I can ask her outright what’s bothering her. One of these two options will give me a peaceful and relaxed evening over a nice meal; one of them will probably result in an argument, but in doing so will get to the bottom of Abby’s mood and hopefully make amends for whatever I’ve done wrong and resolve it once and for all.
‘Want me to make dinner tonight?’ I venture.
She shakes her head. ‘Nah, it’s OK. Tom’s getting Chinese.’
‘Oh. Great.’ Damn. I sip my tea, knowing that I’ve got no choice now but to tackle option two. I put the mug down on the floor, look up at her and say, ‘Abs.’
At this moment her pocket plays the opening bars of McFly’s ‘Star Girl’ and she slaps her hand to her hip and jumps to her feet. I think it means she’s got a text message. She pulls out her phone and reads the new message, a small frown flickering across her face.
‘Right,’ she says, still staring at her phone. ‘Apparently he’s not getting the Chinese now.’
‘Oh. Why not?’
She shrugs and drops her phone carelessly onto the sofa. ‘Who knows? Or cares. Come on, let’s sort something out ourselves.’
So we go into the kitchen and make spaghetti bolognaise together. Tom doesn’t turn up and Abs doesn’t mention him again. The strange woman from the hallway two days ago flickers at the periphery of my memory, but then Abby asks me to open a tin of tomatoes and she’s gone.
As the evening moves on, I realise that her strange mood is probably more to do with Tom’s non-appearance than anything else. Which I have to say is a bit of a relief for me as it means I’m off the hook lecture-wise. I didn’t realise how tense my shoulders were until they start to loosen up a bit. We eat our spag bol on trays in front of America’s Next Top Model, and I finally relax in the contented togetherness of good friends sharing a meal. There’s no taciturn Tom to bring us all down, and the sermon I was anticipating is obviously not now going to materialise. I beam over at Abs affectionately as she drops her fork onto her empty plate. What a wonderful, generous and sweet friend she really is.
‘Stop gawping and get on with your food,’ she says. ‘You know we’ve only got about a month left before the MoonWalk?’
‘Bloody hell, I’d better eat up.’ I bend low over the plate and spade quantities of food rapidly into my mouth repeatedly. Abs rolls her eyes. I chew and swallow exaggeratedly quickly before loading my fork up again, ready to go. ‘Anyway, it’s at least two months, Abs. Honestly, you’re panicking over nothing.’
She leans forward and fixes me with her voodoo stare. My fork freezes mid-air between plate and mouth, but I am powerless to do anything. My mouth is open, waiting to receive the food, but I can’t even close it to preserve a milligram of dignity. It’s like looking at Medusa. Except, of course, Abs really has got the most gorgeous hair. Very thick and lustrous, and at the moment a beautiful shiny mink colour. I think this might actually be her natural shade, but I could be wrong – I haven’t known her long enough.
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