Page 19 of When We Were Friends
Here Tiff was, years later, still worried about what she looked like. Being slim, being seen as stereotypically attractive, had helped her, in part, get the attention she’d always craved, from directors and fellow actors, from fans. However, it was never enough, as if she were a movie that sold out in the cinemas, but was still hated by critics.
‘No thanks, Mum,’ she said and got up. ‘I’ll have something slightly healthier,’ she said, a little sarcastically, but her mother missed it. Healthy was not denying herself what she truly wanted. Tiff got up and fetched one of the chocolate bars Dad kept hidden at the back of the tinned food cupboard. She sat up at the kitchen table with a pen and paper, making a list of Hugo’s friends, in case the visit to Miss Moo Moo came to nothing. She broke off a piece of the bar, put it in her mouth and closed her eyes for a second as the creaminess hit her pleasure points. Then she clicked into the Dailsworth High Facebook group. Of course, Jasmine White was listed. She’d been friends with Hugo, but Tiff was going to keep her out of it because of the information she had on Tiff that Morgan, Paige and Emily must never find out about.
12
MORGAN
Dailsworth library was at the far end of the high street, further on from Tesco, squashed between two bigger buildings as if it were an afterthought. By the time Tiff arrived, the other three were waiting, making pleasantries about the warmer weather, as Saturday shoppers passed. Paige wore a classic black trouser suit, with a camel coat and court shoes, exactly how teenage Morgan would have pictured her friend as an adult – although she thought she might have quit smoking by now. At high school, Paige used to insist it was just a passing phase and that she’d have more exciting things to spend her money on when she was an adult. Emily was in muddy trainers, threadbare jeans and an anorak that had seen better days, as if she’d spent so many years caring for others, she’d forgotten how to care for herself. In knee-high leather boots, tight leggings and a suede jacket cinched in with a belt, Tiff looked so different not in the baggy clothes she’d worn in the 2000s.
A group of people filed out of the library. Morgan led the others in. In the old days, Paige would have been up front but today, she hung back after stubbing out her cigarette. From the outside, the building looked nondescript, a concrete box, but the insides couldn’t have provided a bigger contrast. Aside from the many shelves of books, colourful paintings by children decked the walls, as part of a book cover competition. Comfortably upholstered, red chairs were dotted around the large room and in the children’s area. A large tree was painted on the wall. Instead of leaves, pens and pencils hung from its boughs. Morgan felt lightheaded. Was this really happening? The four of them together again?
The expression on Mlle Vachon’s face replicated Morgan’s feelings. She put down a book and clapped her hands as the women approached.
‘Mes pucettes!’
Morgan never did understand why ‘little flea’ was a term of affection. ‘You remember us?’
‘Of course. I never forget favourite pupils, and, well…’
‘The prom…’ said Morgan.
Mlle Vachon nodded. ‘I’m so glad you’ve made it up and are friends again.’
Emily pulled a face as if she’d just worked a twelve-hour shift without being able to pee.
‘I’ve often thought about you over the years.’ Mlle Vachon wrapped Morgan in her thin arms that were still so strong. She always had been petite. A Parisian woman without the designer outfits, Mlle Vachon preferred slacks and jumpers and that hadn’t changed. The pixie cut was still dyed brown, the glasses still gold framed and on a chain.
Mlle Vachon hugged each of them in turn and then stood back. ‘Morgan… Banks, Paige Forbes, that’s it, Emily Jones and Tiff… Anderson.’
‘Tiff Tudor, now,’ said Tiff proudly. ‘It’s my stage name.’
Tudor? That’s why Morgan had never been able to find her on social media.
‘You achieved your dream? Well done! And you other girls?’
‘Unemployed,’ said Emily.
‘Self-employed,’ said Paige.
‘Under-employed,’ answered Morgan.
The four girls looked at each other and out of nowhere, started laughing. Morgan could have cried. God, she’d missed this. They all regularly used to fall apart over something only slightly funny. Like when they’d walk to school together, singing at the tops of their voices, and a man in a corner house would always shout, ‘Shut up,’ out of his bedroom window.
‘I have a son,’ said Morgan. ‘He’s called Olly.’
An affectionate look crossed Mlle Vachon’s face. ‘A son? What a good name. I used to be very much in love with an English film star called Oliver Reed, from a distance, of course.’
They talked about the French club and how Mlle Vachon was finding retirement: busy, by the sounds of it, with theatre club, reading circle and, sore hip permitting, walks in the Peak District.
‘You never wanted to move back to Paris?’ asked Paige.
‘Non. I have many friends here. I am godmother to two children. My heart has grown fond of Manchester. It has a buzz of a vibrant, diverse city, yet doesn’t expect you to dress up just to go shopping. England is my home, in my bones. Of course I still visit France. My brother is retired now too. Later this year, we are holidaying together in Spain. I always wanted a family,’ she added quietly. ‘But it wasn’t to be, my career became my baby.’
‘As it turned out, you had more children than was humanly possible,’ said Emily in a soft tone. ‘My best teacher, by far. Once, in class, I got period cramps so bad, I couldn’t stand up. You twigged and told me to stay until the end. Said you’d be back in five minutes.’
‘I brought you a cup of tea and my packet of chocolate digestives!’ Her eyes shone. ‘You haven’t forgotten?’
‘No. My mother was always too… wrapped up in her own life to do things like that.’
