Friend Request(27)

I go to Maria’s page where I can see that Sophie has now accepted her friend request, but just as I’m about to close the window, I notice that Maria has another new friend listed: Nathan Drinkwater. I turn the name over in my mind, but it means nothing to me. I’m sure there was no one of that name at school with us. I click onto his page, but there’s nothing there – no posts, no profile photo, nothing. Maria is his only friend.

There’s a group Facebook message that I’ve been included on about a night out with some old colleagues. My instinct is to do what I would normally do – ignore it and let them assume that I’m not interested, too busy with the business and Henry. But I let the mouse hover over the reply button, trying to imagine myself in a bar with a glass of wine: chatting, catching up, swapping news. I am pouring myself a second glass of wine, and trying to persuade myself to accept the invitation, when the doorbell rings. I jump, and the bottle jogs in my hand, red wine slopping down the side of the glass, pooling like blood around the base and seeping into the oak table. I put the bottle down and walk cautiously along the corridor. Even though I’ve found the photo, I haven’t totally shaken the feeling that I’m not safe, that there’s someone watching me. I haven’t forgotten the panic that surged through me as I ran through the tunnel at South Kensington. Run as fast as you like, Louise. I can see the outline of someone through the frosted glass of the front door, but I can’t make out who it is. I stand in the dark hallway, framed by the light from the kitchen behind me, my body pulsing with every beat of my heart. I take a step back. I won’t open it, creep back to the kitchen, let whoever it is assume I’m not in. But then the letterbox opens and a voice calls through:

‘Louise? Are you there?’

I hurry to the door and yank it open.

‘Polly!’

I enfold her in a hug, so thankful to see her that I hold her too long, too tightly.

‘Hey, are you OK?’

I smile, biting back tears.

‘I’m fine. Just glad to see you. What are you doing here?’

‘Um, you invited me for dinner? When I was here babysitting last Friday?’

‘Oh God, so I did. I’m so sorry, I completely forgot, what with everything…’

‘How do you mean everything, what’s going on?’

I’d forgotten for a minute that she knows nothing. Where to start? Should I even tell her anything at all?

‘Oh, nothing much, just busy with work and stuff. How are you anyway?’

‘Oh you know, same old, same old.’

We go through to the kitchen and she plonks herself down at the table.

‘Something smells nice.’

‘It’s an M&S cottage pie for one,’ I admit. ‘Sorry. I’ve got some salad and bread and stuff, we can probably make it go far enough for both of us.’

‘That’s fine, I have wine and crisps,’ she says, plonking them on the table. ‘Who needs dinner?’

She glances at the shelving unit with the photo of me and Henry back on top of it. ‘You found it then? See, I told you! I bet you just put it down somewhere and forgot, didn’t you?’

‘No, actually. Henry had it. He was taking it to Sam’s. He said he misses me when he’s there.’

‘Oh, poor H.’ Polly puts a hand to her chest in anguished sympathy.

‘I know. Let’s not talk about it, I can’t bear it.’

By the time the pie is ready, we’ve worked our way through all the crisps and made a start on a second bottle. She’s been regaling me with tales of her sister’s love life, as well as filling me in on bits of news about my old colleagues at Blue Door. She is going to the drinks thing that I was havering about when she arrived and she’s adamant that I have to come. She hasn’t mentioned her girls yet, nor asked about Henry. Although she adores Henry, and I love Maya and Phoebe too, we don’t talk about them that much. I do have friends that I made through Henry with whom the conversation nearly always revolves around fussy eaters, managing behaviour or the pros and cons of swimming lessons, but I love that that’s not the case with me and Polly. She’s a proper friend.

As I spoon the meagre pie out of its tin-foil dish onto two plates, adding several slices of French bread and a handful of salad, I ask how the girls are.

‘They’re OK. Well, Maya is.’

Maya is a robust and lively eight-year-old with an astonishing and enviable disregard for the opinions of others, whereas her sister at twelve grows quieter and more withdrawn every time I see her. I’d assumed this was the usual march of adolescence, the inevitable desire for independence, otherness, and the subsequent drawing away from one’s parents and any adults associated with them.

‘And Phoebe?’

‘She’s been having some trouble at school. With the other girls.’

An icy finger curls around my stomach, taking away my appetite.

‘You mean – she’s being bullied?’

‘I’m not sure you’d call it bullying. It’s so… subtle. Girls this age – they can be so vile.’

Don’t I know it.

‘What have they been doing?’

In some ways I don’t want to know. I find this a difficult topic at the best of times, but right now I don’t know if I will be able to keep my composure.