wearing a new shirt. I’m wearing accessories: hooped earrings and multiple bracelets. I’m now worried that rather than channelling hippy chic, I’m more gypsy fortune-teller. I’ve bought scarlet gladioli, because they’re dramatic and impactful but don’t break the bank. I’m just hunting out a long thin vase – I know we used to have one; I think it may be in one of the boxes that I’ve just moved up to the attic – when the doorbell rings.
Abigail. She is even more glamorous in the flesh than either I remembered her or the photos on the internet revealed. She is five foot eight, four inches taller than I am, and yet seems somehow dainty, frail. Maybe it’s because she’s been through something so awful recently. Her skin is pale, cool and smooth. No spots, no freckles, no lines or creases. She looks brand new. I fight an urge to caress her cheekbones. They are so sharp, I might prick my finger and draw blood, like people do in fairy tales if they touch a spinning wheel. Her hair is sleek, slightly longer than she wore it at university, blunt cut at the shoulder. Glossy. With her arrives a waft of something exotic, a shiver of something exciting.
After all this time, it’s good to see her.
‘Darling.’ She flings her arms around me and hugs me close to her. I feel her collar bone and can smell her perfume and cigarettes. I’m surprised she smokes. I thought it was practically a criminal offence in LA. ‘You look amazing,’ she gushes. Her voice oozes – I think of amber syrup sliding off a spoon. I almost believe her. I mean, she sounds sincere but I have mirrors and ‘amazing’ is a stretch. She holds me at a distance, her hands on my upper arms and her head tilted to one side. ‘Amazing,’ she repeats. Breathily. And now. Yup, despite the evidence, I believe her. She flicks her eyes at my newly purchased bay trees that stand proud and neat in pots, either side of the door. Yesterday, when I dragged the girls to the local garden centre to purchase them I’d thought they were the most perfect things. Now, under her gaze they look a little try-too-hard. My fault, not hers.
‘Come in, come in,’ I say. ‘Go right through to the kitchen. I’ve baked.’
‘You’ve baked!’ She repeats this as though it’s the most astonishing thing she’s ever heard. In truth, it is quite astonishing. I only bake about half a dozen times a year and four of those occasions are to make birthday cakes. The scent of dough, butter, and cream drifts through the hallway. Tempting and comforting. Suddenly, I feel a little shy about admitting to baking. It seems like too much of an effort; I doubt Abigail ever eats cake, anyhow. She can’t possibly, not with a figure like hers. Still, she makes all the right noises; she insists it smells like heaven and that she can’t wait to try them.
Lily is bouncing around her like a puppy. Imogen is holding back a little but is clearly transfixed. Abigail is possibly the most glamorous and beautiful woman they have ever seen in real life.
‘Where shall I put this?’ The taxi driver startles me. He’s coming up our garden path pulling the most enormous suitcase.
‘Oh, I’ll take that,’ I say.
‘That’s twenty-eight fifty.’
‘Right, right.’ Abi is already in the kitchen. I can see Lily has climbed onto her knee. It would be a shame to disturb her when she’s just got settled. I reach for my purse and pay the man.
I pull the enormous case into the hallway and leave it at the bottom of the stairs. Ben or Liam can move it later. In the kitchen, I turn to Abi with a beam.
‘I can hardly believe you are here, in my house,’ I say excitedly.
‘Nor can I.’ She has a hint of an accent now. Of course she does. She’s been living in the States for over a decade but as a result I can’t quite read her tone. Obviously, the circumstances that have brought her here mean she’s not going to be feeling ecstatic. ‘Have you paid the taxi?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you ask for a receipt?’
‘Oh, no. I didn’t think.’ I’m not in the sort of business that you can claim back expenses so it never crossed my mind.
‘Never mind.’ She bends to root in her bag and I expect her to reach for her purse to reimburse me; instead she pulls out a packet of cigarettes. I should tell her about our non-smoking policy. I don’t. I’m not exactly sure why. I don’t want to make her feel uncomfortable. I don’t want to seem unwelcoming. I rummage around in a cupboard until I find a saucer that will act as an ashtray.
‘What would you like to drink?’ I glance at the Krups coffee machine which I’m disproportionately proud of. Ben bought it for me last Christmas and it makes a mean cup: Americano, cappuccino, espresso, caffeinated, decaffeinated. It’s pretty cool. However, just in case Abi isn’t a coffee drinker anymore I’ve also bought a variety of herbal teas: chamomile, peppermint, lemon and ginger.
‘Oh, I don’t mind. I’m happy with red or white. Or a G&T, if that’s your thing. Whatever.’
My eyes compulsively slide to the clock on the wall. It’s just after four. I don’t know what to do. I have a rule that I don’t drink before seven. It’s something I introduced when Liam was a baby because otherwise there was a danger I’d start drinking at eleven a.m. or something. I also limit myself to just one glass during a week night. Suddenly, these rules seem a bit shaming and provincial. I pull a bottle of white from the fridge and pour two glasses. I hope it is still OK -I think we opened it on Sunday.
I place one glass in front of her and nurse mine self-consciously. Imogen whispers in my ear, ‘I’m going to tell Daddy.’ I bat her away.
‘So, tell me everything,’ I say with an expansive wave of my arms.
‘Like I said in my email, I found out Rob was having an affair, the bastard. I couldn’t stay with him for another moment.’
I glance nervously at the girls. They are wide-eyed, agog. ‘Oh yes. You must tell me everything about Rob, but I meant other things, more general things.’ Abi looks confused. Clearly for her there aren’t any other conversations to be had right now. There is nothing else on her mind. I try to give her some prompts. ‘What was it like living in America?’ I regret the question immediately. I sound so naive. It’s not like I don’t know anything about the States. We have been there. To Orlando. Once. Although, obviously, I realise that Disneyland isn’t representative. It doesn’t cover it. It’s a big place. Huge.
Abi shrugs. ‘I couldn’t possibly say. I don’t know where to start.’
It’s odd because I know more about her than she’s told me. Well, she hasn’t told me much. That’s the weird thing about googling people. It forces a false one-way intimacy. I glance at Abi and am shocked to see she is pressing the bridge of her nose, dewy-eyed – she’s obviously trying to stem tears.
‘Oh no, Abi. You poor thing. I’m sorry.’ I want to kick myself. I always say the wrong thing. I’m nervous. It’s odd having her here after so long, and exciting, too. My demand that she ‘tell me everything’ was far too flip. Now she’s crying. I’ve made her cry. That’s the last thing I wanted to do. I’m embarrassed and sad for her, yet also flattered that she’s letting her guard down in front of me. Her emotions are so real, and expressing them is a true testament to our friendship. It’s as though the long years, since we last saw each other, have been swept aside.
‘No, I’m sorry.’
I should have been more careful, more tactful. Just because she looks stunning doesn’t mean she’s not suffering. I sit forward in my seat. I want every ounce of my body to demonstrate that I’m here for her, that I want to help her.
‘It’s just been so hard. Such a shock,’ she mutters, staring at me, her big black-brown eyes filled with incomprehension. How could this have happened to me? she’s asking, as about a zillion women before her have asked. Ben is a faithful sort of man, and for that I’m infinitely grateful. His father played around and then eventually left Ellie when Ben was fourteen; he swore he’d never cause the same hurt. But just because my husband is faithful it doesn’t mean I don’t