fact. But whenever I ask, “What if I don’t particularly want to be challenged?” she never seems inclined to answer.’
This time I do laugh. “You have a wonderful child, Heather. Slightly boisterous, maybe, but wonderful.”
Oscar was something of a … Well, let’s say he was a glorious surprise. I still remember sitting with Heather on the sofa after she’d found out. It wasn’t a particularly nice sofa, I have to admit. We were still in our last student house, on the outskirts of Cambridge. We were all ready to move out, onwards and upwards into a future which was unknown yet we were certain would be bright. The sofa was pretty much the last thing left in the barren sitting room.
We’d promised each other that nothing would change, that last summer. That adult life, and proper work, could never put an end to nights spent drinking Bellinis in the basement bars around the city, or long, lazy afternoons watching romantic comedies in our pyjamas. Even when Heather got engaged to Dominic, in an uncharacteristically spontaneous fashion, still she’d vowed that nothing would change.
Then it happened. She was just staring into space, not saying anything. For the first time in our friendship, I couldn’t work out what she was thinking. Until suddenly, she’d stood, smoothing down the hem of her cobalt blue summer top.
“Well, then,” she’d said, and I remember that her voice had sounded strange, and yet at the same time not strange at all. It was completely neutral. “I’d better get an appointment at the doctor’s. And I suppose my parents ought to know sooner rather than later.”
And that had been that. It was as though she resigned herself, in that moment, to the fact that life was about to completely, inescapably transform. She just got on with it, no looking back.
Since that day, of course, nothing has been the same. She’s still my closest friend, and we make plenty of time for one another, but our lives have gone in wildly different directions. And sometimes, I look at her, with her husband and her adorable son, and her impeccable nineteen-thirties villa in a quiet, leafy suburb on the edge of town, and I find myself thinking …
Well, look, never mind what I think. It’s not important.
“You’re right. I do,” she’s agreeing now and, although she’s trying not to, I can see a radiant smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “And you have an equally wonderful, equally boisterous cat.” She sends me a sly look from beneath her lashes. “Who apparently knows better than you do what makes a good boyfriend.”
I raise my eyes to the ceiling. “Are we still talking about this?”
“Yes, we are.” Heather picks up her own watermelon iced tea and takes a tentative sip before pulling a face. “I need to stop letting you bring me to these bohemian cafés. Or, rather, I need to stop following your lead when I order. At least it’s not as bad as the beetroot latte.”
“I like beetroot lattes,” I say defensively. “And anyway, it’s good for you to try something different every now and again.”
She makes a dismissive motion with her hand. “If you can’t get it in Waitrose, then there’s a good reason for it.”
“It’s only a matter of time,” I say ominously. “Beetroot will take over the world. You’ll see.”
She fixes me with a severe look. “We’re digressing here. Don’t think you can distract me with winter vegetables. We were talking about you, remember?”
I shake my head fervently. “I don’t think we were.”
“We most definitely were. Stop avoiding the subject.” She pushes the glass of iced tea away with a tastefully manicured hand. There’s a small pause in the conversation as a waiter swoops in upon our empty plates before she continues. “Look, Clara, be honest with yourself. Out of all of those men Casper chased away, was there anyone you could actually see a future with? Anyone you really got to know, who understood you inside out?”
“No,” I confess in a small voice.
“So perhaps, in his own way, he was doing you a favour?”
I raise an eyebrow at her. “Really? You’re going to pretend that you believe that?”
“Whether I do or don’t is irrelevant. But, ultimately, I think it wouldn’t do you any harm to guard yourself a bit more. What’s the hurry, anyway? You have all the time in the world; you’re only twenty-five.”
“So are you!”
“Yes, but the difference is that I don’t feel it,” she says simply. “And, believe me, one day, before you even know it, you’ll be feeling just as old and haggard as I do now, so enjoy this phase while it lasts.” She raises her glass in mock toast. “Tell you what, here’s a challenge. Find someone who can actually win round that cat of yours; now, that really will be someone worth having. If they can do that, I’ll deem them worthy of your affections.”
“You’re right; of course you are.” To my horror, I can feel heat pricking at the back of my eyes, and I blink hard. “It’s just … well, it’s been …”
“A difficult few years,” Heather finishes quietly, placing a hand over mine. “I know.”
We lapse into silence. I fiddle with the straw in my drink. It’s paper, like they all are nowadays, decorated with a pink candy stripe. I’m staring at it so determinedly that the colours start to blur into one another. I’m pretty sure it’s making my eyes cross, so I look out of the window instead. The students are listening raptly for the most part, their heads bent over notebooks or, in the case of a few more technological types, tablets. I notice there are a couple at the back, however, who aren’t quite so swept away by their professor’s passionate lecture. They’re prodding at their phones, looking bored.
“Can we talk about something else?” I mumble at last.
She exhales slowly. “Yes, of course.” I can tell she feels bad because she pulls her watermelon iced tea back towards her and starts to drink from it stoically. It’s not much, but I know her well enough to recognise an olive branch. “What’s new at work?”
“Heather, I work in a museum. New isn’t exactly our speciality.”
I know I’m being flippant, that I’m shutting her out. But I can’t help it. I know what she’ll ask next, and I just can’t cope with anything else right now. I can’t cope with her fussing around me, trying to fix my life.
She emits a gusty sigh, plucking the laminated menu from the centre of the table to peruse the back. “I can tell I’m not going to get anything even remotely sensible out of you today. You’re in one of those moods. Do you have time for pudding?”
Now that’s a topic which is always amenable to me. It’s with no small sense of relief that I take the menu from her outstretched hand. This feels like much safer ground. Pudding, I can deal with.
“I always have time for pudding. What are we having?”
By the time I turn onto my street that evening, the sky has deepened to an inky purple, the air tinged with the promise of frost. The first star is just cresting the horizon, a pinprick of light against an otherwise blank sheet of darkness. There’s no moon, I notice. I always pay attention to the moon: where it is in the sky, how full it is. I track it through its stages, watching it wax and wane, brighten and dim, the craters emerging from and then melding back into the shadows. The steady rhythm of it, ever changing and yet unchanged, is more reassuring to me than any amount of therapy.
Despite the darkness, I have no trouble finding my house. It’s blazing like a beacon, lights shining from every window like a cottage on a Christmas card. One of the joys, I’m fast learning, of living with an ex-student who doesn’t have to pay the bills.