Thank goodness for Guvnah who taught me spiteful opinions weren’t worth a moment’s thought.
Ooh, quick explanation—my granddad always jokingly called my gran the Governor. When I learnt how to write, Guvnah seemed the obvious spelling and the nickname has kind of stuck.
‘Katie, hi. It’s Saffron!’
I dropped my teaspoon. Size eight, glossy-haired Miss Perfect, head of the spiteful crew.
‘Oh,’ I managed. ‘How nice to hear from you’ would be the polite response, but I just couldn’t squeeze that sentence from my mouth.
‘Surprised you, have I?’ she said in bright tones. As she giggled, I could just imagine Saffron tossing her blonde mane. It was still blonde. I knew that from Facebook. You see, about six months ago, she’d sent me a friend request and one of my worst personality traits is my uncontrollable sense of curiosity. For example, if spam gets sent straight to my junk mail box, I have an overwhelming urge to open it. So I accepted Saffron’s friend request with the lesson still to learn that curiosity might kill Kate, as much as the cat.
A small part of me was hoping that twelve years later she’d be frumpy and dumpy—but no. She was still the golden girl, with lots of friends and worked as an English teacher. Plus she had a fiancé—called Miles.
‘Yes. You have surprised me. It’s … been a while.’
Come on. We were adults. I could do this. The past was the past. Surely I could forget the way she’d dumped me suddenly at high school, after us being best friends for years? We had it all mapped out a junior school, you know—after the sixth form we’d share an apartment in London and own a dog. Saffron was going to be an actress, me a pop star. We’d cook together, go shopping … honestly, the hours we spent discussing the decor of our flat.
But then she ditched me. Found trendier friends. Became Miss Popular with girls and boys alike. No explanation. At first, I didn’t realise what was happening. I recall it clearly, the very first time I realised she was laughing at me, not with. We bumped into each other at the swimming pool. I’d gone on my own. Saffron and her new friends all wore skimpy bikinis. I wore my black sports costume that hugged every generous curve and a swimming cap that gave me hamster cheeks but Mum insisted I wear it, for the sake of my hair. Cue snide whispers about puppy fat, moon faces and unwaxed legs. Saffron giggled with her posse, yet couldn’t quite give me eye contact. The broken trust broke my heart and it was a long time before I invested that much emotion in another person again. Dear Izzy renewed my belief that good people existed. As did my darling Johnny.
To my surprise, Saffron and I did have one thing in common now: an obsession with Poldark. She was always posting photos of the programme’s lead, with his tousled black hair, brooding looks and hairy chest. Do you know, the BBC actually employ someone to trim that, during filming? Nice work if you can get it. In fact I’d pay the television company to let me do Poldark Pruning. Her Facebook banner featured that iconic image of him topless, cutting grass, and her profile photo was of her made up like his redheaded wife Demelza, for a fancy-dress party.
I cleared my throat. ‘How did you … ?’
‘Get your phone number?’ Her laugh tinkled down the phone once more. ‘A bit of detective work. You’re in the entertainment business now, aren’t you? You linked a website to your Facebook page once, where singers could advertise their services and your profile is on there.’
Ah. Of course.
‘How are you?’ she said. ‘You look fab from your Facebook profile.’
My cheeks burned hot. Was she silent-laughing down her end of the phone? Did she really like the boho chocolate dress, with hanging beads and my shoulder-length hair, with a fifties short fringe? Izzy looked at me again as I pursed my lips. My eyes tingled. This was ridiculous. How could a simple phone call summon up demons I thought I’d well and truly exorcised? Images of sneering faces on non-uniform days appeared in my mind. I was the third eldest of six children and was rarely bought new clothes or schoolbags. Keeping up with fashion? Even if I’d been interested, I’d never have had the cash.
‘And how great to follow your dream and be a singer. What’s the biggest gig you’ve played?’
My cheeks burned hotter. ‘Riverside Stadium.’
‘Wow. Sounds like a huge venue. How many thousands did you play to?’
I swallowed. ‘Not many. That’s actually the name of a bar. But it was for a fortieth birthday and brought me a couple of other bookings …’ I rambled, bracing myself for some sarcastic response—like the time I’d come top in a French test. She’d laughed when one of her cronies muttered that Katie Gochastely may know the French language but had undoubtedly never once been French-kissed.
However, Saffron simply congratulated me. ‘Must be hard, trying to find singing work—no doubt you support your dream with a solid job?’
‘Yes. I work in catering,’ I said and swallowed. I looked down as Izzy’s brightly nail-varnished fingers curled over my free hand on the table. She squeezed tight and I forced a smile.
‘Ooh, can you cook? I love watching Jamie Oliver.’
‘No. I’m a waitress,’ I said in a smaller voice and braced myself for a snigger.
‘I imagine a flexible job like that fits in well around your sporadic singing commitments,’ she said in a breezy voice.
What? No insult. My shoulders relaxed. Izzy smiled and I nodded. She took away her hand and started to clear our plates.
‘Yes, it does actually. And you’re a teacher?’
‘I know! Never thought I’d end up going back to school. I met Miles on one of the careers’ days. He’s the uncle of one of my students and came in to give a talk on being an accountant.’
‘Congratulations on your engagement,’ I said. Why on earth had she rung? When would this torture end?
‘Thanks. Yes. Miles is wonderful. I’m a very lucky lady. And … are you with someone, Katie?’
Shoulders tight again, I grimaced. Oh great. She’d already won in the intellectual professional stakes, what with her following a life of academia and having a solid direction and career. Child-minding and waitressing had seemed natural for me, after looking after younger siblings for years whilst Mum worked. And now Saffron wanted to ram home her victory by claiming the best personal life. If only this conversation had taken place earlier last year, when Johnny was still around. That would have shown her. Johnny, with his crinkly teasing eyes, and cheeks that crumpled adoringly when he enjoyed a joke; whose kisses sent prickles of heat from my head to my toes. I had a sudden urge to message him. Johnny. Guess who’s contacted me? Let’s go to her wedding—show her how I’ve landed the dream boyfriend.
I sighed. People said I should move on. Date someone new. Leave the memory of Johnny behind. But they wouldn’t say that, would they, if I’d been married to him for years or had kids? No, but because I was young and we weren’t even engaged, I’m supposed to have a new boyfriend by now. But getting over Johnny? Social media made that even harder. All his photos on Instagram … I just hadn’t been able to bring myself to unfollow.
I bit my lip. Who cared what Saffron thought? I was pursuing my dream. I loved my doughnut job and had wonderful friends.
‘Yes,
