My "best" friend

My husband’s reflection peered over my shoulder in the mirror. His eyes scrunched as they followed the dark trail of eyeliner I was carefully applying. ‘Where did you say you were going?’ he asked.

‘Just into town. Bit of shopping, nothing much.’ I caught his eye, his brows arched into a frown, before I looked away, tossing the makeup into its bag.

His gaze followed me as I left the bathroom, but I didn’t dare look back as I flung open the wardrobe, pretending to rifle carelessly through until coming upon the top I already knew I’d wear.

When I closed the door, he was standing beside me. ‘Anna,’ he said softly. ‘Who are you meeting?’

My breath jarred. Part of me wanted to tell him the truth, breezily dropping the name as if it meant nothing.

It should mean nothing, yet we both knew it didn’t.

He shook his head, his eyes flitted over my face. ‘Why?’ was all he said.

‘Oh, you know,’ I brushed a hand through the air. ‘She’s in town, of course we’re going to meet.’ I forced a smile. ‘It’s fine, really.’

‘Anna, it never is. Why do you do this to yourself?’

‘Because she’s my oldest friend,’ I said. ‘God, we’ve known each other since we were three.’ I shook my head, screwing my face to mimic his and show him the conversation was utterly ridiculous. I’m thirty-nine, I don’t need my husband worrying over me - though I’m glad I hadn’t shown him her latest Facebook post. My stomach had churned when I’d read the carefully chosen hashtagged words: #beautifulmummys #friendsforlife #blessed. Wide, red lipped smile, she beamed at the camera with three women she’d known less than one term.

I used to wonder if it was jealousy I felt when I saw her picture-perfect life in snapshots and incomplete sentences, though I couldn’t see how. I didn’t want her life. I knew most of it was fake, so why would my insides always scrunch into tight balls?

I waited outside Costa for fifteen minutes before eventually going in and joining the ever-growing queue. I checked my phone. No messages, though there would surely be soon, brimming with apologies that she was on her way. I’d joke with her how funny it was she could never be on time, but I never found it amusing. My annoyance had grown exponentially as the years had passed.

Instead, I texted saying I’ve just arrived, what would you like to drink? and shuffled slowly forward until I was about to be served, when she breezed in the door, an oversized fur coat hugging her petite frame. She strolled over.

‘Just in time,’ I said, taking a deep breath and giving a generous smile. ‘What would you like?’

‘A skinny latte. Thanks, honey.’

‘No problem. Get a table, I’ll bring it over,’ I said, ever the faithful waitress. I’d once waited for her to ask what I’d like but couldn’t get past thirty seconds without feeling an unbearable burden, as if somehow it was an unspoken agreement that I’d always be the one to wait in line, overheated, bothered, as she scrolled through her phone without once looking up to check if I needed help.

‘Lovely to see you,’ I said, laying the tray on the table, spilling coffee as my handbag slipped

to my elbow.

‘It’s been too long,’ she said, smiling, reaching for my arm. ‘I miss you. Come on, what you’ve been up to?’

I sat down and, feeling warmed by her friendliness, allowed myself to think she was interested. I began telling her my news - I’d recently been promoted following an arduous interview process. She nodded in the right places but her smile looked thin, her attention more focused on her coffee and in the end I trailed off. I didn’t bother telling her my daughter, Lilia, had won a writing competition or that my son, Josh, had been recognised as promising tennis talent. These were both things I couldn’t wait to share with another close friend, yet suddenly I felt deflated and had no inclination.

‘What’s your news?’ I asked instead and listened to her bleat on about meaningless trivia. Yet when the conversation dried up, I felt the need to fill the silence with something that would earn my place in her time, especially when I’d seemingly given her nothing of interest so far. It was like when I was six, displaying all my toys, silently begging her to be happy with one so she’d want to come to play again.

My husband once pointed out how odd it was that I did that when I didn’t actually enjoy seeing her.

It was hard to justify my need to give so much when I got little back, yet I already knew what would come out of my mouth next, even though I’d sworn to myself it wouldn’t. It wasn’t right to capitalise on someone else’s misery. It wasn’t me. And yet…

‘Did you know Natalie’s husband left?’ I said. ‘He was having an affair.’

‘No!’ Her eyes widened. I’d hooked her and could reel her in and suddenly we were back in the playground again where I had every right being her friend.

I felt dreadful.

Outside we were about to go our separate ways when she reached out, tenderly touching a hand to my face. It felt so personal that all the years melted, and I understood there’d always be reasons we were still friends after thirty-six years. We had history, too many shared moments. There was no need to close off such a massive chapter in my life if I could face an occasional coffee and Facebook post.

‘I’m going to give you this girl’s number,’ she said. ‘Does wonders with Botox.’

And as I watched her go, fists clenched by my side, I promised myself as I always did, that this time would definitely be the last.