S MAGAZINE ★ 18 AUGUST 2019 55
FICTION
had been recognised as promising
tennis talent. These were things I
couldn’t wait to share with another
close friend, yet suddenly I felt
deflated and had no inclination.
“What’s your news?” I asked
instead and listened to her bleat
on about meaningless trivia.
Yet when the conversation dried
up I felt the need to fill the silence
with something that would earn my
place in her time. It was like when
I was six years old, displaying all
my toys, silently begging her to be
happy with one so she’d want to
come to play again.
My husband once pointed out
how odd it was I did that when
I didn’t actually enjoy seeing her.
It was hard to justify my need
to give so much when I got little
back, yet I already knew what
would come out of my mouth next,
even though I’d sworn to myself it
wouldn’t. It wasn’t right to
capitalise on someone else’s
misery. It wasn’t me. And yet...
“Did you know Natalie’s
husband left?” I said. “He was
having an affair.”
“No!” Her eyes widened. I’d
hooked her and could reel her in
and suddenly we were back in the
playground again where I had
every right being her friend.
I felt dreadful.
Outside, we were about to go
our separate ways when she
reached out, tenderly touching
a hand to my face. It felt so
personal that all the years melted
away. There were reasons we
were still friends after 36 years,
and we always would be. We
had history, too many shared
moments. Why close off a
massive chapter in my life if
I only had to face an occasional
coffee and Facebook post?
“I’m going to give you this
girl’s number,” she said. “Does
wonders with Botox.”
As I watched her go, fists
clenched by my side, I swore to
myself, as I always did, that this
time would surely be the last. ●SHeidi Perks’ new novel, Come
Back For Me (Century, £12.99),
is out now. See Express Bookshop
on page 77.overheated, as she distractedly
scrolled through her phone.
“Lovely to see you,” I said,
laying the tray on the table, spilling
milky coffee as my handbag
slipped to my elbow.
“It’s been too long,” she said,
smiling, reaching for my arm.
“I miss you. Come on, what have
you been up to?”
I sat down and, feeling warmed
by her friendliness, allowed myself
to think she was interested.
I began telling her my news – I’d
recently been promoted following
an arduous interview process.
She nodded in the right places
but her smile looked thin, her
attention more focused on her
coffee and in the end, I trailed off.
I didn’t bother telling her my
daughter, Lilia, had won a writing
competition or that my son, Josh,way. I’d joke with her how funny it
was she could never be on time,
but I never found it amusing.
Instead I texted saying, ‘I’ve just
arrived, what would you like to
drink?’ and shuffled slowly forward
until I was about to be served,
when she breezed in the door, an
oversized fur coat hugging her
petite frame. She strolled over.
“Just in time,” I said, taking a
deep breath and giving her a
smile. “What would you like?”
“A skinny latte. Thanks, honey.”
“No problem. Get a table, I’ll
bring it over,” I said, ever the
faithful waitress. I’d once waited
for her to ask what I’d like but
couldn’t get past 30 seconds
without feeling an unbearable
burden, as if somehow it was an
unspoken agreement that I’d
© HEIDI PERKS 2019 / GETTY IMAGES always be the one to wait in line,M
y husband’s reflection
appeared over my
shoulder in the
mirror. His eyes
narrowed as they
followed the dark trail of eyeliner
I was carefully applying.
“Where did you say you were
going?” he asked.
“Just into town.” I caught his
eye, his brows gathering into a
frown, before I looked away,
tossing the make-up into its bag.
His gaze followed me as I left
the bathroom. I flung open the
wardrobe, pretending to rifle
through until coming upon the top
I already knew I’d wear.
When I closed the door he
was standing beside me. “Anna,”
he began warily. “Who is it you’re
going to meet?”
I faltered, then decided to tell
him the truth, breezily dropping the
name as if it meant nothing.
It should have meant nothing,
yet we both knew it didn’t.
He shook his head. “Why?”
“Oh, you know.” I waved a hand
through the air. “She’s in town,
of course we’re going to meet.”
I forced a smile. “It’s fine, really.”
“Anna, it never is. Why do you
do this to yourself?”
“Because she’s my oldest
friend,” I said. “We’ve known each
other since we were three.”
At 39, I didn’t need my husband
worrying over me – though I was
glad I hadn’t shown him her
latest Facebook post.
My stomach had churned when
I’d read the hashtagged words:
#beautifulmummys #friendsforlife
#blessed. Sporting a wide,
red-lipped smile, she beamed at
the camera beside three women
she’d known less than one term.
Was it jealousy I felt when I saw
her picture-perfect life in
snapshots? I couldn’t see how.
I didn’t want her life – most of
which was fake – so why did my
insides scrunch into tight balls?
I waited outside Costa for 15
minutes before eventually going
in and joining the growing queue.
I checked my phone. No
messages, though there would
surely be soon, brimming with
apologies that she was on herIf their life looks perfect, something’s
bound to be fake Short story by Heidi Perks
My “Best”
Friend