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Melanie

I don’t work on Mondays, which today I am particularly glad about. I can’t wait to get home from drop-off and re-read Abi’s email.

Dearest Mel,

Well, I’m sure I’m a blast from the past and the very last person you’d expect to see pop up in your inbox. I know we haven’t managed to stay in touch as much as we’d both perhaps have liked, but we are friends on Facebook and I’ve always enjoyed reading your posts. Although why don’t you post more pictures?! I’d love to see how your family have grown. I flatter myself to think you might have caught one or two of mine over the years and have perhaps kept up with my news. The truth is, I’ve been thinking of you so often, recently. I just had to reach out. It felt like the right time.

Things aren’t going as well for me as one might hope. In fact, things are bloody awful. Naturally, when things are bloody awful you turn to your old friends, don’t you?

Rob and I are divorcing. There. I might as well just say it (or at least write it). I’ll have to get used to admitting it, I suppose. I imagine it will get easier to do so, although right now my heart is breaking. I mean that sincerely, no hyperbole. I can feel it crack. Have you ever felt that, Mel? I hope not.

It’s the usual story. Tragic only in its repetitiveness. He was having an affair. With his (much!) younger PA. I found them together in our bed. Can you imagine? It’s not like he couldn’t afford a hotel, it was just cruelty. I can only assume he wanted me to find out.

I am at a loss. I can’t go into work as he is, to all intents and purposes, my boss. I’m sure you know about our careers. I find most of my English friends keep up with what’s going on with me. He exec-produces my show; practically owns the channel, as a matter of fact. The humiliation. Everyone must have known before me. The wives are always the last to find out.

I’ve decided to travel home to England. Maybe find some work there. I need a change of scene. I have nothing to keep me here in the States. We never had children so I’m not tied by schools or whatever. My plans are vague. I’ll call in on my mother – my father died four years ago. I wanted to look up my old friends. I thought perhaps we could meet for a drink. Wouldn’t that be lovely? Reminisce over old, less complicated, days.

I’ll be arriving in London on 20^th Feb. Where do you live now? I’m guessing London, everyone does. Let me know. Phone number below.

Love,

Abigail.

The kettle has boiled by the time I’ve read the email through twice. I make myself a cup of tea, add a spoon of sugar, which I rarely take. I need something sweet. She is right, I have never imagined I’d see a note from her in my inbox. True, we are Facebook friends – I remember sending her a request on impulse one evening a few years ago. I’d had a glass of wine or two, otherwise I’d probably never have done it. Her name was suggested to me because I’m Facebook friends with a few people from my days at uni. I’d been a little surprised when she accepted it. Surprised and flattered. Abigail Curtiz’s attention is still to be coveted. Perhaps more so now as she is famous. Not A-lister movie-star famous but someone who makes her living by appearing on TV – that seems glamorous enough to me. As far as I’m aware she has never ‘liked’ any of my posts. I haven’t liked hers either. Doing so would seem impertinent, pushy. She’s right about something, though: I have kept abreast of her news via Facebook. And Google. And Wikipedia. And the occasional celeb mag search, if I’m honest. Of course, I looked her up.

She married Rob Larsen. They’ve been together since we were at university. A good innings, some might say. An absolute tragedy therefore that it’s ended the way it has. I’m sorry for her. Truly. Her heart is breaking. She aches. The confession, so bold and frank, moves me. It shows a level of trust and confidence in our old, neglected friendship. I wonder whether Rob has had affairs throughout their marriage. Perhaps. I’ve long since thought he was arrogant. Cold.

It must be a dreadful position to be in. Abi isn’t exaggerating in her letter. Her career is entirely wrapped up in his, I know from all my searches. They are a golden couple of TV, with the Midas touch, stronger together, bigger than the sum of the parts. Until now, I suppose. When we were undergraduates, he lectured in business studies with an emphasis in marketing while he was still studying for his PhD. A peculiar position to be in, straddling both roles – a staff member and a student, albeit a postgraduate one. He was fast on the uptake with new media and positioned himself as a bit of an internet and digital marketing expert, the things that the older lecturers were afraid of. I didn’t pick the media module so I was never taught by him, but he was a bit of a legend within the university. Charismatic, bold, far younger than most of the other members of staff. Lots of girls had a crush on him, Abi included.

They started hooking up at the end of our first year. It was a clandestine affair to begin with. A chaotic on-off sort of thing. She never knew where she stood with him or the university. What were the rules? Them having a relationship wasn’t expressly forbidden, but it was certainly frowned upon. Truthfully, I think Abi enjoyed the sneaking around, the drama, his inaccessibility, his power. This, combined with his good looks meant he was irresistible. I gather from Wikipedia that they emigrated to America a couple of years after she graduated. He was offered some fancy job in a big advertising agency. Then, in a move I don’t quite understand (but no surprises there as I’m hardly the big businesswoman), he somehow managed to get involved in TV production. He now owns an enormous and extremely successful production company. He seems to have shares in actual TV channels and investment in several other media companies. The photos I’ve seen online always show them both to be more groomed, wealthy and glossy than anyone else I know. Shrouded in success. She’s become much thinner, not that she was ever heavy. He’s got bigger, broader, more substantial.

This is not just a case of a pretty woman piggy-backing on her successful husband’s career. She’s worked hard. Chosen that life over a family life. Yet, it seems her career belongs to him. What a mess. Now she has nothing to tether her if she floats away. Nothing to cushion her if she crashes to the ground.

That bit in the email about her father dying. That’s sad. I met Abi’s dad two or three times. He was very nice. Surprisingly unassuming, considering the daughter he reared. Luckily, my parents are in hail health, Ben’s dad died before I met him but his Mum, Ellie, is well. Abi’s bad luck makes me feel oddly guilty about my own good fortune.

I haven’t seen Abi for seventeen years. She came to visit me once when Liam was a couple of months old, which was more than most did. It was an awkward visit, even though we both did our best for it not to be. Liam was born in June, around the time most of my friends were finishing second-year exams. Most of them had plans to be backpacking around Europe that summer, so I didn’t invite them to meet my baby to spare them the embarrassment, and me the hurt, of them refusing. Abi wasn’t backpacking though. She didn’t want to leave Rob alone in Birmingham. She just showed up.

She brought Liam a cuddly goose. It was one of his favourite things for a few years. He inaccurately called it ‘Ducky’. I kept it. It’s at the bottom of a box in the attic, along with his first romper suit and a few other bits and pieces that I’ve hung onto for sentimental reasons. She chatted about our friends and tutors, brought me up to date on who was house sharing with whom, who was dating whom, who had done well in their exams and who had just scraped a pass. I was still talking about going back to uni and maybe if my degree had been a three-year course, I might have done. But it was a combined course, four years. I was only halfway through. Despite what I said, I think I already knew I wouldn’t be going back.

My boobs leaked milk during her visit because I did not want to feed Liam in front of her. I didn’t mind getting my baps out – I was already becoming accustomed to that. It was more complicated. I didn’t want her to go back to uni and remember me as a feeding mother, pegged to the sofa, stewing in front of daytime TV, someone whose best friends were the six New Yorkers on the sitcom of that name. My breasts became miserably heavy, and I could smell my own milk leak on to my padded bra, then my T-shirt. Eventually, Liam woke up screaming. He was blissfully unconscious of my need to preserve some fragment of the old me in my friend’s memory. He hungrily rooted around my chest, staring at me with confused and furious eyes. Why wasn’t I feeding him? In the end, his loud and insistent crying drove her away. She made vague promises that she’d visit again but I didn’t hold her down to a date. The moment the door closed behind her, I collapsed into the chair and pulled out my boob, fumbling. I squirted milk into Liam’s eyes and nose before I found his mouth.

Do I want to dredge all that up again? Is it wise?

The 20th, that’s tomorrow.

A small part of me would like to meet her for a drink. I’m not sure which force is driving me the most. Curiosity or kindness. It doesn’t matter, because I don’t live in London. Funny that she should think I do. She clearly hasn’t read my Facebook profile in any detail. I’m based in Wolvney, on a housing estate that’s sprouted up halfway between Coventry, where my parents live, and Northampton, where Ben works. I suppose it’s not entirely out of the question that I go to London to see her for an afternoon. It’s only just over an hour on the train. We sometimes take the kids there for a daytrip at the weekend but we tend to only do so for a special occasion. The last time we went was to see Matilda the musical. It was Imogen’s birthday. We all loved it, even Liam. Bless him. It would take a bit of organisation to hoof down there on my own but I’m sure Ben wouldn’t mind holding the fort up here if it was something I really wanted to do.

But is it?

It’s been a long time. Too long? Long enough? I don’t know.

Suddenly I have a better idea.

Or is it a worse one?

I could invite Abi to come and see me here in Wolvney. That way she’d meet the kids and Ben. I’ve never had the urge for her to meet my family before, quite the opposite, but now she’s made this move, and under these circumstances, it seems the right thing to do. She probably won’t accept anyway. I can’t imagine her coming all this way out of London. Not that it’s far but there are certain types that think anywhere out of zone three is abroad. Is she that type? I won’t know unless I invite her.

Before I change my mind, I draft a quick email back to her.

Hello Abi.

Wow, it’s so lovely to hear from you although I’m sorry it’s under such awful circumstances.

I would love to meet up. Actually, I don’t live in London, I live in Wolvney, urban sprawl outside Northampton. It’s just a zip on the train. It can take as little as 51 minutes if you get the fast train, no changes. I was wondering, would you like to come here? You could meet my family. I could pick you up from the station or you could get a taxi – there are always plenty available. You could come for the day or stay for a weekend. Well, whatever works, stay as long as you like!

Love

Mel

I read through my message once and wince at the slightly needy, girlish tone I fear it strikes. I feel disloyal referring to Wolvney as urban sprawl; it makes it sound much worse than it is. It is in fact a very well thought-through, quite attractive housing estate, a mile from a pretty village. I guess its biggest crime is that it’s ordinary. I find a certain comfort in conforming; an unplanned teenage pregnancy can do that to you. Our house was built ten years ago and is identical to seven others in our street; a four-bedroom (well, three and a box room) semi-detached, its best feature the quite spacious walk-through kitchen diner. Still, I like to think it has warmth and integrity. However, for some reason, I feel I need to undersell it so that when she sees it, she’s more likely to be pleasantly surprised. If she ever sees it. Also, do I sound desperate? All that detail about the travel arrangements. Possibly, saying ‘stay as long as you like’ is a bit over the top. A bit keen. I hope she doesn’t think I’ve turned into the sort of person who is being particularly nice because she’s famous now. I’m really not. I’m being particularly nice because she’s going through a difficult time. I’m not some nosy curtain-twitcher, desperate for the gory details on the death of her marriage.

I consider redrafting but don’t. I press send without over-thinking the invite.

She probably won’t accept. After all, she is famous, I don’t doubt she has countless people she would rather stay with. More exciting people than me. Trendy, waiflike women, men with groomed beards and abs. Don’t get me wrong: I love my life, I adore my family and am proud of our home, our own little enclave but, when all’s said and done, we’re not especially interesting to anyone other than each other. We like it that way.

I have loads to do today even though I’m not working. My at-home days are far busier than the ones in the shop. Even though I have two full-time members of staff and three part-timers reporting to me in a thriving store, it’s never as much work as being at home. However, I find that as I am cleaning the kitchen floor, loading and unloading the washing machine and scrubbing the hard water marks off the shower door, I can’t get Abi out of my mind. I have thought of her often enough over the years but usually, when I’ve done so, I’ve deliberately pushed thoughts of her away. She is intrinsically linked with such a difficult time. No matter how fabulous the result of that time is (and Liam really is a fabulous son) it isn’t easy thinking about being pregnant and having to leave university. I’ve never wanted to think about her. Her path was so different to mine, I just found it easier not to dwell on what might have been.

But everything is different now.

Throughout the day, I keep checking my phone to see if she’s responded to my email at the same time as telling myself she absolutely won’t have. A shiver of excitement skitters through my body when I see her name once again in my inbox and I feel jubilant when I read her reply.

Mel, Angel!

I’d love to visit! Send me your address. I’ll be with you on 22nd Feb.

All love, A

A. Just A. I remember that’s how she’d sign off her notes when we were at uni. Assumptive and intimate all at once. The twenty-second. Thursday. Just three days away. Wow, I’m flattered and excited. She’s coming to see me more or less straight away. A pit-stop in London and then up to see me. I can hardly believe it. Thursday isn’t an ideal evening to have guests – the girls have ballet. Oh well, I suppose they can skip a week. My eyes dart around the hallway where I happened to be standing when I checked my phone for emails. There is a jumble of boots, shoes, sandals and wellingtons tumbling out of an over-full wicker basket in the corner; they look as though they’re making a bid for freedom. We have five coat hooks on the wall, one each. There are about five coats hung and slung on and over each hook. The light grey carpet was a mistake. Who chooses light anything for a family hallway? Well, I did because I saw it in a lifestyle mag and it looked amazing. In all the time we’ve lived here, we’ve never had the carpets cleaned. That’s probably a mistake, too. The paintwork could also do with a freshen up. We’ve got cats – they rub against the walls which, over time, leaves grubby marks. In fact, because of grimy handprints or general wear and tear, most of our rooms look like they’ve been stippled, an effect that hasn’t been popular since the 1980s – and with good reason.

I’d better get to work.