‘I’ll have a glass with you,’ says Gina. I nod at her gratefully and then push my way through the crowd. I lean on the bar, spreading my elbows wide, taking up more space than usual, keeping people further away. I concentrate on the bottles of gin and whisky glinting a welcome, and the colourful stained-glass windows that throw smatterings of jewel-coloured light. Odd that Victorian pubs and churches chose to decorate in the same way. I guess there are commonalities. Enough people worship at this altar of alcohol. I keep my eyes on the server and push down my sense of disappointment at Heidi’s response.
Matthew and I have been living together for a couple of weeks now and it’s going brilliantly, better than I could ever have hoped. He does have a habit of moving my stuff around, and it’s sometimes odd to reach for something in the fridge and find it finished. Odder still that he uses my body moisturiser, a fact I didn’t discover until I found the tub empty. I hadn’t realised how clumsy he is until I started living with him. He dropped a fork down the waste disposal unit and didn’t even realise he’d done it. He knocked over my Venetian glass bedside lamp and again didn’t notice; he must have barrelled in and out of the room without realising it had toppled. Still, these minor inconveniences are tiny and unimportant.
Our habits and routines have quickly aligned. I’ve got very used to his presence in the house, and it’s wonderful to eat and sleep, talk and watch TV with someone. With him. We’re constantly discovering things about one another, as we urge each other to try our respective speciality dishes, or listen to a track that is a favourite, or watch a movie that one of us deems a ‘must see’. Side note: our film tastes are not similar, I like to watch gritty dramas or documentaries. He prefers blockbuster movies and, most extraordinarily, musicals. I like our gender-stereotype-defying preferences. We go to country pubs and eat fish pie among hill walkers; we go to art galleries and afterwards drink tea and eat cake in the café, sitting next to fiercely educated grey-haired ladies. I’m slowing down, working less, eating more, relaxing, just like people have always told me to. It’s wholesome and adult. Sensible. He exudes dependability and I feel extraordinarily content. Shouldn’t all of that please my best friend?
I order a vodka shot and down it at the bar. I had thought I’d probably drink a little more than is wise tonight, but in a celebratory manner; now I neck the shot as a form of Dutch courage. Sweat gathers under my armpits and I feel tension skitter up from the base of my spine to the crown of my head.
I return to the table with a bottle of cava, two wine glasses and a Diet Coke. Before I can even sit down, Heidi asks, ‘Why did he come back to the UK after his wife died? Why not stay in the US with his friends or go back to New Zealand and be with his family?’
‘I don’t know, but I’m glad he did.’ I plonk myself down, feeling heavy. I pour the fizz and clink my glass against Gina’s, but it’s a habitual gesture and doesn’t hold any real joie de vivre.
‘The thing is, Emma, friends and family are part of the deal with a partner. They prop you up when you need it. And at some point or other, everyone needs it. You have to look at a partner as a package, and you don’t know his package,’ comments Heidi.
‘I think she does,’ Gina says, with a dirty laugh. She winks. I appreciate her attempt to lighten the mood, but Heidi won’t be distracted. She stares at me, her huge brown eyes glinting with a cold, steely determination. The pub is noisy. Everyone around us seems to be having a good time. Fleetingly I wish I was in another group. One where friends were simply chewing the fat and knocking back the booze.
‘As I don’t have a family to speak of, I’m not that concerned about his package.’ I pronounce the word in a way that clearly communicates my disdain for her theory.
‘Is he still in touch with his dead wife’s family?’
It’s never crossed my mind to ask. ‘They live in South Africa, so he can’t exactly pop by for tea.’
‘Everyone is so very far-flung, aren’t they? His family in New Zealand, hers in South Africa, friends in America.’
I sigh. I know that Heidi is like a Rottweiler when she gets something between her teeth. A dog with a filthy, briny bone. One that she occasionally buries in the garden but always goes back to and unearths. I know I must face her down. ‘What’s your point?’
‘I don’t have one.’ She does. She always does. We stare at one another, a Wild West stand-off. Eventually she sighs, sags like an airbed that is being deflated after the guests have departed. ‘It’s odd that he hasn’t introduced you to anyone. It just seems like he’s getting his feet under the table fast,’ she murmurs. Maybe there’s some sympathy in her tone, but I fear it’s pity and I bristle.
‘Getting his feet under the table.’ I repeat her comment with incredulity. ‘What an especially twentieth-century thing to say.’
‘Why the rush? You never do anything rash.’
‘I’m forty-seven. I think maybe it’s time I did.’
‘And that’s another thing. The age gap,’ she states flatly.
‘I don’t think anyone would comment if it was the other way round. If he was eleven years older than I am, people wouldn’t raise eyebrows.’
‘But it isn’t the other way round. It’s this way round.’
‘I never realised how sexist you are.’ I try to laugh, but the sound gets swallowed in my throat, not authentic enough to battle its way into existence.
‘It’s not a matter of being sexist. What if he wants a family? Babies? Have you even talked about that?’ We haven’t, but I can’t bring myself to admit as much, because she’ll point out that we should have, we must. Matthew knows the facts. He knows my age; he must have given the matter some thought. I suppose it is a conversation that has to happen, but I freeze when I think of having it, because if he says he does want children, then he’s basically saying we’re not forever. I don’t want to hear that. I think Heidi sees all of this in my face, because her body softens an infinitesimal fraction and she adds, ‘The thing is, Emma, you’ve always said you were quite happy on your own.’
‘Well, I was, but I’m deliriously happy now.’ I throw back my cava and, simply for something to do, pour another. ‘I’m not saying it’s long term. It’s just he had to move out of his last place in a hurry, and we thought, why not? It will be fun. And it is. Just that, fun.’ I break off, hating myself for downplaying how splendid we are. How special it is.
Heidi has the good grace to look a bit embarrassed, but pushes forward. ‘I don’t want to be the one to say it, but is he rushing things because he’s in a bind over his accommodation, or because he’s lonely and he just needs someone, or—’
I shake my head quickly, denying the thought, eradicating it if possible. I don’t want my best friend to articulate my worst fear. The noise of the pub seems to rise and fall like waves crashing on a shoreline. Heidi reaches across the table and squeezes the tips of my fingers. I put my hand on my lap, out of her reach.
‘Is he just lonely? Is he really over her?’ Her voice is almost a whisper. And yet it is a roar.
‘What? How would I … How would I know?’ I stutter. I am annoyed at myself for displaying this vulnerability, asking for her advice even when she’s saying everything I don’t want to hear. But I ask anyway, because I’ve always trusted her.
‘How often does he visit her grave?’ she asks.
My mouth is parched. I could do with some water, but there isn’t any. Instead, I throw back another glass of cava. It does the opposite to quenching; my throat rasps. I take a deep breath and rationalise what is going on here. Heidi should be welcoming Matthew with warmth and enthusiasm. Friends ought to support each other. Isn’t that what she told me to do when Gina got engaged to Mick? There is only one explanation I can think of. She’s jealous of him. The thought crushes me like an avalanche of snow tumbling down a mountain; it gathers momentum, and within a swift second it buries me. Fatally.
Heidi has never had any competition for my affection or time, and now she does. Since meeting Matthew, I haven’t been available for all our meet-ups, which must annoy her. Occasionally I have let her phone calls go through to voicemail, and maybe she too feels the distance of lingering, unanswered texts, because that’s not just a one-way thing. When her texts are impertinent or irritating and stuffed with ambiguous emojis, I sometimes make a silent protest by being slow to respond.
This is jealousy. She wants to keep me for herself. For her convenience. This isn’t about what’s best for me. It’s about what’s best for her. I pour myself another drink. I don’t top up Gina’s glass, as hers is still full. Both women are staring at me, examining me. The room droops.
‘Steady, I bet there was a huge mark-up on that plonk,’ Heidi comments.
Why is she always talking about money? Why doesn’t she want to see where this might go with Matthew? I’ve always said she and her family are my chosen family. I’m generous with them. Very. In fact, last year I made a will, and apart from the bits I’ve left to charity, my godchildren are the main beneficiaries. Who else have I got to leave it to? My brother is well taken care of; he doesn’t need it. Is she worried that if I reprioritise my affection – if I fall in love – I might change my mind about the will? Momentarily I lose my bearings. The world slows, voices echo and slur. It’s like I’ve dived into an icy lake, plunged too far underwater, and it takes a great effort to come back to the surface, back to reality. I stare at Heidi and she glares back.
‘Girl, I’m on your side. You know that.’ But for the first time since we met, I’m not sure she is.
‘Shall we talk about something else now?’ I say coolly. ‘How’s the revision going?’ It’s a general enough question. She runs with it, sharing details about colour-coded revision cards that I find I don’t care about. I don’t even know which child is revising, but one of her kids is always studying for some set of important exams. I finish my drink, and when the glass is drained, I say I need to get home.
‘Already?’ comments Gina.
‘I have some work to get through.’
‘You always have work, but you never slink off this early,’ she points out. Then she beams at me, ‘Truth is, you’re itching to get back to the lovely Matthew and his package, aren’t you?’
‘Nothing stays the same,’ I mumble.
‘Nor should it,’ she says, standing up to hug me. At least she gets it.
