Page 3 of When We Were Friends
She went to the window and gazed up at the moon. It had been full the night Olly was born. Mum had held her hand throughout the labour, unaware Morgan wished it was her three best friends Paige, Emily and Tiff who were there. They would have made jokes, said Morgan deserved an achievement badge to go with her others. Emily would have knitted clothes for the baby. Morgan shook her head as she recalled the horrible words the four of them had shouted at each other when the shocking truths came out, at the end of Year Eleven, when Morgan was in the early stages of pregnancy without knowing it.
Yet the hurtful comments hadn’t stopped her wishing they’d been there to talk to. Not just on the day she had Olly, but also on that rainy afternoon in a dirty public toilet, in Manchester, when she’d done a pregnancy test. Even now, Morgan still missed the other three, especially at Christmas. Paige’s parents used to throw a fancy party and the four of them would laugh at the word ‘amuse-bouche’ before scoffing far too many. And, even though she never won, because the others liked board games, Emily would organise a festive-themed session, which made Scrabble take even longer than usual. Tiff always landed a role in the school play, partly to please her parents, and also because she enjoyed the buzz of the stage. The other three would cheer loudly at the sidelines. Whereas Morgan would make them each a bag of fudge, classic plain for Paige, candy cane with sprinkles for Emily, and for Tiff, chocolate peanut butter.
Her phone pinged and she tapped into her emails. No, she didn’t want to enter a prize draw to win a five-million-pound house, gambling was a mug’s game. A second new email caught her eye, this one from Dailsworth High. The subject line said:
Last call for alumni news
Today was Friday 15 December. In exactly one month’s time, the yearly email newsletter from her old school would arrive. It always came in the middle of January and contained a summary of the previous twelve months, along with hopes for those coming. She and her best friends hadn’t been bothered about receiving it, but a few weeks before the prom, their English teacher had insisted the whole class sign up, said they’d be glad when they were older. Every January since leaving, Morgan had read up on the changes and achievements at her much-loved school. The deaths of favourite teachers, a new library built, the successes of sports teams, a report on an alumni get-together every summer, although she never attended it. Of course – unlike for Paige, Emily and Tiff – not all the news would be new to Morgan, as she’d stayed in Dailsworth and her son had attended their old high school until he’d gone to sixth form college nearly two years ago.
Letting go of her phone, Morgan dozed. Her stomach took its time to unfurl after Olly’s return. At thirty-five years old now, surely Paige, Emily and Tiff wouldn’t still hold a grudge? Her anger against them had mellowed a long time ago and now and then she’d been tempted to reach out. She’d even searched for them on social media once, but with no luck. Perhaps they used married names now. They were just silly teenagers at the time of their spectacular argument, the summer before Olly was born. Nineteen years later, she’d love to meet them, a wish that had magnified since October, one weekend when Olly was away on a field trip. She’d had to call out an ambulance in the middle of the night, with acute chest pains – to her embarrassment, a bad case of indigestion. She’d got back from hospital before he arrived the next day and was going to tell him about it, but he’d returned in such a black mood. When Olly opened up on Bonfire Night, she found out he and his friends had played Truth or Dare on that October trip, and he’d been teased by his friends for avoiding the opportunity to kiss one of the girls. So, at that point, she’d decided not to open up to Olly about the night in A&E that had pushed her one step closer to accepting he needed to be in touch with his dad, because if something happened to her, he’d be left without a parent. But more than that, what if Olly disappeared again? Despite the years that had passed, Paige, Emily and Tiff were the only people she could think of, in the world, who could help her find her son’s dad. Olly might run away andnotcome back, go on some madcap mission to find his father himself. Her stomach knotted again at the thought. The Secret Gift Society was her only hope.
That A&E visit had also made her think about the rift at high school and how badly such important friendships had ended. How the four of them might laugh affectionately now about the secret society they’d formed that had tracked down lost calculators, revealed bullies to teachers, found out which pupil was stealing dinner money. They never could resist a challenge. Now more than ever, she wanted those three friends back in her life. Oh, she went bowling or out to eat, thanks to work, and met other mums for drinks, but she’d never built friendships like those three at school. What if something happened to one of them before they all made up?
What if one of them had already passed?
Morgan sat up and reached for her bedside water. Was there any chance they could become friends again, re-form the society and solve the mystery of Olly’s father’s whereabouts? Could she send a message to them in the next newsletter?
No.
Stupid idea.
A fantasy.
Yet…
Arranging to meet her old friends, digging up the past: some might say neither of those ideas weresensible. However, Morgan had become sick of that word, after so much of her youth had been spent changing nappies and missing nights out, doing a job that didn’t inspire her, never getting hungover. This once it wouldn’t hurt for her to do something wild… would it? Her bus to work drove past Dailsworth High every day and on Saturday mornings she saw parents standing in the field, cheering on their children playing football. The four friends – former friends – could easily slip past and head to the old science block, to their old secret meeting place. It might remind the others of the fun times they once shared.
Morgan put down the glass and tapped into her phone. Her first weekend day off, after the newsletter would go out in January, was a Saturday in February, not long after Olly turned eighteen. She exhaled. Would his questions wait until then? With mock exams looming, she had to hope he’d be too wrapped up with studies to focus on finding his dad, and meeting the others in February might bring answers quickly enough. The four of them always used to work so well together.
At seven, Morgan showered, got dressed into her lime-green supermarket uniform and set about making her packed lunch that every day consisted of a sandwich cut in half, one apple and a multi-pack chocolate wafer. Order, routine: such had been her life since giving birth. Sequencing was important in maths to get the correct answer, in life too, she used to reckon. Teenage Morgan had her sequence all worked out; she’d achieve her goal of leaving behind her life in Dailsworth, would go to university and then travel, before settling down as a maths teacher – a far cry away from the life of her cashier and warehouse manager parents who’d unexpectedly had her in their teens. Yet here Morgan was, working in the same supermarket as her mum, still on the council estate where she’d grown up. The sequence of her life had simply echoed that of her parents. She gave a wry smile. Teenage Morgan often used to make comparisons to maths, the other three would tease her about it.
‘Shall I make your favourite tonight, love, for you and Vikram?’ Morgan asked in a bright voice, as Olly stood in the hallway with his rucksack. ‘I can thaw out some chicken. Or how about pizza? The supermarket has got a special offer on for staff at the moment and—’
‘Stop fussing, Mum, we’ll sort ourselves out,’ he said, with a rare shot of eye contact.
Morgan stiffened as she placed a halved sandwich in her lunch box. After the front door had closed, she went to the kitchen window. Oh, Olly had grown in height and needed to shave now, and very often only answered with a grunt, but he still went down the street with that enthusiastic bounce, still smiled at strangers, she could tell by their faces as they walked past him. Olly was a good lad. He deserved every happiness. He wasn’t going to grow out of needing to know his dad, like he’d grown out of the Harry Potter fancy dress outfit she’d saved up ages for.
She went back onto her phone and into the email about the last call for alumni news, fingers poised to start typing. However, instead, she washed up the breakfast dishes, cleaned her teeth and put on her coat. The others probably felt exactly like her. What idiots they’d been to fall out because of that creep Hugo Black. She imagined her friends living in big, detached houses, enjoying holidays abroad and shopping trips without a budget, in some fancy market town or by the coast. They must have all moved away because she’d never bumped into them during all this time. However, she wouldn’t swap Dailsworth for Dubai if having a fancy life had meant she’d never had Olly. Morgan’s phone pinged.
Pizza sounds good.
Olly’s way of saying sorry.
She’d never taken Olly to Disneyland, his laptop wasn’t as flash as his friends’ and his sports trainers came from the bargain store. When he was younger, none of these things mattered, he’d had a happy childhood, her love filled the gaps. But things were different now. The days had gone when a hug and episode ofScooby-Doowould wave away his problems. Morgan went back to the email and tapped on reply. After several moments’ thought, she typed out the sentence she wanted included in the next newsletter:
TSGS. Meet at the usual place. 10a.m. 25th February
Hopefully, her old friends would see it. Her breath hitched. They had to…
She went to a kitchen cupboard, took out her recipe book and turned to the first page, dated in the 2000s, reminding herself of the ingredients she’d use nearer the time of meeting up – of course, butter, sugar, condensed milk… A smile crossed her lips. Her friends were going to be so surprised! She grabbed her phone, pressed send and as the email went off, gave a little jig, as if three bags of soft fudge could easily sweeten nineteen hardboiled years apart.
2
PAIGE, EMILY, TIFF
Paige breathed in the subtle fragrance of cotton fresh pot-pourri from the low, oblong table, and balanced the laptop on her knees. She opened her inbox before reaching for her coffee. In a pin-striped trouser suit, she was perched on the white leather sofa and lifted her head to gaze through the windows at February clouds, across the wide balcony and to the morning Manchester skyline. As usual, her husband, Felix, had left for work early, leaving her a period of quiet before her first client arrived after the rush hour. She worked hard, they both did, to maintain their luxury penthouse flat in the Castlefield area of Manchester. They’d bought it outright using his savings and the trust fund Paige’s parents set up. She’d not had access to it until she turned thirty. Her mum and dad prioritised securing their daughter’s future, but felt she needed to find her passions, her own way, first. They’d always had strong views about their daughter following her own destiny, and going to state school like they had, not private, mixing with pupils from all walks of life, about experiencing the satisfaction of reaching goals through hard work, not by being given leg-ups.
Her eyes swept over the solid oak laminate floor and walls painted a shade called Digital Grey. It suited the curtains that – along with the lighting, thermostat, and security cameras – could all be controlled remotely, by smartphone. The two bedrooms were generously sized and the kitchen was open plan, with a vase of giant, white daisies on one of the units. The ultimate luxury was a hot tub on the balcony, a much-loved feature of Paige’s.
