still …’
I sigh. ‘Yes.’
She chews the inside of her lip. Raises her eyes back to mine. ‘Grace—’
‘Rachel, let’s not do this again, shall we? Let’s not go over this any more. I’m OK. Really.’
She fiddles with the stem of her glass, twirling it in her fingers so the little bubbles spin and swirl. ‘I know, Grace. But Jesus, I …’
I snort.
She looks at me quizzically. Almost offended.
‘We’re like some Victorian pastiche,’ I say. ‘The mother and the fallen woman. It seems you’re always trying to save me or something.’
Rachel’s smile is reluctant. ‘I’m not trying to save you, Grace. I’m simply trying to …’ She stops, as if she no longer knows what to say. ‘I just can’t believe you’re doing this. Not after everything …’ Her voice lapses into silence.
Not after everything.
I stare at my oldest friend, wondering how to respond. Wondering if it ever occurs to her that I’m doing this precisely because of everything. I consider trying to explain. How the way I am now is the only way I can live with what came before.
I close my eyes briefly, and there he is. Michael. The first time we met, the look he gave me – cocky, knowing, full of challenge. A smile that said there was nothing I could do for him, but I was welcome to try.
Christ, to think I imagined I could help. Hard to believe I was ever such a fool.
‘Grace?’
I lift my gaze back to my friend. See out of the corner of my eye that the man at the bar still has his head turned in my direction. ‘How’s Tim?’ I ask, pointedly changing the subject. ‘Finished his shed yet?’
Rachel grins, allowing me this one, the alcohol finally lifting her mood. ‘Nearly. Another few years and it’ll be great.’
‘Men and their caves, eh?’
‘You should come and have a look.’ Something a little off-hand in her tone.
‘I will,’ I insist, at the same time knowing I’ve said this once too often for Rachel to take it seriously. I try to recall the last time I was there. Right after Therese was born. Over two years, I realize with a lurch of guilt.
The waitress appears with a plate in each hand, bending her knees as she places them in front of us. Rachel examines her salad.
‘Is that all you’re going to have?’ I ask.
She grimaces. ‘I’m trying to lose some weight. I can hardly get into my old work clothes and I can’t afford new stuff.’ She picks over the green leaves, flicking something to the side of her plate. ‘Christ, I hate fucking capers.’
I lean over, spear a couple with my fork and pop them in my mouth. Replace them with a few of my basil gnocchi.
Rachel looks sheepish but grateful. ‘Hang on …’ She fishes into her bag and pulls out an envelope. ‘Before I forget. I’ve got this for you.’
‘It’s a bit late for Christmas cards,’ I say, a subtle dig. She refused to send any this year – said it was a waste of paper.
‘Just open it.’
I slide a finger under the tab to break the seal and pull out a heavily embossed piece of white card.
‘She wasn’t sure where to send it so she gave it to me,’ Rachel says as I examine the elaborately curlicued script. An invitation to Jane’s wedding. Jane Transom – our old flatmate at university.
‘So Clive finally got round to asking her then?’
‘I think she ended up asking him,’ Rachel laughs. ‘After eight years living together, he had the good sense not to refuse.’
‘Are you going?’
Her mirth subsides into a frown. ‘Of course. We’re leaving the kids with Mum.’
I scan the invitation. A church in rural Hertfordshire with the reception at Shaldcott Manor. The full works, by the look of it. I check the date – only a few weeks away. ‘Not much notice, is it?’ I say.
Rachel’s cheeks flush and I read between the lines. Clearly Jane thought twice before inviting me. ‘I’m not sure I can …’ I begin, but no plausible excuse follows in its wake.
Rachel eyes me with a serious expression.
I sigh. ‘Yes.’
She chews the inside of her lip. Raises her eyes back to mine. ‘Grace—’
‘Rachel, let’s not do this again, shall we? Let’s not go over this any more. I’m OK. Really.’
She fiddles with the stem of her glass, twirling it in her fingers so the little bubbles spin and swirl. ‘I know, Grace. But Jesus, I …’
I snort.
She looks at me quizzically. Almost offended.
‘We’re like some Victorian pastiche,’ I say. ‘The mother and the fallen woman. It seems you’re always trying to save me or something.’
Rachel’s smile is reluctant. ‘I’m not trying to save you, Grace. I’m simply trying to …’ She stops, as if she no longer knows what to say. ‘I just can’t believe you’re doing this. Not after everything …’ Her voice lapses into silence.
Not after everything.
I stare at my oldest friend, wondering how to respond. Wondering if it ever occurs to her that I’m doing this precisely because of everything. I consider trying to explain. How the way I am now is the only way I can live with what came before.
I close my eyes briefly, and there he is. Michael. The first time we met, the look he gave me – cocky, knowing, full of challenge. A smile that said there was nothing I could do for him, but I was welcome to try.
Christ, to think I imagined I could help. Hard to believe I was ever such a fool.
‘Grace?’
I lift my gaze back to my friend. See out of the corner of my eye that the man at the bar still has his head turned in my direction. ‘How’s Tim?’ I ask, pointedly changing the subject. ‘Finished his shed yet?’
Rachel grins, allowing me this one, the alcohol finally lifting her mood. ‘Nearly. Another few years and it’ll be great.’
‘Men and their caves, eh?’
‘You should come and have a look.’ Something a little off-hand in her tone.
‘I will,’ I insist, at the same time knowing I’ve said this once too often for Rachel to take it seriously. I try to recall the last time I was there. Right after Therese was born. Over two years, I realize with a lurch of guilt.
The waitress appears with a plate in each hand, bending her knees as she places them in front of us. Rachel examines her salad.
‘Is that all you’re going to have?’ I ask.
She grimaces. ‘I’m trying to lose some weight. I can hardly get into my old work clothes and I can’t afford new stuff.’ She picks over the green leaves, flicking something to the side of her plate. ‘Christ, I hate fucking capers.’
I lean over, spear a couple with my fork and pop them in my mouth. Replace them with a few of my basil gnocchi.
Rachel looks sheepish but grateful. ‘Hang on …’ She fishes into her bag and pulls out an envelope. ‘Before I forget. I’ve got this for you.’
‘It’s a bit late for Christmas cards,’ I say, a subtle dig. She refused to send any this year – said it was a waste of paper.
‘Just open it.’
I slide a finger under the tab to break the seal and pull out a heavily embossed piece of white card.
‘She wasn’t sure where to send it so she gave it to me,’ Rachel says as I examine the elaborately curlicued script. An invitation to Jane’s wedding. Jane Transom – our old flatmate at university.
‘So Clive finally got round to asking her then?’
‘I think she ended up asking him,’ Rachel laughs. ‘After eight years living together, he had the good sense not to refuse.’
‘Are you going?’
Her mirth subsides into a frown. ‘Of course. We’re leaving the kids with Mum.’
I scan the invitation. A church in rural Hertfordshire with the reception at Shaldcott Manor. The full works, by the look of it. I check the date – only a few weeks away. ‘Not much notice, is it?’ I say.
Rachel’s cheeks flush and I read between the lines. Clearly Jane thought twice before inviting me. ‘I’m not sure I can …’ I begin, but no plausible excuse follows in its wake.
Rachel eyes me with a serious expression.
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