Henry is getting older now, seven, and most of the time he walks more slowly than I would like. If I had my own dog, I’d get a puppy, matching me like for like for energy levels, for enthusiasm, for silliness. I’d be one of those irritating people who runs with their dog on a lead, carefully knotted bag of poo jigging along on my jog.
Right now though, the slower pace works.
I hold Henry’s lead in one hand, my shoes in the other, bare feet on damp sand.
At points I try to break into a slightly faster walk, speed him up. He doesn’t take the hint.
Henry’s a guy who moves at his own pace.
Doesn’t everyone in the end?
Eventually we stop, and I sit, staring out at the vast space of beach with a tide so far out it’s hard to believe it could lap at your feet, that you could jump in and swim. But you can. She could. She did.
I stroke Henry’s head and he backs up into me for a leg tickle. I smile. Happy to oblige, my friend.
I’ve always thought Henry’s mentality is how we should all live our lives. His first thought cynicism-free; ‘how much fun would that be’ as a default. No preconceptions about people. No grudges. Just a desire to be a friend.
I sigh. When did it stop being so simple?
I try Adam again. He was due to land three hours ago but so far, still nothing.
Still, I think, she’s a lost wedding ring in the long grass; impossible, surely to find.
I shift in the sand.
‘Steffie!’ shouts a voice I don’t recognise immediately but associate with a reaction and it’s one of deflating, slowly but surely, a birthday balloon the week after a party. It’s a feeling that effort is coming; effort that is not worth it. I know what this is: it’s the looming presence of an acquaintance.
‘Leonie, how are you?’ I say as a shadow falls above me but then she sits down, places a hand on my arm, tilts her head slightly to the side like she is stretching after a particularly gruelling run. She ignores my question.
‘How are you doing, babe? I heard about Romilly.’
You heard, but not as much as you’d like to hear, I think. And honestly, the babe thing for a woman in her thirties you see around once a year? Not working.
But her eyes are bright. She’s waiting.
Leonie went to school with Romilly and me. In a class of twenty at primary school, we were – an anomaly of a year – the only three girls. While Romilly and I stuck close, our bare legs sticking out on the school carpet, one long pair, one short, next to the practical trousers of the boys, those lucky fuckers, the dynamic with Leonie never worked. She would be at the other side of the carpet, outside of our world. I don’t know why. Nothing wrong with her. Just didn’t work.
Now, her bare legs are back, stretched out next to mine on the sand. She is looking at me, I can feel it, but I continue to stare out to sea. Will myself to say something. The seconds go by. She starts to shift, uncomfortable. I surprise myself by not mirroring her reaction. But I don’t care how awkward this is for her. I’m good with silence. And I don’t have this conversation in me.
‘I’d better go,’ I say eventually. ‘The dog needs to get back.’
As I head away from her, she shouts. ‘Romilly’s dog, right?’
I nod my head but I doubt she sees and I keep moving away from her, away from a world that thinks my friend’s disappearance is gossip.
I imagine her getting home to her boyfriend. ‘Those two always were a bit weird,’ she would say, but perhaps I am turning her into more of a bitch than she is. Were we weird? We certainly didn’t care about making friends outside of each other, if that’s the definition. Our twosome didn’t shift, like friendships normally do in school days, to encompass a third, a fourth, to replace each other even. Instead we stuck and stayed, content with our choice, knowing it couldn’t be bettered. Hushed voices, heads close. We had our secrets, Romilly and I, always.
I walk as fast as Henry will let me, off the beach now, in between stopping to smell his favourite lampposts; a deep sniff at each like he’s just sat down in front of a glass of fine wine.
I have Leonie in my ear, Adam in my head, but Romilly drums the hardest, right in my chest even though I have gathered no real pace.
Henry stops again. His favourite bush this time. Little dig at the grass close by.
Eventually, we move on.
A couple of minutes from the house, I see someone turn onto the pavement. A man. Early twenties perhaps but you know what, I am reaching that age where that could mean he was fifteen. Hands tucked deep into jean pockets. A flash of red hair. Nike trainers break into a sprint and then he is gone, round the corner. On foot; not a delivery driver.
Did he come out of Marc and Romilly’s drive?
I frown.
‘Home, Henry Dog,’ I mutter as we turn into the path.
And I am barely through the unlocked door when Marc appears, triumphant.
‘Adam just called,’ he says. ‘He’s landed. Gone straight to the lake. We’re getting closer, Stef, we’re getting closer!’
The drumming intensifies.
But now it feels like Romilly is pummelling my insides, telling me to hold him back. What did you do Steffie, what did you do? And I do not blame her.
What did I do?