Flights Of Fancy

Charmaine has been arriving late all the years I’ve known her. And she makes up the best excuses in the world!

SHE’S late again. I knew she would be. I should have listened to John, but I need to be here. Charmaine is my oldest friend and we’ve always been there for each other, no matter what.

Some think it’s impossible for a boy and girl to be friends, but we’ve always proved them wrong.

I look at my phone. No messages. She could at least have texted, but she takes it for granted that I’ll be here. I’ll give her five minutes, then I’m leaving.

I peer through the coffee shop window. It’s dark and the rain blurs the lights of cars that move down the road. People dash along the pavements, heads ducked under umbrellas.

I wonder what excuse she’ll have this time?

Sometimes I suspect it’s Charmaine’s tall tales that keep me waiting. She has an amazing imagination when it comes to excuses.

It’s her talent – and her downfall. She puts those rose-coloured glasses on and the whole world is sunshine and flowers, even on a day like this.

At school when she turned up late, she’d make up far-fetched stories that even the teachers would look forward to.

There would be old ladies who had locked themselves out and she had to climb through bathroom windows, women who’d fallen and spilled their shopping and she helped them gather everything up and took them for a cup of sweet tea, or runaway buggies she’d saved from oncoming traffic in the nick of time.

Once there was a TV crew surrounding her house because the BBC mistook it for a celebrity hideout.

Harmless, really, and always entertaining. Except it gets a bit wearing when you’ve been waiting in a coffee bar for 40 minutes, or you’re standing outside the multiplex like a lemon.

I’ve been hanging around waiting for Charmaine since we were eleven. And it’s time I put a stop to it.

John couldn’t believe I was going to meet her again, especially in this weather.

“When will you learn, Tom?” John had said, shaking his head. “It’s not as if you’re in love with her or anything.”

What could I say? That I couldn’t help it? That it was the right thing to do? Isn’t that what friends are for?

He’s gone off to watch the match at Gary’s place. I could have been there now, warm and dry with the rest of the lads, and at least I’d be certain of company.

I’m not even sure Charmaine will turn up. She always keeps me guessing.

A smartly dressed woman with water dripping from her brolly comes in, dumps it by the door, slides on to a bench seat and picks up a menu, looking round for a waitress.

I wonder if she’s meeting someone, too – and how long she’ll have to wait. Not as long as me, that’s for sure.

I check the street again. No sign of Charmaine.

Should I order another coffee, or should I just give up and go home? Instinct tells me to stay for five more minutes.

Over the years I’ve bought her watches, alarm clocks, a personal organiser that bleeped to remind her of appointments.

Nothing worked. She’d forget to set them, or even to take them with her. Deep down, I know that Charmaine loves the drama.

There’s plenty of drama about her latest boyfriend. I tried to warn her gently but she was already on a rollercoaster, projecting the future. Their future.

I met her here last week, same time, same table. Last week I was ready to tell her that I wouldn’t be meeting her any more. But I never got the opportunity.

“He’s got something to tell me,” she gushed. “He’s taking me out to dinner. I think he’s going to propose. I can see it all now. I’ll wear white, of course, with a posy of white flowers, simple, pure . . .”

“Charmaine,” I broke in. “It might not be about that. You haven’t known each other very long, after all. Just a few weeks.”

I’m never sure whether Charmaine doesn’t listen because her thoughts are galloping away too fast, or because she doesn’t want to listen, to face up to the reality of life.

“You don’t know that that’s what he wants to talk about,” I finished gently.

“Oh, it is. I know it is. And I want you to be there, of course . . .”

Her blue eyes were glittering with excitement. “Say you will?”

It was the last thing on earth I wanted but I nodded, and for the rest of our time together she talked dresses and honeymoons. My heart sank. You see, I had something to tell her, too, but I knew she wouldn’t want to hear it.

I saw him with someone else.

I hope I’m wrong. I hope it’s his sister, or cousin, or his long-lost friend, but I don’t think it is.

The door opens and in she walks. She smiles half-heartedly as she comes towards me and I know something’s wrong. She takes off her raincoat, sits down, and I order her a skinny latte while she settles herself, forces another smile. Her eyes don’t sparkle and I know she’s heartbroken.

I lean forward, ready to listen. I’ll let her tell her story the way she wants me to picture it.

“How did it go?”

“I turned him down,” she says, staring at the raindrops on the window.

“You turned him down?” I fight to control every muscle in my face. I deserve an Oscar.

She nods, searching for the right words.

“You were right. I thought about what you said, how it was best not to rush, to get carried away with everything.”

I reach across the table for her hand and squeeze it tightly.

As I listen to her put a different slant on how she got dumped by that snake of a boyfriend, I fall in love with her that little bit more.

And I’m so glad I waited, because when she’s finished telling me her story, I’ll begin to tell her mine.

About how I fell in love with her, so slowly that I didn’t realise, and thought I’d left it too late.

It’s time I made my feelings known – and a kiss on her beautiful lips should do just that. n