Of course, all bubbles pop.
When we return to the UK, I am busy at work, playing catch-up for the sudden, unexpected time away. I have to visit Scotland for a few days to make some in-person redundancies, which is hard, and even when I’m back down south, I spend most of my time in the London office, practically chained to my desk, barely looking up from my screen. It doesn’t make sense for Matthew to come into London with me, as I’m too busy for dinners out, let alone long sessions in sexy hotels. I go back to staying in Premier Inns when I finish late and can’t face the commute. It’s a relief to know he’s in Hampshire, looking after Woodview. Keeping it safe.
I’m glad to be busy; it helps me avoid thinking about the fact that this is the longest period of time Heidi and I have ever gone without speaking to one another. Her silence is loud. Deafening. I also don’t want to think about the fact that there have been no more incidents of vandalism since we last saw one another, when she handed back her key. It kills me to think the two things might be related. I get a searing pain in my chest that leaves me breathless.
Gina and I have swapped some messages; she knows I’m married. She asked if there was a prenup in place before it happened, and although I think the question is impertinent, I assure her there was. I choose not to take offence because I can’t bear the thought of losing her too. When I do find the time to visit her, I’m laden down with an abundance of colourful sarongs and hand-made jewellery, gifts for Lottie from the Maldives. I cleared out the expensive hotel boutique and bought all the crafty bangles and pendants I could. I also give her a string of freshwater pearls. Even as I handed over my credit card, I knew the necklace was inappropriate for a child, but I bought it anyway.
Lottie accepts the gifts with a quiet formality that doesn’t hide her disappointment at not getting her big day. It isn’t intended to. I wonder whether she ever will forgive me, or whether I’m doomed to a lifetime of dark scowls and monosyllabic answers.
Gina asks the right questions about the wedding, but as there weren’t any guests to chatter about, readings to pass opinion on or food to judge, our conversation dries up rather quickly. The main event was the spectacular sex we indulged in. The sort that made my body stretch and flex, my muscles ache. Not a conversation that can be had in front of Lottie. When she goes upstairs to practise her guitar chords, I expect the conversation to turn to the joyful sex; however, as soon as we’re alone, Gina’s first question is ‘So have you seen Heidi?’ I shake my head and feel cross that she looks at me in a way that suggests I am at fault. ‘You can’t really believe she’s the one who vandalised your home and your parents’ graves?’
‘I don’t want to believe it, but she had opportunity and motive. She was there when I was locked in the sauna, and she knew I was going to St Adelaide’s that day.’
‘You sound insane. You are not a detective. She is not a criminal. You are best friends. This is nonsense, Emma, think about it. The pair of you have to talk this through.’
I admire Gina for trying to mend bridges. I’ve sometimes wondered if she’s ever felt like the third wheel, but her generous efforts show that she values the friendship between Heidi and me as much as we do. More, right now.
‘She’s made it clear she doesn’t trust Matthew and she wants to split us up.’
‘No, she just wanted you to be careful, cautious.’
‘Why? Because she thinks he’s only interested in me for my money? Can you imagine how offensive it is to hear that?’
Gina nods. ‘Of course, that’s awful. But that’s not what she meant.’
‘I think she liked having me to herself, at her beck and call. An extra pair of hands with the kids. Deep pockets. It’s ironic that she’s worried that Matthew only wants me for my cash,’ I mutter.
‘What do you mean?’
I’m angry with Heidi. Hurt, too, and I need Gina more than ever, which is how I justify breaking confidences. ‘Well, I paid for Fifi to go on that school ski trip last year and for Troy to go on a cricket tour to South Africa when he was in sixth form. Heidi and Leon couldn’t afford the holidays and I didn’t want the kids to miss out. I’ve often paid for treats: jaunts to Legoland when they were younger, to the Nike flagship store in Oxford Street. I even paid for their dog.’
‘You bought Bella?’
‘Yes, when we were at the breeder’s and Heidi was paying, her card bounced. What could I do? The kids were psyched, Bella was already on a leash that Aaliyah was holding. Heidi said she’d pay me back. She never did.’
Gina’s eyes widen. ‘I had no idea.’
‘Ask her if you don’t believe me.’
‘Of course I believe you. It’s just you’ve never spoken of it.’
‘It was a private thing. I’ve never minded, I was happy to help out. But now, since all she goes on about is Matthew liking me for my money, I feel really upset. Maybe that’s what she values in me too.’ It’s such an awful thought to articulate.
‘Don’t be daft,’ says Gina. She squeezes my arm. I think she wants to hug me; if she does, I might cry. It’s so unlike me to be emotional, but there’s a lot going on right now. Extreme highs and awful lows. It’s hard to keep my emotions in check.
I reach into my bag and pull out a bottle of champagne. ‘Do you want to toast the bride and groom?’ I ask, desperate to change the subject.
Gina glances at the kitchen clock. ‘Maybe later.’ She fills the kettle and pops it on. Determined, she returns to the subject. ‘Well, Heidi wouldn’t be the first person to be a bit resentful of a new man in her best friend’s life. I still don’t believe she would do what you’re suggesting she’s done.’
‘Well, I don’t believe Matthew would, which was where she tried to throw shade.’
Gina looks torn. ‘I’m not saying that either.’
‘And we’ve ruled out the idea of it being any of Becky’s friends or family.’
‘Even so …’
‘Gina, there hasn’t been any vandalism since Heidi and I had words.’ I say this coolly as I stand up and open a cupboard. I know where she keeps her glasses, and even though she is making more tea and I don’t feel much like champagne after that conversation, I need something to do. She is staring at me with a disconcerting intensity. I don’t like it.
‘Is everything OK, though, Emma?’
‘What?’
‘I mean, if it wasn’t, you know you can talk to me or go to a doctor.’
‘A doctor?’ I don’t understand at all. I’ve never felt better. ‘Do I look ill?’
‘No, you look really great and seem happy. I’m glad for you and Matthew, I really am. He seems lovely, but …’
‘You do know anything that’s just been said is cancelled out if there’s a but?’ I hope she stops talking. I don’t want her to say anything we both might regret.
She takes a deep breath and, in a gust, she gabbles, ‘You’re just not behaving like yourself recently, and you know at our age our hormones are all over the place and it’s difficult to be as clear-sighted. I know my moods are up and down all the time and the brain fog is a shocker.’
If it is true that Gina’s moods are up and down all the time, I haven’t seen any evidence of it. She appears eternally calm, so laid-back she’s practically horizontal. Why is she talking about the perimenopause swamp? I stare at her, puzzled. Why would I need to see a doctor?
She goes on, ‘You know, I was reading this article and the symptoms that women experience in the perimenopause are far wider-reaching than previously thought. It’s not just hot sweats and a dry vag.’
‘I don’t have either.’
