A story by novelist Heidi Perks
If their life looks perfect, something’s bound to be fake
My husband’s reflection appeared over my shoulder in the mirror. His eyes narrowed as they followed the dark trail of eyeliner I was carefully applying.
“Where did you say you were going?” he asked.
“Just into town.” I caught his eye, his brows gathering into a frown, before I looked away, tossing the make-up into its bag.
His gaze followed me as I left the bathroom. I flung open the wardrobe, pretending to rifle through until coming upon the top I already knew I’d wear.
When I closed the door he was standing beside me. “Anna,” he began warily. “Who is it you’re going to meet?”
I faltered, then decided to tell him the truth, breezily dropping the name as if it meant nothing.
It should have meant nothing, yet we both knew it didn’t. He shook his head. “Why?”
“Oh, you know.” I waved 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. “We’ve known each other since we were three.”
At 39, I didn’t need my husband worrying over me – though I was glad I hadn’t shown him her latest Facebook post.
My stomach had churned when I’d read the hashtagged words: #beautifulmummys #friendsforlife #blessed. Sporting a wide, red-lipped smile, she beamed at the camera beside three women she’d known less than one term.
Was it jealousy I felt when I saw her picture-perfect life in snapshots? I couldn’t see how. I didn’t want her life – most of which was fake – so why did my insides scrunch into tight balls?
I waited outside Costa for 15 minutes before eventually going in and joining the 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.
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 her a 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 30 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, as she distractedly scrolled through her phone.
“Lovely to see you,” I said, laying the tray on the table, spilling milky 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 have you 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 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. It was like when I was six years old, 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 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 away. There were reasons we were still friends after 36 years, and we always would be. We had history, too many shared moments. Why close off a massive chapter in my life if
I only had to face an occasional coffee and Facebook post?
“I’m going to give you this girl’s number,” she said. “Does wonders with Botox.”
As I watched her go, fists clenched by my side, I swore to myself, as I always did, that this time would surely be the last.
Heidi Perks’ new novel, Come Back For Me (Century, £12.99), is out now. See Express Bookshop on page 77.