Sunday //
Hello friends,
How cold is it? Our heating is whacked on and I am forever grateful to have a warm home.
Last week, while looking for some notes for my book, I came across a short story I wrote for an audio story competition way in 2009. The theme was a ‘slice of life’ and you had to take the listener into the world of a female protagonist. I’d kept my draft because I liked it and thought I might like to update it one day. Re-reading the story I realise you don’t update your writing, it reflects the now at the time. I didn’t enter the competition, because the story needed work but it still makes me chuckle. Now, if I was to update the story I would completely rewrite it, my writing has grown so much, but what’s most interesting is that I still write about women and the relationships we have with ourselves and each other. So here it is, you’re the first to ever read it….
The doors of the 8.10 train squeezed themselves shut as Amy settled on an itchy blue seat. East Croydon station drew out of focus. As did the tidy gardens of the houses on Chatsworth Road and the un-kept back yards and alleyways of suburbia. Within minutes the only neighbourhood with direct access to the City where she could afford to buy a flat was a multi-coloured blur fractured by early morning sunshine.
Her Blackberry, tucked into the front pocket of her heavy tan leather bag, buzzed out a reminder ‘don’t forget to send ‘sorry I missed it’ flowers to Claire and Ayo’.
Claire was her best friend, they had been everywhere and done everything together, the one constant of her adult life. Every smile, every tear, Claire had been there. When Amy first move into her two-bedroomed flat Claire had been the only one of her friends to turn up and actually do any painting at the painting party. Claire was the one to take her home after getting her wisdom tooth removed. Claire, ever thoughtful, had driven across the deserted city at three o’clock in the morning when she was stranded after a ‘Back to 87’ reunion rave on an industrial estate near Wembley Stadium. Claire was there when she met Michael at a film party in Cannes and of course it was Claire who stayed with her for a month when he left her five years later. Yes, Claire had been a good friend, one you could always rely on, one who deserved every happiness.
The train juddered on its journey through the back ends of South London. Screeching through Streatham and bouldering along the tracks high above the streets of Battersea towards Victoria Station. From Victoria to Action Town, Action Town to Heathrow Terminal 3, Terminal 3 to another world. A world away from this one.
Amy squirmed on the seat, the course fibers pricking through her cream linen trousers. As the train pulled to a final halt Amy’s stomach lurched forward, swilling acid around her insides, coating the lining with an unpleasant layer of guilt. She could order flowers at the station, there was a great florist on the concourse. White oriental orchids were Claire’s favourites; she would make sure the bouquet arrived when the couple got home from their honeymoon.
The relationship wasn’t all one sided. When a pregnant Claire left her childhood sweetheart Amy was a rock, there for every antenatal class and holding her best friend’s hand in the delivery room. Months later when Claire wanted to go dancing in Rio for her 30th birthday it was Amy who booked the tickets and found an awesome hotel, they had the time of their lives. A photo of the two of them smiling, in oversized pink sun-glasses on Copacabana beach stood proudly on her desk, she looked at it and smiled even now. Even now when she had not spoken to her best friend since the day of the email. The email that she sent from her phone saying “sorry I’m broke, won’t be able to make it, hope the wedding is fab”, on her way home from the office as her train passed the backyards of broken neighbourhoods.
Once again her phone lit up, “the temp is crap, did you tell her where to get my sausage and mash. What time does your fight leave? Text me the number for James at Monster?”
Amy wondered a) how her boss managed a global public relations company but couldn’t manage to communication directly with his temporary PA who was sitting outside his office door and b) why he couldn’t scroll through the contacts on his phone, especially when she had spent 30 minutes carefully updating them before she left the office, and find the numbers of people he called on a weekly basis? He clearly thought his mobile came with one number – hers.
Night and day, time zones never considered he called and sent messages;
“I’m outside the theatre, can’t get a cab”,
“I’ve left my keys at home, can’t get into the office”,
“Didn’t get Mum a birthday present, can you send her something today.”
Today was the first day of her two-week holiday and he hadn’t made it to 9 o’clock without her. But she didn’t feel too mad. Three weeks ago when he found her crying outside the building, tucked away in the smokers corner where she thought no one would see her, she reluctantly admitted she was broke and couldn’t afford to go to her best friend’s wedding. Two days later he asked her to get him a toasted Mexican tuna ciabatta and pick up some tickets from the travel agents. She left the fat sandwich wrapped in grease proof paper and the envelope from Ways Travel on his desk and went to book a video conference. Later, on his way out of the office he handed the envelope back, “I asked you to pick these up, I didn’t say they were for me.” Stuck on the return tickets and accommodation reservation was a yellow post it, “she’s your best mate – you’ve been friends forever – you have to go. Have a great time! Don’t worry you’ll be next,” the next was underlined twice.
“Great she thought, “now my boss thinks I’m on the shelf.”
Bitter memories of the new baby basket he had her send to Claire and Ayo eighteen months ago when Clara was born came flooding back. “Don’t worry you’ll be next” he quipped while pointing out a suitably elaborate gift from the DNKY website. But she wasn’t next and now Claire was getting married, so the next day she went back to the travel agents and changed the flights to Tampa Bay and booked into a secluded Clearwater Beach hotel.
The Victoria line train doors slid closed with a satisfying thud. Grateful the morning commuters were above ground, probably swigging on their first coffee of the day, Amy maneuvered her luggage to the end of the carriage and leant against the half seat staring at noting in particular. Breathing slowly steadied her queasiness.
Her empty gaze was interrupted by the giggle of a lanky teenager dressed in jean cut offs and a customised Arsenal t-shirt. Framed by curly brown hair with a pink streak running through it, the girls unblemished face held her gentle features which were brought alive by a wicked glint in her almond eyes. “He said he was going to text you, just wait and see” she said to her friend whose combat trousered leg was perched on top of a well-worn overnight bag. “You’re so impatient, it’s not like you’ll get a signal down her anyways.” The girls giggled some more, their innocent laughter took Amy back twenty years to the first time she and Claire took the Norther Line from Leicester Square to Stockwell making faces at commuters on the way home from a shopping trip to town during the Easter holidays.
How times have changed she thought wistfully watching the girls play fighting over which tune to listen to on their shared ear phones attached to an ipod covered in mermaid stickers. It was a Sony Walkman back then and they fought over rewinding “Buffalo Stance” because they were still over excited. They had seen Neneh Cherry in Covent Garden and she told them she liked their trainers. The lived off that moment for months. Amy smiled a knowing smile as she gathered her luggage to switch trains at Acton Town, if only they knew the adventures before them. She wondered if he would call and the impact it would have on their friendship?
Minutes later Amy hauled her bags onto “a westbound train calling at all stations to Heathrow terminals 1,2,3 and 4”. The cheerful driver reminded everyone to “please mind the closing doors unless you want a trip to Hammersmith Hospital.”
Amy mindlessly watched the platform scuttle by and then as the train entered the tunnel she was faced with her misshapen reflection in the dark glass curve of the glass. “You’re a cow” she thought, “why didn’t you just say you couldn’t face the wedding the week after your 40th rather than lie to everyone about it. She’s your best friend and she would have understood.”
Unable to hold her own gaze Amy inspected the gold buckle on her cream leather ballet pumps. The day she saw them majestically displayed in the shop window on Bond Street she sent Claire a picture with “wadda u fink?” in the subject box. Claire replied “if they cost less than a flight to NYC buy them.” They cost more but she brought them anyway.
When Amy got to Heathrow she navigated the tunnels and longed for some fresh air. As much as she tried to focus on the view from her hotel room and imagining herself stretched out under an umbrella by the sparkling pool she worried if Claire would get enough sleep before the wedding and if she would go to their nail shop without her?
“Good afternoon mam, where are you flying to today?” a glossy hostess with a neat red scarf tied above her clavicle asked. “Erm are you OK miss, you look at little off?”
“Oh, yes thanks, I think so, Florida”, Amy replied holding out her tickets out for clarity.
The under arms of her tee-shirt dampened as she did so. A bead of sweat rolled down the back of her neck, melting into her collar, she reached into her bag desperate to find a tissue. Her phone, unsympathetic to the feeling of faintness that was washing over her, relentlessly delivered a barrage of messages now it had reconnected to the signal, buzzing each arrival with a tooth grinding zzzzzz. Anxiety churned in her stomach and bile rose like a foul frantic froth desperate to escape from a freshly opened soda bottle. “Sorry” she gulped, grabbing her baggage as she rushed from the counter holding vomit in her mouth.
Sitting on a smooth yellow seat in the ladies toilets at Heathrow Airport, Terminal 3, Amy clearly focused on her leather pumps, now stained with murky splatters, she hadn’t made it to the cubical before she threw up the belly of lies she had been trying so hard to swallow.
Amy pulled out her not so smart Blackberry from her bag and scrolled through her contacts found ‘Claire’ and selected new message – “getting the 13.00 flight, meet me at 7 pm tomorrow, the coffee shop, 34th St exit, Grand Central? Just needed to digest a large slice of life but I’m OK now ‘n would love to treat you to a massive portion of humble pie. Love you always, Amy xx” and pressed send.
I want to know what happens next. Fantastic read Denise!... X