I always feel so relaxed in Bea’s fun, chaotic home – it is the most higgledy-piggledy, disorganized, yet joyful space. There is truly nowhere like it. It is difficult not to trip over all of the unhung framed artwork that leans against the hallway walls, and the mini-sculptures that lie in the middle of rooms. I always stub my toe on a random trophy that holds the kitchen door open. I associate Bea’s life with growing up, finding myself through art and books, feeling that youthful sense of excitement, escapism and exploration. Her parents were as wild and carefree as she is now, and they used to let us run riot around their family home when we were kids. Bea’s parents, Sonya and Mikeal, were a big deal in the theatre business, and they always had famous dancers and actors seated round their dinner table. They had huge oil paintings of iconic ballerinas and original poster artwork from shows like Les Mis. Bookshelves heaving with novels and scripts. Bea ended up working as a gallery curator near Mayfair, a job she got through a family friend, and she’s now freelance and works a lot from home or consults over Skype. I still find it bizarre that this is now Bea’s life. I live in a ‘for now’ flat. She lives in a ‘for life’ home. For so long I had no idea she even wanted kids – or perhaps I’d just never thought to interrogate it – let alone that she’d become a mum of three so young. It’s not that she hid her feelings or dreams from me over the years, just that we never really thought to discuss it too much when we were young. I remember the day everything changed; the hopeful pregnancy tests and then the announcement of her first child, Andrew. I was in a state of shock, and now: she has three! Three kids. To me it seems insane.
Everything about Bea’s lifestyle is madly colourful and vibrant. All her crockery is handmade and she paints smiley faces on all her vases. She has so many pets. It’s the sort of home where you wouldn’t be surprised if a Shetland pony trotted through the kitchen. The beds are never made, the kids’ clothes are always a tinge of pink from mixed-up washing loads, but her home is one where you can’t help but feel safe and comforted when welcomed inside. She’d recreated the freedom and vibrancy of her own childhood home. It was at her parents’ house that I kissed my first crush at a party in the basement; it’s where I tried weed for the first time; it’s where I first danced until 5 a.m. to Fleetwood Mac and smoked my first cigarette out of the window. I dropped my cigarette butt, still lit, and burned a hole through her sofa, but Bea just shrugged and said it would be fine. That was the family’s attitude towards pretty much everything – there was a sign hanging in big bold letters above the front door that read, ‘Home is where the art is’. Bea’s mum Sonya gave me my first expensive red lipstick to wear. Her parents would play the piano and offer us posh canapés whilst letting us run around the spare rooms with water guns, shrieking. I sometimes felt bad about having so much fun while my mum was sitting at home sending me strict texts, constantly on medication for her headaches (which made her both snappy and drowsy), sitting in that bare house after my dad left us. My home life was bleak, and Bea’s house was my place to escape and feel totally and completely free. I often wonder who I’d be now if I hadn’t met Bea.
When I arrive, her back door is already open. They never lock it. Apparently people are nicer to each other in the countryside. They even say ‘hello’ to random passers-by – strange.
‘Hi!’ I yell, as I enter through a plant-filled conservatory and kick my trainers off next to a pile of muddy wellies.
‘Oh hello, love!’ Bea smiles at me from across the kitchen.
I sit down at her big oak table, covered in Emma Bridgewater mugs and plates and scattered newspapers. Bea’s kids are all watching TV from a frayed sofa at the other end of the large kitchen.
‘Tea?’ Bea asks, flicking the switch of her kettle. I go over and give her a hug.
‘Yes please! So good to see you,’ I say.
‘Same! I’m so happy you’re here. How are you? Two sugars as usual?’
‘Yes please. I’m OK. What’s new?’ I start eating a biscuit on a plate in front of me.
‘See that woman outside the window?’ Bea says, subtly pointing towards the window behind the kitchen sink, as she pours the tea. ‘She’s just moved in next door, did I tell you about her? She’s brought up her kid as a vegan apparently, and now the kid has rickets. It’s really sad.’
‘Jesus – how does that happen?’
‘Not enough nutrients, I guess.’
‘That poor kid.’
‘I know. I feel so sad when I see them, it looks pretty irreversible … I mean look, I don’t believe in reading parenting blogs or anything, but I think parenting is pretty simple, or at least instinctive.’
‘I’m not sure, but that’s a bit of a cock-up, isn’t it? Giving your kid rickets.’
‘Yeah.’
I pause for a moment. ‘How do you cope with it all, Bea?’
‘What love?’
‘The endless pressures of parenting. All the potential mess-ups.’
‘Well at the end of the day I suppose all children need is love, education, a goodish balanced diet and some fresh air – that’s literally it. It is hard, don’t get me wrong. But you get the hang of it,’ she says.
This is the biggest difference between us. Bea is just naturally good at life. Good at running a household, good at organizing and planning and preparing. She enjoys it. She has never really understood why I find these things so hard in comparison. Perhaps I keep kidding myself that my friends and I are more similar than we actually are – than we were.
Bea just isn’t as highly strung as I am, she doesn’t get as fixated on things. She believes the answer to a problem is always solved in nature: a walk, a kick around a field, the petting of a soft animal. In Bea’s book, you embrace the madness of life and stop trying to control everything by keeping your life clean and orderly. You let the dog sit on the new sofa. You drink the expensive wine. You use your best moisturizer instead of just leaving it to gather dust in a drawer. This was one of my favourite things about Bea: her ability to just go with it, and get on with it. She was always the person who looked after me and swooped in with solutions when life was feeling too hard. Like the time I was feeling low for months at university because I was worrying about my mum (the first time she had told us she was on anti-depressants) and she bought us a house rabbit! We called him Mr Peterson. He chewed my wires occasionally, but he also would snuggle with us on the sofa when we felt sad.
We slurp our tea and hear the roar of a car engine outside: it’s Cecily. She slams her car door and walks past the kitchen window, bump first. We get up from the kitchen bench and race over to her, cooing.
‘You are glowing,’ Bea says.
‘You really are. Wait … Are you wearing Ugg boots?’ I say.
‘Yes – hahaha, they are so comfy.’ Cec bursts out laughing.
‘You look a lot better than I did at this stage. I remember practically melting into the sofa – no one could move me. I’m so glad you could make it.’ Bea kisses Cec.
‘I didn’t want to miss our last sleepover before I’m chained to my new baby,’ Cec says. She gives me a sideways hug.