After talking to Cricket, I’m more determined than ever to see my friends, so I arrange to meet Fiona at the playground. David’s taken Lucas to judo, so it’s a good chance to catch up and try to snatch a few bits of conversation in between throwing myself down slides and getting buried in the sandpit, as all good godmothers do.
The weather is cold and it’s raining, so I bundle up in several sweaters and a cheap waterproof jacket I recently bought in an act of desperation, after yet another umbrella blew inside out. It’s green and made of plastic and makes me look like I’m wearing one of those green bin liners that you put the gardening cuttings in.
I also find a pair of Edward’s old green wellies in the cloakroom under the stairs. They’re a little on the big side and splattered with creosote from when he once painted the fence, but they’re much better than my trainers. Or flip-flops, which seem to be the extent of the summer footwear I brought back from California.
As I dash out of the house, coat and wellies flapping, I catch my reflection in the mirror and look askance. I quickly console myself. Who cares about fashion? I’m going to a playground to see my best friend and play in the sandpit with my lovely goddaughter. Who’s going to see me?
Shoving on a woolly hat, I hurry to the tube. As long as I’m dry, that’s all that matters.
‘Oh look, it’s Annabel!’
WTF?
She appears like a goddess through the foggy mists of the local playground. A tanned vision of perfection in her Moncler jacket, skinny jeans and Le Chameau wellington boots. I watch as she glides towards us in slo-mo, children parting like the Red Sea, accompanied by a mini-me version who is clearly her daughter, and a French bulldog dressed in a quilted Barbour jacket that trots obediently beside her.
She warmly kisses Fiona on both cheeks, then turns to look over at me with the kind of fearful curiosity usually reserved for when you find something unsavoury in a salad.
Somewhere, silently, I feel the battle lines drawn.
‘This is my friend Nell,’ says Fiona, eagerly introducing me.
‘Hi.’ I look up from where I’m being buried in the sandpit by Izzy, and give a little wave.
‘I’ve heard so much about you,’ she smiles.
It’s perfect, like everything about her.
‘Likewise,’ I smile back, standing up and brushing off the clumps of wet sand as her daughter races over to say hi to Izzy.
‘Clementine, darling, not in the sandpit,’ instructs Annabel sharply, before adding sweetly, ‘Mummy doesn’t want you to get dirty. What about hopscotch? That looks like fun.’
Izzy glances up at me warily. I know what she’s thinking. Hopscotch does not look like fun. Burying Auntie Nell in the wet sandpit looks fun. ‘Go on, you can bury me later,’ I whisper, giving her a wink.
‘Even your head?’
‘Even my head,’ I promise.
Izzy grins happily and together the two girls race dutifully across the playground.
‘I’m so excited for you to finally meet,’ enthuses Fiona as I join them. ‘I’ve been telling Annabel all about how you used to run this amazing cafe in America.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t call it amazing.’ I pull a face, feeling a bit embarrassed as Fiona beams proudly.
‘Oh, is that the one you had to close down?’ Annabel shoots me a look of sympathy. ‘Such a shame.’
‘Yes, it was,’ I bristle.
‘I know how tough it can be running a business. So many fail.’
OK, I’m just being sensitive. She’s being nice.
‘Annabel used to run a really successful interior design business before she opened her shop,’ continues Fiona eagerly. ‘Maybe she can help give you some advice. Get you going again.’
‘Thanks, but . . . no, I don’t think so,’ I smile politely.
‘Very wise,’ nods Annabel. ‘Like I always say to my husband Clive, success really separates the wheat from the chaff.’
I’m still smiling as it takes a moment to register. Hang on a minute. Who’s the chaff?
Am I the chaff?
‘But if you need any style advice, I’d be more than happy to help,’ she continues, her gaze sweeping over my outfit as she takes a sip of her soy latte.
‘Annabel has incredible taste,’ continues Fiona obliviously.
‘You mean, you don’t think I’m stylish enough?’ I retort, ignoring Annabel’s disdain and pulling a face that makes Fiona laugh. ‘What about the bin liner I wore at Glastonbury that time?’
‘Oh God, how could I forget? I wore one too,’ she giggles.
‘We went through a whole roll of them!’
‘I was completely covered in mud the whole weekend. When I took my washing home to Mum, she put it through about ten cycles—’
‘Mine just threw all my stuff away!’
We both burst out laughing, remembering.
‘So Fiona, you must come over and swim in the new pool,’ interrupts Annabel. ‘Izzy will love it.’
Fiona stops laughing and turns back to her friend.
‘Annabel’s just moved into a house with an outdoor swimming pool,’ she explains for my benefit.
‘Won’t it be a little chilly?’
Annabel looks at me like I’m a total moron. ‘It’s heated.’
‘Right, yes, of course,’ I nod.
Like my electric blanket.
‘Gosh yes, Izzy would love that,’ says Fiona. ‘She’s getting quite good at swimming.’
‘Bring your bikini too. We’ll make a girly day of it.’
‘Ooh, yes!’ Fiona beams across at me. ‘Doesn’t that sound fun, Nell?’
I glance at Annabel, who shifts uncomfortably. It might not be apparent to Fiona, but it’s obvious to both of us that the invitation didn’t include a plus one.
‘And of course you too, Nell,’ she adds with a rictus smile.
‘Sounds great!’ I say.
Of course I’m lying. There is nothing remotely great or fun about being in a bikini next to perfect Annabel, but I know how much it means to Fiona for us to get along.
‘See! I knew you two were going to be the best of friends!’ says Fiona, as Annabel and I exchange withering looks. And, throwing her arms around us, she pulls us into a group hug.
I’m grateful for:
a. making me smile as I push her ‘higher, Auntie Nell, no HIGHER’ on the swings, which totally freaks me out, but makes her laugh like a hyena as she plunges towards the tarmac at a hundred miles an hour.
b. teaching me that this is probably how I should be approaching this scary mid-life business. Laughing like a hyena as I hurtle single, broke and childless towards one-piece bathing suits and hot flushes, the wind in my soon-to-turn-grey hair, and time running out fast before I go splat on the tarmac that is Too Late.*