Page 74 of Statistically Speaking
“Here she is!” announces Margie, struggling to her feet.
All three women crowd around me, and Erin grabs my left hand. She holds it up to the light and they all stare at it intently. I have no idea what is going on.
“Where’s the ring?” she says, sounding forlorn.
“What?” I ask, frowning. “What ring?”
“Well, you called an emergency meeting. Told us there would be champagne. We thought Karim had popped the question!”
All I can do is laugh—their expressions are an absolute picture. The more confused and deflated they look, the more I laugh. It is cruel, but I cannot help it.
“Oh God, no,” I finally manage to say, feeling a pleasant ache in my sides, “not that! We’re not at that stage yet!”
“Yet?” says Margie, leaping upon a morsel of consolation. “Does that mean you’ve talked about it at least? Do I need to buy a new hat?”
“No! We haven’t talked about it. At all. What’s the matter with you? Can’t a woman celebrate without needing a ring on her finger?”
“Right on, sister!” says Katie, offering me a fist to bump. I oblige, and get the chilled bottle of fizz out of my bag.
I pop the cork as quietly as I can out of respect for the dog lying beneath the table, and pour us all a glass. I don’t make a very good job of it, but eventually the deed is done. I grab one of the fleece blankets and wrap it around my shoulders.
“So,” says Erin once I’m done, “what’s the deal, then? Why are we celebrating? Did you win the lottery?”
“Kind of,” I reply, grinning. “In fact, it’s better than that. My daughter got in touch.”
Margie clasps her hands to her heart and immediately starts to cry. Erin gives me a hug, and Katie says: “Cool. So what’s she like? What did she say? Tell me I’m still your honorary long-lost daughter!”
I grin, happy for so many reasons—not least of which is that we have come through that particular hurdle, that we can now joke about what was once a very difficult subject. It is easier to cope with now. Everything feels easier, in fact.
Margie goes off into the flat and puts on some music. I hear the funky riffs and familiar woo-hoos of “Celebration” by Kool and the Gang, and it does indeed make this feel like a party. She probably had it lined up and ready to go for when I showed off my nonexistent diamond, but has decided that this is just as good an occasion.
We settle down around the table, and I pull the precious manila file from my bag.
“Now, I’m going to pass this around so you can all look at it,” I announce, “but I am going to insist that there is no cake first!”
“Should we all be wearing white gloves before we touch it?” asks Katie.
Margie and Erin look confused, and she adds: “History joke. You wouldn’t get it.”
“No white gloves needed, but—well, it is a significant historic document, in its own way. She wrote me a letter!”
“An actual letter?” Katie says, looking impressed. “Wow. I don’t think I’ve done one of those since I was writing to Father Christmas.”
“You still write to Father Christmas,” says Erin, poking her in the ribs.
“I know, but that’s just so you know what to buy me.”
They chat among themselves, and first I show them the photo. They consider it very seriously, studying this girl, this mythical creature, this unicorn of my line.
“She’s beautiful, Gemma,” says Erin, looking a bit teary-eyed herself now.
“Absolute stunner, like her mum,” adds Margie, nodding.
“I like her eyeliner,” comments Katie. “Makes her look like Cleopatra. It’s really weird, seeing her, isn’t it? She’s the same age as me. And she kind of looks a tiny bit like me. I wonder if she likes K-pop...”
The picture is passed back to me with much reverence, and I hand over the letter. Erin takes it, as she is sitting in the middle of the three women, and the other two lean in to read it. It takes them much longer than I want it to take them, as I am desperate to talk about it—to hear what they think, to share their thoughts.
Each of them, I know, will see it from a different perspective, and each will have something to offer.
