did, go out for one drink and then stop. Ben just didn’t seem to be able to stop.

  “Wake up, Ben,” she said, her voice harsher than she intended. “We’ve got the appointment to see the house in Somerset at eleven thirty. You have to get up.”

  He opened his eyes and smiled at her, pulling her into his arms, and even though she didn’t want to, she felt herself acquiesce, and as she did so, her anger disappeared.

  “Don’t get your hopes up too much,” he murmured into her hair. “Remember what happened last time.”

  “I have no hopes up at all.” Maggie thought back to the last house they had seen, two weekends ago. It was an old rectory in Frome that looked charming in the brochure, huge square rooms in need of a little modernization, lovely grounds. In reality, it was decrepit and dark, and those huge square rooms turned out to be so by virtue of a very clever camera lens.

  They got up to shower and dress, Maggie quickly making a bacon roll for Ben to eat in the car. She got in the car first, moving the papers on the passenger seat to make room for herself. Ben now drove an Alfa Romeo Spider, still passionate about old sports cars, whereas Maggie would have been happier with a Volvo wagon. She picked up the papers and was about to put them on the back seat when she noticed a flyer from a nightclub, offering two drinks for the price of one on the next visit.

  Maggie had never considered herself a jealous woman. Nor a particularly possessive one. She didn’t mind that Ben went out with the lads after work, and didn’t even mind when he got home late. He was moving up within the ranks of his company, and even though she was still working, they had been talking about starting a family in the foreseeable future. Ben’s salary was reaching a point where her working was not a necessity, hence they were looking to move to the country.

  But Ben’s drinking was becoming a problem. And it was not just the drinking; there was a part of his life that felt secretive. This nightclub, for example. When did he go to a nightclub, and what did he do while he was there?

  They had started arguing about his drinking, even though Maggie couldn’t figure out why it bothered her so much. It wasn’t as if he became unpleasant, angry, or violent. If anything, he was looser, more affectionate, loving. She should’ve been thrilled when he put his arms around her, but instead, she was flooded with white-hot fury.

  She had started watching him to see how much he drank, trying to keep her voice level as she told him perhaps he ought to slow down. She had started checking the vodka bottle in the freezer, not going as far as to mark it to see how much he drank each day, but coming close. She didn’t need a marker to know.

  How ironic, she found herself thinking, that for so many years she thought she needed looking after, she deserved to be looked after, in just the way her father looked after her mother, and yet here she was, the one responsible for looking after Ben, for this was how she saw it: it was her responsibility to stop him from drinking, her responsibility to make him sober.

  She watched Ben leave the house, locking up and making his way down the street to the car. However much he drank, he never seemed particularly hungover. He got in the car, his smile fading as he saw the look on Maggie’s face.

  “When were you at Ministry of Sound?” She tried to keep her voice neutral, not wanting to fight all the way to Somerset.

  Ben sighed. “It was a late night last night. I didn’t want to go but the boys insisted. I didn’t stay long. I don’t even like that bloody house music. I had one drink, then I came home.”

  “So what time were you home?”

  Ben paused, and Maggie knew it was because he was debating whether or not this was a trick question. Was she awake and did she hear him come in? Was this something else that would lead to a big row?

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  “Was that because you were drunk, by any chance?” She couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

  “I had a few, yeah. It was the boys. I can’t not drink. I wasn’t drunk though.”

  “You always say that, and I know that’s not true. When you’re drunk you snore so loudly, you almost bring the house down.”

  “Exaggerate much?”

  “Don’t take the piss out of me. I’m worried about you. I’m worried about your drinking. You’re going out with the boys more and more, or to work events that end later and later, and every time you get home drunk.”

  Ben gritted his teeth, keeping his eyes on the road as he headed toward the motorway. “Most of the time you’re already asleep when I get home, so how would you know?”

  “Because even when you’re home you’re drinking. Do you not think I don’t realize how much vodka you’re going through?”

  “God, Maggie. What are you? My mother?”

  “No. That’s the point. I don’t want to be your mother, but that’s exactly what I feel like. You’re not being responsible. We’re talking about having children, but how can we have a family when you’re so irresponsible?”

  Ben shook his head. “I’ve just got another promotion at work, and I am doing a very good job of supporting us. I know you work, too, but let’s face it, your money is a nice addition rather tha
n being necessary. Please don’t accuse me of not being a good provider, because that’s not true.”

  “You’re twisting my words. I’m not accusing you of that. I’m saying that I’m worried about your drinking.”

  “What are you saying exactly? That I’m an alcoholic or something?”

  Maggie took a deep breath. “I didn’t say that. You said that. Do you think you’re an alcoholic?”

  “Of course I’m not a bloody alcoholic. Have you seen me miss a single day of work? Am I ever hungover? And the last time I was on antibiotics, I didn’t drink for ten days and it was easy. I didn’t even think about it. Do you think an alcoholic would be able to do that?” Ben’s voice was rising in irritation now, and Maggie instantly backed down, not wanting to ruin this day, and thinking about what he had just said. He had a point. He was not hungover, and surely alcoholics can’t just stop drinking because of medication. Perhaps she was overreacting. Perhaps she was making too big a deal of it.

  “I’m sorry,” she said eventually. “You have a point. I just . . . worry about your health.”

  “I’m in the prime of health.” His voice softened, both of them wanting to redress the balance. “Look!” He brandished his right arm, flexing his muscles as Maggie finally smiled. “Would an alcoholic be this fit?”

  “Okay, okay.” She placed a hand on his arm. “Let’s not talk about it anymore. Let’s enjoy the day.” She leaned her head back and looked out the window as they drove. The Spider was supposed to be a shared car, one that was only really used on the weekends, or in the evenings when they went out for dinner. Maggie rarely used it herself. She hated stick shift, and even though she recognized it was cool, she would have preferred something low-key. Not that either of them drove often. Normally, they both walked to the tube station and took the tube to work. They only ever used the car when they went somewhere together.

  The dirty brick houses lining the way to the M25 soon gave way to fields lining the M3. Leaving the motorway for the A roads just outside Warminster, Maggie felt her heart lift. This felt like home, driving through the pretty country villages, pausing at the roundabouts, roads she remembered from university days. They turned off the radio as they pointed out places they had visited years ago.

  “I think this is it,” said Ben finally, looking down at the map on Maggie’s lap as he turned left down an old country lane.

  “This is gorgeous.” Maggie looked out the window at the fields and the high hedgerows on either side. “A proper country lane. Apparently all this land used to belong to the house, but the owners needed money sometime in the seventies, so they sold it off.”

  “Do you know who they sold it to and what they’ve done with it?”

  “The estate agent said it was owned by a local farm. Look! That must be the gate!”

  The house was down a long driveway flanked by old hedgerows—elder, hawthorn, and beech tumbled together in a mass that formed a canopy over the narrow road. At the end, emerging from the tunnel of plants, was dappled sunlight and an old split rail gate.

  Maggie frowned. “Are you sure this is in our price range? This is like something a rock star would live in.”

  “I know!” Ben turned to her, as disbelieving as she. “It must be awful inside. We mustn’t get our hopes up. The house is probably terrible.”

  The car pulled through the open gate onto a sweeping gravel driveway, the stately house standing at the end, bathed in sunlight as if spotlighted by a talented lighting director. With stone mullion windows and a heavy wood gothic door, the entrance was flanked by spiraled topiary yews, beautifully clipped box balls flanking the driveway. Wisteria clambered up the left wing of the house, almost to the gabled roof, and the two of them pulled up and just stared at the house, both with huge grins on their faces.

  “This is beautiful,” said Ben, shaking his head. “We can afford this? If this was our house, I’d wake up every day feeling like I owned the world.”

  “Isn’t it stunning?” Maggie took in the three classic gables, the four chimneys, the beauty of the house and the freshly mown lawns, and she felt a swell of happiness. “I would be happy if we lived here too.” She squeezed his hand and got out of the car. “That must be Robert, the estate agent.” She gestured to a black BMW parked discreetly on the side.

  The man came out to meet them, explaining that he had been inside making sure all the lights were on and everything was open.

  “Remember,” said the estate agent, “you have to use your imagination. The house would be transformed with paint and modern furniture, but as you can see, the Jacobean front elevation is one of the prettiest in the area, and the slate roof was renovated five years ago, so that’s in excellent shape.”

  Maggie didn’t have to use her imagination. The house dated back to the seventeenth century, with some later additions, and was everything she had ever dreamed of. The hallway was large and square, a handsome staircase leading upstairs, heavy wood-paneled doors opening onto a gracious living room with a large stone fireplace and windows everywhere, including deep window seats tucked into two oriels, sunlight flooding into the room.

  She didn’t say anything, just walked around unable to wipe the smile off her face, occasionally looking at Ben, delighted to see that he had the same smile. The kitchen was large, with dated wood cabinets and a terrible linoleum floor, but there was a giant old Aga, which made her heart beat faster.

  “Just a lick of paint,” said Robert as Maggie turned to him with a skeptical look.

  “I think the kitchen needs a little more than that,” she laughed, turning to Ben. “Cabinets are easy though. The layout is perfect, it just needs new cabinets and countertops and maybe a new floor. Possibly a butler’s sink. Is that a conservatory?”

  “That’s one of the more recent additions,” Robert said, leading them out to the conservatory. “I believe it would be very easy to get planning permission to knock through. This wall between them is not a permanent wall, and that would give you the dream kitchen.”

  It would, thought Maggie, wrapping her arms around herself, not trusting herself to speak, not wanting the estate agent to know quite how much she had already fallen in love.

  They moved through the house, to the drawing room painted a dark red, the “den” a dark green, through various rooms that seemed to be filled to bursting with the detritus of childhood, and then upstairs. Every bedroom was large and light, each with a fireplace.

  They moved outside, to the stable block and guest cottage, the barn that had been used as a playroom that could become a lab for Ben, thought Maggie, if he ever decided to work from home.

  The lawns were clipped and neat, but the trees and bushes and hedges were overgrown. The house felt like it was a solid, happy, much-loved family home that had been neglected in recent times.

  “Do the owners still live here?”

  “They don’t. They moved to a town house in Bath.”

  “So they must be keen to sell?” Ben perked up.

  “I would definitely make an offer,” said Robert.

  “A low offer?”

  “The thing with a low offer is that you can always go up.” Robert laughed.

  “Would you mind if we wandered around again?” said Maggie. “Maybe just the two of us can walk around the house?”

  “Of course,” Robert said diplomatically. “I’ll wait in the kitchen.”

  Back upstairs, Maggie pulled Ben into the master bedroom, and closing the door, she looked at him and let out a silent squeal. “I love it,” she said. “I love, love, love, love it.”

  “I do as well,” said Ben, who looked a little scared. “But this is a big house. It’s huge. I can’t imagine just the two of us living here.”

  “But that’s the point. It’s not going to be just the two of us. I feel like this is all meant to be, that this house is a happy family house and it’s waiting for people l
ike us to come here. Can’t you just see children running around that lawn? Imagine our sons playing soccer right there!” She pulled Ben to the window that overlooked the back lawn. “And our daughter will have picnic tea parties right there. Can’t you see it, Ben?” She looked at him then, startled to see his eyes were glimmering.

  “I can,” he said and nodded, gazing around in smiling wonder. “I really can. You could get horses. We have stables!” He grinned.

  “Maybe I will. What do you think? Lord and lady of the manor. Kind of.”

  “Not bad for a working-class boy from Lancashire,” said Ben. “Although this is pretty normal for you. Just bigger.”

  “True. But much bigger. This is a proper grand manor house. Do you think it’s too big for us?”

  “Not when we fill it with children and dogs. Shall we do it? Shall we make an offer?”

  “We’d be happy here,” said Maggie, sitting on the window seat and looking out the large bay window in the master bedroom. “This feels right.” She looked at him. “You’re ready to commute?”

  “I’d have to stay in London a couple of nights a week, but I think we should do it.” He sat down next to her and put his arms around her. “You?”

  “Yes. Let’s do it,” she said as they both hugged each other tight.

  Whatever challenges they had faced, however difficult Ben’s drinking might have been over the last couple of years, she knew this would be a fresh start. Clean, country air and old-fashioned values. No Ministry of Sound. No pubs on every corner. The quiet country pub was the sort of place they’d go to for Sunday lunches after a long hike. This was perfect. This was everything she’d ever dreamed of.

  twenty-one

  - 1998 -

  Evvie had just returned from a shoot in Jamaica, bringing her mother and grandmother along for an all-expenses-paid holiday. They stayed at Jamaica Inn, which her grandmother pretended was much too fancy for her, but Evvie knew she loved it.

  “Come back to New York,” she’d pleaded with her mom on the penultimate day, knowing she wouldn’t come. “I have so much room and I’m living on my own now. You’ve never seen my place. Just change your flights. I’ll pay for everything.”