One of my best friends has been dating a married man for ten years. He keeps promising her he’s going to leave. I saw him at the airport today, canoodling with another woman, who was not his wife. He’d told my friend he couldn’t see her as he was going away on business. Do I tell her and risk ruining our friendship, ordo I turn a blind eye?
Yours,
Anonymous.
Do I really need an agony aunt to advise me what to do, when the answer is spelt out before me in ten-foot, flashing, neon letters? TELL HER.
‘Oi! Look where you’re going, willya! Bloody cyclists!’ hollers an irate taxi driver, through the open window.
* * *
‘I’m afraid head office has taken the matter very seriously,’ gloats MissCutler. ‘My hands are tied. I have no alternative but to let you go.’
‘If you could just give me one more chance …’ I grovel, panic rising.
‘If I were you, I’d go back to what you do best – serving ready meals and selling novelty goods to tourists,’ she says in a condescending, I’m-telling-you-this-for-your-own-good sort of way. ‘It’s a tough old world out there, and jobs aren’t easy tofind – even for the young.’ Ouch.
She presses the door-release button; I draw a deep breath and exit the shop, cycle-helmeted head held high.
I am in a kind of daze, oblivious to the pushing and jostling of hurried passers-by. This is serious; I now have no job, my meagre savings are fast disappearing, my overdraft has reached its limit, and I am barely able to cover the monthly minimumpayment on my Visa card. An empty, lost feeling takes hold of me. Perhaps Miss Cutler is right; perhaps I should have stuck with my safe, familiar job and my secure life, instead of foolishly casting myself adrift without a set of oars. I’ve lost my way. I used to be so focused, so positive that despite all the hardships, things would work out in the end. I feel like I got six winning numbers inthe lottery and now I can’t find the ticket.
Grabbing a mozzarella and tomato panini, I head for the river to think.
As I chain my bike to the side of the bridge, my thoughts turn to Céline. I pull out my mobile from my bag and scroll for her number. My finger hovers over the green button. Why am I hesitating?
As one of her closest friends, it is mydutyto tell her, but how? Takinga bite of my sandwich, I rehearse what I’m going to say:
‘Céline, are you sitting down? I’m afraid I have some shocking news for you …’
No, too dramatic.
‘Céline, as much as it pains me, as one of your closest friends, I feel duty-bound to tell you …’
Nope, too convoluted – just cut to the chase.
‘Céline, Mike’s not in Australia. He’s in Vienna with another woman.’
Thenumber rings once then diverts to voice-mail. A wave of relief breaks over me. I compose this text instead:
I stab the SEND button and off it flies, like winged Mercury, into cyberspace – and the deed is done.
THE SCENE IS THE WELL-FURNISHED LIVING ROOM OFA SEMI-DETACHED HOUSE ON THE OUTSKIRTS OF EDINBURGH. A SWEET, HOMELY COUPLE ARE SIPPING CHAMPAGNE AND GIGGLING.
MAN: Cheers! Many happy returns, pet. (HE TAKES A BEAUTIFULLY WRAPPED BOX FROM UNDER THE CUSHION.) This is just a wee something to show you how much I love and appreciate you.
WOMAN: Ach, you shouldnae have. (DABBING HER EYES AND SMILING, SHE KISSES HIM AND OPENS THE BOX. ITIS EMPTY. SHE BURSTS INTO FLOODS OF TEARS) Is this some kinda cruel joke?
CUT TO AIRPORT. A BALDING, MIDDLE-AGED MAN AND AN ATTRACTIVE YOUNG WOMAN APPEAR THROUGH THE SLIDING DOORS OF THE ARRIVALS HALL. THEY ARE HOLDING HANDS, LAUGHING AND JOKING, PLAINLY HAPPY IN ONE ANOTHER’S COMPANY. A TALL, STRIKING WOMAN IN AIRLINE UNIFORM APPROACHES THEM.
FRENCH WOMAN (TO THE MAN): ’ow was Sydney?
MAN: I … er … what the blazes are you doing here?
FRENCH WOMAN: I could ask you the same question.
YOUNG WOMAN: Aren’t you going to introduce us, darling?
