Out Late with Friends and Regrets (3 page)

She gasped for breath for a number of jerky inhalations, then exhaled with a groan. She clung to the thick pile with one hand, groping for a tissue in her pocket with the other, and gave in to a proper, self-pitying blubber. Her rug, too. Not the one Paul had bought. Her own rug had tripped her.

She gave herself a few minutes to sob, curling into the rug’s softness and running her fingers over the soreness of her shoulder, which had caught the stern coffee table off guard as she fell.

Eventually she sat up, leaning against the sofa. At least the glass had been empty, and only a small carmine scar marked the woodwork. As if it had cut itself, thought Fiona. At least I won’t have to repaint the whole thing. Sweep the bits up later.

She clambered to her feet and made for the kitchen, pouring the last of the bottle into a fresh glass. Hardly any. She opened another bottle, filled the glass, and kicked the corner of the rug flat as she came back into the sitting room.

What a bloody awful Sunday. It was only last night she had realised it was a year since Paul’s death, and the sense of daring and achievement in making changes to her surroundings had pretty much run out of steam. Early on, she had painted the interior of the house white, with a concentrated energy and speed that surprised her, recruiting the black bedsheets as dustcovers and paint rags. Banished from the walls were the moody seascapes and the bleak monochromes of Scots pines which had become part of the closed landscape of the marital home. She had hung a huge, glorious abstract over the fireplace, a crusty burst of flame, ochre and scarlet which lifted her joy levels every time she looked at it. She felt guilty about the purchase initially, and equally in trading in her small saloon for a sporty two-seater, but the resulting pleasure damped down the discomfort. In the garden she ripped out the insipid roses (“I’m sorry, but you’re seriously under-performing and I’m just not prepared to keep you on,” she told them) and replaced them with marigolds and nasturtiums, enthusiastic plants which knew how to make the best of their opportunities. Paul’s CD collection had gone to the Oxfam shop in Cantlesham; the sentimental Nashville compilations would probably appeal to some local buyers, but less so the obscure, tortured-introspection stuff, the music he claimed held the key to his being, and which, according to him, she could never be expected to understand.

Well, bollocks to him. Rest his soul.

But despite the heady thrill of thinking and acting independently which had at times neutralised a decent sense of loss, she was now looking at a blank wall of a future. Some future, if she didn’t do something, make changes beyond the décor. And it needed to be soon, before her thirties became her forties, fifties, sixties and up, and she became the funny old dear in the cottage, with nobody to know or care if her decomposing body behind the front door were being covered, little by little, in junk mail. Party time for the rats, she thought with a grimace.

She stared out of the window. Grey sky, over the dun clods which had replaced the scratchy stubble of the harvested crops.
 
A few yellow leaves riding the eddies of wind. A crow ripping at something in the corner of the next field. She took two long mouthfuls of her wine, and huddled into the fluffy blanket forming around her brain.

God, it was quiet. She fumbled a CD into the slot, clutching her glass tightly in the other hand. “Reading”, said the green message. It seemed to be taking ages. Must get an Ipod sometime. Oh, stupid. She pressed Play, and a dance track launched into its irresistible rhythm, the percussion crashing jubilantly under the itchy synth top line.

“Heyyyyy!” she yelled, rolling her hips and stamping her feet. Great, to dance. Feel good. Sing Za, za, dabbeda-dabbeda, wa, wa, wa, wa…

Rain began dotting the window, and she turned off the player. Sat down. Drained the glass. Sat.

The phone rang.

Ignore it – sales call.

Bugger it, shut up.

Ring ring.

“Yeah?”

“Hi. Is that Fiona?”

“Uh, yes, who’s that?”

“Fiona, it’s Rosemary.”

“Rosemary.”

Rosemary?

“Yes, from school,
that
Rosemary! I used to be your best mate, remember? Are you OK?”

“Oh Rosemary… God. Sorry. Bit drunk, I’m afraid.”

“I can call another time if you like.”

“Don’t go. Please.”

“Course I won’t. How are you doing, Fiona? I would have been in touch after the card you sent after – after Paul, but I thought I’d lost it - it’s only just turned up, and it’s the anniversary this weekend, isn’t it? Are you on your own?”

“Yeah, I’m, I’m, that’s normal. Sundays, well, quiet; quite, quite - quiet. Nice break. From the shop. ”

Fiona took the phone into the kitchen as she picked her words, and poured herself some water. The rain had upped to a rattle, and the hedge opposite the kitchen window was already dripping.

“You know what, Fiona,” said Rosemary, “for all the years it’s been, you sound just the same,
I’d
have known your voice anywhere.”

“Yeah, me too! Yours.” Well, almost. Fiona looked around for her wineglass, before remembering she’d got water. She took a gulp. Tasted foul after the wine.

“So… how have things been for you?”

Fiona took a deep breath as she prepared an answer. The two collided:

“You don’t have to-”

“Actually, I-”

Pause.

“Oh I’m-”

“Sorry, I-”

“Go on. Sorry.”

“I’ve been
ever
so, busy. Done up the house. Mm, changed everything around. Yes, I made the garden different.” She frowned; sighed. “I’m happy with it now.”

Then she added, in a rush before she could forget, “And the shop’s doing OK – I think I wrote on one of my Christmas cards that I’ve got a shop, tiny little shop, mini-business, sell T-shirts…” The words tailed off.

“So you’ve made your house the envy of the neighbours, and business is going well – that’s really good,” said Rosemary.

“Actually, haven’t got neighbours out here. It’s a converted farm cottage. Bit isolated, to be honest.” It’s what had attracted Paul to the place. It could be beautiful, in summer.

“It’s awful, the way we haven’t been in touch in the meantime,” said Rosemary, “you’re not in the phone book, and you never put your number or email address on till the announcement about Paul, did you?”

No, never. News carefully edited. Nothing requiring a reply. Fiona took a long swig of water and concentrated on her throbbing shoulder, in an effort to get her head together.

“No, that was silly of me. Too much of a rush, I expect. You know how it is.”

“We all lead such busy lives, true enough,” said Rosemary, “did you get the one about Donal getting a post at
Harford
Uni
? We moved to Woodside, just the other side of
Harford
. I suggested perhaps we could meet up sometime, as it’s barely a couple of hours away.”

“Oh yes! Must have been the Christmas before Paul died. I’m so sorry, it must have gone into the recycling. By mistake.”

She had put that year’s card out of sight, agonized by its challenge, embarrassed by needing to leave its question unanswered. Creeping sobriety was making her alert, anxious.

“Fiona?” Rosemary’s tone was tentative. “I honestly don’t want to put you on the spot. But would you be up for a visit? It’s OK if you’d rather not, and you mustn’t feel you have to.”

“Sounds – great.”

What if it didn’t go
well.
What if they didn’t get on any more, if Rosemary found her too different from the Fiona she remembered? Perhaps she had made the suggestion because she thought her friend had become an alcoholic, and out of decency, for old times’ sake, felt she ought to see her? Oh well, at the very worst it would be one awkward encounter, and things could slide as they had before. Nothing to lose.

Except the precious little thought that there
had
been a friendship, one that would always be there, could not be destroyed or compromised, remaining encased and preserved forever in the glowing amber of memory. Oh well.

“I’d really like that. I’d really, really like to see you.”

“Is Sunday a good day for you?” asked Rosemary.

Fiona looked out at the fields, now completely empty and still.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m in the shop on Saturdays, and I usually just, well, flop about the house on a Sunday. Do you want to come here, or shall I come over to – Woodside, did you say?”

“I think you might like a change of scenery, by the sound of it. And you’ve never met Donal – you couldn’t make the wedding, unfortunately.” Fiona tried to remember what excuse she’d made; it was so long ago. “So why don’t you come to ours? It’ll have to be, let’s see, three weeks from now, we’re in Ireland for the next ten days, and then Donal’s got a conference…”

Fiona was surprised at her own sense of disappointment at the delay.

“That would be great. It’ll give me something to look forward to.”

“Settled, then. It’ll be fun getting out the school photos. I’ve got the one from the year we were both in the hockey first eleven – are you still sporty?”

“No. Not at all.”

“Bloody shame. You were amazing. In fact I’m surprised you don’t live at the local gym. You were always first back from the cross-country runs, minutes before the rest. And nobody could shin up the ropes like you.”

“God,” replied Fiona, I doubt whether I could pull myself two inches off the floor, now. Maybe I should take myself in hand.”

“You should, Fee, you really should. You’ll feel so much better for it, especially as it was always your thing.”

“Yes, I just might. I’ll definitely think about it.”

“And you’re on for coming to see us three weeks today?”

“Yes.”

Oddly, it felt almost like fear.

“And in the meantime, promise me Fiona.”

“What?”

“Get thee to a sports centre!”

She could do that. She could go along after work tomorrow, see what was on offer. Or the day after. After goodbyes, she
biroed
a big red box around the date of the visit.

She passed the place every day, on her way to and from the shop, but this time found herself hyperventilating as she indicated left and then at the last minute failed to turn into the leisure centre car park. Tomorrow, perhaps. She was never a pretty sight in her underwear, and the thought of displaying her neglected, scraggy body in sports kit was intimidating. Legs too long and too white, and no real shape to her, as Paul had remarked on many occasions.

So it was three days later that she first saw the girl with the perfect bottom.
It was unusual to have to deliver customised goods in person, but late ordering had resulted in Fiona having to take a case of T-shirts direct to Cantlesham Leisure Centre.
 
This would save the face of the Judo club leader, who planned to present them to newly-graded pupils, thus helpfully advertising his business on the street.
 

As she waited in the foyer, a burst of laughter caused her to look round towards the reception desk.
 
A beautifully peach-shaped bottom, covered in stretchy powder-blue fabric, was pretty well all that could be seen of the laughing girl as she leaned across the desk, trying to snatch papers from the receptionist’s hand.
 
Their animated exchange appeared to be over customer comment slips, but Fiona wasn’t really listening.
 
As the girl straightened up, Fiona sneaked a sideways glance.
 
The rest was in perfect proportion to the bottom, skin-tight blue sports trousers and matching vest emphasising the smooth curves of the thighs and breasts, complemented by a clutch of well-defined abdominal muscles.
 
The girl’s fair hair was pulled back from a finely-boned face in a ponytail, and although she wore no make-up, her skin was enhanced by a golden tan.
 
Fiona was just close enough to spot a small pale area below the corner of the jawbone, and smiled to herself.
 
The tan was fake, of course, and the girl had missed a little bit.
 
It was almost undetectable, but Fiona felt an odd kind of intimacy towards her, having detected it.