Old Friends, Good Times

The houses got more substantial as the ubiquitous terraces gave way to front gardens and then driveways with multiple garages as the semi-detacheds were outnumbered by big, mainly Victorian, villas. Mo did not stop talking. He had moved on to his aspirations for his children and grandchildren in an economy dominated by international finance houses most of which, he assured me, were run by crooks.

'You teach them to work hard and do what their teachers tell them, but the only people making any money these days are spivs and drug dealers.'

I started to express sympathy but cut myself off with an involuntary yelp as we swerved into a side street. I could have sworn I felt the back end slide as we sprayed water from a small lake onto the pavement.

'That were a tight one. Almost there, love. What number did you say?'

I checked my phone again and read out the number. The noise of the rain on the roof of the car meant I had to repeat it for Mo to hear. It reminded me that in a few moments I would be out in it.

'That's Miss Green's house. You know her?'

'Jane? Yes, she's an old friend from college.'

'Tell her Muhammad says 'hello'. And remind her I said it was OK to beat Sayeed if he doesn't pay attention in class.'

I laughed, imagining my old friend as a harridan educator with a big stick. I swallowed quickly as the expression on Mo's face told me he was not joking.

'Um. She teaches one of your kids?'

'Oh no.'

It was Mo's turn to laugh.

'Sayeed's my youngest grandchild. Bright boy, but he doesn't concentrate. He needs discipline. All my kids have been in her class at one time or another, though. She's a good teacher.'

We pulled up outside the gates of a large house. The house looked a dauntingly long way back from the road. I pulled out my wallet and paid Mo, taking one of his cards and promising to call him if I needed a taxi to the station in the morning. I waved away the proffered change and received a blessing in Arabic in return. Of course, it could have been an insult of the vilest kind, my Arabic was never the best. We exchanged farewells and I pulled my coat closed at my neck and stepped out into the storm.

By the time I got the gate open water was seeping down my neck. The cheap umbrella George had bought me blew inside out almost immediately. As I passed beyond the cover of the hedge a gust of wind blew up the hem of the coat whilst simultaneously delivering a near tidal wave of rainwater against my thighs. My hair was plastered to my head half-covering my eyes and each step up the gravelled drive pressed increasingly sodden and cold material against my skin. I was almost crying by the time I reached the front door. Why, I asked myself, had I bothered with this stupid idea of a reunion? I could have been on a warm train by now sipping a gin and tonic as I was carried back to London.

I heard footsteps approaching the heavy door almost immediately after I rang the bell. The shelter of the old-fashioned porch gave me time to appreciate further the discomfort of cold water running down my body. When I arched my back to try and relieve the misery of the trail between the cleft of my shoulder blades and along my spine, it just seemed to increase the amount of water slipping between my breasts and over my stomach. I felt colder and more sore where the elastic of my underwear pressed sodden material against my skin.

Jane almost shrieked as she pulled the door back. She froze half way through stretching her arms out to embrace me and opted instead to pull me inside.

'Great drowned rat impression, girl. I was all set to say 'you haven't changed', but I think I'd better hold that one until we get you back to some semblance of humanity.'

She was laughing in short tinkling peals. She had a laugh like no one I had ever met. And it came out at the most inappropriate times, usually in response to a comment of her own in which only she could see the humour. Like now. I was all ready to turn my unfocussed pissed-offness at the weather into a catty attack on her when I caught a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror. The make up smearing down my face made me look like a cross between a halloween clown and a teenager after she had been chucked by her first boyfriend. My clothes, as I hunched my body inside them, reminded me of the things my mum bought my adolescent self expecting me to grow into them in the next year or two. I could not but join her laughter and after looking each other up and down we tentatively leaned towards each other to peck cheeks.

'Come into the kitchen. It's warmer in there. I'll make you a hot drink and get you a dressing gown.'

She led the way through to the back of the house where a wave of welcoming heat blew out as she pushed open the door to the comfort of the inner sanctum. She guided me to stand in front of the Aga which dominated one wall as she fussed around filling a kettle and clearing the pile of schoolbooks she had clearly been marking off the top of a vast old table its top white from constant scrubbing.

'Don't just stand there, get those wet things off.'

She slammed down the kettle on the stove and pulled down a fluffy terry cloth dressing gown from the Lazy Sheila. She stood holding it open and tapping her foot as I took off my jacket and skirt.

'And the blouse, come on.'

I tugged at the buttons with cold fingers and eventually got the flimsy silk chemise undone. I dropped it on the floor on top of my other clothes and buried myself in the welcoming folds of soft, fluffy cotton. My mood immediately improved. I plumped myself down in a bentwood armchair and watched Jane, still all bustle, as she made coffee and pulled out a tin of biscuits.

She had changed - 30 years can do that - but her innate vitality was still what you noticed first about her. I could see lines on her face to match my own and she did not disguise the streaks of grey hair with dye like me. But she was still as skinny as the day we had met queueing to register at university. I unclipped my stockings and garter belt and held them out for her as she arranged my wet things over the dryer. I watched as she smoothed her hands down her thighs and looked about the kitchen.

'Jane. Sit down, drink your coffee and let's chat. We haven't seen each other for, what, 10 years, and I still recognise that look. You're looking for something else that needs straightening, someone else who needs looking after or a wall to repaint. Stop it!'

My friend looked at me for a moment and then burst out laughing before drawing up another chair and sitting down. The conversation started slowly, but soon took off. It was as if we had never been parted. The highlights of the last decade were laid out and dissected. Mine a slow progression through the ranks of local authorities to my current aspiration to head of a large department. Hers less mobile, but funnier. She had me almost wetting myself with laughter as she related stories of a generation of small children from her classes. She had recently been promoted to deputy head of the school she had been in for her whole career and spoke a little regretfully about the increase in bureaucracy and the diminishing contact with the classroom.

The coffee finished, we progressed to the first bottle of wine I had brought with me. I told her about George, Maureen and Mo. She was surprised neither by their informality and inquisitiveness, nor their generosity of spirit.

'People round here like to say neighbours will do anything for you. And to a certain extent its true.'

Jane grinned as she looked over the top of her glass.

'But the buggers are always sticking their noses into your business. And what they can't discover about you, they'll make up.'

I reached over to pick up the bottle and refill our glasses. After virtually pushing Jane back into her seat after she tried to take over.

'So, in true local spirit, let me point out that you haven't said anything about your personal life yet. Too embarrassing? Or just so disgusting you thought I'd be shocked? Come on spill. You always were a bit of a slut.'

She was matter of fact in her tone and only the slightest of raised eyebrows gave any indication she was being playful. We sat, eyes locked, for a long moment before I couldn't hold my expression any longer. I snorted my laughter. Jane tinkled hers. It took some time for us to stop.

'I wish. You never met Paul did you?'

'No I don't think so. He's the accountant you're living with isn't he?'

'Was, my dear. Was.''

He came back to the forefront of my mind. He seemed to be doing that a lot today. I ran through a brief history of our relationship: the meeting at an economics seminar; the casual sex changing to regular booty calls; the fateful decision to move in together; the start of the bickering; then the arguments, fighting and then the silence.

'To be honest, I think we were both relieved when I came home early one afternoon and found him with his cock in the mouth of the neighbour.'

Jane's laughter tinkled again.

'We fought - verbally only - and I think at some level neither of us wanted to stop. It was only after I forced him out that he made any real apology, but by then it was too late. I think we had both been bored with each other for at least a couple of years and, frankly, once the sex stopped I found I really didn't like him very much.'

I gave a quick synopsis of Paul's pathetic attempts to get back into my pants and into the flat we had shared. There was something cathartic about describing the situation to Jane and I probably laid it on a bit thick. My friend's laughter only encouraged me to continue. By the time she eventually held up a hand and sobbed at me to stop, I had painted a picture of a self-centred, boorish, sexual inadequate which, whilst probably unrecognisable to any of Pete's friends, was not so far from the truth.

I felt no guilt at slandering my ex. Malicious acquaintances had made sure I received regular reports of his descriptions of me and my behaviour, as well as updating me on his adventures as a newly single man. They had been more angering than hurtful. I felt a bit better after unfriending them and him from Facebook. But none of that helped satisfy the frustration of my self-imposed celibacy.

'You won't believe this Jane, but I've only had one screw since he left.'

'You're right, I don't.'

She shot straight back at me. A short pause, or at least some expression of sympathy, would have been supportive, I thought. The pause came, but I could tell by her expression she was just waiting for me to give her the full details.

'Nothing much to tell really.'

I anticipated her question.

'It was one of those conferences local government specialises in. You know, where everyone gets bored stiff in seminars with titles made up of random words taken from management manuals and then gets legless in the bars afterwards whilst pumping each other for information on what vacancies are coming up in their areas.'

'And then fucks each other silly in rooms paid for by the taxpayers?'

I had forgotten how innocent my friend could sound at times. I almost fell for her little-girl act. Until, that is I saw the grin on her face. I tried to remember the name of the overweight and overpaid chief executive I had sweated with in just such a room that night.

'Well fucks, anyway. By the time I was drunk enough to persuade myself that the guy who had been plying me with drink all evening whilst I listened to him regurgitate the same crap I had been listening to all day was the answer to a young girl's dreams, he was past much of a performance.'

I chose to interpret Jane's next giggles as having an underlying tone of sympathy.

'I almost got lock jaw sucking him until he was hard - you can laugh, I was beginning to wonder whether it was possible to get repetitive strain injury of the neck. My tits were bruised from all his pawing, and it was a good job I'd been flicking my bean, he slid in OK but started going soft almost straight away.'

'So what did you do?'

'Stuck a finger up his arse to make him come and got myself off pushing against his pelvic bone. What would you have done?'

Jane steadied herself against the table to stop her laughing convulsions shuffling her off the chair and onto the floor. It took her a good five minutes to regain the power of speech.

'Poor you. I told Joe we should have invited a single friend or two tonight.'

'And how is it between you two?'

I interrupted her before the matchmaking part of her brain could get fully in gear. Jane liked fixing up her friends, always had done. But her over-optimistic assessment of the average British male led her to the most ridiculous conclusions about the compatibility of her acquaintances. I had only followed her advice once; and that had led to a fortnight's relationship with one of the most boring men I had ever been with. Why she thought a balding accountant who collected beer mats in his spare time was my perfect match still remained one of the great unresolved mysteries between us.

'Oh, you know, still happily married.'

'You sound a little sceptical. Sure everything's OK, honey?'

I felt a sudden chill. Jane and Joe were the poster couple for a happy relationship in our circle: the only pair who had stayed together through thick and thin. I thought of them as the only permanent fixture in my life and even as my relationships crashed and burned the example of their permanence remained a faint beacon of the hope that somewhere out there I too had the perfect match. She obviously picked up on my concern. There was reassurance in her voice.

'Don't worry about us, we'll be OK. It's just, you know...'

She tailed off. She was looking pensive. I gave her a second or two to continue. She didn't.

'Not sure I do. What's up?'

'Nothing really. No. Everything's fine.'

She sounded like she was trying to convince herself; she certainly was not convincing me. There are some things which should remain private. But not between old friends who had been drinking wine for an hour.

'Come on, cough. What's going on?'

Jane coloured and spoke only after moving her lips tentatively as if testing the words she wanted to say. I nodded to encourage her.

'Well, it's just, you know, age.'

'What are you talking about?'

'It makes you think about what you might have done with your time.'

She paused and let out a long sigh as if she had finished a long confession. Someone with more tact and sensitivity than me might have left it at that. There are days when I would have done so myself. But I was feeling mellow, if not a little giddy. I could feel the warmth from the wine right through my body, and the comfort of my flimsy underwear and stockings beneath the soft heat from the borrowed robe.

'You mean tried different things?'

Jane reddened. Her lips were moving silently again.

'Well yes, I suppose so. You know how it is, work takes up so much time, you get older and sex starts slipping off the agenda.'

I nodded in agreement and to encourage her on.

'Joe feels the same. We've started to make more time for each other but, you know...'

'I think we've established that I don't. I've always envied you two for the stability of your relationship. I thought you were happy.'

'Oh we are. It's just... Chances we've missed; things we could have done.'

Her voice trailed off, but now I knew what she was talking about. Or at least I thought I did.

'You're thinking of when we were younger?'

Joe and Jane had got together in our first year at college. They had not really stood out from the rest of us at the time, but looking back, whatever wildness had been going on, they had always ended up together. Jane and I shared a flat for three years and I got used to seeing a sleepy-eyed Joe leaving her room. For ages no one really thought of them as a couple: we were all too busy exploring each others' genitals and assumed they were too. By the time we all began to take relationships more seriously we took it for granted that they were together.

'You know Joe is the only boy who ever turned me down?'

'What?'

Jane flushed and her expression hardened slightly. I got a view of what Sayeed might experience when he disappointed teacher-Jane. I held up a placating hand.

'Don't get your knickers in a twist.'

I frowned at her until her expression softened.

'It was one of those nights when you were working late at the pub.'

Jane had been a barmaid for a time while we were at college.I had too. But while I had, more often than not, ended up going home with one of the punters, Jane either met Joe at closing time, or rushed home to where he was waiting for her.

'We were drinking wine and watching TV. I had just been dumped by some bloke and was feeling sorry for myself. Can't remember who he was now.'

'Could have been any week then?'

Jane's straight-faced rudeness let me know her brief burst of jealousy was over.

'Bitch.'

'Slut.'

We both laughed and Jane adjusted herself in her seat nodding for me to continue.

'Joe listened to me moaning and passed me tissues when I cried. I hardly noticed he kept checking his watch to see when you were going to be back. You know what a sucker I was for blokes who could display any degree of empathy.'

'I think you mean anyone with a penis, don't you?'

Her little girl intonation allowed me to ignore the insult.

'You really are a bit of a cow when you want to be. Anyway, by the time I cried myself out, washed my face and, I have to admit, consumed most of the two bottles of wine we had bought...'

'You remember that disgusting stuff the corner shop use to sell? It was...'

'Do you mind.'

It was my turn at mock sternness.

'Admittedly the booze always tasted better when you threw it back up, but the point I was going to make was: I was grateful to Joe for listening and, well...'

'Nothing says "thank you" like a blow job?'

'Precisely. He was stretched out in front of the gas fire when I came back in to the room. There was something about the glow which made his skin look golden, I can remember it still. I sat down beside him, rested my head on his shoulder and slid my hand over his belly and down to his cock.'

'Like you do.'

'Like I do anyway.'

'So what happened?'

I had Jane's full attention; there was a slight breathlessness in the question.

'You'd have thought I was trying to punch him in the balls. He jumped up, knocked over the bottle and used that as an excuse to flee the room. I thought for a moment he was not going to come back.'

We were both laughing now. It took us a while to stop. The wine was obviously kicking in.

'When he did, he had a cloth and a bowl. He jumped every time I moved like he was going to have to nail me through the heart with a garlic-soaked stake.'

We giggled some more and both said complimentary things about her man.

'Richard.'

'Who?'

'Richard. That was the name of the bloke who chucked you.'

I was speechless. How did she remember that? I searched my memory banks, but the name didn't throw up anything: not a face, not a reason I'd fancied him, nor an explanation for why we'd split.

'How on earth?'

'It was the night Joe came to the pub early. He always hated being there when I was working. You remember what pubs were like in those days.'

I did. Propositioning the barmaid was part and parcel of ordering a pint. Jane always looked on it as an ordeal; me, more as a smorgasbord of possibilities.

'You remember those strippers?'

Jane groaned.

The pub in question had regular striptease shows at the weekends. Punters were always more frisky when they were on. Jane was uncomfortable with the attention, I remembered. Joe hated it.

'Anyway. You know how he'd never go in when there was a girl on. I was surprised when he showed up that night and it stuck in my memory. It was the first time I sucked him off.'