The Friends We Keep

by Jane Green

  James Sullivan shifted uncomfortably. “Well, that may have been true until now, but the road association has met, and, hang on, I’ll read it to you.” He drew an iPhone out of his pocket and started to read from the screen, clearing his throat with some discomfort, it seemed. “. . . we are all in agreement that animals, or livestock, that impede the peace and serenity of those who live here, may not be allowed.”

  Maggie frowned. “What road association?”

  “The one the developers set up.”

  Maggie let out a deep sigh and smiled at him. Poor man. He was so young. He really thought some fake road association was all he needed. “James.” She shook her head. “James, James, James. I have lived here for over twenty years, and for almost all of that time, I have had animals of some kind. In fact, the space that is now occupied by Wisteria Hall, and indeed all the other somewhat ridiculously named houses, was, until just before you and your lovely wife moved in, occupied by horses. I don’t really care what your road association bylaws say. I am not part of the association, and in addition to owning livestock, unless I am very much mistaken, I own the road and can keep it in any way that I see fit. I have to be really honest here, James. Had you knocked on the door and simply asked if I might consider getting rid of the rooster, I might have said yes. But that you chose to come over and throw some makeshift rule in my face has only served to piss me off.” Maggie stood up straighter, feeling emboldened. Perhaps the only good thing to come out of widowhood was that she no longer cared what people thought of her; life was too short. “I’m afraid the only thing I’m willing to do is to direct you to Boots, where I believe you’ll find they have some excellent earplugs. I recommend the wax ones rather than the foam. They keep out the noise much better. Bye-bye now,” she said, not giving the man on her doorstep a chance to say anything else. “Say hello to Emily for me, and do let me know if you ever want fresh eggs. The rooster has friends.”

  Shaking her head, Maggie walked through the house, her bare feet making soft thumps on the limestone floor. She felt a certain pleasant satisfaction until she paused by the large mirror in the corridor, reluctantly turning her head, a reflex she hadn’t been able to master, even though she knew she wasn’t going to like what she saw. She had never cared particularly about her looks, but while married she had done the basics, dyed her hair to keep the gray roots at bay, brushed it, smoothed Oil of Olay moisturizer over her face, neck and décolletage, just as her mother and grandmother before her had done.

  Since Ben died, she didn’t see much point in making an effort. Not that she made an effort for Ben, not for a long time, but she still felt she had to keep up appearances as, quite literally, lady of the manor. Not anymore. Her hair was no longer the vibrant red of her university years but was now a dull, faded umber streaked with fine lines of steel gray. Her eyes were punctuated by shadows, and deep folds around her mouth pulled her face down, folds that had not been there three years ago. These days, when she looked in the mirror, she saw her grandmother staring back, and not her grandmother in the prime of her life when she was a great beauty, but her grandmother toward the end, when she lived alone, riddled with dementia, in her grand old house in Somerset.

  Maggie looked as old as she felt. She paused and examined her hair, scrutinizing the frizzy split ends, the gray roots. Would she have time to dye it before the reunion tonight? She hadn’t even considered it, but she knew it would be the first thing Evvie noticed. She looked at her watch. She could. No time for a hairdresser, but if she ran to the supermarket, she would definitely be able to manage a home dye job before driving in to the reunion.

  Their thirty-year reunion. She hadn’t seen any of them in years, although Topher had been at the funeral. Not that she remembered much about it. Evvie wrote, but unsurprisingly couldn’t make it. Not that she expected her to. Once upon a time they had both been her closest friends in the world, her family, but that was many lifetimes ago. She and Evvie had lost touch completely. She had missed her for years, but didn’t expect anything from her now. It was another thing that felt like several lifetimes ago.

  And yet today, she had to admit she felt excited to see them again. She wasn’t even sure until precisely this moment, looking at her hair and deciding, on a whim, to dye it, that she was going to be able to get herself to go, although she hadn’t told Topher that, had lied and said she would definitely come, even as she was thinking up palatable excuses to use on the day. She wasn’t sure if her desire to see her old friends could overcome her inertia, but she found that it had. She found the idea of revisiting them, and perhaps a bit of the person she used to be before she met Ben, the first thing in a long time that she actually felt a desire for.

  She passed the kitchen table and grabbed a handful of raspberries from the fridge, pouring them into a small bowl. On the kitchen table were stacks of bills that she hadn’t been able to face, and she picked them up, resolving to pay them after she picked up the hair dye.

  Clucking as she walked out the back door, she called, “Hello, girls,” and laughed as the chickens appeared, running along the path, half jumping, their wings flapping in excitement as they saw her, the prospect of treats one they looked forward to every day.

  Fluffy pushed her way to the front, except it had become apparent in the last few weeks, not just to Maggie but it would appear to the neighbors as well, that Fluffy, a small white Bantam Silkie, was a rooster. Maggie thought she had bought only female chicks, but Fluffy, with his extravagant tail feathers and recent crowing, clearly slipped through the cracks.

  Poor neighbors, she thought. She herself had been woken up at five in the morning, but she couldn’t possibly get rid of Fluffy. What was one supposed to do with a rooster, she wondered, particularly this one, to whom she was already attached?

  She scattered the raspberries, using the opportunity to attempt to pat Fluffy, who expertly hopped out of her reach, even while managing to grab a raspberry at the same time. She laughed, then went back into the house to grab her car keys, this time with a smile on her face.

  thirty

  - 2019 -

  Honey? Did you want almonds on the oatmeal as well?”

  Topher was in the kitchen of the luxury flat they had rented in Kensington. There was no response from the living room, so Topher tipped a few out from the packet he had picked up at Marks & Spencer at Heathrow, sprinkled them on the oatmeal (which was called porridge in England, which was so delightfully Dickensian, he laughed out loud as he put the box in his basket), added just a sprinkle of brown sugar, and no butter. Benedict had to watch his cholesterol.

  He brought the bowl into the living room, with his own hard-boiled eggs and grapefruit, passing Benedict, who had his legs up on the chaise longue. His reading glasses were on the tip of his nose as he perused last weekend’s New York Times.

  “Come on, Dickie,” said Topher. “Breakfast is ready.”

  Benedict looked up. “Oh! I didn’t hear you. I was lost in this fascinating article about the Trumps.”

  Topher groaned. “No. I can’t. I need a break from politics.”

  “This isn’t politics,” said Benedict, getting up slowly and making his way to the dining table in the sunny bay window. “This is family dynamics.”

  “I just don’t want to think about it while I’m over here. If you want to talk about the queen, that’s fine with me, but no politics.”

  “Why would you want to talk about an old queen when you already have this old queen sitting by your side?”

  “You’re my old queen,” said Topher affectionately, reaching out and rubbing Benedict’s arm, “which makes you very dull. I already know everything about you.”

  Benedict smiled at him. “You are good to me, darling boy. What would I do without you?”

  “You’d probably find some other lovely young man to accompany you to the theater and look after you.”

  “I might. I definitely wouldn
’t have the good health I have today if it weren’t for you. I do love you.”

  “I know,” said Topher, picking up the Arts section and sliding it out to read while he ate his own breakfast. “I love you too. Go ahead and eat your breakfast while it’s still hot.”

  Benedict stirred his oatmeal, and did exactly as he was told.

  “So, are you excited about seeing your old friends tonight?” he asked.

  “I’m dreading the reunion, but I can’t wait to see the girls. I haven’t seen Maggie since the funeral, which was . . .” He paused to think. “God! Three years ago. That’s terrible. What kind of a friend am I that I haven’t seen her for so long when she’s dealing with such loss. Do you know her mother contacted me through Instagram?”

  “I thought you weren’t doing Instagram anymore.”

  “I’m not. I just go on from time to time to check. But Maggie’s mother messaged me and apparently Maggie’s been in a deep depression. She said I had to convince her to come to the reunion, so that’s why I did. And I’ve got a job to do tonight.”

  “The job being?”

  “Her mother wants her to sell the house and move to an apartment in Bath, but I told her I couldn’t push that on her if she didn’t want it. I do think she needs to get out more though. And maybe take some antidepressants.”

  “Do you think she’ll talk to you about that, given how long it’s been?”

  “I don’t know. I’m hoping that we’ll all fall back into the friendship we’ve always had, but maybe that’s too much to ask. Oh God, Dickie! I’ve imagined having this wonderful catch-up, but what if we’ve all changed too much and we have nothing in common anymore?”

  “Then you’ve all changed too much and you have nothing in common anymore. That’s okay. That’s life.”

  “I know, I know. You’re right. Meanwhile, to be superficial, I’m going to putter around Westbourne Grove this afternoon, see if I can find a blazer. I don’t like the one I brought at all,” said Topher as Benedict finished his breakfast. “You’ll be all right here by yourself?”

  “Stop treating me like I’m elderly,” said Benedict.

  “You are elderly.” Topher grinned.

  “Age is a state of mind.”

  “That’s my point exactly. You’ve been referring to yourself as an old man for the past thirty years.”

  “You haven’t known me for thirty years.”

  “Close enough.”

  Benedict reached out and patted Topher on the arm with an affectionate smile. “We make a good pair, don’t we?”

  “We do,” said Topher, leaning over and kissing him on the cheek.

  “I have plans myself, as it happens,” said Benedict. “I’m meeting an old friend for a walk around the gardens at Kensington Palace, and then, while you are at your reunion, I shall be joining him and his wife for dinner at their house.”

  “You’re quite sure you don’t want to come to the reunion?”

  “And have everyone think I’m your grandfather? No thank you. But you have a wonderful time, and let things unfold the way they’re supposed to. You can’t force a new friendship on an old one if you’ve grown apart. Did you talk to Simon about it?”

  Simon. The wonderful therapist Topher had been seeing for years. The wonderful therapist that gently led Topher back through his childhood, that encouraged Topher to drag up memories he had pushed far, far down in order to never have to think of them again. Simon, who had incorporated EMDR therapy to deal with what he termed Topher’s post-traumatic stress disorder, who made sense of why Topher hadn’t thought of himself as a sexual being, why he had “switched off” his sexuality, why he found it safe to be with men like Larry, who was happier going to bed with a cup of tea, and Dickie, who asked nothing of Topher other than companionship.

  They had spent years working through it, with Simon gradually encouraging Topher to open up the side of himself he had shut down. Topher had read about Grindr on Queerty and Joe.My.God., but hadn’t been interested, until Simon helped him feel safe enough to explore.

  And explore he did, much to Dickie’s quiet delight. Dickie had always had his own discreet partners, had always encouraged Topher to have the same, and it made no sense to him that Topher didn’t, until Topher wrote the memoir, and during the course of the writing, told Dickie about his greatest shame, asking him whether or not he ought to include it.

  Simon was a godsend, for not only had Topher been able to fully embrace his sexuality, he had become wiser, and calmer. He seemed far more comfortable in his skin without the constant need he had carried around when younger, the desire to be seen and loved.

  More recently, they had spoken about Topher’s mother, who again lived in the UK, and who Topher was planning to visit while here. His relationship with his mother had always been good, if superficial. He had never spoken to her about his childhood abuse, and she had never brought it up, not even after she phoned to congratulate him on the book, telling him how beautifully written it was and how proud she was.

  It was not unusual for Dickie to ask what Simon thought, for Simon had become the third party to their relationship, even though Topher had been transitioning out of therapy, getting ready to finish and handle life on his own.

  Topher arched an eyebrow at Dickie. “Of course I talked to Simon about it. I talk to Simon about everything. And you know exactly what Simon said.”

  “Was it ‘don’t worry about it and take it as it comes’?”

  “And that’s why you love him. Because he always parrots you. Or maybe it’s the other way around.”

  “And what does Simon say about seeing your mother and the struggles you’ve had with that recently?”

  Topher paused. He had always adored his mother; she was the one person in his life who could do no wrong, until therapy unlocked the memories he had been suppressing for years, and with them a growing resentment toward his mother that he didn’t know how to handle. Talking to Simon as often as he did didn’t seem to help. Simon had suggested a gentle confrontation. Topher had wept in Simon’s office saying how could she have not known, how could she have not noticed how quiet he was when he returned from his lessons, how introverted he had become.

  “He has suggested gentle honesty. Keeping it in the ‘I’ sentences, as in, ‘I felt hurt and abandoned when you didn’t notice what was going on.’”

  “You’re ready for this?” Dickie looked concerned.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.” Topher kept his voice light, even though he was dreading this conversation. But until it happened, he knew he’d never be able to fully heal.

  thirty-one

  - 2019 -

  Evvie’s friend Sophie was out when she arrived at Sophie’s London flat, ready for the reunion that evening. Evvie found the key hiding under the potted plant and let herself in, lugging her suitcase up to the top floor. Her packing habits had never been good, and she was paying for it again. She always tended to overpack, preferring to have everything she might need, just in case.

  When she was married to Lance, they had drivers and staff who would carry their bags. She never had to carry a case up four flights of stairs. If she ever forgot anything, or found they were invited to something for which she had nothing to wear, she would pop in to a local designer store and think nothing of spending thousands on the perfect outfit. It had to be said, as a former model, Evvie couldn’t help but have fun shopping. Everything looked spectacular on her, before she gained weight.

  Now that Evvie was no longer comfortable in her skin, money was tight, and shopping wasn’t nearly as enjoyable, Evvie brought everything she might possibly need, including much she probably wouldn’t. Three pairs of (very stretchy) jeans, two pairs of high-heeled boots (one black, one tan), sandals, silk T-shirts, wraps, sweaters in case it got cold in the evening, makeup, toiletries, and hair products. So many hair products! In the old days, the mo
deling days, she straightened it, but more recently she couldn’t afford those keratin treatments and Brazilian blowouts, and her natural curl had come through. Who knew curls would require even more products than having straightened hair?

  She carried all that up those steep stairs in what looked like an unassuming house off the main drag in Shepherd’s Bush, up the rather dismally lit hallway, along the stained carpet, putting her key in the lock and turning it to find herself in a beautiful flat that belied its somewhat insalubrious entry.

  The floors were a sanded oak, very pale, in a herringbone, and the apartment had minimal furnishings. It was very white, very open thanks to almost every wall being knocked down, with high ceilings that had been vaulted into the roof, and limewashed beams above her head.

  There were white, furry flokati rugs strewn about, and the odd midcentury-modern pieces Evvie recognized—the Eames chair, the Saarinen tulip table. The only spot of color was from the books that lined one wall, stretching from floor to ceiling, with a ladder on a rail that moved from side to side.

  On the floor was a piece of paper with an arrow: Your room is that way.

  Evvie hadn’t seen Sophie in years. They’d lived together in New York, when they were both in their early twenties, modeling, partying, borrowing each other’s clothes, and coming home to stay up all night chatting.

  Now Sophie had married, divorced, and had a daughter, Helena, who was the same age as Jack. When the kids were very young, Sophie came to Connecticut to stay with Evvie, but they hadn’t seen each other since. But, as with most true friends, Evvie knew that despite the distance, the friendship would be the same as it ever was. She also knew that Sophie was at work. After all these years, she had gone back to the career she had when she finished modeling—a booker in an agency. She specialized in older women, “women like you, Evvie, if you ever found yourself in the UK more frequently and decided to go back into business.” Evvie had laughed, not wanting to tell her about the extra forty pounds she now carried, the weight she was convinced would leave as soon as her divorce was finalized, and quite possibly it would have left her, had menopause and hormones not conspired to devastating effect.