Jo and Ally were the next who came to mind. My oldest friends from school days. We spoke on the phone or emailed but due to geography, distance and busy lives, now I only saw them once a year, if that. It was my fault, I knew; especially in the last decade, I’d put my career first at the expense of letting my friendship with them fade. I felt a sudden ache for what we’d had as girls when Mitch, the fourth member of our group, was still around too. When one of us felt down over a boy, or something that had happened at school or with a parent or sibling, it would be treated with the same seriousness as if we were facing the end of the world. We’d gather in whoever’s bedroom it was, bringing company and consolation, then maybe go into the sitting room and watch TV, listen to music or just talk it through, squashed on a sofa, our arms draped around each other. If at Jo’s, she’d make bowls of butterscotch Angel Delight or cheese toasties to take away the pain. Overall there was love, and I knew that each one of them had my back as I had theirs. I had no idea where Mitch was any more but I knew where Jo and Ally were. I could contact them, but they lived too far away to troop round as they used to and be sitting with me at my table half an hour later, plus it was probably unreasonable to call out of the blue after so long and expect things to be as they were.
I went to my computer, looked through my contacts list, and realized I had loads of ‘friends’ going back years: friends from work, friends from when Elliott was at school and from whom I grew apart once the shared bond of the school gate had gone; local friends in the neighbourhood who I liked but always felt I had to be on my best behaviour with. Those who ‘got me’, with whom I could completely be myself, were few and far between.
Anita Carling. My lovely friend from university days. Was. When she died, it broke my heart. We’d hit it off from the day we met and had stayed friends right to the end. She was like family to me, lived in London so we could always drop in on each other and her passing had left an almighty big hole. She would have been round in a flash, making me laugh, coming up with mad suggestions to retrain as a stripper or such like.
It was sobering when friends and family died and the familiar landscape of life shifted. My world had changed. Losing a close friend, and some time later my mum, had hit me hard. They say people deal with grief in different ways. Some weep until there are no more tears, others block it out. I went for distraction. I felt their loss daily, so took every opportunity to work or be occupied, accepting every invite to a party for a movie, art show, launch of a new play; anything to escape from the reality of Mum and Anita not being there any more.
Of course there were others. Lyn and Val. Friends from work. Both gone from London and despite promises to stay in touch, we hadn’t. Martha. Ah. A great mate for two decades when I was in my thirties and forties until a demanding and prestigious job took up her time. Jen Beecham? A strong older woman, a mentor for me when I first got into TV. She moved to the States over twelve years ago and although we FaceTimed, I needed someone in this country, preferably this city, even better in my street.
As I went down the list, I saw there were so many others I’d drifted apart from over the years. Jane Ewing. Susan Lewis. Erica Peters. Sophie Jenson and Karen Wood. Sandy Jenson. Josie. Caz, Suse, Alice, Kate – great fun, good-time girls. Hadn’t seen them in ages.
Friends. They can heal but also hurt. Some can build you up, support you and help you face the world, others can also bring you down and leave you wondering what happened. Friendships change, I thought, evolve. Some you outgrow, some have different expectations, some come to a hard and painful end – which brought me to Ruth. Another good friend for many years, up there with Anita, Jo and Ally. For a long time, she was one of my go-to people in a crisis, one of my share-everything girls, one of my thank-god-for-girlfriends type of pals. She was a petite woman with dark Spanish looks, although she was Sussex-born. I’d known her thirty years, since I started working in television and she was a casting director. We hit it off immediately, same sense of humour, same hang-ups, same liking for a good Chablis or two. She had a son, Ethan, the same age as Elliott, so as they’d grown we’d shared all the ups and downs of their childhood, teenage tantrums, exams, university days, getting them ready to fly the nest and then the emptiness when they’d gone.
When she lost her husband Brian to cancer just over ten years ago, I’d persuaded her to have a spa day, a bit of pampering to take her mind off probate and the endless tasks of the newly widowed. We were in the sauna when she gave me the news that ended our friendship.
Charles and I had been married for thirty years; in fact, it had been at a garden party at Ruth’s that I’d met him. They’d been friends since their university days, even dated, apparently. They both used to laugh it off but it was clear she adored him and I, fool that I was, didn’t think there was anything to worry about. Most people
