The Things We Do to Our Friends(30)
Stepping out there on that first morning, I realized I didn’t know what we’d do while we were there.
What do you do on holiday? It requires effort, a decision on how the day should unfold, and it had been years since I’d been on one.
There was no studying to do. We’d had a busy few weeks in the lead-up to the break; Ava and Samuel studied law and had been holed up with an intensive revision schedule. Imogen, Tabitha, and I had studied sporadically, often together. I can grudgingly admit now, after so long, that Imogen had a natural flair for the subject. Not much seemed to please her, but art was her thing. When she wrote about paintings, they came to life. She fawned over them lovingly, poring over every brushstroke, each historical detail analyzed, even though the style of painting she always went for bored me to tears. She liked landscapes. Tidy landscapes with a tree to the side, perhaps even a wandering shepherd. She could write about those forever, and although it really wasn’t to my taste, I could appreciate that her essays were thoroughly researched, insightful even. Unlike mine, which were usually rushed off after a shift at the bar, and worlds away from Tabitha’s, which were mostly unintelligible. I’d read a particular first draft of Tabitha’s shortly after we’d become friends, and it had resembled a typed-up stream of consciousness with no referencing or footnotes. The actual artworks were only mentioned in the first and final sentences, bookending a dreamy piece that bounced from magazine self-help to song lyrics to her thoughts on food critics to a long tangent on medical bias. She usually managed to shoehorn in at least a few sentences about her beloved Klimt, regardless of the topic. Perhaps in a scholar’s careful hands, Tabitha’s unusual approach could have been a sign of genius, but, unfortunately, she wasn’t hardworking or skilled at writing. There was no mistaking that Tabitha’s essays were offbeat in the wrong way. She muddled through, though I wasn’t sure how.
Soon, it became apparent there was no need to make any decisions. I saw them all on that first morning, lazing around on blankets, and understood that, in the light of day, we could escape the house and spend our days in the garden.
I decided not to go out yet and started on the washing-up instead, to gain some points with Tabitha and Minta. The hoarding hadn’t quite crept to the kitchen, and it was tidier than the rest of the house. The first thing I saw when I went to the sink was Minta’s ring, carefully placed next to the soap. I guessed that she’d removed it to wash up then wandered off, and I picked it up between two fingers. I marveled at the light that splintered off the large diamond.
Then Samuel was there, behind me, pushing into my side with his hip. “Want a hand drying?” he asked.
“Sure.”
His eyes went to the ring. “What are you doing with that?” he asked.
“Nothing!” I nearly dropped it to the floor. “Honestly, I just found it here.”
He looked at me out of the corner of his eye and then laughed. He grabbed a tea towel, flicked it at me, and began vigorously drying a bowl, a line of sweat forming at his hairline. “I believe you! As a seasoned liar myself, I know when someone just can’t help but tell the truth! Never fear.” He put the bowl down and reached out to take the ring from my hands. “Even if you were going to pinch that thing, it’s a fake. Look.” He brushed his finger over the band to show where the gold had rubbed away, tapped at the diamond. “Costume jewelry, I think they call it. You didn’t think it was real, did you, Clarey? She sold all the good stuff years ago.” Carelessly, he tossed the ring back to the side of the sink. His mouth dipped at the edges cruelly.
His hair was wet, and he looked as sleek as a gingery otter. I felt an unexpected jolt of something there, a pang of longing, hot and liquid, that I’d never experienced with him before.
I wanted to reach out and grab him, but I made myself hold back. Hold back from kissing him very hard and fast and deep to taste the salt and the sun on him. To surprise him. It was a sudden, delicious impulse, something just for me, and he was unaware, although he must have seen something in my face.
“You okay, Clarey?” he said. That mean smile again.
“I’m fine.”
The moment had passed.
How strange! I’d never quite found Samuel attractive. In that moment, though, seeing him, there was something between us.
It was like Ava had said, and she always seemed to know best. Knowing what I’d do and how I’d react before I even felt like I knew myself.
And so it progressed for the next few days.
Their attention on me, it spread like a virus. I saw them looking at each other for a beat too long—silent messages passing between them. Each time I moved, Imogen was clucking around me, making me drink more water in case I suffered from dehydration, prioritizing me above Samuel and Tabitha for once.
We went to buy food—Tabitha enjoyed shoplifting, and she dragged me along with her. We took old, rusty bikes, and Tabitha picked up various tarts and quiches to pay for. I watched as she covertly slipped extra pastries into her bag.
Back at the house, Ava certainly seemed present all the time in a firmer way, next to me with a smile or a nod to comfort me, as if I might run away at any point.
The first few days were lazy, playful even.
Most of the time we lay outside in the garden—yes, it was warm enough even in April to lie out in the sun. There was a small pond at the bottom of the lawn that looked idyllic, and I remember Samuel jumped in one day. A mistake, as it was freezing cold and full of swampish matter, and he came out looking dirty and irritated. And then Tabitha was there, shrieking and chasing Samuel with sunscreen, squirting him in a climactic finale that made me think something was there between them, something brewing perhaps. Then Tabitha came up to me and wrapped her arms around me, and the rest of them joined her, embracing me and clawing at me as if they were taking something, but it felt so good.