Blast from the Past. Cathy Hopkins

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СКАЧАТЬ that simple. I mean, yes, they’re meant to check in on us every now and again, but they have their own families. Anyway, it was my choice to stay. Dad did keep asking if I wanted to go with them. I insisted on staying.’ I didn’t add that it had mainly been because I thought that, as long as I had Marcia for company, I didn’t think I’d need anyone else.

      ‘Yeah right, some option, the middle of nowhere, a million miles away,’ said Marcia.

      ‘You’ll be going that far. Millions of miles.’

      ‘Different. We’ll be travelling.’ She could see she had no argument and blaming my parents didn’t wash. She was abandoning me and she knew it.

      ‘We’ll have to find a new lodger to take your room.’

      ‘I guess.’ She couldn’t look at me.

      I couldn’t help it. My eyes filled with tears. ‘Is it definitely definite?’

      Marcia nodded. She still couldn’t look me straight in the eye. We’d had our own plans to travel in the holidays: Europe, maybe India. But why should she hang around waiting for me just because I had responsibilities? She had a boyfriend, was in love. I couldn’t blame her for wanting to go.

      ‘Maybe you’ll meet someone when I’m gone,’ she said.

      ‘Yeah right,’ I said. By that time, I’d had a few boyfriends: Bruno who was my brother’s exchange student and here for a summer. Before him there had been Kevin, but I’d lost touch with him when his family moved away; a few dates in between, but no one special like Pete was to Marcia.

      ‘You’re too fussy,’ said Marcia.

      ‘I just don’t see the point of compromise, that’s all.’

      Marcia smiled. ‘Some day your prince will come. In the meantime, get a bit of practice in.’

      ‘Maybe.’ But I knew I wouldn’t, not unless it felt special, and the idea of ‘practice’ was not one that appealed, not since the Andrew Murphy disaster, a time I’d told no one about. Despite him, though, I still was a romantic at heart, hoping that one day I’d run into a man who looked as if he’d stepped out of a Pre-Raphaelite painting by Burne-Jones or Rossetti – a King Cophetua down the deli, or Hylas buying hummus at the corner shop.

      She left two weeks later. I sat in her empty room after she’d gone and thought: family gone, best friend gone. I’d never felt so alone in my life. It’s sink or swim time, I told myself, and decided I’d swim. I’d be strong, become the type of person who didn’t need anyone; not in a cold-hearted way, but in an independent, self-sufficient way. I’d become cool. I’d be more Zen and detached than Marcia could ever be. If I didn’t need anyone, I couldn’t be let down.

      Marcia did come back a year later, but she didn’t return to the house or go to college. She and Pete had got married on a beach in Goa, so it wasn’t Marcia and Bea any more, it was Marcia and Pete. Her parents helped them buy a small house near Chorlton Green, and he started his vegetarian café serving Eastern-style food with Marcia by his side as manager. Though I grew to love Pete, and Marcia was still my dearest friend, it was never the same again. The lesson had gone deep: people move on, make their own plans, and I could never depend on anyone. You’re born alone, you die alone and sometimes you have to live alone too, I’d thought, even though by that time I had a boyfriend, Sam, who had declared undying love for me. I kept him at arm’s length. I wanted to make a life where I needed no one, and was perfectly happy with my own company.

      *

      A noise outside brought me back from my trip down memory lane. I ran to the window to see what had happened. A blonde lady at the wheel of a Mercedes sports car was attempting to park in a space much too small for it, and had reversed into the Volkswagen Golf behind: my Volkswagen Golf. And we’re back to reality, I thought as I raced to the front door. My neighbour, Jon, had also heard the commotion and was outside on his pathway laughing. Probably pissed, I thought.

      ‘Sorry, sorry,’ he called when he saw me. ‘Hey, you’re home. Have a good time in India?’

      ‘That’s my car she’s bashing into,’ I said. I could barely believe it. I’d been back five minutes and he was already causing problems. There was always something with Jon, usually involving one of his many conquests, parking in my space or parking without a permit, or generally causing problems. We’d had many altercations over it. Parking was sparse on our road and each resident had a limited number of permits to give out when there were visitors. With his many callers, Jon abused the system. He had so many women arriving at all times of the day and night that I’d joked to Marcia once that he was maybe a male escort for women who liked older men. Not that Jon was that old: he was in his mid-fifties, his brown crew-cut hair had only a little grey around the temples, and he had twinkly eyes that looked full of mischief. He worked hard at staying fit and lean, too. I often saw him out jogging or off to play tennis when I was leaving for work. And another one bites the dust, I thought, as the latest leggy girl got out of the car and tossed Jon the keys. ‘Be a darling,’ she said. ‘Parking never was my strong suit.’

      Jon headed for the car as I sighed and turned to go back inside. It was freezing out there, I was tired, and I could examine any damage better in the daylight the next morning.

      ‘So sorry Bea,’ called Jon. ‘I’ll make it up to you. Welcome home. Happy Christmas.’

      Without turning back, I waved. ‘And Happy Christmas to you too.’

      I couldn’t be bothered to get into an argument at that moment. The silver-tongued charm that won his women over had ceased to work on me months ago when, as well as the parking, he repeatedly left his rubbish in front of my house. He hadn’t got the hang of separating plastics from cardboard from glass, and I’d had to do it for him on more than one occasion for fear of inciting the wrath of the bin-men. God, he made me cross!

      Once back inside the warmth of my house, I found my laptop and googled Saranya Ji again to see if anyone had left a review of her readings. Once again, the pages came up showing links to people with that name, but not my Saranya Ji. I googled psychics in India and found that there were hundreds, some with thousands of reviews, many who claimed to do past life readings but, again, no sign of the woman we’d seen in Udaipur. Marcia must have found her somewhere, but I was hesitant to email or text to ask her where. It would indicate interest, and that would be adding fire to Marcia’s flame, something I did not want to do. Best I forget all about it, I told myself, it’s a pile of nonsense anyway.

      I went upstairs and flicked the TV on; I could unpack later. The screen filled with a commercial showing the perfect Christmas, a big happy family around a festive table, everyone laughing and smiling as newcomers arrived and were welcomed at the door. I changed channels to see that a rerun of The Holiday had just started. I’d seen it before. Two women, Kate Winslet in the UK and Cameron Diaz in the USA, do a house swap and find the loves of their lives. Now there’s a thought. Maybe next year I should do just that: take off to a house in the middle of nowhere and hide under a blanket until Christmas – and all its reminders that I was on my own – had passed. And maybe, just maybe, some handsome hunk in an Aran sweater, looking like Jude Law, would turn up and rescue me then … with my luck, would probably run off with one of my friends.

       8

      Should I text, phone, turn up with a СКАЧАТЬ