Carry You. Beth Thomas
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is waiting in the kitchen when I get home, kettle boiled and two mugs on the side with tea bags in them.
‘Thank God,’ she says, coming towards me. ‘You’ve been gone ages. I’m gasping for a cuppa. Where’s the milk?’ I say nothing. She jerks her head forward and raises her eyebrows. ‘Daze?’ She grabs my rucksack and pulls it off my shoulders. ‘You did get milk, didn’t you?’ Still I say nothing. She’s rummaging through the bag now and pulls out the carrier bag with the Jaffa Cakes in it. It’s clearly far too light and cardboardy to contain a large carton of milk. Or a small one. She opens it anyway and peers inside, then looks up at me accusingly. ‘You didn’t get any, did you? Oh for fuck’s sake, Daisy.’ She dumps the carrier bag on the counter, snatches up her handbag and marches to the hallway.
‘Abs …’
‘Save it. I’ll get it myself.’
So she goes and gets the milk, while I make myself comfy on the sofa once more.
Daisy Mack
On the sofa, feet up, relaxing after walking 500 miles. And soon I’ll have tea to dunk the Jaffa Cakes in. Couldn’t ask for much more.
Sarah White Wow, youre so lucky, wish I could, I gotta take mum shopping, gonna be such a joy lol xxx
Suzanne Allen I thought you’d finished doing the whole tea and Jaffa Cake adventure by now Daisy???
Georgia Ling PJ day for me to lol xxx
Sarah White omg daisy I’m sooooo sorry, didn’t mean that to be so insensitive, I’m such a dick just ignore me xxxxxx.
When Abs comes back fifteen minutes later she bustles around in the kitchen for a few minutes then comes through to the living room with the two mugs of tea. She hands one to me, hesitates by the sofa for a second, looking at me, then moves to one of the arm-chairs and sits down. It’s totally obvious she’s got something to say to me, almost definitely something bad, but apparently I am going to have to coax my reprimand out of her. It’s almost overwhelmingly tempting not to bother.
‘Nice tea,’ I say casually, by way of an opener.
‘Mmm,’ she says, giving me nothing. She’s produced a magazine from somewhere and is leafing through it lethargically.
‘Sorry about the milk,’ I attempt, fairly confident that this is why she’s annoyed with me and that it will prompt the looming lecture.
She shrugs. ‘Forget it,’ she says without looking up. ‘Doesn’t matter.’
Hm. Now I’m stumped. Didn’t think I’d have to work this hard for a telling off. Right, I’ve got two choices here. I can give up, offer to make dinner, watch a bit of telly and get an early night; or I can ask her outright what’s bothering her. One of these two options will give me a peaceful and relaxed evening over a nice meal; one of them will probably result in an argument, but in doing so will get to the bottom of Abby’s mood and hopefully make amends for whatever I’ve done wrong and resolve it once and for all.
‘Want me to make dinner tonight?’ I venture.
She shakes her head. ‘Nah, it’s OK. Tom’s getting Chinese.’
‘Oh. Great.’ Damn. I sip my tea, knowing that I’ve got no choice now but to tackle option two. I put the mug down on the floor, look up at her and say, ‘Abs.’
At this moment her pocket plays the opening bars of McFly’s ‘Star Girl’ and she slaps her hand to her hip and jumps to her feet. I think it means she’s got a text message. She pulls out her phone and reads the new message, a small frown flickering across her face.
‘Right,’ she says, still staring at her phone. ‘Apparently he’s not getting the Chinese now.’
‘Oh. Why not?’
She shrugs and drops her phone carelessly onto the sofa. ‘Who knows? Or cares. Come on, let’s sort something out ourselves.’
So we go into the kitchen and make spaghetti bolognaise together. Tom doesn’t turn up and Abs doesn’t mention him again. The strange woman from the hallway two days ago flickers at the periphery of my memory, but then Abby asks me to open a tin of tomatoes and she’s gone.
As the evening moves on, I realise that her strange mood is probably more to do with Tom’s non-appearance than anything else. Which I have to say is a bit of a relief for me as it means I’m off the hook lecture-wise. I didn’t realise how tense my shoulders were until they start to loosen up a bit. We eat our spag bol on trays in front of America’s Next Top Model, and I finally relax in the contented togetherness of good friends sharing a meal. There’s no taciturn Tom to bring us all down, and the sermon I was anticipating is obviously not now going to materialise. I beam over at Abs affectionately as she drops her fork onto her empty plate. What a wonderful, generous and sweet friend she really is.
‘Stop gawping and get on with your food,’ she says. ‘You know we’ve only got about a month left before the MoonWalk?’
‘Bloody hell, I’d better eat up.’ I bend low over the plate and spade quantities of food rapidly into my mouth repeatedly. Abs rolls her eyes. I chew and swallow exaggeratedly quickly before loading my fork up again, ready to go. ‘Anyway, it’s at least two months, Abs. Honestly, you’re panicking over nothing.’
She leans forward and fixes me with her voodoo stare. My fork freezes mid-air between plate and mouth, but I am powerless to do anything. My mouth is open, waiting to receive the food, but I can’t even close it to preserve a milligram of dignity. It’s like looking at Medusa. Except, of course, Abs really has got the most gorgeous hair. Very thick and lustrous, and at the moment a beautiful shiny mink colour. I think this might actually be her natural shade, but I could be wrong – I haven’t known her long enough.
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