Out Late with Friends and Regrets Read online

  Well, bollocks to him. Rest his soul.

  But despite the heady thrill of thinking and acting independently which had at times neutralised a decent sense of loss, she was now looking at a blank wall of a future. Some future, if she didn’t do something, make changes beyond the décor. And it needed to be soon, before her thirties became her forties, fifties, sixties and up, and she became the funny old dear in the cottage, with nobody to know or care if her decomposing body behind the front door were being covered, little by little, in junk mail. Party time for the rats, she thought with a grimace.

  She stared out of the window. Grey sky, over the dun clods which had replaced the scratchy stubble of the harvested crops. A few yellow leaves riding the eddies of wind. A crow ripping at something in the corner of the next field. She took two long mouthfuls of her wine, and huddled into the fluffy blanket forming around her brain.

  God, it was quiet. She fumbled a CD into the slot, clutching her glass tightly in the other hand. “Reading”, said the green message. It seemed to be taking ages. Must get an Ipod sometime. Oh, stupid. She pressed Play, and a dance track launched into its irresistible rhythm, the percussion crashing jubilantly under the itchy synth top line.

  “Heyyyyy!” she yelled, rolling her hips and stamping her feet. Great, to dance. Feel good. Sing Za, za, dabbeda-dabbeda, wa, wa, wa, wa…

  Rain began dotting the window, and she turned off the player. Sat down. Drained the glass. Sat.

  The phone rang.

  Ignore it – sales call.

  Bugger it, shut up.

  Ring ring.

  “Yeah?”

  “Hi. Is that Fiona?”

  “Uh, yes, who’s that?”

  “Fiona, it’s Rosemary.”

  “Rosemary.”

  Rosemary?

  “Yes, from school, that Rosemary! I used to be your best mate, remember? Are you OK?”

  “Oh Rosemary… God. Sorry. Bit drunk, I’m afraid.”

  “I can call another time if you like.”

  “Don’t go. Please.”

  “Course I won’t. How are you doing, Fiona? I would have been in touch after the card you sent after – after Paul, but I thought I’d lost it - it’s only just turned up, and it’s the anniversary this weekend, isn’t it? Are you on your own?”

  “Yeah, I’m, I’m, that’s normal. Sundays, well, quiet; quite, quite - quiet. Nice break. From the shop. ”

  Fiona took the phone into the kitchen as she picked her words, and poured herself some water. The rain had upped to a rattle, and the hedge opposite the kitchen window was already dripping.

  “You know what, Fiona,” said Rosemary, “for all the years it’s been, you sound just the same, I’d have known your voice anywhere.”

  “Yeah, me too! Yours.” Well, almost. Fiona looked around for her wineglass, before remembering she’d got water. She took a gulp. Tasted foul after the wine.

  “So… how have things been for you?”

  Fiona took a deep breath as she prepared an answer. The two collided:

  “You don’t have to-”

  “Actually, I-”

  Pause.

  “Oh I’m-”

  “Sorry, I-”

  “Go on. Sorry.”

  “I’ve been ever so, busy. Done up the house. Mm, changed everything around. Yes, I made the garden different.” She frowned; sighed. “I’m happy with it now.”

  Then she added, in a rush before she could forget, “And the shop’s doing OK – I think I wrote on one of my Christmas cards that I’ve got a shop, tiny little shop, mini-business, sell T-shirts…” The words tailed off.

  “So you’ve made your house the envy of the neighbours, and business is going well – that’s really good,” said Rosemary.

  “Actually, haven’t got neighbours out here. It’s a converted farm cottage. Bit isolated, to be honest.” It’s what had attracted Paul to the place. It could be beautiful, in summer.

  “It’s awful, the way we haven’t been in touch in the meantime,” said Rosemary, “you’re not in the phone book, and you never put your number or email address on till the announcement about Paul, did you?”

  No, never. News carefully edited. Nothing requiring a reply. Fiona took a long swig of water and concentrated on her throbbing shoulder, in an effort to get her head together.

  “No, that was silly of me. Too much of a rush, I expect. You know how it is.”

  “We all lead such busy lives, true enough,” said Rosemary, “did you get the one about Donal getting a post at Harford Uni? We moved to Woodside, just the other side of Harford. I suggested perhaps we could meet up sometime, as it’s barely a couple of hours away.”

  “Oh yes! Must have been the Christmas before Paul died. I’m so sorry, it must have gone into the recycling. By mistake.”

  She had put that year’s card out of sight, agonized by its challenge, embarrassed by needing to leave its question unanswered. Creeping sobriety was making her alert, anxious.

  “Fiona?” Rosemary’s tone was tentative. “I honestly don’t want to put you on the spot. But would you be up for a visit? It’s OK if you’d rather not, and you mustn’t feel you have to.”

  “Sounds – great.”

  What if it didn’t go well. What if they didn’t get on any more, if Rosemary found her too different from the Fiona she remembered? Perhaps she had made the suggestion because she thought her friend had become an alcoholic, and out of decency, for old times’ sake, felt she ought to see her? Oh well, at the very worst it would be one awkward encounter, and things could slide as they had before. Nothing to lose.

  Except the precious little thought that there had been a friendship, one that would always be there, could not be destroyed or compromised, remaining encased and preserved forever in the glowing amber of memory. Oh well.

  “I’d really like that. I’d really, really like to see you.”

  “Is Sunday a good day for you?” asked Rosemary.

  Fiona looked out at the fields, now completely empty and still.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m in the shop on Saturdays, and I usually just, well, flop about the house on a Sunday. Do you want to come here, or shall I come over to – Woodside, did you say?”

  “I think you might like a change of scenery, by the sound of it. And you’ve never met Donal – you couldn’t make the wedding, unfortunately.” Fiona tried to remember what excuse she’d made; it was so long ago. “So why don’t you come to ours? It’ll have to be, let’s see, three weeks from now, we’re in Ireland for the next ten days, and then Donal’s got a conference…”

  Fiona was surprised at her own sense of disappointment at the delay.

  “That would be great. It’ll give me something to look forward to.”

  “Settled, then. It’ll be fun getting out the school photos. I’ve got the one from the year we were both in the hockey first eleven – are you still sporty?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  “Bloody shame. You were amazing. In fact I’m surprised you don’t live at the local gym. You were always first back from the cross-country runs, minutes before the rest. And nobody could shin up the ropes like you.”

  “God,” replied Fiona, I doubt whether I could pull myself two inches off the floor, now. Maybe I should take myself in hand.”

  “You should, Fee, you really should. You’ll feel so much better for it, especially as it was always your thing.”

  “Yes, I just might. I’ll definitely think about it.”

  “And you’re on for coming to see us three weeks today?”

  “Yes.”

  Oddly, it felt almost like fear.

  “And in the meantime, promise me Fiona.”

  “What?”

  “Get thee to a sports centre!”

  She could do that. She could go along after work tomorrow, see what was on offer. Or the day after. After goodbyes, she biroed a big red box around the date of the visit.

  She passed the place every day, on her way
to and from the shop, but this time found herself hyperventilating as she indicated left and then at the last minute failed to turn into the leisure centre car park. Tomorrow, perhaps. She was never a pretty sight in her underwear, and the thought of displaying her neglected, scraggy body in sports kit was intimidating. Legs too long and too white, and no real shape to her, as Paul had remarked on many occasions.

  So it was three days later that she first saw the girl with the perfect bottom. It was unusual to have to deliver customised goods in person, but late ordering had resulted in Fiona having to take a case of T-shirts direct to Cantlesham Leisure Centre. This would save the face of the Judo club leader, who planned to present them to newly-graded pupils, thus helpfully advertising his business on the street.

  As she waited in the foyer, a burst of laughter caused her to look round towards the reception desk. A beautifully peach-shaped bottom, covered in stretchy powder-blue fabric, was pretty well all that could be seen of the laughing girl as she leaned across the desk, trying to snatch papers from the receptionist’s hand. Their animated exchange appeared to be over customer comment slips, but Fiona wasn’t really listening. As the girl straightened up, Fiona sneaked a sideways glance. The rest was in perfect proportion to the bottom, skin-tight blue sports trousers and matching vest emphasising the smooth curves of the thighs and breasts, complemented by a clutch of well-defined abdominal muscles. The girl’s fair hair was pulled back from a finely-boned face in a ponytail, and although she wore no make-up, her skin was enhanced by a golden tan. Fiona was just close enough to spot a small pale area below the corner of the jawbone, and smiled to herself. The tan was fake, of course, and the girl had missed a little bit. It was almost undetectable, but Fiona felt an odd kind of intimacy towards her, having detected it.

  “O-T-T-shirts?” enquired a voice. “Great. Thanks for bringing them along.” Business transacted, the customer carried away his purchase.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Fiona saw the girl clip a microphone pack to her waistband and connect it to a headset worn casually, like a doctor’s stethoscope, around her neck. She watched her stride away from the desk with further mock admonitions to the receptionist, and push through one of the portholed doors leading off the reception area. “Studio 2” read the sign above it. After a few minutes’ hesitation, looking around to see if anybody was watching, Fiona wandered across the busy concourse, casually moving up to the porthole to look inside. The instructor was conducting an aerobics class, it seemed; and Fiona watched, fascinated, as the girl performed and demonstrated, lunging, leaping, pointing; and apparently giving a running commentary of instruction, full of smiles and exhortations to spur on her charges to greater effort. This was accompanied by music unheard from outside, but with a thumping bass she could feel through the soles of her feet, making her heart pound.

  “Thinking of having a go?” asked a friendly voice at her side. She jumped, with a sudden intake of breath. Michael, Senior Leisure Attendant, said the laminated badge.

  “Oh sorry! Didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, “I’m not actually supposed to frighten off potential clients!”

  She tried a smile, and swallowed. “I don’t – I don’t think so,” she said. “Too old. Too late. I couldn’t do –” she nodded at the porthole – “that.”

  Michael’s eyebrows raised, and she thought for a moment he was about to laugh at her. But his voice lowered confidentially.

  “I shouldn’t tell you this,” he said, “but one of the regulars in that class is pushing seventy. And she only started coming this year.”

  “Oh. Well, I suppose I could try it.”

  “Wonderful!” said Michael, sounding genuinely pleased, “You’ve nothing to lose by having a go, have you?” A fitness missionary, evidently. “Come over to the desk and I’ll get you signed up; we’ll book you a fitness test and you’ll get a card you can use for all council facilities.”

  “Oh, maybe I won’t bother, I’m a bit busy.”

  He looked her in the eye, and put his head on one side. Despite the good footballer’s legs and broad shoulders, Michael had a slightly camp way with him, the mobile eyebrows enhancing his enthusiastic manner, and Fiona warmed to him. It was nice to meet a nice man. She giggled, feeling stupid, and said, “OK, then, could we get it over with now? I know I’ll be terrible.”

  There were lots of tests. When she finally emerged from the MOT room, function and flexibility pronounced above average, Michael took her over to the desk to fill in forms, then waved as he left her.

  “What’s that teacher called?” she asked the receptionist, “The class in Studio 2?”

  “That’s Lynn,” said the girl, folding back a copy of the activity programme and pointing at “Freestyle Aerobics”, they’re due out now, why not have a word with her?”

  At that moment, the portholed door opened, and class members streamed out, followed by Lynn, patches of sweat darkening the pale blue kit, and her face glistening. She strolled towards the desk, as Fiona stared.

  “No!” she said, looking away, then added, “I’ll just book, thank you. What other classes does she do?”

  If I stayed at the back, she thought, no-one would notice how rubbish I am... I want to be fit again, like her… How good would it be to look like her… move like her...

  Reluctant to wait a week, Fiona opted for another of Lynn’s classes two days later, a weights class. She followed the other participants, picked up the same equipment as they picked, selected a corner spot, spoke to no one. Surprised by her own strength and potential power, to see forgotten muscles working in the studio mirrors, body under control, breathing under control, was surprisingly enjoyable. Yes, she did look weedy, but she had worn joggers to hide the long white legs, and she would improve. Oh yes, she would improve. Her eyes followed Lynn’s every movement. The girl was in pink this time, a colour for which Fiona had a particular dislike, but on Lynn it looked good.

  Instead of going straight home, Fiona stopped off at the High Street, and bought a set of weights and a DVD.

  Aerobics day came round again, and this time she would be part of it. She found it unexpectedly taxing; she was embarrassingly unfamiliar with the moves, and reached the limit of her stamina rather sooner than expected. So that’s what “out of condition” meant. Perhaps she had been too hasty in thinking it was for her. But Lynn didn’t seem to focus on the mistakes, but encouraged everybody in an engaging, jokey way. Watching her was mesmerising, albeit to the detriment of Fiona’s already poor performance. Lynn’s outfit was pale grey, in the same clingy material as before. She could not possibly be wearing anything under those trousers, not even a thong. Perfect, proud posture. A vision of beauty and strength.

  “Grapevine right!” roared the vision. “Box step right and left! Shoulders and hips square to the front, and KEEP THOSE KNEES SOFT!”

  Fiona floundered through the session, and at the end, dribbling with sweat, vowed that next week she would not be the class klutz. Several participants, she noticed, appeared to be coasting through the harder moves, and she suspected she could be better than that. She would go for a run every morning before breakfast, that would help. Rosemary was right; she had been good once. She recalled how it felt; it would be really something to feel like that again. Almost three weeks before she saw Rosemary; she could improve quite a bit before then. It would be great to be able to tell someone how she was doing. Someone who was interested.

  CHAPTER 2

  Rosemary looked very nearly the same, although the plump, pink-cheeked bloom had gone, as had the tumble of unruly fair hair, now in a short, neat style. But the excitment in her eyes was identical to the mental photograph in Fiona’s memory.

  “Stick your coat on the hook and come through,” said Rosemary, “we’ll sit in the conservatory for a cuppa before lunch. Oh, this is Donal.” He was tall, angular and tweedy, with a lovely smile, and had a breath of Ireland in his voice. No wonder Rosemary had fallen for him. He shook hands and disappeared to the kit
chen, bringing in the teatray before retiring to his computer upstairs.

  “This is comfortable,” said Fiona, settling into her armchair, “your garden’s lovely.”

  “Small, but it suits us,” said Rosemary, “do you still take a heaped teaspoon of milk in your tea?”

  “Oh. You remembered!”

  “So. How have you been, stranger?” asked Rosemary.

  “I, yes, very well, thanks.”

  It sounded strange and forced, even to her own ears. Her best friend, once, and it was like trying to speak a long-unused language. It had been OK on the phone, but that was with Rosemary leading the conversation from a distance.

  “So did you manage to get to the gym?” asked Rosemary with a smile.

  “Yes, yes, I did. And you were right, it’s brilliant.”

  “Tell me,” said Rosemary, as she poured.

  “There’s this instructor called Lynn who’s totally wonderful, and I’ve been doing a run round the lanes every morning. I’m sure it’s made a difference, I can feel it already.”

  “Told you,” said Rosemary, “I knew you’d soon get back into it. It always helps to have a good teacher.”

  “God, yes, Lynn’s very pleased with me, I think, not that she’s said much, it’s the way she nods at me, although I know that sounds ridiculous. At least I’m not keeping to the back row any more. I can’t wait for class days.”

  “Hey, now that sounds more like the Fiona of old. Got your competitive spirit back!” said Rosemary.

  So much easier, now.

  “It makes you want to be good, when you’ve got someone who really inspires you. I can’t tell you how much I dreaded going into that place for the first time, but she made me feel so part of it all.”

  “That’s Lynn the paragon, I take it. What’s she like?”

  Fiona cleared her throat, and swallowed.