point of no return, the absolute horizon of the black hole, and disappear forever, while other stars are teetering around the edges, unwittingly being drawn closer and closer until it will be impossible to turn back.
I force myself to focus on the conversation. Andrea is talking about a film showing at the cinema that Colin might take the boys to see. I let her chatter on for a while, before the conversation comes to a natural halt and Andrea closes with, ‘Right, well, I’d better get on. I’ll see you tomorrow morning.’
‘Yep. See you then. Don’t let me down.’
‘When have I ever let you down?’
For some time after the call, I remain sitting at the kitchen table, looking at the invitation with Andrea’s words on repeat in my mind.
She’s never let me down. In my darkest hour, when Darren had committed suicide, she was there for me. ‘That’s what friends do,’ she had said once. ‘They look after each other.’
A sigh leaves my lips and I blink away thoughts of Darren to focus on the next four days. Despite my assurances to Andrea that it’s going to be a great weekend, my own doubts are beginning to surface. Perhaps I’m expecting too much by way of reconciliation. Can we honestly put everything behind us? Even if we want to, can we truly repair our fractured friendship or is it another black hole on the not-too-distant horizon?
How many times have you lied to yourself? I suspect you’ve lost count. You must lie to yourself every single day of your life. So much so that it trips off your tongue with ease; you probably even believe it yourself now. You may be able to fool everyone else, but you can’t fool me.
I hear the pity in people’s voices, I see the compassion in their eyes as they exchange knowing looks when they talk about you. I can’t tell you how much I loathe that. You are not deserving of their sympathy and yet, I can forgive them. You’ve been very careful in cultivating a false history, hiding behind the status of a grieving widow if friends come too close to the truth or show too much of an interest in your past and ask questions that could unpeel the layers of deceit you’ve created.
As Shakespeare said, ‘The truth will out.’ I have been extremely patient, waiting for the right moment to make you pay for what you’ve done. And now the time has come, I can hardly believe it’s here. My body trembles in anticipation and excitement at the prospect of the next few days. I have the power and I will get my revenge.
‘OK, Alfie, I’m heading off now,’ I say, popping my head round the door to my son’s room. I’m dismayed to see him still in bed. ‘Hadn’t you better be getting up?’
‘Don’t nag,’ comes a reply muffled by the duvet he pulls over his head.
I check my watch, I can’t afford to hang about any longer and without giving it too much consideration, I yank the end of Alfie’s cover, exposing his head and shoulders. ‘Come on, you need to get up now.’
‘Oi!’ Alfie sits up and snatches at his cover. ‘What did you do that for?’
‘To make you get up. You’ll be late for school. I need to go.’
‘I’m not stopping you. Go.’
‘Alfie! Get up. Now.’ I go to pull the cover again, but this time he’s prepared and holds it tightly around his shoulders.
‘Pack it in. Just piss off.’
I ignore his bad language. Some battles are not worth the fight. ‘Get out of bed,’ I insist.
I don’t expect him to move so fast but in a split second, Alfie has jumped out of bed and is standing directly in front of me. ‘I’m up now. All right?’ he snarls at me, his face inches from mine as I get the full force of his stale breath.
‘OK,’ I say, taking a step back, instantly wishing I had thought twice before going into battle. My heel hits the bottom of the bedroom door, which vibrates violently as the edge digs between my shoulder blades. I let out a small cry of pain.
‘I think that’s called karma,’ says Alfie. He pushes past me, knocking his shoulder against mine as he does so. ‘Hadn’t you better go? You’ll be late if you don’t get a move on.’ He slams the bathroom door shut behind him.
My attempts at garnering a response from Alfie by calling bye to him through the bathroom door are met with the sound of the shower on full-blast.
Normally, I’d make an effort to smooth things over before leaving, but today I haven’t got time and I think Alfie is deliberately spending longer in the shower than usual to avoid appeasing my guilt by parting on amicable terms.
As I walk down the road, I reflect that today’s battle was tame. Sometimes the arguments and confrontations can be much worse and I find myself thinking about the future when we don’t live together and wonder if our relationship will be any better then. I’m tired of the emotionally draining status quo we’re at, and I long for quieter days ahead when I’m on my own. Before I reach the end of the road, I already feel guilty for wishing the days away as I remind myself it’s not Alfie’s fault he’s the way he is. It’s mine.
My spine aches from carrying my rucksack the mere half a mile from my home and I’m sure the knock to my back earlier isn’t helping matters as, even to the touch, it feels tender. I turn the corner into South Street where the dark shop windows and closed doors, yet to be roused from their slumber by the arrival of early morning shop assistants, serve only to reflect the prospect of rain later today. I adjust the straps of my rucksack and hitch it further on to my shoulders as I head towards the end of the road where the four main shopping streets meet and the city cathedral occupies one corner. I scan the benches which line the pavement and overlook the cathedral grounds.
Andrea is sitting on the middle bench, a Styrofoam coffee cup in one hand and her mobile in the other. She spots me and waves, phone still in hand.
I lumber over to her. ‘Yay! You came. And you’re the first one. You must be keen.’ I wriggle my arms free of the straps and dump the rucksack on the ground, then take a seat beside Andrea on the bench.
‘Keen as mustard, me,’ says Andrea. ‘To be fair, Colin dropped me off this morning so I didn’t have to get the bus. Don’t mistake my dislike of the bus service for enthusiasm to be here.’ She reaches down and retrieves a cup from under the bench, presenting it to me. ‘Here, I got you a latte.’
‘Thanks.’ I take the cup and tentatively lift it to my lips, taking a minuscule sip to gauge the temperature. ‘No sign of Zoe yet?’
‘She texted me. Said she’ll be five minutes.’
‘And no word from Joanne as to what happens now?’ I take a more confident sip of the latte, having deemed it to be of an acceptable drinking temperature.
‘Nope. Nothing. So we sit here and wait,’ says Andrea. She leans against the wooden slats of the bench and purses her lips in the way she does when she has something on her mind. I wait for her to speak. ‘I know
