‘So have you heard from her today?’ Rosie asked, her voice echoing from the depths of my fridge. Before I could answer she emerged clutching a strawberry yoghurt, then headed to the cutlery drawer for a spoon. Today she was wearing a forties style pink tea-dress, with a short red cardigan and navy kitten heels. It should have been all wrong and yet it looked great – a very glam contrast to my old jeans, grey gym T-shirt, bare feet look of zero grooming.
‘No, nothing. I called but she didn’t pick up and I texted her a couple of times but no reply. She doesn’t make it easy for herself, does she?’
‘Never,’ Rosie agreed. ‘She’d be great at providing storylines for soap operas though.’
‘You’re right. Do you think Dan has an evil twin he can produce at short notice?’
On the surface of it, it probably seemed like we were being unkindly blasé about our best friend’s marital woes, but in our defence, we’d been here so many times before we were probably just slightly inured to the situation.
‘So how’s the romance of the year coming along then?’ I asked, while folding the pile of towels I’d just dragged out of the washing machine.
‘If I say it’s great, do you think I’ll jinx it?’ Rosie asked.
‘Definitely not.’ Or at least I hoped not. I was cautiously optimistic and hopeful that Jack would prove to be the guy Rosie had been waiting for, the one she would settle down with, who’d give her everything she deserved.
‘In that case, it’s great. Like, strangely so. I keep waiting for the hitch. You know, the “I’ve got a criminal record” convo or the “I’m only going out with you so that I can scam your bank account and leave you destitute” one. I’ve seen them all on Jeremy Kyle.”
‘Rosie, he’s a life coach from Kew. I’ve never seen Jeremy Kyle, but I’ve watched every episode of CSI and I can tell you life coaches from Kew are not the usual demographic for serial killers and scammers,’ I told her over the top of a huge navy bath sheet. ‘Since when did you become cynical and jaded?’ I paused in a moment of realization. ‘That should be Lu and I’s nickname. Cynical and Jaded.’
Rosie laughed. ‘Years of defeat have worn me down. It’s a battlefield out there. Anyway, like I say, Jack has passed all the tests so far. Own hair, own teeth, a real job.’
I took her checklist a little further. ‘No porn addiction or previous restraining orders? And did you Google him and check there are no images of his penis anywhere online?’
‘I did. No penis pictures. And he’s lasted six months so far, so he’s obviously not just after random hook-ups. With all that and a pulse and no plans to take off in the near future, he’s practically perfect.’
It was great to see her so happy. I was a big believer that no woman needed a man to define who she was. A few of my friends were single by choice and loving the lifestyle and freedom that gave them, but Rosie wasn’t one of them. She would never take the easy way out and settle with the wrong man, but she definitely wanted to meet someone who would stick around. She’d had a rough run of luck. Over the last two decades there had been many relationships, each one self-destructing around the twenty-four-month mark. The two-year curse, she called it. There was Mark, who decided to go off trekking in South China to find himself. Zak, the roadie, who’d got a job as a tour manager for a band and had never been seen again. Jason and Colin, who both called it a day because they weren’t ready to commit. And who was that guy she was seeing when I met Colm? It took me a moment. Paul. Yep, that was it. He moved north to work in a zoo and Rosie had decided he loved wildlife more than he loved her. She always chose guys who were, like her, a little bohemian, then was surprised when they went off and did something… well, bohemian.
Touch wood, Jack, the life coach, seemed like he might have staying power. Even if Colm claimed it was a whole load of ‘psychobabble crap’, and he did give me a slightly creepy feeling that he was analysing me and planning a schedule of improvements every time we spoke.
Rosie had met Jack when he popped into her café for morning coffee. After a decade of temping and saving her cash while she tried to decide what she wanted to do with her life, she’d finally stumbled on a tiny café that was closing down just off Chiswick High Road. In an inspired moment of spontaneity, she’d rented it, before going on to refurbish and reopen it as a forties retro café called Doris’s Day. It was all doilies, big-band music and tables that looked like they belonged in your granny’s front room, and while it was never going to make her a fortune, it was doing well and she loved it. If things worked out with Jack, then her life would be pretty close to perfect and I’d be thrilled for her – just as long as she still found time to come sit here in my kitchen and discuss life’s joys and stresses. And Lulu.
The banging of the door announced a new arrival and, checking the clock, I realized it was too early for Colm. He was over in Canary Wharf running a training course for a software company today and I didn’t expect him home before 6 p.m.
My money was on Lulu, but it was Dan who walked in the kitchen door, accompanied by a fairly large holdall. This couldn’t be good.
He opened with a rueful, ‘Hi.’
Beth chose that moment to pop her head through from the dining room, her huge messy mass of blonde curls appearing a couple of seconds before the rest of her. ‘Uncle Dan!’ she bellowed, running towards him and jumping just in time for him to catch her and swing her round. Colm aside, Dan was her very favourite man.
I waited until she was back on the floor. ‘Right, honey, off and finish your dinner, then it’s bath time.’
‘I’m getting to eat my dinner next door!’ she announced to Dan, like it was a proper achievement. Which, in her world, it was. I usually insisted we all ate at the table but had decided that censoring the conversation with Rosie would be too difficult after last night’s events. At five, Beth was probably too young to learn the words, ‘affair’, ‘infidelity’ and ‘betrayal’, so her favourite sausage and spinach pasta while watching Frozen won – or saved – the day, especially now that her favourite uncle had wandered in with the weight of the world on his shoulders.
She beetled back off humming ‘Let It Go’, the song from the movie that she chirped on a repetitive loop all day long.
There was a highly pregnant, slightly uncomfortable pause before I gestured to Dan’s huge bag. ‘Is Lulu in there?’
He at least managed to muster something approaching a smile as he sat down across from Rosie at the table. There were lines of weariness etched into his handsome face. I wanted to help. I may have known Lulu for longer, but my loyalties were split, because I loved Dan too. I automatically poured him a coffee from the pot that was permanently brewing on my kitchen worktop. My whole adult life had been conducted to the aroma of medium roast.
‘I was tempted, but no. Look, I know it’s an imposition but…’
‘It’s fine. You can stay. You don’t need to ask.’ Over the years he’d crashed here many times after fights and fall-outs. I decided not to acknowledge that this time felt a lot more serious.
A few of his lines eased as relief took over. ‘Thanks, Shauna. We can’t even be in the same bloody house together. It’s done this time. I’m seeing the lawyers on Friday.’
Rosie leaned over and rested her hand on his. ‘Are you sure? Maybe it’s a mistake, or a…’
She stopped, realizing how ridiculous that sounded. We all knew it was highly unlikely that it was a mistake. This was Lou we were talking about. It wasn’t her first adulterous rodeo.
‘Thanks Rosie, but you know how it is.’
We did. That’s what made it so sad and bloody infuriating. What do you do when it’s your closest friend that’s in the wrong? And how many times over the last thirty-odd years had I been torn between wanting to hug her and kill her? Too many to count.
I took a key off the tiny gold hook next to the back door and handed it to him. ‘Here’s the key for the flat. There’s fresh bedding in the cupboard. If you need anything just shout,’ I told him.
‘Flat’ was probably an optimistic term. Colm had converted the garage into a man cave, with a sofa bed, TV, tiny kitchen area and bathroom. ‘Studio’ was probably a better term. I preferred ‘claustrophobic demonstration of sexist maledom’. Over the years, Dan and Lulu had stayed there many times after dinners or parties, but for now it could be Dan’s home. Hopefully it wouldn’t be long before they sorted this out and he was home again.
Rosie got up and lifted her cherry-red satchel from its dangling position on the back of the chair. ‘I need to head off. I’m meeting Jack at 7 o’clock and there’s some serious grooming to be done. Dan, if you need anything just call me. And if you get kicked out of here, there’s always my couch.’
Her efforts to inject some levity into the conversation almost made the whole situation sadder. God, poor Dan.
He got up at the same time, kissed me on the cheek and headed back out the door, key for the flat in hand. I made a mental note to pop in on him later and see how he was doing… after I’d put the laundry away, poured a coffee, had a snuggle with Beth, bathed her, made Colm and I’s dinner, and planned the schedule for a lunch I was catering the following day for a baby reveal party. Seriously. This woman was inviting fifty of her closest friends round to reveal that she was pregnant with her third baby. As with her previous two children, in twelve weeks’ time, there would be a ‘gender reveal’ party. Then a baby shower. Then a christening. Yes, she was definitely milking the experience for maximum attention and gifts, but hey, it made her a fantastic client.
‘Hi m’darlin, how’s you?’ I’d been so deep in contemplation of Mrs Tower’s announcement that I hadn’t heard Colm come in.
‘Fed up with laundry, tired, short-tempered, sore back, overworked and irritated,’ I replied, smiling to dilute the moan.
‘Ah. I was just looking for “fine”,’ he said, grinning, as he put his hands around my waist and kissed me on the neck. After all these years I wasn’t sure if it was romantic, shallow or ridiculous that the minute his arms went around me the day got just a little bit better.
‘Daddy!’ Beth screeched, throwing herself at us to join the embrace. Our daughter didn’t do subtlety or patience.
‘Uncle Dan is here!’
‘Where?’ Colm replied, puzzled, before opening the fridge. ‘Is he in here?’
Beth shrieked with laughter.
‘Nope,’ Colm went on, bending over to look under the table. ‘Down here?’
‘No!’ Beth giggled.
‘Ah, then he must be in here,’ he said, opening the oven.
‘He’s in the garage!’ Beth announced triumphantly, delighted to be a credible source of information.
His eyes met mine in a questioning glance.
‘He’s come to visit for a little while,’ I told him in my best child-friendly, all’s well, run along, nothing to worry about, tone.
He got the hint, sweeping Beth up and throwing her over his shoulder, then marching her back next door. I felt a huge pang of gratitude that no matter what, he always had time for his girl. He was never too tired for her, never too busy to listen to what she had to say. There was no doubt he was Fun Dad, the soft touch who couldn’t say no, while I was the one who handled all the practicalities. No surprise there then. But much as it sometimes needled, there was nothing I loved more than seeing them laughing together.
Over the next couple of hours, I ticked off everything on my list, right up to the point where our dinner was on the table. There was silence from upstairs, so I guessed Colm had finished with his storytelling and was now probably asleep next to his daughter on her bright blue sleigh bed. Her choice. She was in a militant, anti-pink, tomboy phase.
I trudged upstairs, and popped my head in the door to her bedroom. She was sound asleep, upside down, covers thrown to one side. I decided to rearrange her later when she’d had time to get into a deeper slumber.
Colm wasn’t in our bedroom, so I headed to the smallest room, which doubled as a study. There he was, staring intently at the screen. That was unusual. He rarely worked from home, didn’t have Facebook or Twitter or any of the other social network websites that sucked up time.
‘Babe, dinner’s ready,’ I told him.
‘Okay,’ he answered automatically, his focus not leaving the screen.
The fact that he was engrossed piqued my interest and I moved closer to see what he was staring at with such intent. It took a few seconds to work out that it was one of those medical self-diagnosis sites.
‘What are you doing?’
He shrugged. ‘Och, I know these things are rubbish but I was just curious. Hang on, I’m almost done.’
I scanned the list of questions he’d already completed, starting with ‘Headaches?’ He’d ticked that one, and several of the others down the list. I had time to read a couple of them. ‘Audio distortions.’ I knew about those. ‘Vision disturbances.’ I had no idea what that meant. Other than the weird sound stuff and the headaches, he’d never mentioned any other symptoms. I still wasn’t too concerned though. Didn’t migraines often come with flashing lights or strange zig-zaggy lines?
He was at the last one and ticked ‘no’ in the box after ‘weight-gain’, then pressed ‘enter’.
‘I can’t believe you’re doing this,’ I told him. Colm researching anything online was very unusual. ‘It’ll probably tell you that you’re pregnant. Or a hypochondriac.’ I wasn’t buying into this at all. Hadn’t I read a dozen articles that talked about how these websites were wildly inaccurate? Apparently, people were going in droves to the doctors after self-diagnosing life-changing illnesses on the internet. There was a name for it. I racked my brain. Cyberchondria. Yep, that was it.
He pulled me down onto his knee. ‘I know, but it’s this or the doctor and I don’t have time for the doctor. I’m a busy and very important man.’
I was still laughing when the computer pinged and the results came up on the screen.
Most likely cause? Number one – migraines. As predicted by Doctor Colm, and seconded by my extensive medical expertise gathered from watching Casualty on a Saturday night. There was a whole list of other possible causes listed below it – everything from concussion to head wound, to brain tumour. I could see why these sites had been accused of scaremongering.
‘Aw, not pregnant. Are you gutted?’ I asked him with mock sympathy. ‘My name is Colm O’Flynn and I’m a cyberchondriac.’ I told him, kissing him between words.
‘Come on. Let’s get dinner and then go make sure Dan isn’t lying in the mancave with a tub of ice cream singing Shania Twain break-up songs.’
‘Hang on, just want to do one thing…’
With his free hand, he used the mouse to flick back to the previous page.
‘I noticed my jeans are feeling a bit tight on me,’ he said, as he changed his answer to the ‘weight-gain’ question. Tick.
‘That’s because you haven’t been out running this week,’ I said, standing and pulling him upwards. ‘Come on, you’ve a heartbroken pal to attend to.’
He was already on his feet when there was another ping from the screen.
The results had changed slightly.
Number one on the diagnosis probability scale?
Brain tumour.
I stared at it for a second, long enough for a chain reaction that went something like ‘oh for goodness sake, how bloody ridiculous’ to ‘it couldn’t be, could it?’ Closely followed by a tiny niggle of fear and doubt, then a swing to ‘of course not, but let’s get it checked out anyway and get the problem sorted.’
The next day, I called the surgery and made an appointment for him to see the doctor.