‘You have no idea how much I need a girls’ weekend,’ I say to my friend Scarlett.
And I mean it.
What could possibly be bad about a trip away with Scarlett?
An opportunity to see her up close, twenty-four hours a day.
To observe her, even more than I do the rest of the time, in her pyjamas, as she wipes her make-up off her face, side by side as we brush our teeth.
To see what he sees. Her, then me. Alongside each other.
To see who she really is, this woman whose life is tripping over mine.
To see how she could have done this to me.
Oh, it means putting up with the other stuff, of course. The self-obsession. The drama. My blog! My marriage crisis!
Just let someone else speak, Scarlett, for once.
But it will be worth it.
How could I do that to a friend? Maybe the question needs to be rephrased: how could I do that to somebody who was becoming, even when she didn’t know it, my worst, my closest, enemy? How could I do that to somebody who had, when it came to it, done far worse to me?
I count down the hours to that weekend.
Apart from anything, it means I will know where she is all the time too. That I won’t have to torture myself with wondering if she has her hands, with their elegant long fingers, all over him again.