Swimming Upstream by Ruth Mancini

off.
    “So who's going to cover for you?” I asked.
    “Well who do you think?” Greg smiled. “I thought
Phil had told you. He said he had.”
    “What?” I turned and grabbed my bag from under the
desk and ripped open the letter. “I thought I’d got a warning…”
    “But listen to me, Lizzie, you can do more. Don't
let it be forever...”
    “It's enough,” I grinned. “For now.”
    I got up, flung my arms around him and kissed him
on the cheek. “You've just made my week. Month. Year,” I said, hugging him.
    “Good,” said Greg. “In that case I forgive you for
you for not caring that I'm going.”
    “Of course I care,” I protested. “I'll really miss
you, you know I will. But this is great news for both of us.”
    I swung round and
logged back into the computer.
    The following Friday, I picked up the phone and dialled
Catherine’s number. She answered after a couple of rings.
    “Lizzie!” she said. “I am so glad you rang! That’s
so spooky. I was going to call you tonight.”
    “Really?”
    “Yes. I’ve been thinking about you all week, how
nice it was to see you again.” Something in her voice didn’t sound quite right.
“How are you? How’s the foot?”
    “Much better, thanks. I had to have a few days off
work. But I’m back now, and in fact I’ve just been promoted.”
    “Congratulations!” Catherine sounded genuinely
delighted. “Let’s go out,” she said. “Tonight. We’ll celebrate!”
    “Oh, I’m not sure. My ankle’s still not great. I
mean, it’s better than it was, but... I’ve broken up with Larsen,” I blurted
out.
    “What? Are you serious?”
    “Yes. Sorry. I didn’t mean to just dump that on
you.”
    “You’re not dumping anything, Lizzie, we’re
friends, remember?”
    “Of course. Thanks.”
    “I’m so sorry. I thought you and he were..? Well,
the way you described him, he sounded great.”
    “He is great,” I said.
    “So why, then?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe it’s me. How long have you
got?” I laughed, ironically.
    “Right. That settles it. We’re going out. Tonight.
Celebration or commiseration, it’s your call.”
    Your call. I remembered Larsen saying that to me,
the night we met, when I was talking about leaving college. I wondered how much
of anything that had happened in the last seven years really had been my call. And
I realised with sudden clarity that this was no-one’s fault but my own.
    “Come on,” Catherine persisted. “You can stay at
mine, that way we can get a cab back together. We’ll have a great time, don’t
worry.”
    “Go on, then. Why not?” I was wondering what it
was about Catherine’s voice that sounded different. She sounded kind of high. “So,
are you okay, then?” I asked.
    There was a pause. “What
have you forgotten?” Catherine asked, and I realised she wasn’t talking to me. I
could hear a voice in the background, getting louder, shouting. It was clearly
Martin. “Well, of course I would have washed it. Calm down. Hang on, and I’ll
help you look.” The phone went dead for a moment and then Catherine was back on
the line. “Lizzie, sorry, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you back. No. I’ll see you
at eight. The Free Press. You know it? Near Parker’s Piece. Okay?” And then she
was gone.
    Catherine was waiting outside the pub when my taxi pulled
up. She helped me out onto the pavement and threw her arms around me and held
me tight, and I realised that she was the first person who had touched me since
Larsen left. I felt suddenly and pathetically grateful for her friendship, but
realised that she was equally pleased to see me because she was holding me so
tight, for so long, that I nearly lost my balance. When she stepped back I
realised that she was trying very hard not to cry.
    “Catherine? What is it?”
    She waved her hand in the air. “Oh, nothing. Ignore
me. I’m just being stupid. Let’s get a drink.”
    The pub was warm and inviting. The familiar pub smells
of hot chips and