She’d used to imagine the circumstances of their meeting (the party, the wedding or funeral, the moment in the street when they would find themselves face to face), and she’d practised what she’d say – whole, eloquent speeches that would make Nancy realize what she had done, the pain she had caused not just to Stefan but to her as well. She had long, impassioned sections about the meaning of friendship, its unconditional loyalty. Sometimes the words she wrote in her head were delivered more in sorrow than anger – but often they bubbled with rage. Now, walking over the moors towards her, she couldn’t remember a word of them, and even if she could, she knew that they would be useless.
She tried instead to think about Nancy in the past, but even that was difficult. She found that, all of a sudden, she could not properly remember her face, either as achild or as a young woman. She summoned particular events to mind to see if that would bring back the image of her friend (their first day at secondary school, when Nancy had turned up with cropped hair and her leg in plaster; that bike ride they’d been on together when they’d cycled through a shallow-looking puddle and found themselves pedalling deeper and deeper into it, until at last they’d both toppled off, screaming with laughter; the time Nancy and Stefan had announced to her, with awkward formality, that they were – er – kind of, you know, seeing each other; a rare time when she’d seen her friend cry, though she’d never discovered the reason, and she’d been extraordinarily moved by the way her fingers had clutched a sodden, shredded tissue, which she used to mop her swollen eyes; Nancy’s twenty-first birthday party when she’d worn a tux and danced salsa with Stefan to everyone’s applause). But Nancy was like the person in the photograph whose features have been pixellated out. She was a smudge. The years they had known each other seemed to run together, all the separate episodes leaking into each other like colours mixing on a palette. Nothing of Nancy was distinct in her memory any more; everything was murky and undifferentiated. The only image that remained clear was the brief glimpse that Gaby had had of her on the television screen, when for almost two decades she had been a stranger.
Instead, Gaby found herself remembering Stefan’s face on the day that Nancy had left him. That still lay clear in her mind. It had been a weekday night. Ethan was asleep in his room, the night-light glowing softly beside him, and Connor – who had been on duty for thirty-six hourshad been in bed for an hour or more. Gaby was lying on the sofa reading a book (she even remembered which:
Innocence
by Penelope Fitzgerald, a lovely novel that she would associate for ever with betrayal). The rain had hammered down outside, but inside it was warm and messy, and she was sipping a mug of hot chocolate that she had made – with a sense of luxurious self-indulgence – with cream and chocolate melted over a double-boiler. She had been feeling as contented as a lazy cat. And then there had been an urgent rapping on the front door. She had pulled the belt on her dressing-gown tighter, taken a last thick gulp of her drink, and gone to see who it was. Stefan had stood on the threshold in the pouring rain, his hair flattened on to his skull. He had stared at Gaby, but she had had the impression that he wasn’t really seeing her. A small frown puzzled his brow, but under it his eyes were empty. The skin round his mouth was slack, and he looked old, drab and hopeless. Gaby had tried to hug him, but he stood passively in her arms in his thick wet overcoat, his arms hanging by his sides.
Walking along the empty road now, Gaby felt the old anger flare up inside her, making her quicken her pace. There was one image of Nancy that she could vividly remember from the past, after all, and she held on to it. She had gone round to Stefan’s flat, which until then had been Stefan
She tried instead to think about Nancy in the past, but even that was difficult. She found that, all of a sudden, she could not properly remember her face, either as achild or as a young woman. She summoned particular events to mind to see if that would bring back the image of her friend (their first day at secondary school, when Nancy had turned up with cropped hair and her leg in plaster; that bike ride they’d been on together when they’d cycled through a shallow-looking puddle and found themselves pedalling deeper and deeper into it, until at last they’d both toppled off, screaming with laughter; the time Nancy and Stefan had announced to her, with awkward formality, that they were – er – kind of, you know, seeing each other; a rare time when she’d seen her friend cry, though she’d never discovered the reason, and she’d been extraordinarily moved by the way her fingers had clutched a sodden, shredded tissue, which she used to mop her swollen eyes; Nancy’s twenty-first birthday party when she’d worn a tux and danced salsa with Stefan to everyone’s applause). But Nancy was like the person in the photograph whose features have been pixellated out. She was a smudge. The years they had known each other seemed to run together, all the separate episodes leaking into each other like colours mixing on a palette. Nothing of Nancy was distinct in her memory any more; everything was murky and undifferentiated. The only image that remained clear was the brief glimpse that Gaby had had of her on the television screen, when for almost two decades she had been a stranger.
Instead, Gaby found herself remembering Stefan’s face on the day that Nancy had left him. That still lay clear in her mind. It had been a weekday night. Ethan was asleep in his room, the night-light glowing softly beside him, and Connor – who had been on duty for thirty-six hourshad been in bed for an hour or more. Gaby was lying on the sofa reading a book (she even remembered which:
Innocence
by Penelope Fitzgerald, a lovely novel that she would associate for ever with betrayal). The rain had hammered down outside, but inside it was warm and messy, and she was sipping a mug of hot chocolate that she had made – with a sense of luxurious self-indulgence – with cream and chocolate melted over a double-boiler. She had been feeling as contented as a lazy cat. And then there had been an urgent rapping on the front door. She had pulled the belt on her dressing-gown tighter, taken a last thick gulp of her drink, and gone to see who it was. Stefan had stood on the threshold in the pouring rain, his hair flattened on to his skull. He had stared at Gaby, but she had had the impression that he wasn’t really seeing her. A small frown puzzled his brow, but under it his eyes were empty. The skin round his mouth was slack, and he looked old, drab and hopeless. Gaby had tried to hug him, but he stood passively in her arms in his thick wet overcoat, his arms hanging by his sides.
Walking along the empty road now, Gaby felt the old anger flare up inside her, making her quicken her pace. There was one image of Nancy that she could vividly remember from the past, after all, and she held on to it. She had gone round to Stefan’s flat, which until then had been Stefan
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