I rush through the streets of Holborn, panting a bit and stomping past slow tourists who mindlessly dawdle along with no sense of direction. I try not to get run over by an angry cab driver with a cigar hanging out of his mouth who very nearly turns my entire left leg into a squashed pancake. Then a bus goes past me very slowly, wafting toxic fumes up my nose and splashing through a giant puddle which sprays dirty water onto my Converse. ‘Arseholes!’ I shout. Then, an old woman goes over my foot with her wheelie suitcase, leaving a line of dirt on my shoe.
As I approach the familiar doorway to Jono’s, I realize my heart is pounding slightly and my skin prickling – that old underlying anxiety flaring up. It hits me that I haven’t seen the girls in a while, and it feels weird. I breathe in through my nose, and out through my mouth a few times. Everyone has just seemed slightly less available, a creeping sense of busyness and life admin and to-do lists, of time being squeezed.
When I arrive, the three of them are sat there, and something immediately feels off. Jono is pouring some tap water into their glasses. They all look like someone’s died. Has someone died?
‘Hi guys,’ I say, panting and whipping off my coat. ‘Only fifteen minutes late this time, I’m getting better! Sorry. Everything OK?’
‘Hey Ol …’ They all give me big smiles as I go around the table kissing them, saying how lovely it is to see me. I can’t help but notice how tired they all look.
‘Everything’s fine. It’s just … we’re not quite on top form tonight, Ol,’ Isla says.
‘What’s up?’ I say, putting my coat over the back of my chair, and sitting down.
‘Well …’ Bea takes in a deep breath. ‘Cec is obviously about to give birth any day now, I’m absolutely knackered from being up all night with a vomiting child and Isla has really bad cramps … we’re not a fun bunch, I’m afraid!’
Cec is in the loo right now. She is weeing every five minutes, apparently.
Isla has suffered with severe cramps and endometriosis issues all her life. Bea has three wild kids who are always plagued with something. This latest ailment sounded like the actual bubonic plague. And Cec, to be fair, is about to pop.
‘OK,’ I say, trying to hide my disappointment. ‘That’s fine! Sorry to hear the kids are still poorly, Bea. Shall we have a quick bite then, and maybe just one quick drink?’
‘Well,’ Bea looks awkwardly at the others. ‘We’d actually just decided that maybe we should give this one a miss and head home. Sorry, Ol.’ Jono sheepishly puts the bill on the table: £3.00 for some olives, £0.00 for the tap water.
I try and hide it, but I feel winded. ‘Oh, that’s a shame.’
‘I know but,’ Bea’s phone lights up, ‘there’s some drama going on at home and I really have to leave. We’re all pooped.’ I look around the table at their forced smiles.
‘My doctor has told me to rest,’ Isla says.
‘Poor you, of course,’ I say, squeezing her hand.
Cec walks slowly over to us from the direction of the toilets, and Jono shouts, ‘Bella mamma!’ at her as he waves his hands towards her ginormous bump.
‘Hey Ol,’ Cec kisses me on the cheek, bending awkwardly.
‘We’ve told Ol that we’re gonna give tonight a miss,’ Bea says.
I know I should be understanding, but we haven’t seen each other properly for ages and I really needed some advice and support from my best friends.
‘I’m so sorry, babe, I will make it up to you,’ Cec says. ‘Chris is driving over to pick me up right now, bless him. I’m not feeling great. Does anyone need a lift my way?’ She plants a kiss on my cheek and puts her cardigan on.
I hope Cec’s husband Chris doesn’t come into the restaurant. He makes my skin crawl.
‘No worries, guys. I appreciate you all dragging yourself out after work. We tried, eh?’ I keep my cool and, once they leave, Jono orders me a big glass of wine on the house. Funny how Jono can pick up on my emotions, but not my own friends. But to be fair, they do have a lot on their minds.
Despite life’s strange twists and turns, the four of us used to be glued together. We had always been there to lift each other up and out of everything: depression, break-ups, redundancies, you name it. We’d never missed a date at Jono’s until recently. Jono’s was our time – except for when Isla randomly brought her online date along, who wouldn’t shut up about himself and his recent adult gap year before trying to pay for the entire meal in Bitcoin. But still, on the last Thursday of every month, for over a decade, we’ve gone to the same restaurant and sat at the same table. So why were things starting to slip now? It had felt so simple when we’d first laid down the rules in our twenties, on the day we left our shared house: that no matter what happened, we would make time for each other. Many people make the mistake of kicking friendships aside for the other seemingly more important strands of life, but we all know it’s friendship that really keeps you afloat. We weren’t going to be those people who let friendships slide. Or were we?
As I go to leave, I look over at another table and see four girls – younger versions of us – sitting, cackling, in shiny dresses, with no wrinkles, their heads rolling back, eyes sparkling and not yet tired by life. That used to be us.
I take my jacket from the wooden coat stand by the door, right next to our window-side table.
‘You OK?’ Jono says, putting his large hand on my shoulder.
‘Yeah,’ I sniff. ‘Sorry Jono, for taking up your best table and not even ordering anything.’ I gesture towards our empty seats.
‘It’s OK, Olive. You will always be special customers to me.’
‘We wasted a booking – sorry.’
‘Don’t be silly. You’ve come here for a long time. You girls have a long special friendship. I’ve seen it. Hold on to each other.’
‘Thank you. I just feel like things are weird at the moment.’
‘You must move with the tides: life is full of pushes and pulls.’
‘True, Jono. True. I just need them right now.’
‘Of course you do.’ He pauses dramatically. ‘And remember, they need you.’
‘I hope so,’ I sigh.
‘Come back very soon, yes?’ he says, wiping down the table and taking away the glasses.
Instead of going home, I reroute to the bar down the road called Mizzi’s, and proceed to tell the barman – who coincidentally looks a bit like Gunther from Friends – my life story like a weirdo in a film, while slowly getting red-wine teeth. I don’t realize how much I resemble a vampire until I see my reflection in the mirror of the sticky-floored bathroom, and stare with horrified fascination at my bright purple mouth, my lips stained in the corners.
I know how much they all have going on, but I still can’t shake the feeling that the girls have let me down. I’m bursting with the need to talk to someone about the break-up with Jacob. Stumbling out of Mizzi’s, I sit on a doorway step. I reach for my phone and try to drunkenly call Colin, but his phone is switched off. I type in Zeta’s name, but she is on a charity work trip and I know she only has occasional access to Internet cafés. I can’t bear to ring Mum and tell her yet, as she just won’t get it. I put my phone back in my bag.