Page 60 of The Fall-Out

‘That would be great. My name’s Naomi, by the way.’

‘Imogen.’ She extended a cool, pale hand and I shook it. ‘I must dash, I don’t want to be late. But coffee, for sure – maybe next week?’

‘Sounds good.’

She hurried away, the tails of her coat flying out behind her. I watched her go, torn between pleasure at having had a normal, adult encounter with a woman I’d assumed would never deign to talk to me, and my usual envy. Of course Princess— Imogen had a job to return to. Some sort of highly paid City gig, I was willing to bet, in which her experience and knowledge were so highly valued she’d been able to dictate her three-days-a-week terms and her employer had willingly sucked it up.

But she’d seemed nice. She’d seemed as nervous as I knew I’d be in her position. She’d suggested we meet for a chat, so she must think I was a potential friend – unless she was just lining me up to invite her daughter home for playdates and fish fingers when she was kept late in some high-powered meeting.

But the encounter had reminded me how nice it was to talk to another adult who wasn’t Patch, Bridget or the woman who checked my age when I bought gin in Sainsbury’s.

It had reminded me how much I needed friends. It had brought home to me that I needed Rowan, Kate and Abbie in my life – I couldn’t allow Zara or ghosts from the past to damage our friendship.

I turned away from the gates of Busy Bees and walked back the way I’d come, more slowly this time, taking my phone out of the pocket of my coat. The last time I’d tried to speak to Rowan, it hadn’t ended well. That had been my fault, I realised – I’d basically ambushed her at work. I should have known that she’d be busy. It hadn’t been fair.

I needed to try again – to be more considerate, more strategic. I needed to get to the bottom of what Zara had meant when she’d said they’d been talking about me – whether it was something important or just a fabrication to make me feel uneasy.

I tapped the WhatsApp icon and began typing, not in the Girlfriends’ Club group but in the private chat I had with Rowan.

Naomi:

Hey. Hope everything’s okay with you. I wanted to talk – are you free in the next few days?

Leave it open-ended – don’t give her a chance to say she’s busy on a particular day.

There was a pause, and I felt an anxious knot in my stomach, the way you always do when you’re waiting for a reply to a message you’re not sure will have been welcomed.

But it took her just a few minutes to respond.

Rowan:

You’re right, we need to have a chat. I’m sorry about what happened last time I saw you. Shall I come round to yours tonight?

Naomi:

That would be amazing. P working late then at gym. Shall I cook?

Rowan:

Don’t go to any trouble. We can get a takeaway or something. Be there about 7.30 x

Just one kiss? And her message sounded oddly formal. ‘Don’t go to any trouble’ – well, it wasn’t like I was going to prepare a four-course menu for my closest friend. But I stopped off at the supermarket and stocked up on hummus, pita bread, olives, random pastry things and (of course) wine, and then spent the morning blitzing the house and baking a batch of my chocolate brownies, which had achieved something akin to legendary status within the Girlfriends’ Club over the years.

By half past seven, the children were bathed, in bed and under strict instructions to stay there. And I – I realised – had worked myself up into a right tizz, as if it was a hot date coming round rather than my best mate.

When I heard the doorbell buzz, I literally jumped, even though it was seven thirty-five and I’d been expecting to hear it for the past ten minutes. I dashed to the door and flung it open.

‘Hey.’ Rowan smiled, but without her usual warmth. She looked tense, and for the first time I wondered what conversations had been going on behind the scenes – whether she’d been briefed by the others on what to say to me, how to act, the importance of reporting back after our meeting.

‘Hey. Come in, it’s so nice to see you.’

I took her coat – which normally she would have dumped over the bannister – and she offered to remove her shoes, which she surely knew wasn’t necessary.

While I poured merlot into glasses and ferried bowls of snacks over to the coffee table, we made stilted conversation about how our days had been. Then we sat down, the foot or so of distance between us on the sofa feeling like an unbridgeable chasm.

‘Look—’ I began.

At the same moment, Rowan said, ‘Listen, Nome?—’

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