Weeks and weeks it takes Tom to respond, but of course he does, as he’s too nervous that I’ll ruin his relationship. Especially when I send a follow-up, threatening to do just that. He answers quickly.
That doesn’t sound like a smart move, can we just leave it?
To which – heading out of the door to some social media-invite birthday party of someone I used to work with – I immediately send back an emoji of a beer. I’m more of an amaretto and Coke girl, obviously (and as he knows), but for emoji clarity, the beer did the job.
And also, leave my girlfriend alone. I know you sent her messages.
I smile. You have no idea, Tom. You think you’ve just met some woman who’s a bit desperate. You don’t know how I can turn; you don’t know how when I needed to, I did turn.
I send another message, naming a bar that isn’t near either of our flats that I went to once with some – of course – work colleagues.
God, that night was awful. All the nights, unless I am drunk enough that I can’t remember them, are awful. Do other people enjoy nights out? They are different, I remember distantly, with real friends. I ache, again, for Frances and for the other women that I wasn’t as close to but who I know, in retrospect, that I loved and who loved me. Frances’s friends, initially, but then mine. We sipped amaretto together in bars, picking each other up, dropping each other off. We shared in-jokes, we gave advice.
When Hayley lost her dad after a stretched-out cancer battle, I organised a weekend away for the five of us. I packed board games, bubble bath and hot chocolate, and we stayed in our pyjamas for forty-eight hours. Hayley’s arms appeared around me as we’d packed up the car to come home.
‘You’ll never know what this weekend has done for me,’ she’d whispered. ‘As good as months and months of therapy.’
But I knew: they’d all have done it for me. I was part of something for the very first time. Even when we moved, they were still there, on social media, on my phone – a few hours late with a reply because of the time difference but still checking in, still in my life. But when some of them reached out after what happened, I burned with shame. I thought of Hayley, hugging me that day through her grief, thinking I was good, and I felt sick. It was only Frances I could cope with and when even she couldn’t deal with me, I changed my number and cut ties. Sometimes I think I can do it again. Chantal could be my friend. Some of the other women who come for dinner. But there is a chasm now, after what I did, because I will always have a secret. I’m playing a part now, an Almost Harriet who emulates the other one but will never quite fit into her shape.
I jump on the bus and out of the corner of my eye I see Lexie, sitting on a bench, breathing heavily and holding her thighs. She is in leggings and trainers – cooling down, presumably, after a run.
‘Thursday 7 p.m.,’ I type to her boyfriend, because I am starting to enjoy being the bossy one with all the control. He doesn’t reply.