Pamela was the kind of person that, once she’d drawn you into her web and pretty much sucked the life out of you, all you wanted to do was escape. Far away. Forever.
If I’d thought about it, I was relieved to live thousands of miles away from the woman who’d broken my heart far more thoroughly than Todd ever could.
Pamela seemed to have completely forgotten the past. How convenient. Or she chose to either ignore it or pretend it had never happened. Worse, she likely thought it meant nothing to me. As it most likely did to her.
We’d been sixteen years old. I’d never have called her my best friend, but we’d been close. I’d been giddy in love with a guy named Sam. He wasn’t the best-looking guy; he wasn’t the smartest or most athletic. He was quirky. Different. Funny. He drew cartoons—that’s how uncool he was.
I don’t know what it was that made Pamela decide she wanted Sam. In my narcissistic moments, I suspected she only wanted him because he was mine. Even now, with the hindsight of more than ten years’ experience, I still wasn’t certain if that was why she’d gone after my boyfriend.
A classic frenemy, she’d come to me, when she and Sam first started going out together. Sat me down. “Oh, Lucy, I need to know you’re okay with this. You know Sam and I would never do anything to hurt you. You’re my best friend. It’s just that—” She’d giggled. “It’s so overwhelming. I know you only want the best for both of us. We’ll always be friends. Right?”
I was stunned, and brokenhearted, and there was a fierce pride inside me that refused to let her see how hurt I was. And perhaps she was right. What did I know about love? I didn’t own Sam. If their hearts belonged to each other, maybe I needed to be the bigger person.
And I really tried to be that bigger person, as much as I could at sixteen. She still insisted on us remaining tight. For a while it even worked. But I wasn’t honest with myself. Seeing Sam with his arm around Pamela, giggling at secrets behind their open lockers, did hurt.
And then, after Sam was well and truly ensnared, she moved on to someone else’s boyfriend. That was the worst of it. I didn’t think she even wanted Sam; she wanted him because he was mine.
That was what, twelve years ago? And I still felt the burn in my chest as though it was yesterday. I never gave my heart as openly or fearlessly again.
Betrayal is like that. It eats away long after the hurt’s been done.
“What are you doing here?” I tried to keep my voice pleasant. This was my place of business, after all. “In Oxford.”
She put her hands together under her chin. It was a mannerism that was so Pamela. Her nails were perfectly manicured, and I noticed her watch was a diamond-encrusted Cartier.
“I needed to get away after the horror of my divorce,” she said as though we were still close. I didn’t know she was married. Now she was divorced. “You must have heard.”
I shook my head. “No. I hadn’t heard that. I’m sorry.” I really didn’t follow her movements. I assiduously avoided any contact with her on social media, and none of my close friends ever bothered to talk about her. In one way or another, she’d hurt or infuriated all of us. If we ever wanted to describe someone loathsome, all we had to say was one word. Pamela. And then everybody got it.
“I’m a student here. I’m doing a master’s degree in the history of art, at Cardinal College. I can’t believe no one told you.” Right. Because Pamela was the center of the universe, of course I should be aware of all her actions.
Me with my two years of college and Pamela was taking a master’s at Oxford. Was I jealous? Maybe I felt a quick, sharp pang of envy, but it was followed by a creeping sense of horror. Cardinal College was only a short walk from here. She pretended to be thrilled. “I can’t believe we’re neighbors.”
My smile was unenthusiastic. The school terms in Oxford began in October. It was now halfway through April, and Trinity term would begin next week. She’d been here months and hadn’t bothered to stop by (which was fine by me). Why the sudden interest?
“And look at your little shop,” she said, turning in a full circle to scan the shelves of wool, the ready-made sweaters that were in endless supply thanks to the vampire knitting club, the magazines and books and the knitting-related pictures on the walls. “It’s so sweet.”
She could try and belittle me with her poison dressed as honey, but I was older now and mostly immune. So I treated her the way I would an enemy in my shop. Perhaps someone I suspected of shoplifting and wanted out. “Do you knit?”
As if. Unless it was knitting up trouble. Knotting people’s emotions. Crocheting an emotional crisis. I could go on and on with my knitting metaphors. The point was, she was bad news. And I didn’t want bad news here. I’d have to cleanse the space once she’d gone.
She laughed. I had a feeling she’d been working on that laugh. I never remembered it being so silvery and charming. I thought when she’d been younger it was like the sound a horse makes when it gets close to feeding time. “No. I’m only here because I heard my dearest friend from the old days was in Oxford as well. I wanted to come by and say hello. And to invite you to a little party I’m having.”
If Pamela, with her designer clothes and fancy watch,
