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‘Ralph said you’d not long been in from work; that you were in your room .?.?. switching it on or something?’
I’m searching Cate’s face like it’s one of those computer games, where you have to scan a scene and look for evidence and clues, and all I can deduce is, she looks .?.?. tired? There are puffy, pillowy crescents under her eyes, the same sort that sit under mine. ‘He said your personal emails were sent? Jesus, Millie, why didn’t you call me back?’
I pad slowly towards her. ‘I was scared,’ I say, wobblily. ‘I knew that you’d .?.?.Didyou .?.?. read the emails? From me?’
Ralph slides a glass of wine across the counter towards Cate, who softly nods a thank you, and sits back down on the stool. ‘Yes. Yes, I did read your emails, but – seriously, are you OK?’ Her eyes soften, the outer corners wilting, like she might cry, and nowImight cry. ‘I feel like you need to sit down, have something to drink? You look ill. Sort of .?.?.loony.’
Relief floods my body like morning sunshine.Cate doesn’t hate me.Everything else might be a total mess, but my best friend does not hate me, even though I barrelled into her inbox and told her I secretly hate her boyfriend. She cares whether I’ve had anything to drink; that I look ‘loony’, which I most definitely do. After getting home from that loaded, rainy conversation with Owen a couple of hours ago, I’ve tried desperately to get back on an even keel, but nothing has worked. I feel out of body. Perpetually shaky. I’ve turned my phone on, began to slowly face multiple (horrible) notifications, I’ve taken a hot shower, washed my hair, cried a bit (a lot) into a bowl of Supernoodles Ralph made me. I even sat on the balcony for a little while in my pyjamas, with my favourite view – the dark, sheet-metal of the sea, Canvey Island twinkling in the distance, the smell of fishing nets and the sweet, burnt-sugar of cut wood from a flat renovation below. But even that didn’t settle me tonight. Cate, though – seeing Cate has, instantly. Like pain relief. Like a cup of tea, like a hot water bottle.
‘Oh, Cate, I can’t tell you how relieved I am to see you.’ I cross the floor, fold my arms around her. It feels so wonderful to hold her close, to know she’s still here. This tiny kitchen with Cate and Ralph, a remnant of life before.
‘Oh, me too.’
Behind her, Ralph slides over yet another glass, full of wine, meant for me. It’s the colour of old tights. His home-made mushroom wine, of course. Utterly disgusting, but – sod it. I release Cate, and take a seat next to her, and glug a massive mouthful of it, as Ralph says, ‘I’ll, er, leave you two to it, shall I?’ and steps out of the kitchen.
The room falls quiet. The fridge whirs. A solar-powered plastic flower dances on the windowsill, squeaking from side to side.
‘Cate, I’m so, so sorry.’
‘Millie, please—’
‘No, I really, really am,’ I say, pleadingly. ‘To get emails like that, and about Nicholas, you must think I’m such a bitch. It must have – I don’t evenknow.I’ve been a shitty, shitty friend—’
‘No.’ Cate shakes her head, a quick shudder, her brown, beach-waved hair brushing her shoulders. ‘No, Millie, you are not a shitty friend.’ Her eyes look dulled under the glow of the pendant lights, like bulbs that have dimmed. Like she hasn’t been sleeping, and Cate Mancinelli-Grantalwayssleeps. She takes sleep seriously. Her phone left out of the bedroom, an old-fashioned alarm clock to wake her up in the morning, no TV, no blue light – oil diffusers and thick paperbacks only.
‘No, Millie,’ says Cate, again, quietly. ‘I mean .?.?. I was shocked, of course I was, when I read them. I feltsick.Walked out of work, faked an illness, was wandering around like a bloody lost Sim. Asim was fine with it, thankfully. He’d far rather lose his PA for the day than risk catching any sort of lurgy that might land him in bed .?.?.’
‘Oh, Cate, I’m so sorry.’
‘Please don’t be.’ Cate gives a sad smile, drinks her wine. ‘And shit, this tastes like .?.?. I don’t know. A burger or something? Likebeef.Should wine taste like beef?’
‘It’s made from mushrooms,’ I say.
‘Oh.’She sips again and shrugs. ‘In for a penny, in for a pound, I suppose.’
‘And, Cate, I .?.?. I didn’t mean a word of anything I said. It was just .?.?. I was just ranting, you know?’
Cate hesitates, the silver C-shaped pendant sighing at her chest. ‘Really, Millie?’ She reaches over and places a delicate, warm hand on mine.
Cate has always had this maternal vibe; this strong, calm, mature way about her. She was two years above me at school, and we met on sports day, when I fell and grazed my chin – yes,my chin– and she was nominated to escort me to the school matron. I kept harping on, as we walked, about how embarrassing the whole thing was, and Cate had said, ‘It was an accident, though. There’s a whole department dedicated to it at a hospital, so, if you’re embarrassing, so are the rest of the world.’ Then she’d said, calmly, of the (horrid) school nurse, ‘Sometimes I think I’d rather die than be treated by her, you know? Just to make a point, because how hard is it to care aboutactualsick people?’ and I was sold. All in. Fell in friendship-love, if you like.
‘Millie,’ Cate carries on, her voice gentle and reassuring, like warm tea. ‘I think you did mean what you said. And I didn’t want to agree with any of it at first. My first emotion was just .?.?. anger. Like, I wasproperfuming.But then, something just clicked. Because I knew I agreed with every single word you said.’ Cate sniffs, dabs the tip of her index finger to the corner of her eye. ‘You know when something is so true, almost too true, that it’s unbearable to consider. Like it’s .?.?.Blinding?And you can’t bear to look at it?’
I nod, slowly. Because I do. I really do.
‘It was that, Millie,’ she says. ‘That’s what it was.’
‘Cate, I’m so sorry—’
‘So, I walked out this afternoon,’ she announces in one gust. ‘I’ve left Nicholas. I think?’
And as Cate downs a huge mouthful of wine, my heart plummets through my body, like it’s been suddenly pushed from a plane and is falling, falling, falling. ‘Are you .?.?.What?’
‘I know.’
‘Oh my God?’
‘I know.’ She downs even more of her mushroom wine, wincing, like she’s forcing down medicine. ‘And I can’t believe it really, the more I think about it. I mean, last year Nicholas actuallyadmittedto signing up to a dating app. Because I’d been going out a lot and he thought I didn’twant him anymore? And yes, he apologised, said he’d have never done anything, that it was just tohave a look, that he was feeling insecure,’ Cate scoffs, a sharp snort, puts her glass down on the granite counter with a harsh ding. ‘But he blamed the relationship, he blamedmefor doing too much yoga, seeing my sister in the evenings too much, and I just .?.?. took it? I even saidsorry? Like, what was I thinking?’
