Friend Request(30)
‘That’s not exactly the strongest basis for going out with someone, is it?’
‘No, I know, but you never know. Let’s have a look at his profile.’
Greg is 42 years old, and handsome in a non-threatening way. He’s laughing in the photo, and looking at something over the photographer’s shoulder.
‘Lovely shirt,’ says Polly.
‘Again, Poll, not necessarily the criteria on which a lifetime’s happiness is built.’
‘Oh, stop creating obstacles. Let’s reply.’
I sigh, but to be fair he is handsome and seems normal, as far as you can tell with these things, which is not very far at all; so I allow her to craft a reply, which she sends via the messaging function on the site. He must be online because a reply pings back straight away, and before I even have time to protest or think about it, Polly has arranged a date for me with Greg at 7pm tomorrow in a bar in central London. On her instigation, we are just going for a drink. She says that way if I need to get out of it I can do so after one drink without awkwardness, and if it’s going well, then we can always go for dinner anyway. I can’t imagine for a minute that it will go well if Greg is as nice and normal as he looks. It’s years since I’ve been on a date, I’m bound to stuff it up.
When Polly has gone, I pour the dregs of the second bottle of wine into my glass and flip open my laptop. Facebook is still open from where I was checking it earlier and I see that I have a new message. My evening with Polly has dulled my fears a little and I assume it’s the latest in the lengthy exchange of messages from my old colleagues about this night out, so I click on it with no trepidation.
What I see makes the blood drain from my face. The message is from Maria Weston, and it says:
Did you enjoy your trip to Norfolk? I haven’t forgotten what you did, Louise. I’m always watching you. I will never let you go.
Chapter 13
1989
Maria didn’t stay much longer at the party. Sophie sat me down in the kitchen, gave me a glass of water and sat beside me stroking my hair. After about ten minutes, Tim came in and rummaged in a huge pile of coats on the kitchen floor. As he left the room with Maria’s denim jacket, he looked back briefly over his shoulder and his eyes bored into mine, full of hatred and accusation. The intensity of his gaze frightened me and I looked away. From my position near the corner of the table I could see into the hallway. Maria stood by the newel post with her head down, her face shielded by a curtain of hair. She allowed Tim to help her into her jacket as you would a small child, and when he had done so he stroked her hair back from her face, saying something to her in a low voice that I couldn’t hear. Then he steered her out of the front door, his arm wrapped protectively around her.
The party was brilliant after they left, one of the best nights of my life. I started to feel better so I had some more vodka and I actually danced, and for the first time ever it was OK. Sophie tried to get me to do an E but I was too scared and she was so sweet about it, said she understood, that she had felt the same before she tried it, that there was no pressure. Later, part of me wished I had just done it.
We went for a walk together at about four in the morning, all round Matt’s estate. The streetlights were on, and in the half-light the houses looked like mini-castles. I’d never known such silence, broken only by the sound of our footsteps and Sophie’s soft voice, telling me things I never knew about her, letting me in.
‘A couple of years ago, not long before you and I became properly friends, me and Claire and Joanne were this tight group of three.’
I remembered. From the outside it seemed like they had won the prize, the three of them huddled together every day in a corner of the playground, screaming with laughter, an unattainable ideal of shared lip gloss and secrets. Everyone wanted to get close to them that year, but they were so tight that it was impossible.
‘I don’t know if you’ve ever been in a group of three friends, but it’s a terrible number. When things were good it was amazing, but we were always falling out and it often seemed to be me that was frozen out. Do you remember that Dieppe trip?’
Summer 1987. Esther Harcourt had been in my dormitory, and on the first night there, we’d spoken for the first time in years. I’d been homesick and she’d comforted me, made me laugh, and I’d wondered whether I’d made a mistake cutting her out so comprehensively. The next day though when she’d put on her too-short jeans and bright blue cagoule, I’d known I’d made the right decision. I’d spent the day with Lorna Sixsmith, and that night I’d stayed up chatting to the others in our room while Esther had lain reading on her bed.
‘We fell out badly during that trip,’ Sophie went on, linking her arm through mine. We were passing the little shop that served the estate; it looked ghostly and abandoned under the streetlights. ‘Well, I say we fell out; it was more like Claire and Joanne went off without me; I never really knew why. I hung out with Sue, so I wasn’t on my own, but all the time I could see the two of them, whispering in corners, giggling at private jokes. On the coach on the way home, I was sitting in the seat in front of them and they were talking in a private language. Not a whole language obviously, but they had all these code words for things and people.’
Poor, poor Sophie. I could see her, sitting alone in a double seat, face pressed to the window, her forehead stinging against the cool glass.