On Friday nights, we’d troop along to St Bernadette’s youth club, which was in the basement hall of the local church. There we’d dance in long lines to Tamla Motown and soul music. Afterwards it was back to one of our houses to discuss who’d kissed whom, which boys were gropers, which were to be admired and sought after. We rarely went back to Mitch’s house. Her dad was so strict and would complain if we played music too loudly or stayed out too late. Mitch always had some boy or other after her. She was a natural flirt and had her pick of the local talent. Most of them never lasted past two weeks, then she’d get bored and move on. Ally settled with a boy called Steven in the fifth form and went out with him until university and geography separated them. Jo and I were in awe of her having a proper grown-up relationship. It went way past anything Jo and I had experienced; we were late starters when it came to serious boyfriends. I was taller than most of the local lads and Jo was lacking in confidence. We both had a few admirers, we just weren’t sure what to do with them.
Our late school years were hard work, lots of homework, studying for A-levels that we all took seriously – we had no choice when the nuns ran the school – but there were respites between the studying, experimenting with drink at one of our houses. No one taught us that valuable lesson – don’t mix your drinks – and I would often end up lying behind the sofa with the room spinning, my head swirling after having sampled crème de menthe and lemonade, port and lemon, and – what we thought was the height of sophistication – vodka and orange.
Other nights, we’d discuss the state of the world. The Beatles went to India to see the long-haired Maharishi. A Buddhist centre opened locally. In 1972 when we were in sixth form, a hippie shop appeared on Oxford Road selling mung beans and muesli. We’d go in there and buy herbal teas and sit at our table, feeling ever so ‘with it’. Mitch’s sister Fi was always off to a demonstration of one sort or another. We asked ourselves if we should go that way too, get into politics, or should we learn to meditate and take the spiritual path?
I smiled to myself at the recollection of those days. Ally, Jo and Mitch were my best buddies, we’d sworn we’d be friends for life and, at that time, I couldn’t imagine existing without them. We shared everything: make-up, clothes, books, records, kissing tips, feelings – and god, there were lots of those, from angst, self-doubt, elation, frustration, to moments of just pure laughter because we were young and had the whole of our lives ahead of us.
I will get in touch with Ally and Jo, I told myself as I reached home. See if we can resurrect something of what we had and show them that I do still think of them and care. Ally’s probably in some chic little restaurant with Michael in the south of France sharing a bottle of good red wine. And Earth Mother Jo? I can envisage her in her kitchen, concocting something delicious for a houseful of family and friends, or on her land feeding chickens or ducks or sheep. I felt a sudden pang of envy for the lives that they’d created and a stab of regret for how mine had turned out. My fault. I’d been too reliant on Charles before he left, then too busy escaping into my career to keep up meaningful relationships.
Still … Ally, Jo and I went back a long way, knew each other before we hit the world or the world hit us. Nicholas was right, old friends are precious. It was time to pick up the phone.
Chapter Six
Ally
Present day
I awoke to find my husband Michael sitting on my side of the bed, shaking me. ‘What time is it?’ I asked.
‘About six,’ he said.
I groaned. ‘What is it?’
‘I don’t feel right.’
‘You probably had too much to drink last night,’ I said as I pulled the duvet up and turned over. ‘Go back to bed and sleep it off.’
‘No, Ally, something feels wrong.’
I sat up immediately. ‘Why? Are you in pain? What hurts?’
‘I feel weird—’
‘Breathless?’
He nodded.
‘Chest pains?’
‘Yes.’ I raced into the bathroom and got the blood-pressure machine. Something had been brewing for a few months now so I always kept a monitor nearby. At first Michael thought it was hay fever, an allergy causing a tightness in his chest. He’d suffered from allergies before, pollens causing asthma, shortness of breath, but it was now October and long past the pollen season in England. I’d finally persuaded him to see the GP, who told him it could be angina and organized for him to have tests. We were due at the hospital next week for a stress test. Friends made the joke about having a cute angina. We looked the condition up on the Internet and learnt that there were two types: stable and unstable. If the feeling of breathlessness came on after exertion but subsided on resting, it was stable angina and could be treated with rest and medication. If it came on randomly, not after exertion, it was unstable and more dangerous. Michael had just been asleep, hardly exerting himself.
I wrapped the blood-pressure cuff around his arm, pressed
