That bit in the email about her father dying. That’s sad. I met Abi’s dad two or three times. He was very nice. Surprisingly unassuming, considering the daughter he reared. Luckily, my parents are in hail health, Ben’s dad died before I met him but his Mum, Ellie, is well. Abi’s bad luck makes me feel oddly guilty about my own good fortune.
I haven’t seen Abi for seventeen years. She came to visit me once when Liam was a couple of months old, which was more than most did. It was an awkward visit, even though we both did our best for it not to be. Liam was born in June, around the time most of my friends were finishing second-year exams. Most of them had plans to be backpacking around Europe that summer, so I didn’t invite them to meet my baby to spare them the embarrassment, and me the hurt, of them refusing. Abi wasn’t backpacking though. She didn’t want to leave Rob alone in Birmingham. She just showed up.
She brought Liam a cuddly goose. It was one of his favourite things for a few years. He inaccurately called it ‘Ducky’. I kept it. It’s at the bottom of a box in the attic, along with his first romper suit and a few other bits and pieces that I’ve hung onto for sentimental reasons. She chatted about our friends and tutors, brought me up to date on who was house sharing with whom, who was dating whom, who had done well in their exams and who had just scraped a pass. I was still talking about going back to uni and maybe if my degree had been a three-year course, I might have done. But it was a combined course, four years. I was only halfway through. Despite what I said, I think I already knew I wouldn’t be going back.
My boobs leaked milk during her visit because I did not want to feed Liam in front of her. I didn’t mind getting my baps out – I was already becoming accustomed to that. It was more complicated. I didn’t want her to go back to uni and remember me as a feeding mother, pegged to the sofa, stewing in front of daytime TV, someone whose best friends were the six New Yorkers on the sitcom of that name. My breasts became miserably heavy, and I could smell my own milk leak on to my padded bra, then my T-shirt. Eventually, Liam woke up screaming. He was blissfully unconscious of my need to preserve some fragment of the old me in my friend’s memory. He hungrily rooted around my chest, staring at me with confused and furious eyes. Why wasn’t I feeding him? In the end, his loud and insistent crying drove her away. She made vague promises that she’d visit again but I didn’t hold her down to a date. The moment the door closed behind her, I collapsed into the chair and pulled out my boob, fumbling. I squirted milk into Liam’s eyes and nose before I found his mouth.
Do I want to dredge all that up again? Is it wise?
The 20th, that’s tomorrow.
A small part of me would like to meet her for a drink. I’m not sure which force is driving me the most. Curiosity or kindness. It doesn’t matter, because I don’t live in London. Funny that she should think I do. She clearly hasn’t read my Facebook profile in any detail. I’m based in Wolvney, on a housing estate that’s sprouted up halfway between Coventry, where my parents live, and Northampton, where Ben works. I suppose it’s not entirely out of the question that I go to London to see her for an afternoon. It’s only just over an hour on the train. We sometimes take the kids there for a daytrip at the weekend but we tend to only do so for a special occasion. The last time we went was to see Matilda the musical. It was Imogen’s birthday. We all loved it, even Liam. Bless him. It would take a bit of organisation to hoof down there on my own but I’m sure Ben wouldn’t mind holding the fort up here if it was something I really wanted to do.
But is it?
It’s been a long time. Too long? Long enough? I don’t know.
Suddenly I have a better idea.
Or is it a worse one?
I could invite Abi to come and see me here in Wolvney. That way she’d meet the kids and Ben. I’ve never had the urge for her to meet my family before, quite the opposite, but now she’s made this move, and under these circumstances, it seems the right thing to do. She probably won’t accept anyway. I can’t imagine her coming all this way out of London. Not that it’s far but there are certain types that think anywhere out of zone three is abroad. Is she that type? I won’t know unless I invite her.
Before I change my mind, I draft a quick email back to her.
Hello Abi.
Wow, it’s so lovely to hear from you although I’m sorry it’s under such awful circumstances.
I would love to meet up. Actually, I don’t live in London, I live in Wolvney, urban sprawl outside Northampton. It’s just a zip on the train. It can take as little as 51 minutes if you get the fast train, no changes. I was wondering, would you like to come here? You could meet my family. I could pick you up from the station or you could get a taxi – there are always plenty available. You could come for the day or stay for a weekend. Well, whatever works, stay as long as you like!
Love
Mel
I read through my message once and wince at the slightly needy, girlish tone I fear it strikes. I feel disloyal referring to Wolvney as urban sprawl; it makes it sound much worse than it is. It is in fact a very well thought-through, quite attractive housing estate, a mile from a pretty village. I guess its biggest crime is that it’s ordinary. I find a certain comfort in conforming; an unplanned teenage pregnancy can do that to you. Our house was built ten years ago and is identical to seven others in our street; a four-bedroom (well, three and a box room) semi-detached, its best feature the quite spacious walk-through kitchen diner. Still, I like to think it has warmth and integrity. However, for some reason, I feel I need to undersell it so that when she sees it, she’s more likely to be pleasantly surprised. If she ever sees it. Also, do I sound desperate? All that detail about the travel arrangements. Possibly, saying ‘stay as long as you like’ is a bit over the top. A bit keen. I hope she doesn’t think I’ve turned into the sort of person who is being particularly nice because she’s famous now. I’m really not. I’m being particularly nice because she’s going through a difficult time. I’m not some nosy curtain-twitcher, desperate for the gory details on the death of her marriage.
I consider redrafting but don’t. I press send without over-thinking the invite.
She probably won’t accept. After all, she is famous, I don’t doubt she has countless people she would rather stay with. More exciting people than me. Trendy, waiflike women, men with groomed beards and abs. Don’t get me wrong: I love my life, I adore my family and am proud of our home, our own little enclave but, when all’s said and done, we’re not especially interesting to anyone other than each other. We like it that way.
I have loads to do today even though I’m not working. My at-home days are far busier than the ones in the shop. Even though I have two full-time members of staff and three part-timers reporting to me in a thriving store, it’s never as much work as being at home. However, I find that as I am cleaning the kitchen floor, loading and unloading the washing machine and scrubbing the hard water marks off the shower door, I can’t get Abi out of my mind. I have thought of her often enough over the years but usually, when I’ve done so, I’ve deliberately pushed thoughts of her away. She is intrinsically linked with such a difficult time. No matter how fabulous the result of that time is (and Liam really is a fabulous son) it isn’t easy thinking about being pregnant and having to leave university. I’ve never wanted to think about her. Her path was so different to mine, I just found it easier not to dwell on what might have been.
But everything is different now.
Throughout the day, I keep checking my phone to see if she’s responded to my email at the same time as telling myself she absolutely won’t have. A shiver of excitement skitters through my body when I see her name once again in my inbox and I feel jubilant when I read her reply.
Mel, Angel!
I’d