you shouldn’t have it, but the way you just leap into things, with your heart on your sleeve …” She breaks off with a frown, pointing the fork at me. “Don’t pull that face. I’m allowed to worry about you, you know.”
I look into her anxious blue eyes and immediately feel guilty. In her smart black turtleneck, her glossy dark hair pulled back from her face, she looks impossibly put together. But I can see the tense lines around her mouth, the too-tight set of her shoulders. She’s always been like that, from the very first day we met in university halls. What was supposed to be a carefree, spontaneous time— that always proved a challenge for Heather. She could never quite let go, never relax. I suppose that’s why we were drawn to one another. We both needed something the other could give, me a little of her level-headedness, her serenity, and her my sense of wonder, my open-minded optimism.
“Of course you do,” I reply gently. “But I’m fine, Heather. I’m a grown woman; I can deal with my own disasters. You have plenty of other things to worry about. Oscar, for starters.”
“He certainly gives me plenty to worry about.” She begins to daintily cut her avocado wrap into small pieces, presumably so she doesn’t have to pick it up. Heather doesn’t really do finger food. I’ve seen her eat nachos with a knife and fork. “I have absolutely no idea where he gets it from. I was the most shy, retiring child in the playground for my entire school career. And Dominic wasn’t exactly a bad boy himself.”
“No,” I say, trying not to smile as memories of Dominic in a choirboy’s cassock and ruff spring to my mind. Heather showed me that old album when we were both a bit tipsy on raspberry vodka, and I swore I’d never mention it again.
“Neither of us have ever broken a single bone,” Heather continues, sawing into her wrap with increased force. “Oscar’s barely three, and he’s already broken his arm twice. Thank God the second time it happened at nursery; if it had been at home again, I probably would have had social services banging down the door.”
I stifle my mirth with a well-timed cough.
“You might well laugh,” she says accusingly. “But this is supposed to be one of your duties, you know, as his godmother. To care and protect his sapling young mind, steer him in a more respectable direction. Make sure he doesn’t grow up into a total hellion.”
“That’s if you die, Heather. Which, hopefully, you’re not planning on doing any time soon. Until then, I get to be the fun adult figure in his life. The one he comes to for advice, or contraband ice cream milkshakes.”
She groans. “Yes, because that’s just what he needs. More fun in his life. He has such a dreary time of it. Nothing nice ever happens to him … or so he’d have everyone believe. That child is a master manipulator.”
“Your mother would probably say that he’s been sent to challenge you.”
‘She says exactly that. Just about every time I see her, in fact. But whenever I ask, “What if I don’t particularly want to be challenged?” she never seems inclined to answer.’
This time I do laugh. “You have a wonderful child, Heather. Slightly boisterous, maybe, but wonderful.”
Oscar was something of a … Well, let’s say he was a glorious surprise. I still remember sitting with Heather on the sofa after she’d found out. It wasn’t a particularly nice sofa, I have to admit. We were still in our last student house, on the outskirts of Cambridge. We were all ready to move out, onwards and upwards into a future which was unknown yet we were certain would be bright. The sofa was pretty much the last thing left in the barren sitting room.
We’d promised each other that nothing would change, that last summer. That adult life, and proper work, could never put an end to nights spent drinking Bellinis in the basement bars around the city, or long, lazy afternoons watching romantic comedies in our pyjamas. Even when Heather got engaged to Dominic, in an uncharacteristically spontaneous fashion, still she’d vowed that nothing would change.
Then it happened. She was just staring into space, not saying anything. For the first time in our friendship, I couldn’t work out what she was thinking. Until suddenly, she’d stood, smoothing down the hem of her cobalt blue summer top.
“Well, then,” she’d said, and I remember that her voice had sounded strange, and yet at the same time not strange at all. It was completely neutral. “I’d better get an appointment at the doctor’s. And I suppose my parents ought to know sooner rather than later.”
And that had been that. It was as though she resigned herself, in that moment, to the fact that life was about to completely, inescapably transform. She just got on with it, no looking back.
Since that day, of course, nothing has been the same. She’s still my closest friend, and we make plenty of time for one another, but our lives have gone in wildly different directions. And sometimes, I look at her, with her husband and her adorable son, and her impeccable nineteen-thirties villa in a quiet, leafy suburb on the edge of town, and I find myself thinking …
Well, look, never mind what I think. It’s not important.
“You’re right. I do,” she’s agreeing now and, although she’s trying not to, I can see a radiant smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “And you have an equally wonderful, equally boisterous cat.” She sends me a sly look from beneath her lashes. “Who apparently knows better than you do what makes a good boyfriend.”
I raise my eyes to the ceiling. “Are we still talking about this?”
“Yes, we are.” Heather picks up her own watermelon iced tea and takes a tentative sip before pulling a face. “I need to stop letting you bring me to these bohemian cafés. Or, rather, I need to stop following your lead when I order. At least it’s not as bad as the beetroot latte.”
“I like beetroot lattes,” I say defensively. “And anyway, it’s good for you to try something different every now and again.”
She makes a dismissive motion with her hand. “If you can’t get it in Waitrose, then there’s a good reason for it.”
“It’s only a matter of time,” I say ominously. “Beetroot will take over the world. You’ll see.”
She fixes me with a severe look. “We’re digressing here. Don’t think you can distract me with winter vegetables. We were talking about you, remember?”
I shake my head fervently. “I don’t think we were.”
“We most definitely were. Stop avoiding the subject.” She pushes the glass of iced tea away with a tastefully manicured hand. There’s a small pause in the conversation as a waiter swoops in upon our empty plates before she continues. “Look, Clara, be honest with yourself. Out of all of those men Casper chased away, was there anyone you could actually see a future with? Anyone you really got to know, who understood you inside out?”
“No,” I confess in a small voice.
“So perhaps, in his own way, he was doing you a favour?”
I raise an eyebrow at her. “Really? You’re going to pretend that you believe that?”
“Whether I do or don’t is irrelevant. But, ultimately, I think it wouldn’t do you any harm to guard yourself a bit more. What’s the hurry, anyway? You have all the time in the world;
