Page 84 of The Love of Our Lives
I can’t blame her obviously – of course Charlie wouldn’t have thought there was any issue telling a friend the dates. She wasjust so ecstatic to hear that Adam and I were coming back from Canada together; that we’d found a way to make it work.
‘I’m sorry,’ Fran says, her voice wavering, ‘I didn’t know what else to do, and I’m so, so sorry about everything, but I really need you to hear me out on it all, and then you can decide to hate me forever, if you want to.’
For a moment, I think about turning her away, telling her to go back to London with all her lies. But something stops me – memories of us playing as small kids at each other’s houses, swapping our sandwiches in the playground and drinking Eltons in the hazy London light, laughing until our stomachs hurt.
I can give her a few minutes of my time, surely.
‘All right,’ I say finally, ‘do you want to come up?’
She nods her head, her eyes hopeful. ‘That would be great, thank you.’
At the top of the stairs, Adam has kindly left my bag in front of my door and I lug it into the hallway, as Fran trails quietly behind me. I hate having to part ways with Adam again after so much time together; feel this almost desperate pull towards him, like I might lose him again if I let go. But he reassures me by text that we’ll catch up as soon as we can tomorrow, and after admitting our true feelings to each other in Canada, I know inside myself that nothing will stop it happening this time.
We can’t go back now.
I dump my bag in the hall before ushering Fran through to the living room, where she hovers uncertainly at the centre. It’s just so unlike the usually punchy Fran that I almost feel bad for her.
‘Take a seat and I’ll put on some coffee,’ I sigh, realising there’s no easy way out of this now. I just need to get through it.
‘All right,’ she says, sitting down on the sofa and looking about herself. ‘I really like what you’ve done with the place,’ I hear her call out, and realise she must be looking at my messy paint wall.I go about boiling the kettle and pouring coffee granules into cups – I don’t have any milk in yet, so I just serve it black for both of us.
‘Smells delicious,’ Fran says, shooting up to take one from me. I sit down on the chair opposite her; wait for her to start.
She takes a couple of careful sips first, as though gearing herself up for whatever she’s about to say, then she places the mug down on one of the little dancing coasters I bought at a market.
‘I like these,’ she says, as though stalling for time. I don’t reply, don’t make this any easier on her than I already have, because I feel annoyed on Emily’s behalf. Eventually she takes a breath.
‘We never meant for it to happen,’ she says. ‘I just want you to know that I’d never thought about it at all before. I knew you were with him and I was with Toby. But then you started working all the time – you disappeared on Simon, and me.’
There it is, that weird reverse blaming that Simon did too – he made me feel like it was all my fault. I start to feel frustrated again.
‘So, you’re saying you don’t want me to feel bad about working too much, but ultimately, that’s what you’re blaming it on?’ I say.
Fran starts to shake her head. ‘No, that’s not what I said.’
‘Well, you sort of did.’
Why shouldn’t Emily have worked hard if that made her successful and independent? No one would have batted an eye at a man doing it. I don’t see why that means her fiancé had no option but to cheat on her with her best friend.
Fran is silenced for a moment.
‘You’re right, E, you working hard wasn’t to blame . . . but it wasn’t just for a bit,’ she says, and I look up.
‘Those last two years in London, you were basically always in the office or on work trips. No one actually saw you. You never made it to any dinners or parties. You even missed my birthday, and Simon’s . . .’
An uncomfortable feeling starts to form in my stomach.
Emily missed their birthdays?
‘And I promise I’m not trying to make you feel bad about what we did,’ Fran says quickly, wipes a tear away, ‘I promise that’s not it, because there are absolutely no excuses, but I just wanted to let you see how it came about in the first place. We really didn’t mean to hurt anyone.’
I feel sick thinking about it; can’t imagine what Emily must have gone through. But I need more information.
‘How long?’ I say.
Fran pauses. ‘A few months,’ she says, wiping another tear away, and I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach.
A few months?
