Bridesmaids. Zara Stoneley
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The best friend a girl could have had.
‘Oh my God! You’re kidding? Wow, that’s fantastic!!’ And just like that I’ve looked my best friend in the eye and told a whopper. I pause for breath and lean forward to hug Rachel. ‘That is absolutely amazing. I am so pleased for you!’ My words are muffled by her shoulder.
I’m not in the habit of telling lies. I have been known to exaggerate slightly (and maybe tell the occasional little white lie), mainly to make myself feel better about my (currently) shitty life, or to make somebody else feel better about theirs.
I mean, when cuddly Liz who runs the ‘Olde Fashioned Sweet Shoppe’ in town told me she’d lost weight, I felt duty bound to tell her she was looking amazing, even if the missing poundage was probably down to her severe haircut (think scalped-elf) or the fact she’d gone for leggings rather than jeans (think scalped skinny elf).
Eating less and exercising more is torture, isn’t it? Specially when you spend your days staring at chocolate and boiled sugar. So, when I saw her a week later and she said she’d won the slimmer of the week award, the last thing she needed was me asking, ‘Are you sure the scales were working?’ or ‘Are you the only slimmer there, ha-ha-ha?’, wasn’t it?
Whereas, hearing my little white lie, ‘Wow! You look fab!’ followed by, ‘I read somewhere that liquorice can really help’ was just the right incentive.
Us girls need to stick together, don’t we? We need to present a united front and kick ass. So, if that involves smudging the truth at the edges now and then, that’s fine.
I smudge rather a lot. But I don’t lie. Especially not to my best friend.
Until now.
This isn’t a smudge, this is total truth wipe out.
I should be ashamed of myself. I am.
I also feel slightly queasy, and I’m not sure if it’s because the whole idea of this is bringing me out in a cold sweat because of what happened to me, or because of what might happen to her. My bestie.
If I hadn’t lied maybe things would have turned out differently.
Maybe all this wouldn’t have happened.
It started with the phone call.
Well, let’s be honest, it started a long, long time ago. When we were teenagers with fragile hearts, dodgy self-confidence and far too many hormones. When we were sure that the first guy who tried to get into our knickers could be ‘The One’. When love and lust were the same thing.
But anyhow, the lie and the big stuff started when she called me. All breathless and excited.
I was distracted with work, knee deep in fluffy kittens, or I might have been concentrating harder, and might have had some inkling of what was to come and where it might lead us.
‘Thank God I caught you before you jetted off! Is it okay that I rang you at work? You are at work, aren’t you?’
‘I am, well, I’m not actually at work, but I am working. Will you stop that?’
‘What?’
‘Sorry, not you, Rach. I’m at home, but I’m trying to … sit still, please, pretty please? Oh, for fuck’s sake.’ I growl, and Rachel giggles. ‘I am working, well, trying to. Shit, why are kittens so bloody bouncy?’
‘Kittens? You’ve got kittens?’
‘Three. I think. They keep moving, it’s hard to keep track, but they’re colour coded. If they’d all been black I’d be totally up shit creek without a paddle. Stop it!’
‘Kittens! Like, real ones?’
‘Definitely real.’ I untangle one from my hair. ‘Would Sellotaping a paw to the table be considered cruelty? I mean, it’s not like I’m using glue, is it?’
‘Oh my God that’s so brilliant! Oh, I wish you lived closer, I’d be round there!’ She’s gone a bit shouty. I am confused. I never knew she was a cat lover.
‘Sticky tape?’ Nobody normally considers my ideas brilliant, and it’s not like I’ve just invented the stuff.
‘Not the tape bit, the having kittens bit!’
‘Well, er, fine. I’ve not given birth to them or anything clever.’ I’m not really concentrating on just how weird she’s being, I’m too busy trying to get one to remain upright. It just keeps keeling over onto its back and doing that ‘paws up’ thing. Cute, but unhelpful.
‘No, but it’s brilliant, you’re moving on, that’s so ace.’ She sighs. The sigh of relief. ‘I’ve been so bloody worried about you.’
I let go of the bundle of fluff that I’ve been holding in a ‘sit’ position and it flops over, then paddles the air with its little front paws.
‘Worried?’
‘Yeah, oh come on Jane, I’ve course I have. You’ve been so …’ she pauses, ‘not you since …’ She lets that dangle in the air, much like the kitten I’ve just spotted hanging from the back of a chair.
‘Andy?’ Andy is my ex. As in ex-fiancé. As in the man who decided he didn’t love me somewhere between going down on one knee with a ring and accompanying me up the aisle. Being dumped can leave you feeling kind of worthless, useless and totally unable to distinguish between ‘the one’ who actually loves you, and the fuckwit who didn’t at all.
He has been ‘he who must not be named’ for quite a while now. Mainly because hearing his name led either to an irrational outburst (from me), featuring lots of swear words, and descriptions about what I’d like to do to various parts of his anatomy, or, and this was so much worse, horrible, snot-inducing tears. Don’t you hate it when that happens, when you end up inside out and can’t stop?
‘Er, yes, him.’ She says it hesitantly, and there is a pause. I know she’s holding her breath hoping nothing horrible is about to happen.
‘Oh, Rach, please stop worrying. I told you, I’m fine. Totally fine. It was ages ago, I am so over him.’ The git. For a long time, I wasn’t sure I was, but I’ve taken this one day at a time. I’ve stopped dating, because to be honest now I know my judgement is so far off it’s too scary. I’ve buried myself in work (not hard with my job) and talked a lot to the two people who mean most to me in the world: Freddie my flatmate, and Rachel.
There are many things I love about my best mate, Rachel: 1. She’s patient; 2. She’s caring; and 3. She’s honest, top the list.
She’s always been there for me, no questions asked. Good friends just know, don’t they? When to skirt round an issue because they know the wrong word could lead to a major incident, and when only a hug will do.
She’s obviously decided that kittens are significant in some weird and wonderful way though, which is slightly disturbing.
I just wish she didn’t worry quite so much. I’d always been the one looking out for both of us – as she’s so damned nice and easy to take advantage of. But lately we’d had a role reversal.
This time I’d been the one taken advantage of, and I guess I’d crumbled before her eyes (not a pretty sight). I’ve always liked to be in control. And I’d been in total control of planning my bloody wedding. Until