with more icing than sponge. I was hungry but I knew gorging myself on a muffin wouldn’t create the right impression. Maybe Sarah thought the same. Both of us cradled mugs of steaming coffee and shook our heads when the waitress suggested food. Sarah stared down into her mug, refusing to make eye contact with me. I had expected us to hug and hold each other, to show some solidarity in our loss. Sarah had other ideas.
‘Have you heard anything?’ I asked. This time, as if by some monumental effort, she lifted her head and stared at me, or through me, because that was how it felt. The shine from her hair, the way it clung to her head, told me it was due for a wash. Her make-up was a shade too dark for her skin. I concentrated on the patch of it that hadn’t been blended in. This Sarah was a different person from Friday-night tequila-and-laughter Sarah.
‘No,’ is all she offered. I could see dark circles under her eyes, escaping from underneath her heavy concealer.
I looked around. The place was almost empty, the coffee-and-croissant office people had been and gone. The only other person was a woman in her early twenties, dressed in wedges, a long skirt that brushed the floor and a sequinned top. She looked out of place with her purple cherry lipstick and pink nails on the end of her long, bony fingers. And she sat fingering her shiny phone. I imagined she was a model or an actress waiting for a call.
I turned back to Sarah, still leaning over the mug, as if it was the only thing keeping her from falling on to the table.
‘It’s all so screwed up. Why would Clara have come so late in the night, without calling me?’ There was a note of desperation in my voice. I couldn’t help it. I’d been running different scenarios through my head all morning, and still nothing made sense.
Sarah closed her eyes as if the effort of remembering Friday night was a source of pain. I could tell she was struggling too, so I fought the urge to grab her hand and look deep into her eyes and beg her to help me,
I am literally dying here, Sarah,
but instead I sat on my hands and waited for what seemed like an eternity, listening to her sigh, watching her wipe her tears away with her painted red fingernails, before, finally, she spoke.
‘Clara came to the bar just after you’d gone. I can’t remember the time.’
‘Late,’ I said. ‘I left at half eleven so it must have been after that.’ I pictured myself sitting eating chips on the pier, the cold biting into me and you so close by. If only I could rewind and go back in time, Clara. I’d stay for another drink, we’d meet and everything would be so different now. Tears of frustration pricked my eyes.
‘She was looking for you,’ Sarah said. Her tone made it sound like an accusation but I let it pass; we were both tired and emotional.
‘I was searching for her. I even went to her flat to see if she was OK.’
‘You went to see her?’ Her voice had quickened.
‘Of course I did, I was supposed to be staying with her and I was getting worried because she hadn’t answered any of my calls so I walked over to Brunswick Place but there was no answer so I booked myself into a hotel.’
‘Alone?’ Sarah said.
‘You saw me leave, was I with anyone?’ I didn’t mean my words to sting her. I watched another tear cut a trail through her make-up. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
‘Why did you argue?’ Sarah asked suddenly. She was sitting upright now as if she’d sprung into action.
‘What?’
‘Clara said you’d had a proper falling-out. That’s what she told us when she came. What did you argue about?’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ I said. It hit me then, the reason why there was no comfort from Sarah, no hugs, no kind words. Nothing had changed.
‘Shall I tell you what she said, then?’ Technically that was a question but I knew she didn’t need an answer. ‘She said that you’d had an argument over a bloke, the one she was
‘Have you heard anything?’ I asked. This time, as if by some monumental effort, she lifted her head and stared at me, or through me, because that was how it felt. The shine from her hair, the way it clung to her head, told me it was due for a wash. Her make-up was a shade too dark for her skin. I concentrated on the patch of it that hadn’t been blended in. This Sarah was a different person from Friday-night tequila-and-laughter Sarah.
‘No,’ is all she offered. I could see dark circles under her eyes, escaping from underneath her heavy concealer.
I looked around. The place was almost empty, the coffee-and-croissant office people had been and gone. The only other person was a woman in her early twenties, dressed in wedges, a long skirt that brushed the floor and a sequinned top. She looked out of place with her purple cherry lipstick and pink nails on the end of her long, bony fingers. And she sat fingering her shiny phone. I imagined she was a model or an actress waiting for a call.
I turned back to Sarah, still leaning over the mug, as if it was the only thing keeping her from falling on to the table.
‘It’s all so screwed up. Why would Clara have come so late in the night, without calling me?’ There was a note of desperation in my voice. I couldn’t help it. I’d been running different scenarios through my head all morning, and still nothing made sense.
Sarah closed her eyes as if the effort of remembering Friday night was a source of pain. I could tell she was struggling too, so I fought the urge to grab her hand and look deep into her eyes and beg her to help me,
I am literally dying here, Sarah,
but instead I sat on my hands and waited for what seemed like an eternity, listening to her sigh, watching her wipe her tears away with her painted red fingernails, before, finally, she spoke.
‘Clara came to the bar just after you’d gone. I can’t remember the time.’
‘Late,’ I said. ‘I left at half eleven so it must have been after that.’ I pictured myself sitting eating chips on the pier, the cold biting into me and you so close by. If only I could rewind and go back in time, Clara. I’d stay for another drink, we’d meet and everything would be so different now. Tears of frustration pricked my eyes.
‘She was looking for you,’ Sarah said. Her tone made it sound like an accusation but I let it pass; we were both tired and emotional.
‘I was searching for her. I even went to her flat to see if she was OK.’
‘You went to see her?’ Her voice had quickened.
‘Of course I did, I was supposed to be staying with her and I was getting worried because she hadn’t answered any of my calls so I walked over to Brunswick Place but there was no answer so I booked myself into a hotel.’
‘Alone?’ Sarah said.
‘You saw me leave, was I with anyone?’ I didn’t mean my words to sting her. I watched another tear cut a trail through her make-up. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
‘Why did you argue?’ Sarah asked suddenly. She was sitting upright now as if she’d sprung into action.
‘What?’
‘Clara said you’d had a proper falling-out. That’s what she told us when she came. What did you argue about?’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ I said. It hit me then, the reason why there was no comfort from Sarah, no hugs, no kind words. Nothing had changed.
‘Shall I tell you what she said, then?’ Technically that was a question but I knew she didn’t need an answer. ‘She said that you’d had an argument over a bloke, the one she was
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